Page 47

Both families, though English, were considered allies. With Geoffrey Waryn’s marriage to the Earl of Kenshire’s daughter, the Waryns were as powerful as Clarissa’s father.

“Eventually, he will find her. A woman such as Clarissa cannot remain in hiding forever. She is not easily forgotten or overlooked. Only the church would have the authority to keep her against his will.”

“But it could give her time—”

“And what do you suppose her father will do when he discovers our allies have been harboring his daughter?” Aidan tried to remember to keep his voice low. Though only a handful of men and servants remained in the hall, he did not want to be overheard. “It would not matter that her supporters were English. Theffield knows which side the Waryns fight for. And Clave too. We are united in our efforts to uphold the treaty against men who care more for their personal gain, like Caxton . . . or Theffield, than they do their countries. Scottish. English. It hardly matters any longer.”

Gillian looked exactly as he felt.

Defeated.

“Graeme says there is to be a meeting between Douglas and Theffield. A miracle they’ve both agreed to it after their difficulties in the past.”

“Aye,” he said, wondering when it would be safe to see Clarissa. He could easily get to the Prison Tower through the—

“And you truly believe Theffield will force Caxton to step down?”

Nay, he should wait until dark. They could not be too careful, and there was already enough coming and going from the tower.

“You are not listening,” she accused, arching her eyebrows.

Guilty.

“Go to her already. None will notice. And perhaps I can find someone to speak with who will actually listen to me.” Gillian tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Hell, he’d waited long enough.

“I’m going to see her.”

Now, what in God’s name was so funny about that?

* * *

Clarissa tried to wash using the scented water Morgan had left behind. Though she was grateful for Lady Gillian’s maid, she could not help but wish for a proper bath. She’d been too long without one, but such a luxury simply was not possible. Too many servants would be required to assist in the preparations. It would draw undue attention to her, and Clarissa did not want to endanger the de Sowlis family and Clan Scott.

Morgan had helped her remove her gown, but the long-sleeved cotton shift would have to be discarded next. She was preparing to do just that, when a knock at the door stopped her. The circular room was not so large that even a soft knock wouldn’t reverberate through the stone-walled chamber. Pushing her arms back through the sleeves, she opened the door, expecting to find Morgan again.

It was certainly not the maid.

Aidan, dressed casually in dark brown trewes and a cream tunic with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, filled the doorway. She was so distracted by the muscles in his forearms that it took a moment for her to remember her own state of undress.

Backing into the chamber, she tried to appear unaffected as she grabbed the first garment that she spotted, the hooded cloak she’d worn as they rode into Highgate End, and tossed it over her shoulders.

“May I come in?”

She turned toward the sound of his voice, which had become increasingly familiar and comforting.

“Of course,” she said, feeling absurd as she pulled the cloak tighter around her chest.

Something had shifted between them the night he’d held her by the fire. A new intimacy had sprung up between them that had left her both sad and confused. She knew Aidan had solicited the help of Clan Kerr’s priest; Gillian had told her. She tried to think it a good thing, for the longer she was here, the longer she put his cause in danger, and yet . . .

He looked at the bowl perched on the sole table in the room.

“Your needs have been met, I trust?”

“Aye, of course.”

Of course. Could she utter another phrase besides that one? When he was near, Clarissa had difficulty turning her thoughts into coherent words.