Alex watched as the man’s eyes widened just before the emptiness set in. Clara turned toward the river.
Alex walked up to both men to ensure they were, in fact, dead.
He stood there for a moment longer and finally made his way toward Clara.
Though the sun had risen, the sky stubbornly refused to lighten. Rain threatened, making the prospect of that day’s ride a wet one.
He found her bent at the riverbed, cleaning her sword.
“I’m sorry—” he began.
She turned, her face expressionless.
“’Tis my fault.” She turned her attention back to her task.
He disagreed. “I never heard them coming.” It was inexcusable that he’d allowed this situation to unfold, and it might have ended in both of their deaths. He had been so intent on her story, he’d allowed himself to forget that they were vulnerable.
Toren would never have made such a mistake.
“I should not have discarded Alfred so easily.”
Alex knelt down beside her. Clara’s hands were shaking as she wiped her weapon clean. Where had she gotten the linen cloth?
“Have you killed a man before?”
She’d obviously been trained to do so. But training and killing were very different.
“Nay,” she said flatly. She finished her task and looked at him. “How did you move so quickly?”
He shrugged. “Apparently my feet are quicker than my ears are keen to sound.”
That, at least, brought a smile to her face.
“Your tongue is as quick as your feet,” she said. “I didn’t mean. . . that is. . . your wit. . .”
“I understand, lass.” He stood when she did. “Are you all right then?”
It was no small matter to end a man’s life. Even if it was justly deserved.
“Aye. I mean, I think so. He was wrong to have attacked me. . . and then to say such a thing. . . I just. . . ’tis not fair.”
“’Tis the way of the world.”
He had heard the same complaint from his sister, who’d struggled with the harmful misconception that women were somehow inferior to men.
He, of course, knew better. It was a wonder any man with a daughter could not see the world as he and his brothers did.
“I will be Alfred once again.”
“Clara, no, I—”
“Nay, Alex. I will not be dissuaded.”
And so his companion for the rest of the day was not the comely maid he’d come to enjoy looking at, but the squire who’d come to Brockburg to serve him. Seeing her with her hair piled into that plain hat, the familiar smudges of dirt on her face. . .
He should never have allowed such a thing to happen.
They pushed past both meals, stopping only for their base comforts. Both mounts were trained for hard conditions, and despite the hilly, often difficult path, they arrived at The Anvil Inn just past sunset.
Owned by a man whose wife had been killed by Scottish reivers, and now run by the man’s two sons, The Anvil Inn was large and fairly clean, which meant they’d likely have a warm bed—possibly two—waiting. The temperature had dropped markedly, which made the prospect even more appealing.
“’Tis not a place fit for a lady,” he said, apologizing as the inn came into view. It was surrounded by a stone wall and two other structures. . . a stable and another small building Alex knew to be for storage. A few years earlier, the only other inn for miles was robbed and razed by a Scottish border clan intent on staking a claim to the area. Since then, no others dared to try to establish themselves here.
As they dismounted from their horses, the brothers who ran the inn, Bo and Berit, came out to greet them. The brothers bore a close resemblance; brown hair covered their heads and faces in waves. Indeed, if anyone reminded Alex of England’s Norse invaders, it was their descendants, Bo and Berit.
“Twice in one year! Look Bo, Kerr has come back with a big strong lad to serve him.”
“You may be twice his size, Berit,” Alex said gamely, “but Alfred could outwit you without saying a word.”
A groom poked his head out from the stables, and Berit nodded to him, indicating he should see to their horses. Scurrying to carry out his order, the boy took their mounts, leaving Alex and Clara—Alfred—alone with the brothers.
“Greetings, men. You’ve met my new squire, Alfred. Many thanks for the warm welcome.” Alex turned toward Clara with a grin. “A personal greeting from Bo and Berit. They must have known you were English at first sight.”
“English?” Bo turned toward her. “Leave this bastard and work for a real man,” he blustered. “I’ll offer ya—”
“The squire’s not for hire, you overgrown ox,” Alex said.
“Better an overgrown ox than the worst sort of man, despite your humor.”
At Clara’s confused glance, Alex clarified. “Scottish. You see, Bo and Berit haven’t yet reconciled that we’re not very different here along the border, with the exception that they fight for the wrong side.”
“Fight?” exclaimed Berit. “Not for this king.”
That he was so willing to speak words that could see him hanged for treason was yet another reason they needed to be on their guard this eve. Bo and Berit cared for one thing, their inn. They were raucous, teasing men, and while they could not be trusted, they would offer them clean beds thanks to Bo’s wife, who managed the household tasks.
“Admirable,” Alex said, catching Clara’s horrified glance. “Poor Alfred will think you brutes the most inhospitable of hosts if you don’t invite us inside.”
Berit’s laugh was cut off when Bo clasped Alex on the back, prompting their entire party to move toward the inn. “Do join us for the evening meal, sire,” he said, mocking a proper English noble.
“’Tis your own countrymen, not mine, who are so intent on propriety.”
They moved under the wooden sign bearing an etched image of an anvil, the sound of raucous laughter reaching them already.
“’Tis said the Scottish nobles are just as—”
“Be careful, Bo. Alex Kerr is the brother of a chief,” Berit said with laughter in his voice. “Which makes you the second most important person in the clan, does it not?”
“Not quite,” Alex shot back. “How nice to see you’re running a clean establishment these days.”
The moment the door opened, Alex moved to block Clara’s view. But it was too late. Her gasp drew attention from both brothers, and Alex could have kicked himself for not being more explicit in his warnings. Scantily-clad serving women competed for the attentions of patrons with coin to spare.
“My squire will take dinner in his room if you can show him there.” He tried to guide the group through the door and to the left where a wall separated a corridor and the common room. “Good night, Alfred,” he said.
“He’s not that young, is he?” Berit said. “How old are you, boy?”
Alex silently prayed Clara would lie.
“Ten and six,” she said. He could kiss her.
“Too young for proper entertainment?” the innkeeper scoffed, looking toward the scantily-clad serving wench closest to them. He wrapped his bulky arm around Alfred and pulled him toward the hall.
Why had he thought this a good idea? He’d knowingly brought Clara to an inn infamous for activities beyond eating, sleeping, and drinking. He’d put her in the company of Bo and Berit. All for a warm bed?
And a night away from you.
Alex wasn’t sure where she’d be in more danger.
And so they were escorted into the chaotic heart of The Anvil Inn. A large fire roared in the corner, and Bo’s wife smacked a servant on the head, presumably for tossing a log into it before it was needed. Music played, though not likely the kind Clara had once listened to in her own hall, wherever that may be. This flutist played a fast tune, one that prompted dancing, and not a very proper kind. Its fast pace acted as encouragement to the patrons, who’d likely sampled the ale for many hours, and more skin
was exposed than was appropriate in a public space.
But it was only when one of the women, likely hired by Berit, stood on one of the trestle tables and flipped her skirts up, giving everyone a clear view of her attributes, that Alex took action. He was getting her out of here.
“Nay!” She threw back the hand he’d wrapped about her arm. “I can handle this,” she whispered frantically.
The hell she could.
He gently pushed her toward the corridor that led to the rooms upstairs.
“Alex, I said nay.” He wasn’t sure if her words or the tone stilled his hands. But when he looked into her eyes, he immediately took his hands off her. For her own reasons, Clara wanted to stay.
By all that was holy, this damned woman was stubborn.
Fine.
They would both stay.
Bo and Berit moved off, taking a bag of grain from the store room just off the great room into the kitchens.
Alex and Clara sat, and when a serving wench slapped two tankards of ale in front of them without asking what either wanted to drink, Alex knew it would be a long night.
“And two meat pies?” he asked.
In response to the sharp look he was given, he rewarded the servant with a smile that he knew would have them treated well for the night.
Unfortunately, the suggestion would also get him a willing maid in his bed if he wasn’t careful.
“Anything for you, mi’lord.”
She walked toward him and promptly sat on his lap. He didn’t chance a look at Clara.
“I thought ye wanted a meal is all.” She wrapped her arms about his neck and leaned closer. “But if yer needing something more, I’m happy to oblige, mi’lord.” As if to secure her position, she reached between his legs before he knew what she was about. “If ’tis always so hard, then mayhap you’ll stay for more than just one night to entertain me.”
Releasing him, she stood, presumably to get their repast.
He forced himself not to look at Clara. It wouldn’t do if anyone saw him looking at her with more interest than a master would spare his squire, but despite her disguise, he no longer saw a lad when he looked at her. Only a breathtaking woman.
The servant returned with their meal.
“And how ’bout yer little squire. Have ye ever even kissed a girl, lad?”
She leaned down, as if intent on giving Clara a demonstration, and Alex forced a hand between them.
“I don’t share.”
It was the first thing he could think to say. But besides earning him a befuddled glance from Clara, the comment served its purpose.
“Later, mi’lord.” She walked away with a wink.
“Alex—”
“Alfred—”
They turned toward each other.
“We can’t stay here,” he said.
“I love this place!” she said.
They’d spoken at the same time, and it took him a moment to understand her words.
“Are you mad? Bo and Berit have more women working here now than ever. It’s less an inn than it was the last time I passed through. We’re eating our meal and—”
“And mayhap you’ll allow me some decisions? Or as your squire, am I not—”
“You are most certainly not my squire.”
He ignored everything around them. The music, the lewd behavior. The two English knights who had been staring at him since they’d arrived. Instead, he looked at his companion sitting across from him at the table made for two. It was unique—Alex had seen only a few such tables before—it afforded a unique intimacy that was not typical of a common dining hall.
“If not your squire, then what am I?” Clara asked in an undertone.
He leaned down to whisper, “A woman who torments me day and night. One whose surname I don’t know. . . one who knew how to kill a man and who trusts no one.”
“More ale?” The serving wench, who appeared from nowhere, leaned closer to Alex than was necessary. Then, before he could stop her, she reached down and ran her hand along his chest and shoulder.
“So hard,” she said, giggling.
If he’d worried how Clara would react, he needn’t have. She laughed boldly, and he wanted to grab her in full view of everyone and kiss her.
She understood. Her experiences in the tournaments had taught her about a man’s world. She knew that he’d elicited the woman’s attentions earlier to distract her. She knew, somehow, he did not want the serving wench.
But did Clara know he wanted her?
She took a bite of her meat pie as a new song, more suggestive than the last, began. An English knight made his way past them with a woman on each arm, headed in the direction of the private rooms.
“Are they— ”
“Aye.”
“With two women?”
“Aye, lass, with two.”
He took a bite of the spiced meat, its thick gravy as good as Bernard’s back home.
“Alex? Alex, you have to look at me.”
He turned toward her.
“Gladly.” The meal was quite good. The view, much better.
“I want to know. . . the man with those women. I’ve seen much of the same, not seen precisely, but when that happens. . .”
“What in the Lord’s name are you talking about, Cl— Alfred?”
He looked around. No one appeared to be listening.
“Two women. And one man.”
He nearly choked on his ale. “You cannot be asking me—”
“I suppose I can imagine, but with my limited—”
“And where, exactly, have you seen such a thing before?”
He had previously liked this Gilbert, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“You know, near the tents mostly.”
Tournament wenches. Of course.
He took a deep breath. “What would you like to know?”
Her eyes, always so expressive, widened. Alex found himself fixing his gaze on them so as to avoid looking at the absurdity that was the rest of her disguise.
“Do they? That is—”
He really should not discuss this with her. But then, Alex had never been known for either decorum or a wasted opportunity. This would be enjoyable.
“It depends, lass, on what he desires. Some men prefer to have themselves pleasured all over.” She still didn’t understand. “One woman may. . . make love. . . to him while the other simply teases him from behind. Others may simply sit back and watch as the women—”
“No!” she burst out, her eyes even wider. After a moment, she added, “And?”
“And that is all you will learn from me.”
At least, for now. He took a swig of ale.
“Alex, please. Treat me as if I’m. . . Alfred.”
He would surely be struck down for continuing this conversation. And yet, he found himself saying, “Come closer.”
She leaned in toward him.
“A man gets great pleasure from a woman when she. . . well, when she puts her mouth on that most intimate part of him.”
“You mean. . . Pleasure from—”
“You do realize how highly inappropriate this conversation is?”
“More so than me travelling unescorted, sleeping by your side, and allowing you liberties that no man has ever taken?”
He only registered the last part. ‘No man has ever taken.’
And, if he had his way, no other man ever would.
She had asked; he would answer.
“When a woman touches that part of a man, it feels, well, good. Very good. Depending on her skill—”
“And she obtains this skill—”
“How did you learn precisely where to strike your sword into a man?” He asked, lifting a brow. Her eyes sparkled. “Aye, Alfred. Practice. But if she uses her mouth instead to please him in that way—”
“Her mouth?”
He chuckled, watching her attempt to understand.
“Aye, and he can do the same for her.”
She looked u
p at him, peered off in the direction where the three lovers had disappeared, and looked back, eyes narrowed.
“He can touch his mouth—”
“To her very core.” He lowered his voice so no one else could possibly hear him. “He could use it to show her what’s to come, even use his tongue to mimic the more intense feelings of his—”
“Alex.”
“Aye, lass?”
“I’ve had. . . feelings there, more than once. And I do right now. What does that mean?”
His Englishwoman could slay a man and wipe his blood from her sword, but she could not identify the source, or the cause, of her own desire.
He waved to the servant for more ale. This time, when she attempted to sit on his lap, Alex avoided the overture.
“Nay, not tonight. But—” he knew they’d not get very good service if he dismissed her altogether, “—extra coin is yours if you can arrange two rooms together.”
She looked at him oddly, glanced at Clara, and likely came to the wrong conclusion. So be it. He needed Clara next to him, for her own safety—and his sanity.
“Drink.” He handed Clara a mug of ale.
“So. What exactly does that feeling mean?”
Alex had never, ever, had such a conversation with a woman before.
“It means. . . your body is saying it wants to be touched. There.”
“Touched?”
It was all he could take. Alex stood from the table.
“Come.”
He didn’t wait to see if she followed. Alex found the serving wench, spoke with her for a moment, gave her the necessary coin, and walked out the front door into the night. He’d brought Clara here so she could sleep in a proper bed, but there weren’t two rooms near each other, and The Anvil Inn was rougher than he remembered it. He could not comfortably leave her, but he had another plan. . . Bo and Berit were nowhere to be seen as they had left the main part of the inn, which was just as well.
He walked into the stable, paid the remaining stable hands enough coin to ensure their privacy, and climbed the ladder, listening for Clara’s movements behind him.
“What are we doing here, Alex?” she asked, sounding completely baffled. “I thought the purpose of stopping at The Anvil Inn was a warm bed? Why are we—”
“Aye, ’tis the only private place we can stay together. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain what you’re asking of me.”
The Scot's Secret: Border Series Book 4 Page 10