Page 32 of The Scot’s Secret

She looked at him then, her eyes still glistening.

“I could hear only muffled voices, and one man said something about putting the body in the river. By the time I realized what was happening, they were gone.”

Alex clenched his fists. It physically pained him to imagine Clara at that moment, alone and terrified, her only companion and friend murdered.

“Gilbert was very smart.”

The pride in her voice was evident.

“He’d prepared me well. I carried what I could and left immediately.”

“In the night?”

“Aye.”

“Where did you go?”

She wiped her eyes once again.

“I didn’t travel far that night. At least one of the men who’d killed Gilbert, the knight whom he’d refused, had seen me. I made my way slowly north, closer to. . .”

She stopped talking.

“Places that I knew. Gilbert told me if anything ever happened to him, I should go to. . . “ She looked at him and he held her gaze. He was sure she would not reveal the specific location, but she finally said, “Keston House.”

Alex looked at her quizzically. “The border tavern whose owners are known to harbor smugglers? You stayed there after Gilbert died?”

Clara nodded. “He said I could tell the innkeepers the truth. And though I remained a lad there, they knew my identity. They insisted I stay with them, in fact, but I couldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” Now he was confused.

“Place them in danger.”

“How would your presence put them in danger?”

Clara pursed her lips so tight, he laughed. Her eyes widened.

“You look as if your meal was soured. You needn’t tell me. You should know by now I’ll not demand anything of you.”

He spoke the truth. She’d been through enough. How she had survived for this long, alone, Alex wasn’t sure. But he knew one thing. She would never do so again. Whether she returned to Brockburg as his squire or, if she chose to trust them with her true identity, a permanent guest, Clara was alone no longer.

Englishwoman or nay.

10

She’d said too much.

Something about her companion made her feel safe, and she’d been frighteningly close to telling him everything.

“Alex,” she said, purposefully changing the subject. “Where is my tent?”

“Our tent,” he answered, “is over there.” He nodded toward the single tent he’d pitched.

Our tent.

Nay, it was not possible. She could not, would not, sleep so close to him.

“’Tis not proper—”