Clara’s Vow

by Madeline Martin

  “I know I can.” He lunged at the baron, slashing to the right.

  Lord Rottry evaded the blow with more speed than Reid had thought him capable. But Reid was a fighter who adapted to his opponent. It was one of the many reasons why he had survived so many battles.

  The baron came at Reid with a short jab that nearly nicked his neck. A close strike, but not a hit.

  Whatever Reid did, he would need to do it quickly. Though the need for vengeance raged through him, exhaustion was slowly sapping his energy, making his body and his mind sluggish.

  Use his speed against him.

  Reid feinted left, and when the baron moved to evade the attack, Reid swept his sword around hard to the right, so the blade sank into the man’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound and ran down his blue-and-yellow tunic, staining it with sin and hate.

  After all the years Reid had dreamt of that moment, Lord Rottry finally slumped to the ground at the hands of Reid’s blade. Da, Mum and Ewan had been avenged, as well as every other Scotsman the bastard had killed over the many years of his reign of terror.

  Reid staggered to his knees, his legs no longer able to carry his weight, buckling at the poignancy of the moment.

  Lord Rottry stared up at the sky, focused on nothing. Dead.

  At last.

  Yet the triumph Reid had expected to surge through him did not come. There was no victory or bliss. A hollowness rang out in his chest. Sadness. Loss. Grief.

  The death of this man could not bring back his family.

  They were gone forever.

  Clara.

  Reid pushed himself up to his feet. All around him, clusters of men still fought with blades and hands and stones; whatever could be had in this melee of survival. None of them paid him any mind as he ran on weakened legs back to the cottage where he had left Clara and the bairns.

  He stopped short. The warmth drained from his body and left an icy wash of dread in its place.

  The cottage was consumed in flames, the thatch long since blackened with damage, caving in at several places, and the walls sagged inward, collapsing on themselves. The door remained standing, its edges charred. No doubt it had been bolted shut.

  And had never been opened despite the flames.

  No one within could have survived.

  They would have ended up like…like Mum and Ewan.

  Reid choked out a pained gasp, and the scene blurred in front of him. Anguish welled up inside him, overwhelming and brilliant in its pain.

  He should go to the cottage, he knew, to confirm.

  Yet he could not will his feet forward. Doing so would inevitably bring him to a sight he would never be able to clear from his mind, one that would forever scar his heart.

  He had failed them.

  Clara. She was the embodiment of everything good in this cruel world, the only person to ever convince him to open his heart.

  She had shown him love. And kindness. Her soothing words and gentle ways had slowly brought down his walls, and he had gladly watched them be torn down, brick by brick, by her graceful hands.

  Now she was gone.

  Gone.

  The word was too bleak for a woman whose light shone as bright as Clara’s, whose love glowed so perfect and wonderful.

  His wife.

  He had abandoned her and the bairns, too taken by his need for revenge, too plagued by anger. He had thought he would avenge everything he had lost but only ended up sacrificing everything he had gained.

  A past at the cost of his future.

  God, what had he done?

  Clara and those precious bairns she’d sought to protect…dead.

  Because of him.

  He had spent his life running from the possibility of love for exactly this reason. And yet, even amid such terrible agony, he could not bring himself to regret what he had shared with Clara. Nay, he cherished it, cradling it in the raw place in his heart that would forever belong to her.

  Drawing in a shuddering breath, he stepped forward, knowing what he had to do, even as he dreaded the truth of what he would find. Hot tears blurred his vision as he approached the ruined building with the orange-red flames that still ravaged the remaining structure.

  He swiped the tears from his eyes and stopped before the door. With his last bit of strength, he lifted his leg and kicked the door in with one solid strike.

  21

  The room was filled with smoke and flames; the air so heated, it seared Reid’s skin. He covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow and pressed inward, his steps hesitant lest he stumbled over one of their bodies.

  All at once, he was that boy again, scared and alone, walking through the remains of his home. Dread tightened in the pit of his stomach.

  Mum.

  Ewan.

  Clara.

  Those wee bairns.

  So much death.

  The ache at the back of his throat was unbearable, but still, nothing compared to the suffering of his broken heart.

  Something at the rear of the cottage caught his attention. He strained in the smoke to see what it was. The rafters overhead groaned in warning of a roof about to collapse, and embers rained down on him in a glowing shower. Still, he strode forward until he was at the rear of the cottage where the bottom of the whitewashed wall had been kicked out, leaving the structure's waddle and daub makeup crumbling inward.

  His heart slammed against his ribs.

  They had escaped.

  The roof overhead issued a long, loud creak. He glanced up instinctually as it cracked and roared, disintegrating into a massive fireball heading straight for him.

  Reid dove toward the small hole, wrenching it wide with the breadth of his shoulders as he escaped the burning cottage. The multitude of fires outside that had left him overly warm earlier now seemed cold in comparison to the inferno he had just escaped. He remained on his hands and knees for a moment, gulping in lungfuls of clean air.

  Something to the right caught his attention. There, between two burning cottages, was a clear path to the woods.

  In that instant, he knew exactly where Clara had gone.

  By some miracle, she had survived the burning cottage. He would not see such a wondrous gift squandered. He would not let her down again.

  He pushed up to his feet, dredging up whatever energy he could find, and sprinted toward the woods. No matter what it took, he would ensure Clara and the bairns made it to safety.

  Tension knotted his throat as he ran with wild joy.

  Clara was alive.

  Clara pressed herself lower to the ground behind the brush, her arms spread over the three children. All were quiet, even wee Mairi who cowered into Clara, the little carved fox squeezed in her small hands. A man passed in front of the bushes they hid behind, the footfalls intentionally heavy.

  "We saw you come out this way," the English guard taunted.

  There were five. She knew that now. Few enough that she could take them on herself, but also enough to become complicated. The slightest misstep and one of the children could end up injured. Or taken.

  Or worse.

  She suppressed the shiver threatening to run its way up her spine. They had to remain perfectly motionless, perfectly silent.

  Mayhap then their pursuers would presume they had escaped and leave them in search of worthier opponents. Not a woman and three bairns, but an armed man. Someone who had the means to defend themselves.

  The way these men stalked them was sickening as if they were nothing more than blood sport and entertainment.

  Clara held her breath as the man passed by once more.

  That she and the children had survived the burning building had been a lucky recollection of a humorous accident occurring some years prior at a rickety cottage Clara and her family had lived in for a spell. Drake had spent the better part of the week reinforcing the door to ensure it would hold when pushed against. The day after it was properly completed, he'd tripped inside the home, fell and went straight through t
he wall. The waddle and daub of the house’s construction was little more than straw and mud with a bit of whitewash over it. They all had a great laugh at the time, and the repair had been easily done.

  Thankfully, that pleasant memory had saved the lives of the three children in Clara's care, as well as her own. She'd made her way to the back wall and kicked. As she’d hoped, her foot had gone straight through. Smoke immediately streamed out as the four of them wriggled to safety.

  Mayhap that was what had alerted the guards to their escape. Or perhaps the cries that had stopped suddenly.

  Either way, they were now hunkered down among the flora of the forest, praying to God to keep them from being discovered. And all the while, fears nipped at the back of Clara’s mind for Reid.

  What had become of him?

  He wouldn't have left her. She knew that.

  Her stomach clenched with dread at what could have pulled him away.

  Nay, she wouldn't think of it. She couldn't.

  The English soldier strode in the opposite direction, and Clara let out her breath. The leaves in front of her face quivered with the force of her released exhale.

  "Clara!" A man's voice shouted from somewhere in the forest, desperate and so familiar that tears sprang to her eyes.

  Reid.

  His name rose in her throat, but she pressed her lips together to fight the urge to call out to him. She wanted to warn him that the English were here, that they would be coming for him.

  Would he be in any condition to fight? Had he been wounded further? Her heart flinched.

  She wanted to stand and throw her daggers. But not yet. The English were still too close to the children.

  The man’s footsteps—slowly, steadily marching from the area of the forest where Clara and the children were hidden—stopped and moved to where Reid’s voice had called out. She carefully eased her hands away from the bairns as the footsteps grew more distant.

  “Die, you Scottish cur,” an Englishman cried out.

  That was when Clara leapt up from the brush as quietly as she possibly could and darted away from the children. In case she failed, she wanted to ensure the English would not find them.

  Reid was streaked with soot and blood, but he still lifted his blade against the men rushing at him and fought with valor.

  Clara would do the same.

  She pulled her arm back and loosed her first dagger, sending it into the sword arm of one of the men. Then to the shoulder of another man. And then the hand of yet another.

  With four daggers still on her belt, Reid removed the threat of the last two English guards.

  The wounded Englishmen staggered from the woods, cursing under their breath while thanking God for Clara’s bad aim. Little did they know how true she had aimed—that she hadn’t meant to kill.

  She had taken enough lives, said enough prayers for men she never knew.

  Now she stood a stone’s throw away from one man she knew better than any other.

  “Clara,” he cried out and they ran toward one another.

  Clara all but fell into his arms, clutching him to her while mindful of his back. It did not escape her notice that the padded gambeson was wet under her fingers. Blood, no doubt.

  What had he been through in the time they’d been separated?

  “Clara,” he said again, his voice choked.

  When she leaned her head back to look up at him, she found his hazel eyes bright with tears. He shook his head. “I thought…” A tear spilled down his cheek, leaving a line through the soot smeared over his face. “When I found the cottage burning, I thought…”

  “Nay.” She embraced him again, understanding what he meant exactly. What he’d thought.

  That she had been burned alive in the cottage with her charges, the same way his mother had with his brother.

  "Come," he ushered her deeper into the forest. "Where are the bairns? We canna stay here."

  Clara nodded and went to the brush where the children were still curled up on the ground together. She pulled Mairi into her arms, while Reid took the hands of the other two. Together, the five of them made their way deeper into the woods.

  By the sliver of moonlight, they managed to find a cave where they could take shelter. Clara went swiftly inside with the wee ones, leaned her head back against the rough stone wall and exhaled a long sigh of relief. They were alive and safe and together.

  She only hoped they remained thus until after the fighting came to an end.

  22

  Despite Reid's exhaustion, he forced himself to remain awake through the night as Clara slept with her head on his shoulder, the three bairns leaning on her and snuggled in her arms. If anyone came, he wanted to be aware, to ensure they all were protected. If he allowed himself to sleep, he feared he might do so too deeply and not hear the approaching danger.

  In that stretch of time where night filtered into the soft, dove gray of dawn, he reveled in what he had with an appreciation for what he had almost lost. Clara, still beautiful even with the soot streaking her skin and clothes, remained nestled against him, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

  An entire life together awaited them. A cottage, mayhap a few animals, a future Reid had never thought possible. Yet now, he realized how badly he wanted it. With Clara.

  A home. Bairns.

  He smiled to think of her as she lay thus, with the little ones she’d saved curled against her. She would be a perfect mother: loving, caring, and kind.

  A sound broke through Reid’s musings, or rather the absence of sounds. Gone were the cries and roars and clangs. In its place, silence descended, followed by the cheer of a victorious army.

  But which army?

  Reid’s heart caught in his throat.

  Clara’s head shifted on his shoulder. When he turned to her, he found her awake, her concerned gaze fixed on him.

  “I need to see who won,” he whispered.

  She lifted her head from him and nodded.

  “I’ll be quick,” he said.

  Again, she nodded, but worry creased her otherwise smooth brow.

  He dashed through the trees as silently as possible, pausing only to see the clans gathered together as they celebrated over the defeat of the English.

  They had won.

  It had all been worth it. Being tasked as a messenger rather than a warrior, the journey to Dumbarton. Meeting Clara. Accepting a life he lived for himself rather than being burdened by the fear of loss.

  It wasn’t only the people of Dumbarton who were saved by his mission but also himself.

  Reid retraced his steps back, his feet nearly tripping over themselves with his exhaustion. Finally, this would all be done.

  Even his search for Lord Rottry had come to an end, a nightmare defeated.

  He entered the cave, and Clara stiffened.

  “We won,” he said.

  She beamed up at him.

  “We won?” Ian opened his eyes and gazed sleepily at Reid.

  “Aye, we did,” Reid replied.

  At his side, Fia woke. “Come, we must find our mum.”

  Clara and Reid exchanged looks. If their mother was in the village, it was doubtful she was still alive.

  Clara held little Mairi as she got to her feet. The sleeping girl stirred in her arms with a slight whimper. Reid held out his arms to carry the bairn, but Clara shook her head. “I don’t want her to wake.”

  Reid backed away in understanding. “Come, my love. Let us return to Dumbarton, aye?”

  Clara nodded at him, looking equal parts relieved and exhausted. The five of them staggered through the forest, taking special care to avoid the village. The remnants of war would be nothing the bairns needed to see. If their mother had managed to survive, she would doubtless look for them at the castle.

  Although, such a miracle was not likely.

  Reid marveled at the little hands holding tightly to his, at the smallness of them, how tender and rewarding it was to have a child’s whole trust in
such a way. The unmistakable feeling of being watched brought Reid’s attention to Clara to find her regarding him with a sweet smile on her face.

  No doubt she was seeing him as he saw her with a babe in her arms—as a parent. The idea glowed in Reid’s chest and kept him from being cold in the early dawn chill that had not yet warmed with the rising sun. In the distance, smoke billowed up from the village, the odor of fire still heavy in the air. The wind kicked up and sent loose flakes of ash floating around them, as if it were a lightly sifting snowfall.

  A rustle sounded from the right. A prickle of alarm jolted up the back of Reid’s neck.

  He released the children and put himself in front of the four of them while drawing his sword. No sooner had it hissed free of its scabbard, than an Englishman flew at them, screaming like a madman with his mace whipping in the air.

  Reid cut him down in one hearty blow. The man fell, and Reid nearly did as well, his body pushed beyond its limits. His arm shook as he slid his sword back in its scabbard and returned to the children, keeping the dead man blocked from their view. The five of them hastened toward the castle, where the gates were thrown open in victory. The rest of the journey was thankfully uneventful, though the keep's steep incline was nearly unbearable on Reid’s tired body.

  It was those wee hands in his, however, that kept him climbing upward until at last they were passing through the tall entryway of the keep and into the Great Hall. All around, men were drinking ale and clapping one another on the back, their faces bright with their win.

  Clara scanned the crowd at Reid’s side, but he knew it wasn’t men she sought but a woman. The children’s mother.

  If she were indeed dead, the bairns would be orphans. Like Reid had been.

  His heart clenched at the thought.

  “If we canna—” he stopped himself, but Clara nodded at him in understanding. “They will come with us,” he mouthed.

  She nodded again, as he knew she would. These children would not end up on the streets as Reid had. They would be welcomed into a home where they would be loved and well cared for.

  “Mum,” Fia shrieked. She pulled away from Reid and raced across the room to embrace a woman who wore a dun-colored kirtle, her dark hair messy and her face as layered with soot as the lass who ran to her.