Clara’s Vow

by Madeline Martin

  “Nay.” Clara reached for his hand and squeezed it as if there were some secret between them. “My husband and I will take the room, please.” She met Reid’s eyes with a pointed look.

  My husband.

  He should have flinched at those words. Any other woman suggesting they were wed would have made him balk.

  Except, the way she said it filled him with an unnatural fascination as his thoughts flirted with the idea of what it would be like to be her husband truly.

  The tavern owner squinted, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Yer husband?”

  “We quarreled and he assumed I was cross with him,” she said in a halting voice. “I’m not. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t want to…ehm…share a room. With him.”

  She really was meant to be a nun.

  She was a terrible liar.

  Even the drunk man appeared largely unconvinced, his brow screwed up to one side.

  “Ye’re no’ cross with me?” Reid asked, turning to her.

  Clara blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He reached out, stroking her cold, damp cheek with a lover’s touch. Beneath his fingers, her skin went pink with a blush. “I was worried I’d upset ye.”

  She shook her head.

  He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her fair brow.

  His ploy worked as the innkeeper dropped his skepticism, along with his interest, and shifted his focus to peer into the bottom of his nearly empty mug of ale.

  Reid put a coin on the table for the room and led Clara upstairs to freshen up. The second floor had a distinct lean that offered a somewhat precarious nature to their quarters. Still, it appeared stable enough against the storm that raged outside and battered at the shutters.

  The room was smaller than anticipated, scarcely big enough to accommodate the narrow bed and the table at its right side. Certainly not enough space to allow Clara privacy while she changed into a dry gown.

  They turned and looked at one another.

  “I’ll give ye a moment,” he said before she could try to be overly considerate again.

  “Ye can stay and change as well.” She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing to a lovely red. “Ye’re also wet. I imagine ye’re also cold. We could put our backs to one another…”

  They would be alone in the room, both in a state of undress. The slide of cloth over skin would be more than he could bear. His cock stirred as an enticing fantasy played out in his mind of them turning to one another in a state of partial undress, their mouths meeting in a searing kiss.

  Desire swelled hot in his groin.

  Damn. This wouldn’t do.

  “Nay,” he said abruptly. “I’ll meet ye downstairs. I’ll change later.” Without giving her a chance to protest, he left the room and waited until the bar fall into place on the door before making his way downstairs.

  But as he slid into a free seat in the common room, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting to her upstairs as he imagined her stripping out of her sodden kirtle. Her skin would be damp and cool. And he would love nothing more than to warm her. With his hands and body, his mouth and tongue—until she was crying out with need.

  “What can I get ye?” A woman with a husky voice asked.

  Grateful for the distraction, he glanced up to find an older woman grinning down at him. “Two ales and two stews.”

  She nodded and sauntered off, catching more than one stare as she went. By the time two steaming trenchers of stew had arrived, Clara was making her way down the stairs. The room stilled as she descended the steps with a grace that couldn’t be ignored.

  The brown kirtle she’d worn had been replaced with blue wool that drew one’s attention to her beautiful eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid with several loose tendrils framing her lovely face.

  “Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen,” a man said from a nearby table. “Will ye come share my table with me?”

  Reid pushed up to his feet.

  Clara flushed. “Thank ye, but that isn’t necessary. I already have—”

  “Ye’re English?” someone else said.

  “Only partly,” she replied with her blended accent.

  Reid stopped at her side and put his arm around her shoulders, intending to lead her toward their food.

  “After ye’ve had her,” the man who had demanded to know if she was English said, “I’d like a go.”

  The room narrowed suddenly so that all Reid could see was the whoreson who had spoken so ill of Clara. Reid rushed forward, his muscles on fire with the need to defend her.

  “Nay, Reid,” Clara called, but it was too late. His fist was already connecting with the cur’s weak jaw.

  Clara watched in horror as Reid punched the man and lifted his hand back for a second strike, even as the drunk reeled backward.

  A woman with a tray of food stepped in front of Reid and cast a chastising look between him and the man who was staggering to remain upright with a hand over his wounded face. “Come on now, lads, if ye want yer ale, ye best be playing along better’n that.”

  “What if we want more’n ale?” another man called out.

  “Then ye ought to be keeping to yerself with yer best behavior.” She winked and guided Clara toward a rear table, waving away the men who sat there. “Ye’ll be fine here,” she said in a low voice. “My mum was English.” She gave a conspiratorial wink before she left and returned swiftly with Reid, who carried their two mugs of ale and two trenchers full of a stew. The aroma was so rich with the scent of herbs that Clara’s mouth watered.

  Reid glared at the table full of men who had called out to Clara when she’d descended the stairs. All appeared to be ignoring him, with the exception of the one he’d struck, who now glared at him with a wad of linen shoved up one nostril.

  “Please,” Clara said softly. “Leave him be.”

  Reid turned back to Clara, his gaze hard. “After he spoke to ye like that?”

  “He’s drunk.”

  “That isna an excuse to treat ye as he did.”

  “I assure ye, I’ve heard worse,” Clara said to diffuse the situation.

  It didn’t work. Reid frowned. “How can ye be so calm about it all? Does it no’ make ye angry?”

  She took a sip of ale and tore off a bit of bread. “’Tis the way it is, I suppose. I’m an outsider in England and in Scotland.”

  “So ye have no place to call yer own.”

  She’d never thought of it that way before. It wasn’t entirely a pleasant thought.

  Clara scooped some stew up with the bread and popped the morsel into her mouth. It was wonderfully hot when all of her was still so cold. Her clothes were dry, but they were still cool on her damp skin, and her heavy, wet braid had soaked through the back. She shivered.

  “I suppose I never had anything to compare my life with to think of it that way,” she answered finally.

  Reid drank from his mug of ale. “It doesna enrage ye?” he pressed. “How poorly ye’ve been treated? Yer family?”

  He scraped up some stew with his bread, and a weighty silence fell between them.

  She was no saint. Those ugly words hurtled at her in the past had indeed left their mark. She had been first hurt by them and then angered. The latter of which rose in her with white-hot fury.

  But with Drake and Mum already so burdened, Clara could never have unleashed her anger. It wouldn’t have been fair to. She thought of Kinsey’s rage, which was like wildfire, uncontrolled and all-consuming. And how Faye had hidden away her own emotions, curling into her thoughts during those trying times and Mum…she’d been beside herself with the loss of Da, exhausted from working so hard to ensure they all remained fed. Drake already shouldered the lot of them, working to support them, being there to help always, going without food so they would eat, being the man of the house when he was barely more than a lad.

  Nay, it would have been too selfish of Clara to give into her fury when they had already su
ffered enough, when they had all been through so much. And so, she’d swallowed it down, keeping it tightly bound and undetectable deep within herself.

  Clara brushed Reid’s question off with a smile. “’Tis the past.”

  “It doesna mean it’s no’ wrong what ye went through.” He tore off another chunk of bread. “What yer family went through.”

  There was an agitated clench to his jaw, his brows set in a ferocious expression.

  “And what was done to ye?” she asked gently.

  He straightened and regarded her with surprise. She stretched a hand across the table and covered his, expressing her sympathy for what he must have gone through with that single touch. His gaze fell to where their hands were clasped and swallowed.

  “Ye may want to rush yer sup.” He nodded to her half-full trencher. “Within the hour, ’twill become even more crowded.”

  And more crowds meant more drink and more men who might cause problems.

  Clara did not need to be told twice. She ate her food and finished her ale. Finally, full and at last no longer shivering, she allowed Reid to lead her up the rickety stairs where the floor sloped distinctly to the right.

  Reid paused outside the door and gave her an anxious glance. “I can sleep in the stable.”

  Clara shook her head and put a hand on his shoulder. His gambeson was soaked through with rainwater and ice cold to the touch. “Please don’t,” she said. “Ye’re still not recovered from yer injury. From the infection. Yer fever might still return.”

  “And what of ye?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Ye’re to be a nun, and ye’ll be sharing a room with a man.”

  Well, it did sound quite improper when said aloud in such a fashion.

  “I’m not a nun yet.” She met his gaze, and his pupils dilated slightly. There was something sensual in that reminder that she hadn’t intended. Yet, nor did she regret it.

  “I’m yer wife, remember?” Her hand slid into his, and she smiled up at him. His hands were huge and rough with the evidence of calluses on his palms from a life of being a warrior.

  Finally, he gave a slow nod and opened the door, their grasp slipping free of one another as he allowed her in first before following.

  When the door was closed, she faced him once more. “I apologize for the lie about our marriage. I thought it might discourage talk.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Not that I ought to care what people say of us when it’s doubtful we’ll ever see them again.”

  Reid narrowed his eyes in doubt. “I wouldna count on that. Scotland is nae as large as one might think.”

  Silence settled between them, a poignant reminder of how very alone they were together in such a small, intimate place. But it was not awkward or uncomfortable. Rather, it was quite the opposite.

  Being in a room alone with Reid was something she knew she shouldn’t do, like staying out too late at night or exploring an area she’d been told to ignore. It was a taste of rebellion in an otherwise rigid world of rule following. And it was delicious.

  Downstairs, a cheer rose, followed by a chorus of laughter. “Ye were right about returning here quickly.” Clara shyly flicked a glance at him.

  “I wouldna want ye down there with such rowdy men.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said staunchly.

  “I know.” His brows pinched together. “But I dinna want ye to.”

  “I wanted to thank ye for earlier too,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. “When ye defended me. I would have just ignored them, but ye spoke up for me.”

  His jaw tightened. “I would do anything to keep ye safe.”

  The truth behind his words blazed in his hazel eyes. Not that she didn’t believe him. He had put action into his declaration long before making the vow.

  Even now, she could not help but relive the way he had appeared at her side before the man even finished his offensive comment. Reid had protected her.

  It lit a place inside her that had ached for such attention for far too long. She wanted to lean against him, to press her palms to his powerful chest, push up on her toes and kiss him. She wanted to taste the spicy brush of his tongue, to let herself be set alight by his strong hands, to arch against the stone wall of his body.

  “I…” She cleared the huskiness from her throat. “I should see to yer injuries. And ye should probably change out of yer wet clothes.” As the words emerged from her mouth, she could see him clearly in her mind, peeling the sodden clothes from his muscular body, his pale, damp skin glistening in the golden light of the hearth.

  He nodded and went to his bag to reclaim his dry clothing.

  “I’ll go outside.” She strode toward the door.

  “Nay.” He gently took her hand to prevent her from leaving. “’Tis no’ safe. I dinna need to change.”

  “Aye, ye do.” His wounds would not do well remaining soaked in the rainwater coming from his gambeson. “I’ll turn ’round.” Clara put her back to him as she spoke.

  Not that it did any good. She could recall every shadowed valley on his torso, every band of solid muscle on his flat abdomen. Aye, she knew his body well.

  Except, of course, his lower half beneath his trews. But that didn’t stop her mind from trying to fill in the gaps.

  When at last the rustling finally stopped, and he announced he’d finished, she turned to him once more to find he wore only his trews and nothing else. He tossed his wet clothing aside to the corner, where it landed with a soft splat, his body flexing with the simple action.

  Clara’s palms ached to smooth up over his chest, to wander over his broad shoulders and down his abdomen to where the narrow strip of auburn hair disappeared into his leather trews.

  Desire warmed through her, but she forced her mind to stay on the task at hand, a more worthy attention for her thoughts. She must ensure he remained healthy.

  Besides, this handsome warrior was best struck from her mind. A nun could have no room for a man in her life, especially not one like Reid, who aroused in Clara such undeniable lust.

  6

  The hearth gave off scant heat, but the chill in the room did not touch Reid. Not when Clara’s hot gaze searched his bare torso with such open appreciation. She was a terrible liar, he knew, but he was also discovering she lacked the ability to hide her emotions.

  Or at least, her desire.

  That realization settled deep in his loins.

  She looked away as if understanding the blatancy of her reaction to him and snatched up her wee bag of herbs. “Let me see yer back.”

  He sat on the edge of the narrow bed and put his back to her. Her fingers were cold against his skin.

  “’Tis looking better already,” she assessed. “Though ye need to have a care, aye?”

  “Having a care” wasn’t something he did well.

  Her touch was gentle as she cleaned his back and reapplied the poultice, the air sharp with the scent of pungent herbs. When she was done, she bound a fresh strip of linen over his torso, just under his chest.

  “By some miracle, yer other injuries appear to be healing nicely as well.” Her attention remained fixed on her task as she spoke.

  “Other injuries?”

  “All of them.” Those ice-blue eyes of her met his. “Ye’ve a number of them all over yer back and chest. Mostly bruises, but some nicks here and there.”

  “Still better than my opponents.” He smiled.

  She didn’t.

  The sweep of her fingers over his skin left a prickle of pleasure in their wake. “The English did this to ye.”

  “I’ve done worse to them.”

  She was silent a long moment, and he feared he had offended her with talk of violence. He shifted on the mattress to sit facing her.

  “I’m English,” she finally said.

  “Only partly.”

  “But still English enough.” Her attention fell on the small jars she was carefully wrapping and easing them into her bag, as well as several pouches of herbs that crackled despi
te her careful handling. “I know that makes me loathsome.”

  “The only thing loathsome is how anyone would look at ye and see nothing more than English blood in yer veins.” His words came out hard with his vehemence.

  “Then ye don’t hate me?” Her expression was hopeful. “Or at least that part of me?”

  “Do ye hate that part of yerself?”

  She shook her head. “My da was English. He was a good man—a knight. And an honest one at that. He was everything a father should be. Hating the English side of me would be hating him, and I could never do that.”

  “Where is he now?” Reid asked, anticipating he might not like the answer.

  Clara swallowed. “He was killed in battle when I was young. Drake, whom I wager ye know…”

  Reid nodded in confirmation.

  She continued, “He was in the battle with our da when it happened. I was young, but I still remember it.”

  “’Twas in England, then,” Reid surmised. “I imagine that was difficult.”

  Clara shrugged it off in a way that suggested it was more painful than she let on. “Our friends and neighbors turned on us after my da’s death. Mum is Scottish, ye see. They dinna trust us.”

  “Bloody English.” Reid ran a hand through his hair, imagining a mother and her four children without aid in England after already dealing with the untimely death of their father. “Is that why ye’re so serene now? Ye released all yer anger as a lass?”

  Color blossomed in her cheeks. Ah, so that was it then.

  “I didn’t.” She studied the lines on her palms. “I couldn’t. Not when everyone else was suffering so much already.”

  “Nay.” Reid reached for the hands she studied with such distraction.

  Clara regarded him with confusion.

  “Ye canna keep it locked inside ye forever.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “Anger needs to be released, or it festers. ’Tis like passion in that way.”

  “Passion?” She asked, her cheeks going pinker still.

  Shite. He shouldn’t have said that. Except it was too late to take it back now, especially with her looking at him as she did with...

  Curiosity.