The Scot's Secret - Cecelia Mecca Page 0,80

hall.”

The swish of Emma’s gown as they turned the corner caught her attention.

“Thank you for allowing me use of your wardrobe while I’m here.”

Emma waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve more gowns than I need. When we first came here after living quite simply with our aunt and uncle, Sara insisted on them.”

“Have you ever thought of returning home?”

Perhaps one of the reasons she and Emma got along so well was their similar histories. Both had been forced from their homes.

“When Geoffrey and Sara wed, Bristol was still. . .”

She stopped, and Clara knew why. “In the hands of the Kerrs,” she prompted.

They rounded another corner, reaching a part of the castle that Clara recognized.

“Aye,” Emma said. “Geoffrey convinced me to stay here. Though fortifications have since been added, Bristol is quite close to the border.”

“I can’t imagine Kenshire being taken,” Clara agreed.

“When her father died, Sara was in real danger here. From reivers, the Scots—no disrespect to Alex, of course—or monarchs too busy overseas to care much for Northumbrians. The borderers will always be in danger.”

“But you are able to go outside the walls alone,” Clara said. “Travel to the village. Or even farther.”

They’d arrived at her bedchamber, or just outside of it.

“Geoffrey doesn’t like it, but if I didn’t, I’d be no more than a prisoner. What kind of life would that be?”

What kind of life indeed?

Emma could have been talking about Clara’s life as Alfred. She was undeniably safer as Alfred, but safe was not happy. She had been living as a squire. As a person without ties to anyone or anything. Mayhap it was time for her to start listening to the people she trusted. She would attend this meal, speak to their visitors, and then to Alex.

There was something different about Clara.

She sauntered into the great room as lovely as ever, greeting him with a smile that held more promise than Alex could have hoped for.

Although he thoroughly enjoyed seeing her so relaxed, he was surprised to find her here at all. When he’d learned of Lord Edmund’s visit, he’d assumed she would panic. Instead, Lady Sara had informed him that Clara would be attending the meal.

They needed to settle things between them, and he would not be put off any longer. But it seemed his worries were unwarranted. Just after they sat down at the dais, she leaned over to whisper, “Tonight?”

The simple question, so poignantly asked, sent blood coursing to every part of his body, making it difficult to sit still. By the time the meal ended, Alex was left with no doubt about her meaning.

His English vixen had flirted with him from the first course to the last, and while he anticipated their night together, he looked forward to their future even more. He was eager to take Clara as his wife—the sooner, the better.

After the meal, she and Emma slipped out of the hall, but Clara gave him a little wave that promised she would return. Some of the hall’s occupants had begun to disperse. The lord and lady remained, though they moved to a table in front of the massive fireplace. Alex stood not far from the dais, deep in thought.

“So you are the brother of the man who took Bristol?”

Alex turned to find the aging Lord Edmund at his heels. Clara and Emma, he saw from the corner of his eye, had just returned to the hall. Where had they gone, anyway?

“I am,” he said, not sure how to respond to that.

Lord Edmund was just as Geoffrey had described him. If his grey hair didn’t proclaim the man’s age, his slight hunch certainly did. The man seemed less than bothered by his wife’s open flirtations with a knight who, by Alex’s estimation, would not be sleeping alone that night. Much younger and more attractive than Lord Edmund, Lady Maude seemed to be the last thing on her husband’s mind.

“Yet here you stand, an honored guest and well-treated, I’m sure, if I know Lady Sara.”

Though his words insulted, his tone did not. Alex chose to be amused by the old man.

“You know the lady well—”

“And her father before her. Less so her husband.” He gestured toward Geoffrey.

“He’s the best sort of enemy a man could have,” Alex said.

“Former enemy,” quipped Emma. She and Clara had just reached them and had obviously overheard the latter part of their conversation.

“Former,” he agreed, smiling not at Emma but at Clara.

Tonight, she wore gold. A gown meant to dazzle. . . which gave him an