Page 66

“I’ve already had a bath prepared,” she finished.

A bath. Alex smiled. “Your husband said you’re always in need of new retainers,” he quipped.

Lady Sara looked from him to Geoffrey, no doubt shocked at the change in their mutual demeanor. For him to even jest about becoming a retainer to Kenshire. . .

“The legendary Alex Kerr fighting for the English,” Geoffrey’s smile had started to come more frequently and easily over the two-day trip, and Alex was glad for it.

“Your sister would be pleased,” Sara said, and Alex knew she was right. When Bryce and Toren had fought, it had nearly killed her. To have their two families find peace after so long. . .

They came to the place where the two parties parted and he wanted to ask again about Clara, who might or might not be ill. But it seemed best to wait for whatever scheme Sara had fashioned to unfold.

Alex would have to settle for seeing her at the meal.

“Are you in need of an escort?” Sara asked.

“No need,” Alex said, trying to remember which passageway led to his rooms. He took a sharp right until he heard male laughter behind him.

Geoffrey.

So he’d made a wrong turn.

He turned and walked down an adjacent corridor, Geoffrey’s laughter echoing behind him. Catrina would, indeed, be grateful at the strides they’d made in mending their differences.

After a few additional wrong turns, he finally arrived at his destination. Opening the oak door to his chamber, he spied a large tub filled with water that, surprisingly, was still hot. Much preferable to the frigid saltwater of the North Sea.

As Alex discarded his dusty breeks, he wondered if his sister and brothers were right. Perhaps their mother was best left in the past, much like their feud with the Waryns. What good would it do to confront her? To ask her why she’d left? The fact remained that she had. . . She was already dead to them, as Reid had said over and over. It was a fool’s quest to attempt to locate a woman who didn’t want to be found. . .

He stepped into the tub, feeling more at peace than he had since leaving Brockburg. It doesn’t matter. He repeated the phrase over and over and almost believed it by the time he finished scrubbing himself dry.

Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to, namely Clara. What precisely was he to do with a squire he didn’t want and a companion he wanted entirely too much? If she could trust him with the rest of her story, perhaps he could help her.

And then what?

At least he’d have the opportunity to speak to her tonight. Or, more precisely, “him,” as she’d unfortunately be presenting herself as Alfred this eve at the impromptu celebration. One he needed to hurry to attend.

17

“I can’t do this,” Clara muttered to no one, pacing back and forth. Faye had just left after being summoned by Lady Sara. She didn’t deserve their kindness. Clara was becoming more and more of a burden, and now, when they should be celebrating Emma’s return, they were instead preoccupied with her preparations.

She’d endured more primping than she had the day her father had welcomed her first potential suitor. She had been young at the time, but her father must have known the years ahead would bring turmoil. He had pushed her to accept, something Clara could not bring herself to do. Her father would never have forced her, however, and the match hadn’t gone through. Looking back, it was one mistake she regretted. Not for herself, but for Gilbert, who might still be alive if he hadn’t been forced to become her protector.

Gilbert, who would have been appalled that she was putting herself in such danger.

A knock at the door startled her.

“My lady?” The young handmaiden who’d been assisting her stepped into the room. “The others are already assembled in the hall.”

She should be down there already. It was rude of her to delay.

“You look lovely,” the girl said in a voice that was barely a whisper. She wanted to tell the girl such a thing didn’t matter. But it would have been a lie. Despite herself, despite the fact that Clara was about to present herself—with no disguise—to a hall filled with people, she did care what she looked like.

She cared because of Alex.

When Sara and Emma had descended on her earlier to help her choose a gown—a beautiful deep blue confection with extremely low-hanging sleeves—they’d been all excitement. They’d squealed in delight upon seeing her freshly styled hair. Faye had captured the front tendrils in a braid that extended from both sides and met in the back. The majority of her hair hung unbound, now just a bit longer than her shoulders. She could almost believe their exclamations of delight at how beautiful she looked.

Clara had forgotten her predicament for a time, allowing herself to become engrossed in the process of becoming a lady once more. But doubts began to resurface now that she was left alone with her thoughts. What if someone recognized her? Sara had declared it impossible, that the celebration would be limited to their regular household, all those who lived and worked at Kenshire.

But that didn’t stop her from fretting.