Chapter 3
Fire licked at Reid’s back. His mind filled with memories of the cottage he’d once shared with his family, how he and his mum and wee Ewan had remained inside as long as they could. Until the heat was unbearable and the smoke choked their lungs and burned their eyes.
Reid was ablaze now. His breath locked in his throat. He cried out in a harsh, gasping exhale.
Gentle hands caressed his face, and the scent of herbs filled his nostrils.
“’Tis only a dream,” a soft voice said.
His eyes flew open, his body tensed for battle.
Clara’s light blue gaze locked on his and held it, her expression so consoling that it smoothed the ragged place inside his soul. “’Tis only a dream, warrior.”
But it hadn’t been when he was a lad. The fire earlier that day had brought on too many memories—more than he ever wanted to think on again.
Clara’s touch glided over his brow, cool against the inferno of his skin. “Yer fever is breaking.”
He closed his eyes in pleasure at the calming touch. The temptation to remain with her teased at him for a brief moment, to bask in her calming presence and compassionate ministrations.
Alas, he could not.
He swallowed as he recalled why he was in the damp cave illuminated by a flicker of meager firelight. Nay, not only firelight but the gray tinge of pre-dawn outside. He needed to be back on the trail to Dumbarton.
People would die if he did not leave.
“I canna stay here.” He pulled away from her and pushed up to his feet, sending the blanket over him dropping to the ground. The cold air that rushed at him was glorious against the heat of his skin. The pain lancing at his back, however, was not.
Abruptly, he realized where the burning at his back in his dream had originated. It wasn’t from a long-ago fire but his current wounds. Both the fresh one from when she’d thrown a dagger at him and the other she claimed had become infected.
He braced the heel of his palm on the rough stone wall to steady himself on his feet. This time, the room did not dip and spin as it had before. The food he’d eaten earlier must have bolstered his strength.
Good.
He would have great need of it for the journey ahead. It would serve him well to eat a final time before his departure. Especially when one never knew when their next meal would be while traveling.
Except there were no more bowls of stew that he could see, and the single pot on the flames held only a few sticks floating in a bubbling broth of murky water.
None of the small satchels and jars of herbs were laid out as before either. In their place was a single, bulging sack. As though it had all been packed up.
“Ye cannot go,” Clara said.
He returned his attention to her. “I’m fine.”
She studied him, and he was struck with how thick and long her lashes were. Lovely. She was even bonnier than he recalled from the first time he’d seen her at the market almost a year ago.
Her brows furrowed with concern. “Ye’re not. Yer fever has only just begun to break and will most likely return.”
“A fever willna keep me from my duty.” He pushed off the wall to prove his strength. If he could stand on his own, he could ride a horse. “I must go.”
She put a hand to his chest to stop him, her touch crackling against his naked skin. He pulled in a breath at the power of her effect on him and looked down at where her slender fingers rested over his heart.
Had she felt it as well?
She snatched her hand back as though he’d scalded her and her cheeks flushed so fiercely that her heightened color was evident even in the dim firelight. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Ye need no’ apologize.” He took her small hand in his and brought it back over his heart. “But I’m no’ hot with fever. And my heart is steady and true. Ye feel it, aye?”
Well, mayhap not so steady. Her hand on him once more sent his pulse spiking.
Her lashes lowered as she regarded the connection between them, then swept up as she lifted her gaze to him once more. She licked her lips. “’Twas the willow bark tea.”
He wanted to say something more, to encourage her to continue staring up at him so that he might lose himself in her beautiful eyes, but nothing came to mind. He’d never been the type to woo women. That was left to men like William, who had found his match with Clara’s sister, Kinsey.
“Clara,” he said in a quiet voice.
Her eyes widened. “How do ye know my name?”
Shite.
It wasn’t that he wanted his association with her brother-in-law kept a secret, but he hadn’t meant for it to come out this way. Mayhap the infection addled his mind more than he cared to think.
Clara was a gentle spirit from what Kinsey had said, one whose ideals were not focused on war but rather on kindness and compassion.
“I know Kinsey,” he admitted begrudgingly. “And William.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, an action he wouldn’t have noticed were they not so close. She pulled her hand away from him. “How do ye know them?”
Reid fought the urge to reach for her once more. “I fought with them under William.”
The muscles of her neck tensed. “And now?”
“Now I am at the king’s command.” Reid tried to keep the irritation from his tone, but he sensed by the slight flinch of her brows that she picked up on it regardless.
He should tell her now that he’d seen her with her sister nearly a year ago at the market in Castleton when William recruited Kinsey into his ranks against the English and that he’d thought of her every damn day since. But the admission stuck in his throat.
“Now ye’re being sent to Dumbarton to save lives,” she supplied.
It was a far kinder way of looking at his role as a messenger. And suspect. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. How could she possibly know of his mission?
Had he said something in his sleep?
“How do ye know that?” he demanded with a sternness he hadn’t intended.
She lowered her head. “Forgive me, but I looked in yer bag.”
He regarded her with incredulity. From what Kinsey said, Clara was next to godliness in her actions. “Ye read my missive?”
“Forgive me,” she said again, lifting her head. “I don’t know ye. Ye’re a warrior I saved from a fight against the English, and I only had yer word that ye’d saved that woman and her boy. If I was to tend yer wounds, to sleep beside ye in this cave, I had to know who ye were.”
Sleep beside him?
Had she?
Desire stirred low in his groin at the thought of her slender body curled up beside him, her warm breath whispering over his naked shoulder.
Nay. He couldn’t think such things. Dumbarton needed him.
“And now ye know who I am.” He strode past her to reclaim his pack.
“But I don’t.” She followed him. “I only know that ye were right about the importance of delivering yer message. I don’t even know yer name.”
“Reid MacLeod,” he said absently. His other bag was nowhere to be found. Only then did he remember his horse was still tethered near the cottage where he’d rescued the woman and child. Along with his other possessions. Damn.
He would need to find them quickly, then see to his horse before the journey. How long had he been in this cave?
He marched toward the yawning entrance where the delicate colors of dawn had begun to stain the sky with gold streaks.
“Ye can’t leave,” Clara insisted. “Ye’re not well.”
He didn’t slow down. “I canna abandon my horse.”
“I reclaimed him after I dressed yer wounds.” She waved for him to follow her.
The cave veered off somewhat to the side, creating a deep alcove where a brown mare was tethered near his black destrier. Beside his horse was the large pack of Reid’s goods.
However, the brown mare was loaded down with a bedroll and several leather bags, packed for a journey.
He experienced a flash of disappointment. “Ye’re leaving.”
“Aye,” she replied. “To Dumbarton.”
He frowned. “I dinna understand.”
“Ye’re not going,” she said. “I am.”
Mayhap it would have been better for Clara to have left for the journey prior to Reid waking. The idea had crossed her mind, but she’d worried he wouldn’t know how to steep the tea or how often to drink it or have the ability to apply the poultice on his wounds—a feat not easily done on his back.
His expression was fierce now as he stared down at her in the gilded light of early dawn, looking every bit a warrior with his bare torso rippling with strength. Her fingertips still tingled with the memory of his naked skin against her hand, warm and hard. Powerful.
It was far different than touching someone in healing.
Something had sparked between them, ignited by the way he’d watched her with those hazel eyes, how he’d pulled her hand back.
She hadn’t resisted. Nay, she had welcomed the opportunity to return her touch to his warm skin again, for the way his steady heartbeat pulsed against her palm.
“Ye’re no’ going,” he said with finality.
Clara had never been one for conflict, but nor did she shy from something she knew to be wrong. And allowing Reid to travel by himself was wrong. “I’m healthy,” she countered. “If left on yer own, ye’d end up falling from yer horse.”
He scoffed. “I’ve no’ ever fallen from my horse.”
“Have ye ever had a wound that’s turned?” she asked, refusing to back down.
He didn’t respond, which was an answer itself.
He had not.
His legs were braced wide, and his arms folded across his broad, muscular chest. It was nearly impossible not to look at him, to appreciate the beauty of his physique.
The dark auburn hairs sprinkling his skin had tickled her fingertips when she’d touched him.
A sensation that was nearly imperceptible against the forceful pounding of his heart.
“I’m going,” he said.
Heavens, but the man was stubborn.
Clara tilted her head in consideration. “Then so will I.”
“Nay.”
She put herself in front of the horses, blocking his path. “Ye’re not in any condition to travel. If ye insist on going, at least let me join ye.”
He frowned, and she knew he was going to argue against her accompaniment.