was just glad to keep moving.
“Where are we going?” Aaron asked.
“To Keston House,” Alex answered.
“Who are we looking for?” Robert stroked his mount’s mane with care, another indication that, reiver or not, he was the kind of man Alex would be glad to travel alongside.
“A lad,” Geoffrey answered. “A squire by the name of—”
“Alfred?”
They all stopped to look at Robert.
Alex understood immediately. “Were you taken unaware by a lad named Alfred?”
“You should have seen it,” Aaron boasted. “He was as small as his sword, but the lad held it so quickly to Robert’s back I thought I may have one less brother this eve.”
“And you’re sure his name was Alfred?” Alex held his breath, waiting.
“Aye, that’s what they called him. He travels with a merchant and another young boy.”
“When?” he and Geoffrey asked at the same time.
“A few hours past,” Aaron answered.
“Did they say where they were going?” Alex asked eagerly. Though he swelled with pride, the vision of Clara arming herself against these men terrified him.
Aaron shook his head. “On this road? ’Twould seem the same place you are. Not much besides Keston House between here and—”
“He is unharmed?” Alex interrupted.
“You should be asking my brother that. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Aaron?” Geoffrey prodded.
“Aye, better than that. He is a feisty lad. It was only when we mentioned we were headed to Kenshire that he took his sword from Robert’s back.”
“Please tell me you didn’t rob them?”
“Rob?” Aaron apparently was appalled at such an idea. “Tax them, more like. This is our territory.”
“Aaron!”
“Nay, Geoffrey, we did not take anything from them. Certainly not after the boy pulled his sword.”
The relief that coursed through Alex’s body almost felled him. He was in love with Clara. The thought of seeing her, of holding her in his arms. . .
To hell with the danger. They knew now his guess was accurate. Clara was headed to Keston House. He sped up and led the group, not caring if the other men followed.
He would get there by daybreak, and when he found her, he’d never let her go.
“Alfred?”
Clara leapt off the cart and ran to the woman who had kept her safe after Gilbert’s death.
Albri was a plump but fierce middle-aged woman whose hair had long ago gone grey. A woman who was known to harbor smugglers and slit the throat of any man who crossed her. Her ruthlessness was matched only by her husband’s. Edgar, the son of a wealthy merchant who once made a living as a mercenary, was large, scary, and incredibly kind. At least to Clara.
They were the kind of people she never would have gotten to know as Clara, but to whom Alfred owed much.
“I am a boy,” Clara reminded her. Albri released her, and luckily, none seemed to have noticed the overly-long embrace.
“What took ye so long to come back?”
And before Clara could answer, she kept talking. “It’s hardly daybreak. You travelled all night?”
“Albri—” she gestured to the fur trader and his nephew, “—they need a room.”
Albri watched them bring the cart to the nearby stables. From the decisive nod she gave them, it was clear she knew they’d helped Clara. “The best Keston has to offer,” she said, turning away. “Come, lad.” She chuckled, reminding Clara of the other reason she’d not remained here longer. Albri was not very good at keeping secrets.
These were Gilbert’s friends, and they had treated her like a daughter when she needed it most. But Clara still had trouble understanding how a man like Gilbert—a man killed for refusing to involve himself in illegal activities—could call Edgar and Albri friends.
“Albri,” she called out to her hostess, knowing that she would soon be whisked into the wattle-and-dab structure known as much for its penny-a-night rooms as it was for harboring smugglers. Though it was further inland than most smuggler establishments, it was close enough to gain the attention of evil-doers looking for safe passage to both sides of the border.
“Before you feed me—”
“Ha, gone for months and she—pardon, he—thinks he knows ol’ Albri.”
Clara watched her wrinkled face scrunch up, leaving no doubt as to where the lines on her face had originated.
“Well? When’s the last you’ve eaten, boy?”
Clara would have laughed, but she remembered she was no longer Clara. Masking her feminine laugh was something she’d never been able to do successfully.
“Just so,” Clara said. “But I need to speak with you first. It’s important.”
Whether Albri took heed of her impatient tone or saw the look of panic in her