Chapter 11 #2
“Like hell ye are,” he said.
Someone cleared their throat. And older nun, Sister Agnes, he thought he heard her being called, was shaking her head at him with a slight frown.
He grimaced, recalling that they were in Paisley Abbey, the place where Clara intended to live the remainder of her life. Apparently, after charging into war.
“’Tis no’ safe for ye to go to Dumbarton alone,” Reid protested.
“I’ll get there before the English.” She spoke sweetly but in a way that indicated the matter was not up for discussion.
“How do ye know they’re no’ already there?” He tried to roll over, but his back was still fiercely uncomfortable, even if it didn’t hurt as bad as before.
She shrugged. “I don’t.”
“Ye’ll get yerself killed, Clara.”
“And if ye go, ye most certainly will.” She reached down to him and helped him to a sitting position.
Not only did it ease the pressure at his back, but it was easier to speak to her when he could see her, when he could look into her lovely blue eyes.
“I know ye don’t want me to go.” She settled her hand over his with tender affection. “But ye’re in no condition to make the trip, nor would ye be able to fight. Ye need only recover yer strength and allow yer injuries to heal a bit, and then ye can join me. Just a few days, really.”
A few days were far too bloody many as far as he was concerned. He hated this forced convalescence and how it rendered him so helpless. Ever since he’d been able to bear the weight of a solid sword in his hands, he had not been reliant on anyone.
That was how he liked it best.
He was a man who protected, not one who needed saving.
He would never be that lad again.
“I’m sorry, but ye know this is what must be done.” Clara sank onto the narrow bed beside him, her hand still on his. “Ye were struck with a mace on yer back,” she explained. “It reopened yer wounds. Yer body needs to recover from that.”
It rushed back to him then, the memory of that explosive agony at his back and how it had rendered him incapacitated. How Clara had been left defenseless.
But she wasn’t entirely defenseless…
“What happened to the Englishmen?” he asked. “The ones who attacked us?”
Her confident posture stiffened unnaturally, and her stare slid away.
“Clara, did ye…”
She pressed her lips together, and she nodded silently.
His stomach clenched at the idea of having left her to kill those men. He was a warrior. Death was a part of what he did. It was what he was used to.
But Clara…
She healed while he killed. She was gentle while he was fierce. She was everything good and kind in this ugly world, and she had been forced to go against her very nature to save them both.
“I’m so verra sorry,” Reid said, his voice soft with the force of his emotion. “I know how painful that was for ye.”
Her chin quivered, and his heart broke.
“Come, lass.” He opened his arms to her, but she shook her head and wiped at her tears.
“There isn’t any time.” She looked at him, resolute.
“Ye did what ye had to,” he said vehemently.
She lifted her face higher, her expression one of bravado. “And I may well have to do it again in Dumbarton.” Her hand was in a white-knuckled fist in her lap.
Despite her firm resolve, he knew her better. He knew how those men’s lives burned like hot coals in her gut, how she would forever remember the looks on their faces as their life drained away. She was dreading what she may have to do, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
He tried to swallow down his stubborn ire. “Ye shouldna have to be the one doing this.”
She shook her head again. “I’ve been too long shielded from this world’s horrors. ’Tis my turn to protect others, and I will not see innocents put to death.”
Though he wanted to protest that she should not go, and insist he should be there in her place, she was right.
He was not in any condition to go. Not that he would ever admit it aloud, of course.
Even as they spoke, even as he begrudged his weakened state, his body suffered from the unmistakable pull of exhaustion.
He reached for his bag where it sat on the table by his bed and handed it to her. “Ye said ye’ll return in two or three days. If ye dinna return by then, I’ll come for ye, even if my horse has to drag me.”
“I’ll be back.” Her hand closed over the bag, and her lovely, light blue eyes met his. He could lose himself in those eyes. Hell, he wanted to. Right now. In the future. Forever.
With her.
The very thought echoed through him. But it was one he could not entertain. They were at war. There were lives to be saved. And Clara was taking all the risk.
He held tighter to the bag, preventing her from pulling it away just yet. “Be safe,” he ordered as if mortality could be commanded.
Still, she met his gaze and nodded with as much determination as any soldier did. “I will.”
Her stare roamed over his face for a long moment before she got to her feet and left. He felt her absence immediately, and that silent, solitary sense around him that had so long been a companion now felt like a chasm.
“I’m sure she’ll return soon.” Sister Agnes approached his bed with a cup of something steaming hot and fetid smelling.
Though he hoped the foul concoction wasn’t for him, he was almost certain it was.
“Dinna worry yerself, lad.” As he had feared, the nun handed him the mug. “’Twill only be a wink of time before ye see yer sister again.”
He paused with the cup held between his fingertips, its unappetizing odor no longer as great a concern as it had been moments before.
His sister?
Something in his chest flinched.
If Clara had referred to herself as his sister, that meant she was trying to protect her reputation. It was the definitive confirmation of her intent to pursue life at the abbey.
Once she returned and he was well, he would never see her again.