Page 8 of The Scot’s Secret

Clara cursed herself. Though she’d succeeded in training herself to speak in a lower voice than was natural for her, she still struggled with her speech. Gilbert had often chided her for slipping back into the speech of a high-born lady, and she’d just done it again.

And Lady Juliette had noticed.

“When I told the men you’re bred of a great family, a noble family, I was not far off the mark.” She stated it as a fact, not a question. Adorned in a simple but elegant deep green gown fit for a queen, her long blonde hair flowing down her back, Lady Juliette embodied the noblewoman she had accused Clara of being.

Clara knew to secure the safety of living at Brockburg, she would be forced to reveal more than she was accustomed to the chief and his wife. But just how much was safe to share?

“At least tell me your name.”

In this Clara was lucky. All who knew her, who would be looking for her, called her by her given name, Lady Clarissa.

“Clara.”

“’Tis Lady Clara, I presume?”

She hesitated.

“We will start with Clara. And I insist you call me Juliette.”

When she began to shake her head, Juliette amended, “In private, if it pleases you.”

Clara tilted her head to the side.

“Do you remember the night we spoke last?” Juliette pressed. “The night I left Bristol?”

Neither of them were likely to forget it. It was the same night Lady Juliette had discovered that Toren had been sent to England to kill her father. The lady had been so upset at his duplicity, she’d left that very night, prompting Toren to go after her.

“Aye, and I’m sorry I was forced to share your secret with Toren.”

“I understand. ’Twas necessary.” Juliette leaned forward. “Do you remember what I told you? I said that you could trust him.” She smiled. “I stand by my claim. You can trust us both to keep your secret as long as you wish it. Clara, you’ve nothing to fear from us. We will keep you safe, ’tis my promise as well as my husband’s.”

She so desperately wanted to believe it. And would have more easily if Gilbert’s voice had not been whispering in her head ever since she’d agreed to come to Scotland. Trust no one. He had said it so many times Clara had often teased him about the refrain. Though he had never been amused.

“Perhaps. . .” Juliette shrugged. “Perhaps we can even be friends. I could certainly use one now.”

Relieved that the conversation had shifted away from her secret, Clara said, “Your reception here has been a warm one.”

Juliette scrunched her nose, as if she smelled rotten meat.

Clara amended, “With the exception of the lack of a greeting party.”

“Even now Toren is arguing with his brothers about that. ’Tis just as well—I don’t require a grand welcome. But. . .” She trailed off, her nose still scrunched prettily.

“Brockburg is a beautifully appointed castle.”

“Of course,” Juliette agreed.

“But there is a certain lack of—” She hesitated, not wanting to offend.

And then, at once, both exclaimed, “Women.”

“You noticed too?” Clara asked.

“Aye, ’twas the first thing I commented to Toren as we walked into the hall. Chauncy Manor, where I am from, is rather isolated. You already know my father is the English Warden, which means he knows of most of the crimes committed along the border.”

As Warden, her father brought criminals to the monthly Day of Truce to meet the Scottish Warden, who did the same. Both attempted to keep peace along the border, a task that seemed to get harder, not easier, with time.

Juliette arched a perfectly formed eyebrow. Indeed, everything about the lady was perfect. “Unfortunately, that made him a bit. . . protective.”