The Scot's Secret - Cecelia Mecca Page 0,59
that she disguised herself as a man and warned Prince Edward of the earl’s unguarded state. ’Twas his foolishness, and her cunning, that led to the end of his misguided campaign.”
“The earl should consider himself lucky to be dead, for it sounds as if you would do the job yourself if given half a chance.”
Clara sat up and looked at Alex’s poor shirt, which she’d just soaked with her tears.
“My father came to believe in him, but to me, he and his followers were responsible for the loss of my father. So now you know.”
“And when Barrington's armorer decided you were no longer safe as a woman, Alfred was born,” he said. “And you believe, so many years later, that if your identity were discovered—”
“I would be imprisoned. Or killed.”
Alex took both of her hands in his. “But Clara, the Dictum of Kenilworth—”
“Protects those who were not among the earl’s most fervent supporters.”
“And your father was one of those men?”
She nodded her head. “He gave everything to a cause he believed in. And he paid the ultimate price.”
Alex sighed. “I don’t know your English politics well enough—”
“But I do.” She needed him to understand.
“If you were to live in Scotland—”
“You know the borderlands are unique and nearly indistinguishable. Perhaps farther north. . .”
Panic welled in her.
“Alex, you must never tell anyone. My father was considered a traitor. If his daughter were found alive—”
“I will not—” his voice held the conviction she needed to hear, “—tell anyone without your permission. Ever.”
“And I will not give it. Ever.”
He leaned toward her then and kissed her, gently this time. His lips, so soft and warm, were a welcome respite from having to relive the worst moment of her life.
But he did not press her. Instead, he pulled away and stood.
“Alex, what are you doing?”
“Undressing,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Indeed, he took off his boots and trewes, everything but his shirt, before she could form a single coherent thought.
“Stand up, let me help you.”
“Alex, I—” She stood, confused.
He untied the laces at the back of her gown quickly, efficiently. Otherwise, he didn’t move to touch her. When she was free of the heavy gown, she stepped out of it, and he pointed to her leather shoes. She took them off, leaving her completely bare but for the silken chemise Emma had lent her.
But he wasn’t even looking at her. Alex had already climbed into the bed.
“What are you—”
“I will not touch you tonight. Not in that way.”
“Then why—”
“Your nightmares,” he said simply, and finally Clara understood. He was going to sleep here to save her from the dreams.
“Alex, I don’t believe this is quite proper.”
He laughed, a deep, sexy sound that made her wish he had not promised he wouldn’t touch her.
“I believe you’re right,” he said, mimicking her more proper tone. “I will be gone before anyone wakes.”
“But someone will see you!”
“Clara. . .”
He was asking that she trust him. And she did. Clara moved to the other side of the bed and lay next to him.
Alex pulled her close, the feel of his hard, muscular chest under her cheek more familiar than it should be.
He kissed the top of her head, and Clara smiled against him. She’d told him everything, and he’d not recoiled in horror. He had not run from the chamber to tell everyone or looked at her as if she were a lunatic. Or a traitor.
She allowed the temporary contentment to flow through her as she listened to the crackle of the fire intermingled with the sound of Alex’s steady heartbeat. And drifted off to a blessedly peaceful sleep.
By all that was holy, Alex would not get a moment’s sleep this night. No matter how hard he tried, he could not calm his body—as if he were some randy lad and not a disciplined man perfectly capable of sleeping with a desirable woman draped across him.
Though she was not just any desirable woman. . . that was the problem. She was Clara. Or rather, Lady Clara, daughter of a baron who’d consorted with the man who had almost defeated and bested the English king. If not for the circumstances at Eversham, which had put the earl in such a precarious position, many believed he would have eventually gained enough support to succeed.
Instead, Simon de Montfort’s body had been mutilated and scattered across England. But did Clara still have a reason to be afraid? Though she would likely never reclaim what