Chapter 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 despite 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.
Interest.
Desire.
His pulse ticked faster.
“Aye,” he confirmed. “The way yer blood builds hot in yer veins and how it thunders through yer whole body until ye want to scream with want of its release.”
“How does one release such pressure?” She wet her lips with her tongue. “With passion, I mean.”
God save him. He was actually having this conversation with a woman who planned to become a nun. He hesitated, uncertain how to properly answer without winding up in Hell.
Clara boldly released one hand from his, easing closer to him as they both sat on the mattress, and put her palm to his bare chest.
He should remove her touch from his person, he knew. Yet, he could not bring himself to do what he knew was right. “Ye’re to be a nun.”
Her hand moved lightly over his chest, skimming upward. “I’m not a nun yet.”
It was the second time she’d said that to him. And its impact was just as strong as a hammer of lust slamming into him.
“Why are ye joining the convent, Clara?” he asked. Surely it was not for piety or chastity, or she would not be regarding him with such inquisitiveness.
Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as her fingertips lightly brushed over his skin. He wanted to close his eyes and relish every tentative caress to hold tight to and remember forever.
“Are ye joining a convent for others or yerself?” His voice was deeper with the force of his longing.
She chewed the inside of her lip. “I’ve made the decision.”
“For whom?” he pressed.
She bit her lip. “To keep my family from worrying after me. To help in an abbey where they need a healer.”
“For everyone but yerself.”
She tilted her head in silent answer and shifted her touch lower, her fingers tracing down the shape of his chest muscle.
“And what of ye?” He asked. “What do ye want?”
This answer did not come as readily. Her brow furrowed as if she were uncertain how to respond. Or as if she did not want to.
“Have ye no’ ever thought about what it is ye want for yerself?” Before he could stop himself, his hand came up to caress her face.
Her lashes fluttered closed, and she drifted into his touch.
His body curled around her, drawn in by her allure, his face near hers, his heart thundering beneath that innocent, maddening exploration on his chest. “What do ye want, Clara?” he asked softly.
In response, she lifted her head and grazed her mouth to his. Lust shot through his veins like lightning, charging all of him with that simple, eager kiss. He lightly tugged her lower lip with his thumb and touched his tongue to hers.
Clara’s mouth parted and met his deepened kiss with an eagerness of her own. She gave a little moan that stroked his desire, encouraging him. This woman who had been so repressed, who never released her anger, her lust.
His fingers glided down the column of her throat and over her delicate collarbones.
She leaned her head back, exposing her neck to him, which he kissed and licked until she was panting with delight.
Her skin was smooth, her fragrance delicate and floral with the clean hint of the herbs she so often worked with.
Her hands roamed over his back, fingering cautiously from the expanse of his shoulders to his waist. His hands explored too, the flare of her hips, the fullness of her breasts. Each kiss, each caress, made his cock ache with need of her.
A need that would not be satisfied. Not when she was meant for the convent.
And yet, God help him, even that thought did not diminish his yearning.
Clara had never known kisses could be so all-consuming.
She sat forward, leaning into him to be closer, to experience him more fully.
His hands caught her waist and pulled her to him.
Her legs spread over his hips as their bodies settled against one another.
A hard column strained against his trews and rubbed at the aching need between her thighs in the most delicious way.
She arched toward him in a rhythm she didn’t have to think to set. Something innate inside her coaxed her toward him again and again. The same thing that made her tilt her head back as his lips brushed over her bodice.
His mouth teased over her neckline. Her nipples were taut with anticipation, pebbled and overly sensitive against the homespun wool of her kirtle.
He cupped her breasts with his large hand and teased the pad of his thumb over the tight buds through her gown.
Clara gave a hoarse cry of pleasure that filled their small room.
He slipped a finger into her bodice and eased it down so her breasts eased free.
No sooner had the cold air washed over her skin than Reid’s lips closed around her pert bud, flicking his tongue, and warming her with the heat of his mouth.
Pleasure needled through her. She gasped aloud with delight and clung to him as her hips continued to grind against his, each nudge of his arousal to hers more exquisite than the one before.
With a groan, he straightened and caught her mouth with his, his palms cupping her naked breasts.
This time when she cried out, it was his name on her lips.
He growled and put his forehead to hers as his hand tugged up her bodice before resting on her waist.
“What is it?” Clara asked.
His breath came in hard pants as he eased her from his lap. “Forgive me,” he said raggedly.
“Nay.” She stood on legs that did not feel they could support her. “I wanted it. I told ye that.”
He ran a hand through his auburn hair. “Ye plan to join a convent, Clara. I’ll no’ take yer innocence.”
Outside, the wind howled, and rain pelted the windows. The storm had not abated.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him then that she didn’t really want to join the convent, an insight she hadn’t been willing to acknowledge until this moment.
Her lips still hummed with the effects of his kiss, her breasts tingling where he had caressed and licked them, and a desperate, hungry pulse throbbed between her legs. But more than anything, her head spun.
What did she want?
To explore the passion that he had awoken in her.
Aye, but there was more.
To be loved.
The truth of it hit her with a poignancy that almost drew tears.