ceiling was spectacular in its height, and wooden beams crossed from one end of the hall to the other. What surprised her most was the number of people present. The trestle tables were filled with retainers, knights, and visiting nobles—or so she assumed.
As they walked toward the raised dais, Lady Sara reached out to touch her arm.
“Will you come with me?”
Clara looked immediately to Alex, not realizing she’d done so until Lady Sara glanced his way as well. Clearly agitated, he watched them closely.
“I will not hurt you, nor will I ask anything of you. I merely wish to speak with you.” Alex moved to follow them. “Alone,” she added pointedly.
Clara nodded her head in assent.
The lady of Kenshire led her toward an anteroom tucked at the front of the hall. A bench sat at the base of a rare stained glass window looking out into the courtyard.
“My lady’s maid, Faye, chastises me for wearing breeches,” Lady Sara said. “At least, a woman’s version of them.”
Clara looked down at her own attire. “You were in hiding as well?”
Her laugh was not the dainty laugh of a great countess but the hearty one of a woman who cared little about social graces. Clara already liked her. “There were days when I would have very much liked to be in hiding, but nay, I was not.”
Lady Sara pulled the long sleeve of her gown onto her lap and folded her hands. “Just this past year, this—” she swept her hands to indicate everything around her, “—was in jeopardy. My father had died, and his only male relative attempted to claim Kenshire for his own.”
Clara could tell by the quiet, serious tone of Lady Sara’s voice that she was sharing something important. But why? Why would she reveal herself to a stranger?
“But before his death, my father sent two reivers here to protect my inheritance.” She sighed. “And me.”
“Reivers?”
“Aye. And I was none too pleased. But it happened that one was a good friend of my father’s. The other?” The smile that reached her eyes told Clara all she needed to know. “Is now my husband.”
Clara knew from Alex that Sir Geoffrey Waryn, brother to Sir Bryce Waryn, was the countess’s husband. Although he certainly had not told her the man had once been a reiver. Though she was still curious about the countess’s decision to reveal herself in such a way, she was too polite to pose the question. If the countess was attempting to elicit a confidence in return, she would be disappointed.
“And your relative?” Clara pressed.
Lady Sara sighed. “Was killed because of his attempt to end my life.”
Clara gasped. “He tried to kill you?”
“Tried and failed, thanks to Geoffrey.”
And now he was as powerful as any of the border lords.
“Come, you must be hungry.” Lady Sara stood, leaving Clara quite confused. Had she brought her to this room merely to tell her this tale?
“But, my lady—”
“Sara,” Clara corrected, silently grateful for the kind gesture of familiarity. “Sara. Why do you tell me this? You—”
“Want to know why you’re dressed as such? Aye, but if you wanted me to know, you’d not be hiding your identity.”
She began to walk toward the hall.
“But then why—”
Sara turned back to her. “Yes?”
“Why would you tell me, a stranger, that story? ’Tis a fascinating one, but. . . ”
Sara peered beyond the wall where they stood and out into the hall before glancing back at her. “Because any woman who dresses as a boy does so for either one of two reasons. Out of the desire to show those around her that she will not follow the rules, consequences be damned, or because she is afraid to reveal herself. I believe such is the case with you. . .”
“Clara,” she said, filling in Sara’s pause. Never had she given her real name so freely and so quickly to anyone.
“I believe you are hiding for important reasons, but in time, perhaps those reasons will change.”
With a swoosh of her skirts across the clean rushes, Lady Sara once again turned and walked toward the hall.
Still attempting to sort out the curious conversation, Clara stepped back into the hall and locked eyes with Alex, who had just lifted a spoon to his lips.
Relief filled his eyes, followed fast by desire. These past few days, Clara had found herself thinking of the moments they’d shared again and again. Of how he’d touched her breasts and kissed her and caressed her. . . It seemed she could think of little