Page 92 of The Scot’s Secret

“No, I have not. You are the first.”

But he didn’t seem happy to admit it.

“Which is why, of course, we will marry.”

It took her a moment to understand his words.

“Marry?”

That was how he would propose marriage? Nay, they would not marry, but the look on his face told her that he was earnest.

“Alex, we will not be getting married.”

“Clara—” he mocked her tone, “—we will.”

And the stubborn Scotsman actually believed his own words. As if she would ever put him in such danger.

Another, more alarming thought occurred to her.

“The bed? Alex. . .” She pushed away from him and looked down but could see nothing. She pushed at him until he moved, and sure enough, drops of blood stared back at her.

He looked amused.

“’Tis not funny. I didn’t think. . .”

“The sheet can be replaced.” Alex pointed to the silken coverlet that he’d torn off the bed earlier. “That, not so easily.”

“You thought of that before. ”

He reached for her and ran his finger gently down her cheek. “I thought of everything.”

“Including—”

“Aye, including the fact that you could become pregnant.”

She stared into the face of the man she loved.

“I don’t regret it,” she said.

He smiled and pulled her toward him. Nestling her head in the comfortable and familiar crook of his arm, Clara closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure she could sleep pressed against him this way, her hand draped on the ridges of his stomach. Those ridges were the last thing she remembered. When she woke, it was morning, and he was gone.

* * *

The first thing she noticed, of course, was his absence. The second was a folded sheet at the foot of the bed. How the devil had he managed that? Besides which, the fire still raged when it should have died out during the night. He’d stoked it without her noticing, and he’d clearly also seen to the candles at some point in the night, for they were not much shorter than they’d been the evening before.

He truly had thought of everything.

Clara sprang from the bed, the cool air reminding her of her state of undress. Locating and tossing the shift over her head, she tore the pillows and sheet from the bed and began to redress it with the fresh sheet Alex had left behind. She really had missed sleeping on a feather mattress. At Brockburg, the large linen bag stuffed with wool was an improvement on the pallets she’d often found herself on moving from tournament to tournament, but it was nothing compared with this bed. She shuddered at the thought of sleeping on the ground once again.

The bed freshly made, Clara only had to determine where to hide the offending sheet. Moments after she shoved it under the bed, a knock landed at the door, followed by a familiar voice.

“Clara?”

It was Emma’s voice. She struggled to stand, but her friend opened the door before she could manage it.

“What are you doing down there?”

She stood and, seeing her friend fully dressed, realized it was much later than she’d thought. “When Faye said you were still asleep, I thought I’d—”