Chapter 2 #2
He stared at her, more with confusion than fascination. His thoughts were like icy mud, slushy, opaque and impossibly thick. “Why would ye do that?”
“I thought ye were an Englishman.”
It was a simple enough answer, and he nodded. After all, he’d have thrown a dagger as well if he thought there was an Englishman nearby.
“Ye had an old wound near the injury I caused,” she continued. “’Twas inflamed.”
He frowned. That was why the damn thing hurt like sin.
“Ye had a fever.” She reached a slender hand toward him and hesitated, her gaze meeting his as though seeking permission to touch him.
He nodded again. She could caress him any way, anywhere she liked. His loins twitched at the prospect.
In the end, her fingers rested lightly against his brow. Worry pinched her brows together. “Ye still have a fever.”
There was a clean, sweet fragrance about her, like lavender. The scent was as soothing as the cold press of her hand against his burning skin had been. He wanted to stay here, wherever they were, with her. Forever.
He wanted her cool body against every blazing inch of him, those wide blue eyes staring into his own so that he might drink her like a reinvigorating ale. But he needed to leave. With haste.
Why?
He strained to think, his eyes narrowing with the effort.
Clara rose from his side. Away from him.
“Wait.” Without thinking, he reached for her, catching her arm.
She startled but did not pull away. Instead, she met his gaze with a steely one of her own. “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. I can easily put another dagger in ye to match the first.”
Despite her bravado, her voice quavered. He had frightened her.
He let go abruptly. “Forgive me.” He shook his head. “I’m no’ myself.”
“I’ll bring ye some stew and steep a bit more tea.” She pressed her gentle touch to his brow once more. “For yer fever. Ye need more rest.”
Food.
Rest.
Aye, that was what he needed. Except there was a reason that he shouldn’t. His thoughts churned slowly over the events that led him to have one of Clara’s daggers in him.
The house. On fire. The mother and her child.
His hand curled into a fist. He shouldn’t have stopped, but he did.
Dumbarton.
Awareness snapped through him. “I must go.”
“I think not.” Clara leaned over him with a wooden bowl full of stew. A tendril of steam rose, alluring and aromatic. She handed him a bit of bread.
He hesitated. “I’ll stay for a bit of stew first,” he conceded.
She settled across from him, stirring a pot full of sticks and brown water. “And a rest.”
“I canna.” He dipped the bread into the stew and began to eat. The meat was tender, the vegetables inside soft and the flavor beyond compare to anything he’d had in the last year on the trail.
She studied him. “If ye don’t allow yerself to rest, ye’ll die.” Despite her tone's lightness, there was a certainty in how she spoke that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
There was no doubt in what she said.
“If I dinna leave, hundreds will die.” He scooped up the last bit of the stew with the remaining heel of bread. “Better one than many.”
“Better to not lose any at all.” She poured the brown water into a cup and held it out to him.
“Ye’re a dreamer if ye think there willna be any death.” He eyed the concoction warily. There was an earthy aroma to it. Like dirt.
He wrinkled his nose.
“’Twill bring down yer fever.” She pressed it toward him, and this time, he took it. The pottery was hot against his fingertips, but he held tight and swallowed the scalding drink.
“Are ye pleased?” He pushed up to his feet.
The room tilted, and he staggered as he sought to find his balance.
“I will be soon.” She rose in front of him and took his hands in hers, cautiously guiding him back to the makeshift bed—a siren leading a weary man to slumber. “Rest a bit,” she coaxed.
Dizziness made the world swing around him; a discomfort eased only by lying on the blanket as she instructed. “I canna stay,” he muttered in halfhearted protest.
He was so damned tired.
“Ye must.” She appeared over him, her bonny face like a dream. An angel. A goddess.
“I must go.” His tongue felt too thick to work properly, and his words came out slurred and broken.
“Why are ye so insistent?”
“I canna tell ye,” he said on a long exhale.
She said nothing else, and in that brief lull of silence, sleep claimed him.
Clara held her breath as the mysterious man relaxed back into a deep slumber. He was a fool to think he’d survive any journey in his state. What could be of such great urgency that it was worth the risk of his life?
He’d said many would die if he did not arrive.
Her gaze wandered to the leather bag that had been slung across his chest. The one he’d been so resolved to not part with.
She looked back toward him, noting he now dozed soundly. A sheen of sweat glistened on his naked torso, the golden firelight masking his injuries. He looked powerful. Beautiful. Like something otherworldly.
And she was a fool for trusting him so implicitly. The leather bag drew her eye once more. She wouldn’t allow him to die, but nor would she become a victim of gullibility.
Resolve set firmly in place, she reached for the bag and pulled open the flap.
The contents within were meager: a bit of cheese that time had left discolored with mold, some bread too hard to consider eating, a few coins and a missive with a bent corner.
Though she tried to remain quiet as she unfolded the note, the parchment made a soft rustle that echoed off the stone walls, sounding impossibly loud.
Her gaze skimmed over the closely written text and her heart stopped.
He was correct. If he didn’t arrive in Dumbarton before the English raiding party attacked, many people would die.
But how could he make the trip in his condition?
She refolded the missive with quiet care and returned it to the bag. The flap fell back into place silently, its leather worn flimsy with age and use. A band of tension knotted at the base of her neck.
Innocent men, women and children’s lives were at stake.
She put her hand over the ache in her chest for the hapless souls. Their safety took precedence over anything else.
The convent would still be there when the missive had been delivered into the hands of its intended recipient. Furthermore, Paisley Abbey was not expecting her, so there was little need for additional contemplation.
She would journey to Dumbarton in the injured man’s place.