Chapter 10
Mayhap being intimate with Reid had been a poor decision. Clara had made the choice with lust burning in her veins and the knowledge that she would be cloistered behind sacred walls for the rest of her life, that she would never again have the chance to taste passion.
What she had not considered, however, was the starkness of their situation in the aftermath. Nor had she thought it possible that he might suggest she become his leman. The idea did not sit well with him either, as evidenced by how his jaw had clenched once he realized what he’d said.
They wanted two different things, futures that opposed what the other sought. She knew that when she’d lain with him. He could never be the man to fulfill her dreams.
Just as she knew now, her course was most advantageous with its direction set for Paisley Abbey.
She shook her head sadly at Reid in response to his request that they travel together.
Theirs was a path best wandered for this final day, one that would end upon their arrival at the abbey.
Reid would go one way to live his life, and Clara would go another to devote herself to helping others. It was how it must be.
“Clara…” Reid watched her, his hazel eyes filled with regret.
She looked away, unable to bear seeing him thus. “I will not be yer lover, and ye do not want me as yer wife.” Tears burned in her eyes as she made the declaration. Saying as much aloud scraped at a raw, tender placed within her.
“Come here,” he said, his voice gentle.
She shook her head. Irritation tugged at her. She would not be seduced into becoming his leman.
It would be far too easy for him to do, knowing how she felt about him.
And she would never be able to live with herself if she became a woman whose love could be so easily discarded when a man grew bored of her.
She had seen enough women with children from lovers who had abandoned them.
Ending up in a similar situation would shatter her heart.
“Clara,” Reid said again. “Please come here.”
She turned back to him and found his gaze was now fierce, where before it had appeared wounded.
“Come, lass.” He waved his fingers in a beckoning motion with an insistence that contradicted his soothing tone.
A flash of fear sparked in her mind. Something was amiss. It was evident in his tense posture, in the urgency of that wave, in the way the air seemed to crackle with danger.
She encouraged her horse over the trail to be closer to him. Before she could ask any questions, he held up a hand to discreetly silence her.
“Stay behind me, aye?” he said under his breath.
She scarcely had time to react to his words when a shout arose from the forest surrounding the trail, and a group of men ran toward them.
Reid repositioned his horse in front of hers and withdrew his sword.
The hiss of his weapon being unsheathed was nearly imperceptible beneath the thundering of Clara’s heartbeat in her ears.
Keeping an eye on the enemy charging toward them, she reached for her bag with the daggers. Her fingertips met the cool metal hilt of one.
There were six men in all, armed with swords and maces that flashed and glinted maliciously in the sunlight. Too many men for Reid to take on alone, even if he was entirely healthy. Which he was not.
While he put on airs that he was perfectly fine, she knew better. She had seen the gash in his back from her blade and the irritated skin around the older injury where an infection could take hold again at any moment.
She would have to fight with him.
Apprehension nipped at her for only a brief moment before a dark-haired man hurtled his mace at Reid’s horse in an attempt to unseat him. Clara didn’t think. She didn’t acknowledge the guilt of what she was doing or the fear that she would cause pain.
Her hand flung forward with the same precision she’d always possessed when throwing her daggers, and the weapon sailed toward her target. The blade sank into the man’s right forearm, midway between his wrist and elbow.
He cried out, and the mace fell to the ground as he cradled his wounded arm. The wound would not be lethal, but he probably would never wield a weapon again.
In front of her, Reid slashed downward, his sword clashing with another in a sharp clang that left her ears ringing. She gripped another dagger and aimed at a man to Reid’s left, his weaker side. As the English guard lifted his arm, she let her blade sail.
The blade bounced off his blue tunic—no doubt due to armor beneath.
Blast.
“Get that Scottish bitch,” the man with the injured arm growled.
Reid roared with rage, and the next time his blade came up, it was bright red with blood. Clara aimed a dagger at another man when her horse jerked violently.
She cried out in surprise, tightening her thighs in the saddle to remain in place. An Englishman with dirty gray hair had her horse by the reins, grinning at her with yellowed teeth.
“Leave her be,” Clara shouted, drawing her dagger back in a silent threat.
“Clara.” Reid turned toward her, his eyes wide with concern.
“Nay, I can—” But before she could get the words from her mouth, a mace swung up and connected with his back.
The breath heaved from Reid’s lungs and he sagged forward, gasping for air. The four men in front of him no longer had to contend with his sword.
It would be a battle easily won.
They surged forward as Reid struggled to lift his blade to fight back.
But he didn’t have to. Clara’s daggers flashed with lightning speed toward the men. First, at the one who held her horse, then the man with the mace, followed by the one with a sword and two more.
Each man slid to the ground in a macabre cadence, daggers jutting from their throats, blood splashing bright red down their pale blue tunics as they collapsed.
Clara’s breathing went ragged, too fast for her to catch as she stared in horror at what she had done. Five lives, taken in the blink of an eye.
If she hadn’t dispatched them as swiftly as she did, Reid would have been killed.
As she stared in horror, a hot tear ran down her cheek.
A low, guttural curse pulled her attention to the Englishman still holding his wounded arm.
He shook his head violently, backing away.
“Nay. Don’t kill me.” Nearly staggering in his haste, he turned and darted back into the forest, shouting over his shoulder.
“Lord Rottry will hear of this. Ye’ll pay, ye Scottish wench. ”
His escape didn’t matter. All that captured her focus was the dead who lay around her; their lives cut short. Because of her.
Air rasped in and out of Clara’s chest in great huffs, but she somehow still felt as though she were suffocating. The vacant eyes of the dead stared up at the sky.
Men she had killed.
What had she done?
The agony at Reid’s back, brilliant and all-consuming, left him momentarily stunned,. The attacks had ceased; the men all lay dead. A jagged gasping pulled Reid from his stupor, the sound of someone unable to breathe.
Clara.
He lifted his head and found her, wide-eyed and in shock at the dead men, her chest heaving with each choked breath. His grip on the sword relaxed, and his weapon clanged to the ground.
Her eyes fluttered in a series of blinks, and her gaze focused on him. “Reid,” she said through lips that didn’t move. “Ye’re injured.”
She shook her head as though clearing it and reached for him.
“We must get off the trail.” He barely managed the simple statement through gritted teeth.
She leapt from her horse, stepping over a body. “I have yer sword.” She caught his sheath and slid it into place, so its considerable weight once more hung from his side.
Reid grunted his thanks as a light plinking of metal against metal sounded before she appeared in front of their horses and took both the reins.
“I had to get my daggers.” There was something odd about the way she spoke, her voice strangely flat. “Hold tight, aye?”
He couldn’t think of that now. He had to focus all his energy on gripping the horse’s mane with what little strength he had left. Anger coursed through his veins at his weakness. He had never been felled so easily in battle. Shite, he was lucky he wasn’t dead.
The horses' smooth gait jostled, meeting rougher terrain as they entered the forest. There they could move without being as visible. The last thing they needed was to be on the trail and vulnerable to another attack, especially if the English returned with more troops.
Clara could only hold off so many, and he was in no condition to fight.
With the additional cover to shield them from the enemy, some of the tension drained from Reid. They continued on for some time, and he found himself grateful for Clara’s knowledge of safety among one’s enemy.
His awareness winked out from time to time. Each time he faded away, he started awake and experienced a fresh peal of pain in his back. At last, they finally stopped, and Clara gently pulled him from the horse.
He tried to keep from grunting in pain but had no idea if he was successful or not. All he knew was pain and the oblivion that threatened to pull him into its inky depths.
“We’re far enough away?” he asked, his breath coming out in shaky pants. “They canna find us?”
“Aye, don’t worry.” Clara’s soothing hands set to work, divesting him of his thick gambeson.
There was the occasional rustle of her wee bag of herbs and salves, and then her touch was on him once more, her ministrations gentle on his back.
“I found this small cave so I can have a look at yer injury without interruption.”
“’Tis no’ the worst I’ve had,” he said in an attempt to jest but didn’t stay conscious long enough to know if she found it humorous or not.
Darkness claimed him, floating him amid a black sea with a starless sky overhead, the world dipping and bobbing in a lazy roll.
It might have made him feel lost, suspended in nothing, except Clara’s soothing words drifted through his thoughts and her clean, familiar floral fragrance brought him such comfort.
“I need ye to get on yer horse,” the feminine voice said in his ear. “We need to get ye to the abbey so they can see to ye.”
“It canna be that bad,” he mumbled.
“Yer injuries have reopened,” she replied. “And I cannot stop the bleeding.”
So that was why his back hurt so badly. His movements were clumsy, and every shift of an arm or a leg made his injuries blaze in agony. Still, he managed to mount his horse once more and hold on.
Her voice kept him focused as they rode, his head lulling on his chest as he barely managed to stay slumped in the saddle. After what seemed like ages, his horse slowed.
He glanced upward at the towering stone building with spires stretching toward the heavens. Though he’d only ever seen it once before, he immediately knew the place.
Paisley Abbey.
Clara.
He slid off his horse. The impact of his landing was nearly enough to make him tip over. By some miracle, he remained upright and even bit off a growl of pain as it rose up in his throat.
A cool, soft hand folded around his. “They’ll help ye here.”
Pale blue eyes. Black silk hair. The bonniest lass he’d ever laid eyes on.
He had so little energy left to spare. “Clara.”
She lifted her brows. “Aye?”
“Is this when ye leave me forever?”
But before she could reply, the effort of the ride finally caught up with him, and he crumpled to the ground.