The Scot's Secret: Border Series Book 4

by Cecelia Mecca

  Clara knew from Alex that Sir Geoffrey Waryn, brother to Sir Bryce Waryn, was the countess’s husband. Although he certainly had not told her the man had once been a reiver. Though she was still curious about the countess’s decision to reveal herself in such a way, she was too polite to pose the question. If the countess was attempting to elicit a confidence in return, she would be disappointed.

  “And your relative?” Clara pressed.

  Lady Sara sighed. “Was killed because of his attempt to end my life.”

  Clara gasped. “He tried to kill you?”

  “Tried and failed, thanks to Geoffrey.”

  And now he was as powerful as any of the border lords.

  “Come, you must be hungry.” Lady Sara stood, leaving Clara quite confused. Had she brought her to this room merely to tell her this tale?

  “But, my lady—”

  “Sara,” Clara corrected, silently grateful for the kind gesture of familiarity. “Sara. Why do you tell me this? You—”

  “Want to know why you’re dressed as such? Aye, but if you wanted me to know, you’d not be hiding your identity.”

  She began to walk toward the hall.

  “But then why—”

  Sara turned back to her. “Yes?”

  “Why would you tell me, a stranger, that story? ’Tis a fascinating one, but. . . ”

  Sara peered beyond the wall where they stood and out into the hall before glancing back at her. “Because any woman who dresses as a boy does so for either one of two reasons. Out of the desire to show those around her that she will not follow the rules, consequences be damned, or because she is afraid to reveal herself. I believe such is the case with you. . .”

  “Clara,” she said, filling in Sara’s pause. Never had she given her real name so freely and so quickly to anyone.

  “I believe you are hiding for important reasons, but in time, perhaps those reasons will change.”

  With a swoosh of her skirts across the clean rushes, Lady Sara once again turned and walked toward the hall.

  Still attempting to sort out the curious conversation, Clara stepped back into the hall and locked eyes with Alex, who had just lifted a spoon to his lips.

  Relief filled his eyes, followed fast by desire. These past few days, Clara had found herself thinking of the moments they’d shared again and again. Of how he’d touched her breasts and kissed her and caressed her. . . It seemed she could think of little else with the exception of the tenderness he displayed each night, taking her into his arms to comfort her whenever her mind replayed the horror of her father’s murder.

  And then she caught Sara’s eyes.

  She knew.

  The woman was so perceptive, it was a wonder she hadn’t already guessed her identity. The longer she stayed with Alex, the more and more mistakes she seemed to make. She might as well simply reveal herself to everyone this moment.

  Clara had a decision to make while she was here, and though she wanted to put it off and pretend all was well, the memory of her conversation with Sara made her stomach clench in dismay.

  Her vigilance was slipping, and what scared her most was that she didn’t seem to care.

  Clara ate quickly, avoided Alex as best she could, and asked to be shown to her quarters. She was surprised when Sara escorted her personally to a well-appointed room in the East Tower, which afforded views of the shore and North Sea below. She was kindly given a water basin and soap made from wood ash and olive oil, scented with lavender. She recognized it at once, for it was the same sort she’d used in her life as Clara.

  The bed, so much more comfortable than anything she’d been used to recently, beckoned to her, so she decided to take a short rest. Only she fell asleep. Peacefully.

  When a knock startled Clara from her sleep, it took her a moment to realize she’d fallen asleep for the majority of the afternoon.

  “Clara?”

  She jolted from the bed, unused to hearing her name on anyone’s lips. With the exception of Alex.

  “I’m sorry to wake you,” Sara said, entering the room. “Alex told us of your long journey. But dinner will be served soon.”

  Sara closed the door behind her as Clara sat up easily, propped up on a multitude of pillows. Some were soft and practical, others ornate and meant for decoration.

  “I would like to take dinner in here if it pleases you.”

  “Of course.” She smiled. “I will attend to you myself in the meantime.”

  “My lady, no!”

  Sara’s eyes widened.

  “That is to say, you’ve no need to do such a thing. I—”

  “Will be forced to remain as a lad. Nay, I will see to your meal, and you’ll not be disturbed by anyone.”

  She was allowing Clara the freedom to be herself. Gratitude nearly choked her.

  “I’ve just one question,” the countess of Kenshire asked on her way to the door. “Alex does know your true identity, I presume?”

  My true identity? Nay, never that.

  “He knows I am not a lad,” she said, evading a direct answer.

  Sara turned and left. Why was she being so kind? It was this unbidden but entirely welcome kindness, from both Lady Juliette and Lady Sara, that made Clara feel even worse about her deception. But what choice did she have? Either reveal herself and put her life in danger, or run. Again. But she was so weary of running. Always being scared and unsure of the dangers ahead. Unsure of how to reconcile the girl she’d once been and the lad she’d become.

  Clara paced the chamber, picking up the candlestick and looking for a flint with which to light it. It was not quite dark yet, and the windows afforded enough light for the moment thanks to the orange sunset streaking across the sky and the fire that had already been lit when she’d entered the chamber.

  She struck the steel, produced the needed spark, and was about to light the candle when a knock on the door startled her.

  Sara.

  She lit the candle, placed it in the holder, and replaced the flint where she’d found it. When the door creaked open, she moved toward it.

  “Thank you for bringing me—”

  It was not Sara, but Alex.

  “Lady Sara said you’re taking dinner in here tonight?”

  He stepped inside, carrying a tray of food and drink. She stepped around him to close the door quickly before anyone saw him.

  “You should not be here.”

  Which did not mean she didn’t want him there. He smelled of oak and leaves. His hair was damp and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

  “I am not here, fair lady. ’Tis a spirit you see in front of you, one who will take this tray back down to the hall if you wish it.”

  She’d never heard a more absurd jest. He was no spirit, but pure flesh and blood man.

  “I am a bit hungry.” She’d hardly eaten earlier, worried, as always, that others were watching her and would guess her secret.

  “Lady Sara sends roasted duck and her finest wine for you to enjoy.”

  For you to enjoy. It was just as well. It was hardly proper for him to be here. Even less so for them to eat together.

  “And the most enjoyable company in all of Kenshire to share it with,” he added with a small grin.

  He was staying! But he should not. “Do you think ’tis wise?”

  For an answer, he placed the tray on a table large enough to hold it and moved to the candle she’d lit earlier. He picked it up.

  “It was not wise for either of us to come to England. And certainly not for you to have accompanied me. But that has not seemed to stop our course as yet.”

  Alex used the candle to light the others. Clara was glad she’d taken off the hat and washed her face earlier. And even more grateful to Sara for providing her with this opportunity to be herself—with Alex.

  “May I?”

  He pulled out the chair, its gold-trimmed maroon velvet cushions the height of luxury. Indeed, everything about Kenshire was at once richly appointed and comfortable. Appro
achable.

  Like its countess.

  Clara vowed to leave her worries behind for the night and enjoy Alex’s company somewhere other than on horseback or in a stable.

  She sat, her boy’s clothes allowing for an easy transition.

  Alex sat across from her, split the food between them, and poured wine for them both.

  “I’m glad you declined an invitation to dinner.”

  “Why?” She didn’t mean to blurt out the question, but there was no denying she was eager for his answer.

  “We need to talk.”

  Aye, they did.

  “About what happened. . . “

  Her cheeks grew warm. Without her hat and smudges, she felt exposed. And Alex was looking at her that way, as if she were one of the courses placed in front of him.

  She blurted. “You were right—”

  “I was an idiot—”

  They spoke at the same time.

  Her grin was immediate. “Please, do continue. I find your opening much more intriguing.”

  Clara popped a morsel of cumin-spiced duck into her mouth. She was hungry indeed, and the fare was so much finer than the meals they’d shared on the road.

  “You’re so kind,” he said, obviously meaning just the opposite. “I was an idiot not to have explained my thinking that night. Clara. . .”

  Her smile faltered when his voice turned serious.

  “I will not be coy with you. I told you that I want you, and I do. I think of that morning at the loch. Of the nights you’ve slept in my arms. Our conversation at the inn and that night, in the stable. . .”

  He took a sip of wine, peering at her from above the rim of his goblet.

  “I meant what I said, however. That I don’t know anything about you other than—”

  “You know my name.”

  “Your given name.”

  “And that I have nightmares each night.”

  “But I don’t fully understand what haunts you.”

  “You know I served as a hired squire and that—”

  “Clara.” He placed the goblet back on the table. “I know nothing other than the carefully selected bits you’ve chosen to reveal to me. I don’t know where you were born. Or why you are posing as a boy. I don’t know why you’re terrified to reveal yourself or what your intentions are after we leave Kenshire.”

  “My intentions?”

  “You aren’t coming back to Brockburg, are you?”

  To hear it said aloud. . .

  Clara sighed. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know you’re considering it. Each time I mention returning, you hardly speak.”

  “What does it matter, Alex?” He hadn’t answered before, and she could see he was not inclined to do so now.

  “What if I was born a servant, raised in a noble household, learning enough to emulate my superior’s mannerisms. What then? Would you feel free to be with me? For one night? For a fortnight? Until you tired of me?”

  She could tell she was angering him, but Clara did not care.

  “Or what if I am the illegitimate child of the king? A lost princess? Then you will be forced by some honorbound—”

  “Clara, that’s enough.”

  “Nay, Alex. You’re asking me to share more of myself than I am able. And with someone who does so little sharing himself.”

  “I’ve held back nothing from you,” he said.

  “Except for the real reason we’re on this journey.”

  He ground his teeth, his jaw moving back and forth as his eyes narrowed.

  “You already know I am looking for my mother.”

  “Why?”

  He was not the only one who could ask difficult questions.

  “What do you hope to learn by finding her?” she pressed.

  Clara knew she pushed too far, but she had begun to care for this man. And even though she was angry at him. . . though she couldn’t exactly say why. . . she wished to save him from being hurt.

  “What do you hope to gain from this journey?”

  “I already told you. I want to know why she left us. ”

  “And then what?”

  She could tell it wasn’t a question he was prepared for. “What if she tells you something you don’t wish to hear?”

  He grabbed his cup and drank deeply. “I expect as much.”

  That’s when she realized. Alex hated his mother. He was not merely curious about why she’d left. Nor was he simply upset that she had abandoned them. It was an unsettling emotion from a man who appeared to hate no one, save his enemies. From a man who always smiled. His face bore out the intensity of his feelings, and Clara wanted to put her arms around him.

  Instead, she waited.

  And decided to trust him, as she hoped he would trust her, while she did so.

  “I was born a baron’s daughter.”

  He looked up.

  “Gilbert was our armorer. I was forced to leave, and he saved my life.”

  “He must have been very special to your family.”

  If she kept talking, Clara would tell him everything. He already knew too much, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d put him in danger too.

  “Aye, he served my family loyally for many years.”

  The finality in her voice quieted them both. The playful mood forgotten, she retreated to more somber thoughts.

  “I do hope you find her,” she said quietly.

  Alex shrugged, but the seemingly flippant gesture was undermined by the thickness in his voice. “Sometimes,” he said, picking up his cup, “I pray that I do not. What will I do next? Continue to live with the knowledge that I am a man whose mother does not love him. What else could I do?”

  Clara wished she knew. She wished she had answers for them both.

  15

  Alex rode down the path from the castle entrance before the household began to awaken. He’d made a hasty retreat from Clara’s chamber the night before, soon after their discussion of his mother. When he’d told her he would be leaving for a few days, she’d hardly flinched. Because she didn’t plan on staying? He’d nearly changed his mind in the morning—he’d nearly gone to her. How could he leave not knowing if she’d be there when he returned?

  But as she’d asked him twice now, what did it matter?

  “You’re a fool.”

  He glared at his companion, Sir Geoffrey Waryn, who rode beside him. His unwanted companion. But when the reformed reiver had learned Alex planned on visiting the small village of Elkview, just outside Kenshire’s vast border to the south, Sir Geoffrey had insisted on accompanying him. In fact, Gerald, the castle constable, had actually argued for him to bring additional men.

  “I travel alone,” he’d told them both.

  “The hell you do,” Geoffrey had countered, the constable nodding in agreement. “Troubles in the middle marches have spread here to the east. The English Warden may have been absolved of guilt, but the effects of that scandal continue to destabilize the tenuous peace here. That your brother allowed you to travel here with only a squire, and a female one at that, is remarkable.”

  So he knew. Of course Lady Sara had told him the truth. “Toren is very much aware of the ‘troubles’ and does not presume to tell me where to go or with whom.”

  They came to a well-worn path, the sun just beginning to rise, and Geoffrey took the lead.

  “Alex,” he started again, this time in a lower, more serious voice. “I’m here to help. Your brother has made peace with mine, and our families are inextricably entwined. We can continue to rue the sins of the past or move beyond them as allies.”

  “We’ve already made our peace,” Alex said, referring to his last visit to Kenshire, when Geoffrey's brother had apologized for his role in Catrina’s capture. “Indeed, your family has lost more than most.” If a man whose inheritance, home, and parents had been taken from him on the same day could forgive those responsible, the least he could do was accept the gesture graciously. Though the Scottish king had demanded that
Toren take Bristol Manor, they certainly bore their measure of guilt. He smiled. “But if I’m forced to do so every time we meet, I fear this will be the last time I travel to Kenshire.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. He pointed to a heavily wooded path, and Alex followed. They rode in silence for some time, Alex surveying their surroundings with interest. Though he’d been to Kenshire before, he had never travelled this far south toward its borders and the eastern coastline. At one point along a rare patch of flat terrain, he spied the North Sea.

  “How far south are Kenshire’s borders?” he asked.

  “Far enough that we’ll need to move faster to be there by nightfall.”

  Later, when the sun rose high into the sky, he and Geoffrey finally stopped. They allowed their horses a rest and ate a quick repast Kenshire’s cook had prepared. Though he hadn’t met the woman, he’d heard enough about her to know she commanded the kitchen as competently as Lady Sara presided over Kenshire.

  “So how do you come to travel with a woman disguised as a squire?”

  Alex nearly spat out the ale he’d just drunk. “How does a reiver come to marry a countess?”

  Geoffrey’s brows raised. “Fair enough. On his deathbed, her father requested my uncle’s protection from a distant relative, Sir Randolf Fitzwarren. As it turned out, the request was with good cause. The bastard attempted to slice Sara’s throat.”

  “So you sent him to his maker for his efforts?” Alex had heard most of this tale, albeit not from Geoffrey’s lips.

  “Aye.” He grinned. “But I nearly lost her in my thirst for revenge—”

  “Against my brother.”

  They looked at each other, not as enemies, but with a somberness that could come only from the losses both men had faced in their families’ five-year feud.

  “Your entire clan, to be precise.”

  “I don’t blame you.” None would. Even Toren, who’d tried to kill Geoffrey’s brother, Bryce, for taking their sister captive, had reluctantly agreed he would have done the same. “We agreed no more apologies, but I owe one despite it. Your parents—”