sword and pulled back the tent flap.
An overpowering rage coursed through his body at the sight before him.
13
H
e would kill them both.
One man held his hand over Clara’s mouth while the other reached for her. Reivers by the looks of them. English or Scottish, he couldn’t tell. Nor did it matter. Both would die.
“Hold or she’s—”
Alex would do no such thing. Not giving either man time to recover from the shock of seeing him emerge from the tent, he moved on them so fast that his thoughts never caught up to his actions. He removed the most imminent threat first, the dagger wielded by the man who held Clara. Kicking it from the man’s hand, Alex ran his sword through the blackguard so quickly that his only reaction was to fall backward on the cold ground where he would remain.
The second reiver was already upon him, but Alex had watched his movements from the corner of his eye and easily ducked the thrust of his lance. Alex spun to the left, away from Clara, and held up his sword in defense. Now fully prepared for a fight, the reiver came toward him once again. As he’d done to the man’s companion, Alex quickly found the exposed area beneath his leather jerkin. With one thrust of his sword, the man fell backward. But unlike his companion, this one did not die immediately.
“We just wanted a turn with the wee lass,” he foolishly croaked up at them.
Scottish. For today, at least. Though some reivers were honorable, others simply lived to prey on the instability of the border, making a living from others’ hard work. Scottish one day. . . English the next. . . whenever it suited them.
These were the second sort of men.
Alex saw the movement, as did Clara apparently. When the reiver grabbed the lance at his side, Clara’s sword arm darted toward the same spot Alex had already injured him.
“This lass,” she said, “is neither wee nor Scottish. Know ’twas an Englishwoman who ended your life.”
Alex watched as the man’s eyes widened just before the emptiness set in. Clara turned toward the river.
Alex walked up to both men to ensure they were, in fact, dead.
He stood there for a moment longer and finally made his way toward Clara.
Though the sun had risen, the sky stubbornly refused to lighten. Rain threatened, making the prospect of that day’s ride a wet one.
He found her bent at the riverbed, cleaning her sword.
“I’m sorry—” he began.
She turned, her face expressionless.
“’Tis my fault.” She turned her attention back to her task.
He disagreed. “I never heard them coming.” It was inexcusable that he’d allowed this situation to unfold, and it might have ended in both of their deaths. He had been so intent on her story, he’d allowed himself to forget that they were vulnerable.
Toren would never have made such a mistake.
“I should not have discarded Alfred so easily.”
Alex knelt down beside her. Clara’s hands were shaking as she wiped her weapon clean. Where had she gotten the linen cloth?
“Have you killed a man before?”
She’d obviously been trained to do so. But training and killing were very different.
“Nay,” she said flatly. She finished her task and looked at him. “How did you move so quickly?”
He shrugged. “Apparently my feet are quicker than my ears are keen to sound.”
That, at least, brought a smile to her face.
“Your tongue is as quick as your feet,” she said. “I didn’t mean. . . that is. . . your wit. . .”
“I understand, lass.” He stood when she did. “Are you all right then?”
It was no small matter to end a man’s life. Even if it was justly deserved.
“Aye. I mean, I think so. He was wrong to have attacked me. . . and then to say such a thing. . . I just. . . ’tis not fair.”
“’Tis the way of the world.”
He had heard the same complaint from his sister, who’d struggled with the harmful misconception that women were somehow inferior to men.
He, of course, knew better. It was a wonder any man with a daughter could not see the world as he and his brothers did.
“I will be Alfred once again.”
“Clara, no, I—”
“Nay, Alex. I will not be dissuaded.”
And so his companion for the rest of the day was not the comely maid he’d come to enjoy looking at, but the squire who’d come to Brockburg to serve him. Seeing her with her hair piled into that plain hat, the familiar smudges of dirt on her