The Scot's Secret - Cecelia Mecca Page 0,4

familiar tome. “Perhaps it is time for you to consider your choices more carefully, Alex.”

This again. . . If only he could make his escape from the priest as easily as he’d run from his brother and his men.

“Hear me, men. The day I take a wife will be the same day I’ll kneel to this man,” he gestured at his brother, “and allow him to take my position here.”

Both Toren and Reid had been attempting to convince him to defer the men’s training to the youngest Kerr brother and take up residence at Dunmure Tower. It was his by right, but their holding just to the north reminded him too much of their mother. That tower was his mother’s favorite residence. Many of those memories were good, but they were tainted by the memory of what came later—their mother had abandoned them immediately after the death of their father.

Because of that fact, Alex wanted nothing to do with his former home.

“’Tis enough talk of wives for the day,” he said dismissively, walking toward the front of the keep. “More important matters await. Toren is expected,” he tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, “with his English wife.”

As their small travelling party entered the front gate of Brockburg Castle, Clara looked up and squinted. With the sun setting, she could not see anything save the outline of a large stone keep, which spread impressively to the edges of the crag where it was perched. The outbuildings were also impressive to the eye.

“The groom will see to our horses,” the chief said to her and Lady Juliette after they dismounted. Meeting a young lad at the front of the thatched-roof stable, Toren spoke a few words to him, no doubt delivering instructions. Left alone with the new lady of Brockburg, Clara watched as Lady Juliette surveyed the keep.

“You will not reconsider?”

That Lady Juliette would worry about her at such a moment, when she was seeing her new home for the first time, reinforced what Clara already knew of the woman. She’d made the right decision to come with them.

“Nay, my lady.”

“Then I have a plan.”

Toren returned, so Lady Juliette could not elaborate, but curiosity drove her to follow the chief and his wife as they made their way into the keep. It seemed rather odd that no one had come out to greet them, though it was equally as out of character for Clara not to attempt to hide herself in the stables

As a squire for hire, Clara had grown accustomed to sleeping in the small tent she had bartered for with the last of Gilbert’s belongings. When anyone started asking questions she could not answer, she disappeared. And although she wasn’t as familiar with the customs here in Scotland, the borderlands and its people on both sides were notoriously faithful to their own families or clans, even at the expense of king and country. If she was to squire for Alex Kerr, the man would certainly ask about her upbringing. The hierarchy among squires, in England at least, very much depended on one’s family. Her duties and even where she resided would depend on the lies she concocted, though she hated to lie at all.

They entered the great hall together, and the clanging of cups and shouting of men ceased. All turned to look upon them, the lack of women noticeable.

“Where are my brothers?”

“Here,” a voice called from behind them.

Clara did not turn around. She was unable to look away from the magnificent black stags woven into two royal blue banners hanging behind the high table. She clasped her hands together, attempting to stop them from shaking. The coat of arms was so startlingly familiar that she could not control her reaction to it. Just like her family’s crest, it featured a stag and two swords—the only difference was that these swords were crossed. And, of course, the color. Her family’s crest was yellow, a symbol of loyalty. Her father had died because of his misplaced loyalty.

Her hands refused to stop trembling.

“Alfred?”

How many times had Lady Juliette called to her? She turned and froze.

Three men stood alongside the chief. While two, obviously Toren Kerr’s brothers, were as tall and broad as the chief, the third was a slightly older gentleman—a steward, perhaps? But it was the one in the middle who drew her attention. Unlike the others, he smiled, waiting for her to speak. Perhaps it was that smile that drew the eye. . . or the way he