She looked away, unable to bear seeing him thus. “I will not be yer lover, and ye do not want me as yer wife.” Tears burned in her eyes as she made the declaration. Saying as much aloud scraped at a raw, tender placed within her.
“Come here,” he said, his voice gentle.
She shook her head. Irritation tugged at her. She would not be seduced into becoming his leman.
It would be far too easy for him to do, knowing how she felt about him. And she would never be able to live with herself if she became a woman whose love could be so easily discarded when a man grew bored of her. She had seen enough women with children from lovers who had abandoned them. Ending up in a similar situation would shatter her heart.
“Clara,” Reid said again. “Please come here.”
She turned back to him and found his gaze was now fierce, where before it had appeared wounded.
“Come, lass.” He waved his fingers in a beckoning motion with an insistence that contradicted his soothing tone.
A flash of fear sparked in her mind. Something was amiss. It was evident in his tense posture, in the urgency of that wave, in the way the air seemed to crackle with danger.
She encouraged her horse over the trail to be closer to him. Before she could ask any questions, he held up a hand to discreetly silence her.
“Stay behind me, aye?” he said under his breath.
She scarcely had time to react to his words when a shout arose from the forest surrounding the trail, and a group of men ran toward them. Reid repositioned his horse in front of hers and withdrew his sword. The hiss of his weapon being unsheathed was nearly imperceptible beneath the thundering of Clara’s heartbeat in her ears.
Keeping an eye on the enemy charging toward them, she reached for her bag with the daggers. Her fingertips met the cool metal hilt of one.
There were six men in all, armed with swords and maces that flashed and glinted maliciously in the sunlight. Too many men for Reid to take on alone, even if he was entirely healthy. Which he was not.
While he put on airs that he was perfectly fine, she knew better. She had seen the gash in his back from her blade and the irritated skin around the older injury where an infection could take hold again at any moment.
She would have to fight with him.
Apprehension nipped at her for only a brief moment before a dark-haired man hurtled his mace at Reid’s horse in an attempt to unseat him. Clara didn’t think. She didn’t acknowledge the guilt of what she was doing or the fear that she would cause pain.
Her hand flung forward with the same precision she’d always possessed when throwing her daggers, and the weapon sailed toward her target. The blade sank into the man’s right forearm, midway between his wrist and elbow.
He cried out, and the mace fell to the ground as he cradled his wounded arm. The wound would not be lethal, but he probably would never wield a weapon again.
In front of her, Reid slashed downward, his sword clashing with another in a sharp clang that left her ears ringing. She gripped another dagger and aimed at a man to Reid’s left, his weaker side. As the English guard lifted his arm, she let her blade sail.
The blade bounced off his blue tunic—no doubt due to armor beneath.
Blast.
“Get that Scottish bitch,” the man with the injured arm growled.
Reid roared with rage, and the next time his blade came up, it was bright red with blood. Clara aimed a dagger at another man when her horse jerked violently.
She cried out in surprise, tightening her thighs in the saddle to remain in place. An Englishman with dirty gray hair had her horse by the reins, grinning at her with yellowed teeth.
“Leave her be,” Clara shouted, drawing her dagger back in a silent threat.
“Clara.” Reid turned toward her, his eyes wide with concern.
“Nay, I can—” But before she could get the words from her mouth, a mace swung up and connected with his back.
The breath heaved from Reid’s lungs and he sagged forward, gasping for air. The four men in front of him no longer had to contend with his sword.
It would be a battle easily won.
They surged forward as Reid struggled to lift his blade to fight back.
But he didn’t have to. Clara’s daggers flashed with lightning speed toward the men. First, at the one who held her horse, then the man with the mace, followed by the one with a sword and two more.
Each man slid to the ground in a macabre cadence, daggers jutting from their throats, blood splashing bright red down their pale blue tunics as they collapsed.
Clara’s breathing went ragged, too fast for her to catch as she stared in horror at what she had done. Five lives, taken in the blink of an eye.
If she hadn’t dispatched them as swiftly as she did, Reid would have been killed.
As she stared in horror, a hot tear ran down her cheek.
A low, guttural curse pulled her attention to the Englishman still holding his wounded arm. He shook his head violently, backing away. “Nay. Don’t kill me.” Nearly staggering in his haste, he turned and darted back into the forest, shouting over his shoulder. “Lord Rottry will hear of this. Ye’ll pay, ye Scottish wench.”
His escape didn’t matter. All that captured her focus was the dead who lay around her; their lives cut short. Because of her.
Air rasped in and out of Clara’s chest in great huffs, but she somehow still felt as though she were suffocating. The vacant eyes of the dead stared up at the sky.
Men she had killed.
What had she done?
The agony at Reid’s back, brilliant and all-consuming, left him momentarily stunned,. The attacks had ceased; the men all lay dead. A jagged gasping pulled Reid from his stupor, the sound of someone unable to breathe.
Clara.
He lifted his head and found her, wide-eyed and in shock at the dead men, her chest heaving with each choked breath. His grip on the sword relaxed, and his weapon clanged to the ground.
Her eyes fluttered in a series of blinks, and her gaze focused on him. “Reid,” she said through lips that didn’t move. “Ye’re injured.”
She shook her head as though clearing it and reached for him.
“We must get off the trail.” He barely managed the simple statement through gritted teeth.
She leapt from her horse, stepping over a body. “I have yer sword.” She caught his sheath and slid it into place, so its considerable weight once more hung from his side.
Reid grunted his thanks as a light plinking of metal against metal sounded before she appeared in front of their horses and took both the reins.
“I had to get my daggers.” There was something odd about the way she spoke, her voice strangely flat. “Hold tight, aye?”
He couldn’t think of that now. He had to focus all his energy on gripping the horse’s mane with what little strength he had left. Anger coursed through his veins at his weakness. He had never been felled so easily in battle. Shite, he was lucky he wasn’t dead.
The horses' smooth gait jostled, meeting rougher terrain as they entered the forest. There they could move without being as visible. The last thing they needed was to be on the trail and vulnerable to another attack, especially if the English returned with more troops.
Clara could only hold off so many, and he was in no condition to fight.
With the additional cover to shield them from the enemy, some of the tension drained from Reid. They continued on for some time, and he found himself grateful for Clara’s knowledge of safety among one’s enemy.
His awareness winked out from time to time. Each time he faded away, he started awake and experienced a fresh peal of pain in his back. At last, they finally stopped, and Clara gently pulled him from the horse.
He tried to keep from grunting in pain but had no idea if he was successful or not. All he knew was pain and the oblivion that threatened to pull him into its inky depths.
“We’re far enough away?” he asked, his breath coming out in sha
ky pants. “They canna find us?”
“Aye, don’t worry.” Clara’s soothing hands set to work, divesting him of his thick gambeson. There was the occasional rustle of her wee bag of herbs and salves, and then her touch was on him once more, her ministrations gentle on his back. “I found this small cave so I can have a look at yer injury without interruption.”
“’Tis no’ the worst I’ve had,” he said in an attempt to jest but didn’t stay conscious long enough to know if she found it humorous or not.
Darkness claimed him, floating him amid a black sea with a starless sky overhead, the world dipping and bobbing in a lazy roll. It might have made him feel lost, suspended in nothing, except Clara’s soothing words drifted through his thoughts and her clean, familiar floral fragrance brought him such comfort.
“I need ye to get on yer horse,” the feminine voice said in his ear. “We need to get ye to the abbey so they can see to ye.”
“It canna be that bad,” he mumbled.
“Yer injuries have reopened,” she replied. “And I cannot stop the bleeding.”
So that was why his back hurt so badly. His movements were clumsy, and every shift of an arm or a leg made his injuries blaze in agony. Still, he managed to mount his horse once more and hold on.
Her voice kept him focused as they rode, his head lulling on his chest as he barely managed to stay slumped in the saddle. After what seemed like ages, his horse slowed.
He glanced upward at the towering stone building with spires stretching toward the heavens. Though he’d only ever seen it once before, he immediately knew the place.
Paisley Abbey.
Clara.
He slid off his horse. The impact of his landing was nearly enough to make him tip over. By some miracle, he remained upright and even bit off a growl of pain as it rose up in his throat.
A cool, soft hand folded around his. “They’ll help ye here.”
Pale blue eyes. Black silk hair. The bonniest lass he’d ever laid eyes on.
He had so little energy left to spare. “Clara.”
She lifted her brows. “Aye?”
“Is this when ye leave me forever?”
But before she could reply, the effort of the ride finally caught up with him, and he crumpled to the ground.
11
It was impossible for Clara to catch Reid before he crumpled to the grass. She’d tried to grab his arm, but it did her little good, and down he went regardless.
The back of his gambeson was dark with fresh blood. It was clear he had lost a considerable amount on the ride to the abbey. Her heart caught in her throat.
But how much blood?
It was difficult to tell until they could remove the gambeson and his leine. A nun rushed out, calling orders as she dashed toward them, her habit rippling about her.
“What happened to him?” she demanded.
Clara explained his injuries and what she’d done with the poultices and the teas to aid him. The older woman winced when Clara described the hit on those older injuries that he’d taken with the mace.
“These warriors.” The nun shook her head. “They’ll just keep fighting until they’ve killed themselves.”
Clara gaped at the woman’s blatant remark.
“They will.” Despite the disparaging remark, the nun’s kind gray eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that showed a lifetime of smiling and good humor. “Who is he to ye? A husband? A brother?”
A ready answer stuck on Clara’s tongue. If she told the nun Reid was her husband, she would never be accepted into Paisley Abbey. At least not without a considerable donation she could ill afford to give. There would be no place for her to go, save to return home to have her future argued over between her mother and Drake.
“He’s my brother.” Clara’s face burned with the lie.
It wasn’t just the act of telling a falsehood that caused Clara shame. It was how she had minimized what Reid was to her. Just this afternoon, he had slid her skirts up over her legs and had her in the way a man claimed a woman. And she had welcomed it.
Lying and debauchery were not her only sins. She also carried the stain of murder from the men she had killed in battle. The horror of what she had done, of what she had witnessed crept into her awareness once more, unraveling the edges of her control. She clenched her hand to rein herself in. It could all be processed later. Now she needed to be strong for Reid.
But there was one thing of which she was certain, she did not deserve to be in this holy place meant for good women.
The shame of it twisted in her chest and soured her stomach.
“Ye’ve a fine-looking brother.” The nun winked at her, and Clara was horrified to find her face heating in a tell-tale flush.
The nun threw her head back with a laugh and jostled Clara’s shoulder. “I may be a bride of Christ, but that doesna mean I’m blind. Dinna worry about yer lad, whoever he may be. Ye’ve cared well for him, and we’ll do the same. He’ll be fine.”
Clara nodded despite the anxiety tensing through her. It was so much harder to be objective about someone who was injured when she cared so much about them.
And she did care about Reid. Immensely so.
More than she wished to explore at the moment.
Several other women rushed out, but even as they tried to pick up Reid, he staggered to his feet and made his way into the abbey.
“Stamina too.” The older nun nudged Clara again.
“He’s my brother,” Clara hissed.
The nun laughed. “Ach, aye.” She winked. “Of course he is. I’m Sister Agnes. Go help the lad, and I’ll lead the way.” Her smile crinkled the well-worn lines on her face.
Clara put her shoulder under one of Reid’s arms, hefting him upright and slowly walking as they followed Sister Agnes through the tall entrance with crested stonework adorning the frame. A series of shadowed corridors came next. Eventually, Clara caught the light, herbal scents of healing: calendula, meadowsweet, sage, and so many more, familiar smells that grew stronger as they entered an open room filled with beds. The fresh rushes underfoot were sprinkled with lavender and rosemary to deter pests, as well as foul smells. However, nothing could fully eliminate the underlying odor of illness that hovered in the area.
Sister Agnes indicated an empty bed where Clara guided Reid. He immediately sank onto the clean mattress and lay back as his eyes closed.
“Why dinna ye remove his gambeson and leine?” The nun indicated Reid. “Since he’s yer brother.”
Clara averted her gaze lest the woman see the shame written clearly on her face. Reid didn’t move as she took the bag from across his shoulder, the one containing the missive warning the residents of Dumbarton. Next, she began to unfasten the ties of his gambeson. It was not the first time she’d removed it that day. Her fingers shook with the memory, and a new longing warmed through her. She clenched her back teeth and tried not to think of such things.
Truly, she was too wicked even to be considered for a place in these hallowed walls.
She shifted the gambeson off his shoulders, being as gentle as she could. He ground out a short groan, and she flinched as if it were she who had been hurt rather than him. Indeed, she wished it were her. He had been through so much already.
And all in the name of saving innocent lives.
It was not the first time she considered the souls of Dumbarton, who unknowingly awaited a message of salvation. Reid would be in no condition to travel that day. Even with proper care, he would need at least two days’ rest before he could even consider leaving the bed. Most likely more.
With as much care as was possible, she drew his leine off. The fabric was wet with blood, but the wounds did not appear to be bleeding any longer.
“Is that wee Clara?” A friendly voice asked.
Clara turned to find a slender nun with dark, expressive brows and deep brown, intelligent eyes. Sister Seraphina, the kindly nun Clara had aided in Castleton. The one who had invited her to Paisley Abbey.
/> “I was told there was a bonny lass and an injured warrior to tend to.” She strode over to where Reid lay. “While I am pleased to see ye, I am sorry about yer friend.”
“Her brother,” Sister Agnes supplied before making her way to one of the other occupied beds.
Sister Seraphina looked to Reid’s sleeping form, then back to Clara, her sharp gaze no doubt noting the lack of familial resemblance between them.
“I hope ye’ve come to join us,” Sister Seraphina said before Clara could completely surrender to the burn of a fresh blush.
Clara did not respond. How could she when she did not deserve to be in such a place, among such noble women?
Sister Seraphina approached a table laden with various bottles and jars. Her absence of a limp implied her wounded foot had mended cleanly. She must have noticed Clara watching her gait because she smiled and said, “My wound healed perfectly, thanks to ye.”
After Sister Seraphina selected several jars and indicated a few for Clara to grab, they carried them over to Reid.
“Ye will do a lot of good here if ye stay and eventually take yer vows.” Seraphina poured clean water into basin and began to wipe the blood from Reid’s back.
He did not stir.
Clara took another linen and helped the nun. “I fear I am not the same person I was when we first met,” she admitted.
“Ye have doubts as to beginning yer aspirancy?” The question was issued without judgment or malice.
“I…” Clara swept her cloth over Reid’s back, over the swells of his powerful muscles, and was unable to stop the memory of how they’d felt under her fingertips as they lay together in the forest. “I’ve done terrible things.”
“Ye are young,” Sister Seraphina said patiently. “Many make mistakes in their youth.” She lifted a shoulder. “I did.”
Despite the nun’s compassion, Clara knew her follies were not simply a result of youth.
“I killed several men today,” she whispered. “Five.” Her voice caught, and she found she could say no more. The hand she held the linen with shook uncontrollably as the force of what she had done captured her.
Clara’s Vow Page 9
