Chapter 17 #2
The wounded hurt in her wide blue eyes softened his rankled demeanor. “Come, I’ll walk ye downstairs.” He put his hand to the small of her back, his fingertips whispering over her wool kirtle.
She frowned. “I want to come with ye.”
“Nay,” he said firmly. This request was almost as bad as the one for him to hide with women and children in a time of the battle.
She stood in place, not allowing him to lead her to safety. God’s teeth, but the lass was stubborn.
“I can heal men who are injured.” Her tone took on a pleading note. “I can throw my daggers.”
“Then ye can be there to help the women and children, should the English break through the line.” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. If the English broke through the line, that would mean they were all dead. Or would be.
The very thought of what the English would do to a room full of women and children made his blood go cold. Urgency pushed at him with a sudden need to get Clara to safety.
He needed her in the cellars of the keep. So he could concentrate in battle. So the grip around his heart could relax.
If he suspected she was in an area where she could be harmed, there would be no way he could focus, which would be entirely to his detriment.
She did not move, as obdurate in her determination to stay with him as he was in his need to have her in the cellar of Dumbarton.
He wanted to yell at her to get down there, not out of cruelty but out of insistent necessity.
But this might be the last time he would ever speak to her, the last time he would ever have to hold her, kiss her.
He could not end things between them with words of anger, no matter the well-meaning intentions behind them.
In that moment of poignant understanding, he grabbed her to him and held her with everything he had. He breathed her sensual, familiar scent and ran his hand down her silky, dark braid.
“Reid.” Her voice was a whispered exhale that echoed her overwhelming emotions.
“I love ye, Clara,” he said in a choked voice. “If ye’re no’ safe here, I’ll worry about ye too much. I need ye to be safe. For me. For our future.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“Trust me, lass.” He rested his forehead against hers and made a vow that no mortal man could offer with certainty, “I promise to return.” He took her hand, and together they walked to the stairs leading to the cellar.
The hum of voices echoed up around them, along with the cries of several dozen babies and children.
Reid knew what they would find below. Frightened faces tipped up to watch the stairwell, to see who would be joining them in their interminable wait to find out if they would live or die. To learn if their fathers and brothers and husbands were dead.
All at once, he understood Clara’s hesitation to join them. He couldn’t imagine the maddening helplessness of just waiting.
He pulled her to him. “I’ll come home to ye,” he swore. “As soon as ’tis safe to come to ye, I’ll be here.”
He caressed her cheek, burning the softness of her skin to his memory. This woman gave him such purpose, such joy.
His wife.
He hated that he was the source of her tears, that she had to remain in the suffocating bowels of a castle as she waited to find out her fate. And he hated that he had to leave her when he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life cherishing her and what they had together.
Clara’s face crumpled. “Please don’t go.”
Her request left him raw.
A knot of tension ached at the back of his throat. “Dinna ask what ye know I canna give.” He took her hands and held them to his heart. “Please.”
This time, she did not argue. She choked on a sob and threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. They held one another for a long moment until he knew he could postpone leaving no longer.
“I love ye, Clara MacLeod.” He kissed her tenderly, with all the love he had for her in his soul.
A tear ran down her cheek. “And I love ye, husband,” she whispered.
He turned from her then, without escorting her into the cellar. He could not bring himself to see those anxious faces peering at him. He could not stand to leave her there.
Nay, he had to go now while he was still able to.
He made his way back to the Great Hall, his shoulders squared. Finlay approached, his gaze filled with worry beneath a bush of his red-orange eyebrows. “Is she in the cellars?”
Reid nodded.
“Ye did the right thing, lad.” Finlay clapped a hand on Reid’s shoulder. “She’ll be safe. The Stirlings and Hamiltons have joined us as well. There may be a lot of English, but there will also be a bloody lot of Scots for them to contend with.” He nodded. “Best of luck to ye.”
“And to ye as well,” Reid said in earnest to the man who had once prickled his jealousy and now had his respect.
A guard appeared in the massive doorway to the Great Hall. “The English are here,” he cried out. Immediately following his words was the long, lone note of the horn outside.
The hall went silent as everyone digested the news. Aye, they were five clans strong now, but would it be enough?
Reid put his hand on the hilt of his sword, reassured by its proximity.
This was it—the battle he had been anticipating for some time.
Thanks be to God that he knew without a doubt Clara was safe.