Chapter 4
Of all the answers Reid had anticipated Clara giving to explain being in the forest, joining a convent had not been one of them.
She was young, bonny and remarkably skilled with her daggers and healing.
There was no reason why a lass with her attributes should commit herself behind the drab walls of an abbey.
What was more, it put her further from his reach. He shouldn’t want her, he knew. He wasn’t the type to give her everything a woman like her deserved. And yet, he could not stop the pang that rang out inside him at the thought of her locked away from him for good.
“A convent?” he asked before he could stop himself.
She nodded.
He shook his head, baffled and disappointed. “Ye dinna seem the type.”
“Do I not appear pious enough?” Worry edged into her tone.
He lifted his shoulders. In truth, he hadn’t paid much mind to her piety. “Well, ye did throw a dagger at me.” He grinned at her, and her mouth fell open.
“I didn’t mean—”
He chuckled, something he didn’t often do. There was something about her, a sweetness, an innocence—it made him feel as though he didn’t have to guard himself actively against her.
She wasn’t a woman who would try to pry from him anything she could.
Nay, she seemed like the person who would give the cloak from her back in the middle of an ice storm if someone else was in need.
And a woman such as she made him want to protect her, to curl her against him and ensure her safety always.
But a convent?
He said nothing more about it as they continued over a landscape where the grass was still husk-brown from the effects of winter. Their pace was a grueling one to make up for the lost time, and the morning turned to afternoon and finally dragged into dusk when they stopped to make camp.
The tea she’d given him had seemed to be effective at the start of their journey.
But as the hours stacked atop one another, the pain had returned, as had the ache that settled deep in his joints.
Aye, he needed rest. And much as he was loathe to admit it, he would require more of her tea and mayhap her aid in changing the bandage on his back.
While there wasn’t a cave available, they did find a place where the forest floor was dry and flat, which would suit for sleeping and making a fire.
Reid leapt from his horse as he always did, his feet landing steadily on the ground. The impact, however, jarred the pain in his back. He reacted as any warrior would, without concern as he shrugged off the pulsing agony, and came round to Clara’s mare to help her down.
Before he could lift his hand to assist her, she slid from the beast on her own and continued straight on downward without catching herself.
Reid snatched her from the air with one arm and hoisted her slight weight up with ease before she could crumple to the forest floor.
She was perfection in his arms, her waist resting against his forearm, his palm fitting perfectly along the curve of her hip.
The fever muddled his thoughts, and he remained with his hands on her, torn between the desire to brush his mouth over hers and the knowledge he needed to release her.
It was all he could do to avoid the temptation of letting his touch glide over her, pulling her closer still.
She gave a shy laugh. “Forgive me. I didn’t expect my legs to be so weak.”
He shook his head. “Ye’re no’ used to riding as hard as we just did, nor for as long.”
She straightened in his arms and glanced over his shoulder, inadvertently pressing her body nearer to his. “Yer back.”
His heart slammed like a drum against his ribs. “’Tis fine.”
But it wasn’t. Something at his back drew tight and had snapped when he moved so swiftly to keep Clara from falling. Most likely, the plastered poultice at his injuries had cracked. Or something had torn. Either way, it wasn’t good.
Not that he would pay it any mind, especially as long as Clara was in his arms.
All that mattered was her.
With him.
In this moment between them and where it might lead.
Damn, but he sounded like a romantic fool.
“Nay,” she protested. “I’ll not have ye hurt yerself for me, Reid. Come, let me see to it.”
He tried to brush her off, but she was indeed as stubborn as she was kind.
While she agreed to set up camp first and allowed him to assist with the horses, she kept her sharp eye on him the entire time.
With an admirable efficiency, she had their bedrolls laid out and her bag of herbs at the ready while he coaxed a fire to life before darkness could leach away the last of their visibility.
She motioned for him to sit on the bedroll she’d unfurled by the flames and took the place behind him. “’Tis cold, I know. I can lift yer leine over the injuries if that would be more comfortable.”
Warriors didn’t care about comfort.
Aye, there was certainly an icy nip to the March air, but it seemed prudish for him to lift the bit of his shirt like a shy maid. He shrugged out of his gambeson, the absence of its weight already a relief, and peeled his leine over his head.
“That isn’t—”
He squared his back against the chill. “’Tis no’ that cold,” he lied. “And ye’ll be able to see better, aye?”
She said nothing as her fingers lightly spread over the skin near his wounds. Her touch was so gentle, it was nearly unnoticeable, even against the ache of his injuries. “Yer fever has returned.” The sound of the bits of willow being tossed into a boiling pot followed her observation.
Her concern for him was considerate but also somewhat disquieting.
While he appreciated her worry, he was not used to being tended to in such a manner.
He’d been on his own since his family was killed when he was but a lad of seven.
There had been much he’d known in those years: the unfairness of life, the brutality of village streets, how those who helped often did so with selfish intent.
It all had taught him to rely wholly and completely on only himself.
He was not on familiar terms with the kindness Clara exhibited, and certainly, he had never been coddled as she seemed set on doing.
Naturally, there had been camaraderie among William and the other men of their raiding party and respect.
But no one had ever given him anything without asking for something in return.
Which was all Clara had been intent upon doing since she first helped him to safety.
Mayhap with a soul as pure as hers, she was ideal for a convent. She would bring godliness to one of the places that oft saw corruption despite an origin of well-meaning intentions. After all, his experiences with those who meant to help had not been pleasant.
“I hope that didn’t hurt too badly.” Her breath brushed against his back, and her fingers lightly caressed the area near his wound as if she intended to take away his pain.
And she had, in a way, with that brief moment of tender attention.
She could do so for others out in their cruel world, those who were in dire need of her earnest regard.
Children who had lost their parents too young, like he had, would benefit from her goodness, as would young women in need of protection and lost souls seeking succor.
There were far too many in need and, sadly, far too few ready to give.
He turned toward Clara, his heart heavy with the memory of his reaction when she’d told him of her plans. “I was wrong when I said ye were no’ the type to join a convent.”
She gave a shy smile and shook her head, her mouth opening to protest.
“Ye’re exactly the type of woman people should find among the nuns,” he said earnestly. “I only meant…”
She nodded for him to continue, her eyes wide as they fixed on his.
He hesitated before continuing, “I only meant ye’re too bonny.”
It was something he didn’t often tell women as they took his flattery with a determined resolve to make a husband out of him. He wasn’t the marrying type. He wasn’t the stay in one place type, either.
What was the point of having a cottage when it could be burned down? What good was having a family when they could be slain? And why bother with love when its departure left your heart ripped out and your chest raw and aching?
Nay, he kept his affections to himself.
Clara smiled up at him, so sweet and so damn alluring that he wanted to draw her into his arms and show her everything she’d never find in a convent. His groin stirred with longing.
“Ye told me before ye thought me beautiful,” she replied.
His brows lifted with genuine surprise.
“Well, ye didn’t have yer wits about ye at the time.” She bit her lower lip and shrugged one shoulder.
“Wits or no’, I was correct.” His hand acted of its own volition, reaching out to the softness of her cheek and stroking down to the line of her jaw. “Ye are beautiful.”
She tilted her head higher in response. The way a woman did when they wanted to be kissed. It was an age-old reaction, one he would do better to ignore.
And one that he found, he could not resist.
Not when it came to Clara.
Clara had never been kissed. There had never been a man who caught her attention or made her pulse go even a whisper offbeat. At least, not until this moment. Until this man.
Her heart thundered in her chest, and she found herself locked on his hazel eyes. The beautiful flecks of green and brown and gold were lost in the glowing firelight, but she knew they were there and searched to find them now.
His hand remained on her face, cradling her jaw as if she were made of spun glass. His fingers shifted slightly, his callused thumb grazing the underside of her chin, and she tilted it upward toward him. Toward his mouth.
His touch was hot with his fever. She should pull away from him to pour his tea. Except she was held in place by his stare.
The moment his face lowered to hers, the breath caught in her chest in an exquisite moment of anticipation, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and the heat of his lips closed over hers.