Page 31 of The Scot’s Secret

“Here, let me help you.”

He had begun to arrange the sticks he’d gathered. Without waiting for an answer, she knelt beside him to help him stack them the right way.

“You’ve done this before.”

She nodded, the waves created by pinning her hair barely touching her shoulders as she moved. Alex could not stop staring at this warrior-woman. He could not imagine a more erotic sight than Clara leaning over the budding fire, her shirt and hose hugging every curve, save the ones that were bound. And her face. . . she had the most perfect, beautiful face of any woman on either side of the border.

“Aye, many times,” she said, snapping him to attention. “My master ensured I was well-trained.”

He was intensely curious about her past, but experience had taught him that the more questions he asked, the less inclined she was to answer them.

So he waited, and was rewarded.

“He was an armorer.”

When the sparks turned to flames, they worked together to ensure those flames became the fire that would warm them this night. Once that task was complete, Alex pulled the dried meat, bread, and cheese from his pouch and handed a portion to Clara.

“Not a knight?”

She tore a piece of bread from the thick loaf. “Nay, not a knight. And I lost him very recently. He died just a fortnight before I met Toren.”

“How does an armorer come to be master of a lady?”

He’d pushed too far. She was sitting just a few feet away from him, and she’d looked so relaxed with her legs crossed, one hand in her lap and the other holding the bread. But she’d tensed immediately upon being reminded of her noble birth.

She surprised him by actually answering his question. “More of a companion than a master. Gilbert. His name was Gilbert, and he was one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

Though she put her head down quickly, it was not quickly enough. He saw her eyes fill with tears. She’d likely never talked about his death to anyone.

“Tell me.”

Alex understood the pain of losing a loved one.

She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic and took a deep breath.

“Gilbert was quite skilled, and because of it, he was able to buy everything we needed. Food. Shelter. Even training for me. At nearly every tournament we attended, a queue would form outside of his makeshift forge. You’ve seen the sword he crafted for me.”

“Indeed, a fine weapon.”

He almost asked about the origin of its inscription, but thought better of it.

“It was the second day of the tournament at Dunstable. An English knight whom neither of us recognized sought Gilbert out.”

She lowered the chunk of bread into her lap.

“He asked for Gilbert to reforge his sword and poison the tip.”

Alex clenched his fists. He knew of the practice and had even seen men killed because of it. Poison was a coward’s weapon, but some men would win at any costs. Especially when the stakes were so high. The tournament at Dunstable was infamous for the ruby awarded to its champion.

“Gilbert refused.”

“You don’t have to—”

“The man returned later that night while Gilbert was still working. He slept little at tournaments. The coin it brought would feed us for months.”

Clara closed her eyes and bowed her head. Alex wanted more than anything to go to her. To comfort her. Instead, he sat still and waited.

“He brought companions with him. Gilbert had refused my help that night, insisting that I get some sleep. So I was inside the tent when I heard them.”