Page 49 of The Scot’s Secret

“Alex.”

“Aye, lass?”

“I’ve had. . . feelings there, more than once. And I do right now. What does that mean?”

His Englishwoman could slay a man and wipe his blood from her sword, but she could not identify the source, or the cause, of her own desire.

He waved to the servant for more ale. This time, when she attempted to sit on his lap, Alex avoided the overture.

“Nay, not tonight. But—” he knew they’d not get very good service if he dismissed her altogether, “—extra coin is yours if you can arrange two rooms together.”

She looked at him oddly, glanced at Clara, and likely came to the wrong conclusion. So be it. He needed Clara next to him, for her own safety—and his sanity.

“Drink.” He handed Clara a mug of ale.

“So. What exactly does that feeling mean?”

Alex had never, ever, had such a conversation with a woman before.

“It means. . . your body is saying it wants to be touched. There.”

“Touched?”

It was all he could take. Alex stood from the table.

“Come.”

He didn’t wait to see if she followed. Alex found the serving wench, spoke with her for a moment, gave her the necessary coin, and walked out the front door into the night. He’d brought Clara here so she could sleep in a proper bed, but there weren’t two rooms near each other, and The Anvil Inn was rougher than he remembered it. He could not comfortably leave her, but he had another plan. . . Bo and Berit were nowhere to be seen as they had left the main part of the inn, which was just as well.

He walked into the stable, paid the remaining stable hands enough coin to ensure their privacy, and climbed the ladder, listening for Clara’s movements behind him.

“What are we doing here, Alex?” she asked, sounding completely baffled. “I thought the purpose of stopping at The Anvil Inn was a warm bed? Why are we—”

“Aye, ’tis the only private place we can stay together. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain what you’re asking of me.”

Clara gestured to their surroundings. “This will help because—”

“I can’t tell you what that feeling means, Clara. But I can show you.”

13

“Show me?”

Clara’s heart thudded faster in her chest, and she inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scent, a mixture of horse and hay. It was not unpleasant. She’d slept many nights in stables like this one, though the accommodations were vastly different than the soft feather mattress of her childhood.

“That feeling, lass, is desire.”

“Oh.” It came out as a strangled sound.

He walked toward her, straw crunching under his feet. “’Tis the same feeling I get every time I look at you. When you lie in my arms at night, the feeling is so strong I can hardly sleep.”

He nodded to her hat. “Take that off.”

A little thrill shot through her, but she said, “If I’m not your squire, then I don’t believe you’ve the right to order me as such.”

“You are—”

“What exactly?” It was the question she’d asked him earlier—the one he hadn’t answered. Because there was no answer. If she was not his squire. . . if she did not train with his men. . . she was no one to him. The incident back at camp proved that her disguise was still necessary.