Page 42 of The Scot’s Secret

Alex awoke painfully hard and aware of every movement Clara made against him. Though he tried not to wake her, she stirred the moment he shifted out from under her, sighing softly, sensually. He was not going to make it to Kenshire at this rate.

“’Tis morn already?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, standing. He had to put some distance between them. Alex stood, wanting to take the covering with him. It was as cold as an autumn morn. He’d just as well lay back down with Clara in his arms. . .

Nay, not that.

“Wait!” She cried out as his hand touched the side of the tent.

He turned. The wide opening of her boy’s shirt had become untied, revealing part of one shoulder. That long stretch of smooth, creamy skin demanded his attention.

Until he saw her expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“I slept!”

She stared at him, her eyebrows lifted and her eyes wide.

“Aye lass, ’tis a common thing for a person to do at night.”

“But my dream. . .”

He shook his head, indicating that he didn’t understand.

“Did I call out while I slept?”

“Nay, you did not.”

She shook her head, as if to dismiss their conversation, so he turned once again to leave. Some instinct stopped him and he turned back to face her.

“How long have you had that dream, Clara?”

Her head was bowed over her lap, and he found himself walking toward her rather than away. Bending down, he lifted her chin. Tears escaped from under her closed eyelids.

It seemed he’d get his wish. Alex sat beside her and covered them both. He held her to him, comforting her as best he could. She cried openly against him, her shoulders shaking.

“Shhhh. . .”

She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. He moved away for long enough to reach into his satchel and retrieve a dry cloth, but as soon as he handed it to her, he pulled her against him once more.

“He. . . he. . .”

She continued to cry while attempting to speak. The pain in her voice pierced Alex through.

“He did it on purpose,” she managed. “For me to see.”

Alex remained quiet as her sobs subsided.

“I could not see his face. The men. . . they came prepared for battle. I should have listened to my father. I should not have come back.”

So, this was what she watched each night; she was forced to relive her father’s death.

“How could I leave him? He was all I had. If only I had been trained. If I’d been armed. . .”

“You’d likely be dead too.”

Her head was cradled against his chest, and her tears continued to make quick work of wetting his tunic.