by Diana Cosby
Her hand trembled as she handed him the cup, frustrated that even overtired, he missed little. She dinna need the bond between them to strengthen. ’Twould be hard enough now to watch him leave. “Drink everything.”
With slow swallows, Thomas drained the contents. A soft clank sounded as he set the empty goblet on the bedside table. With a sigh he lay back. “I thank you. The chamomile will make me drowsy, but a touch of valerian might have been a better choice.”
Impressed he knew his herbs, she stowed the unused portion inside the basket. She’d considered valerian, but had decided to wait. With her father’s men downstairs and Nicholai’s impending return with news, if for some reason the situation eroded, she needed Thomas alert.
“There is something I need to explain. Before I begin, know that Brother Nicholai is handling the issue.”
With a grimace he sat up.
“What are you doing? You are too weak to be moving about.”
His jaw tightened. “Tell me.”
She said a silent prayer. “Comyn’s men are below.”
“What!” Thomas braced his arm against the bed and swung his feet over the side.
Alesone barred his way. “They are unsure if we are here.”
Eyes dark with frustration held hers. “How did they find us?”
“They followed tracks left by the cart we used to bring you here.”
Panic flared in his eyes. “John—”
“Nicholai sent a man to check on him.” Her voice wavered at the last. “I pray he is…” She shook her head. “Once Nicholai knows more, he will let us know. Lie down, please. Moving about will tear your wound apart.”
His eyes blazed, but he didna stand.
She considered it a small victory. Understanding his upset, her own nerves on edge, Alesone walked to the hearth and rubbed her hands before the flames.
“Alesone.”
The quiet resolve of his voice had her turning.
“I will see you safely to Avalon Castle, that I swear.”
“I know.” When a man like him gave his word, he achieved his goal. A quiet yearning built inside. How would it feel if Thomas wanted her? Warmth slid through her.
Answering heat shimmered in his gaze.
Flustered, she looked away, but a soft burn lingered.
“Lass?”
Off guard, unsure what to say, she decided ’twas prudent to change the topic. She glanced over. “You are familiar with the healing arts?”
A shadow flickered in his eyes. “’Tis wise for a man who lives by the blade to learn cures that may one day save his life or that of his men.”
Mayhap, but she sensed another reason lay behind his claim. She clung to the thought, needed the distraction to fill the void until Nicholai returned. “’Tis rare to meet a knight who has more than a minor interest in herbs.”
Silence.
Far from discouraged, she walked over. “Did you learn the various uses during your stay within the monastery?”
A frown edged his brow.
“Nicholai told me you studied here.”
“What else did he share?” Thomas asked, displeasure ripe in his voice.
“That you were smart, determined, and compassionate.”’
He grunted. “’Twould seem his memory fails him.”
“How so?”
Thomas shrugged. “’Twas a time long ago.”
Refusing to be put off so easily, Alesone sat in the nearby chair. “You are close.”
Green eyes met hers. “At one time.”
“Naught has changed. The bond of friendship between you and Nicholai is strong.”
His gaze flickered toward the hearth, softened. “Once, while we were in the woods collecting herbs, we found a robin with a broken wing. Nicholai insisted on bringing it to the monastery. He bound its wing and fed it each day. Once the bird healed, he set it free.”
“He is a unique and compassionate man,” she said, moved by the memory.
Thomas’s gaze grew hard. “He is a man dedicated to fixing things that are broken, but at times, even he fails.”
From the coolness of his words the topic had become personal. Why? What had occurred to make Thomas feel so undeserving? “I find it hard to believe Nicholai would spend time on anything, or anyone, that he found undeserving.”
“He is a man,” Thomas said, his voice empty. “He makes mistakes, as do we all.” God’s teeth, why was he rambling on? What was it about the lass that made him want to share? Was it because she was unlike any woman he’d met or that, because of her past, she was as broken as he was?
As if either reason bloody mattered? Comyn’s men were below while he lay helpless to safeguard the woman he’d sworn to protect.
He glared at the door.
Blast it, where was Nicholai?
A dull pounding throbbed in his temple. Once they’d fled the Bruce’s camp, he should have kept more alert, looked for signs of danger, taken a more strategic route. Now, because he hadna used every precaution, he’d placed Nicholai and those within the monastery into the middle of a dangerous political impasse.
The door scraped open. Nicholai scanned the hallway, then stepped inside. Face taut, he closed the entry, then glanced toward Alesone before meeting Thomas’s gaze.
At the upset on his friend’s face, Thomas understood. “Comyn’s men refuse to leave.”
On a sigh, Nicholai strode over. “I tried to convince them otherwise, but they are setting up an encampment at the edge of the woods.”
Thomas cursed his weakened state. “Besides outwaiting them, what options do we have?”
“There are secret tunnels that you and Mistress Alesone could use to escape.”
Alesone shook her head. “He isna strong enough. A fact he well knows, but willna admit.”
“Blast it!” Thomas growled, “we dinna have much choice.”
“There is another way,” the monk said. “Your father—”
“Nay!” Thomas interrupted.
His friend’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis prudent to reconsider.”
Thomas straightened his shoulders. “My decision hasna changed.”
Eyes narrowed, Alesone glanced from one to the other. “What decision?”
God’s teeth!
A quick rap sounded at the door.
Temper simmering, Thomas glanced over.
“Enter,” Nicholai called.
A young monk stepped inside, his face flushed. He nodded to Thomas then Alesone before turning to Nicholai. “The Duke of Westwyck has arrived and requests to speak with you.”
A sharp, driving pain ripped through Thomas’s shoulder as he shoved to his feet. “You sent for my father!”
Alesone fingers dug into his arm. “Sit down, please.”
“My thanks,” Nicholai said with soft words to the younger man. “Tell him I will be down momentarily.”
“Aye.” With a wary glance at Thomas, the monk rushed out, closed the door.
“Why did you tell him that I was here?” Thomas demanded, damning the pounding in his head.
“’Tis time you saw your father,” Nicholai replied without apology. “If nae for you, for him.”
Thomas silently swore. The last thing he wanted was for her to learn about the mire of his past. “Alesone, I wish to speak with Nicholai alone.”
His friend shook his head. “She stays.”
Fury edged through Thomas. Over the last few days the lass had endured more than any woman should. She didna need to be forced to remain or become tangled within his convoluted personal life. “I dinna want—”
“Alesone stays,” Nicholai interrupted. “The king assigned you to be her guard. As long as you are together, ’tis imperative that she is familiar with the situation.” His nostrils flared. “To toss the lass into the fray without understanding the issue is to leave her unarmed.”
“There is naught to understand. Mistress Alesone will never meet m
y father or any others within my family.” With his father’s loyalty to Comyn, a risk he refused to take.
“The Duke of Westwyck is here. I willna ask him to leave without his first speaking with you. Blast it! Your father has suffered since you left, hurt that broke his heart. As I said before, the time has come to repair the bonds with your family,” Nicholai continued. “As for any topics of concern, they can be easily be avoided.”
“Blast it—” Thomas wrapped his hand around the wooden bedpost as he started to collapse.
Alesone caught his side. “Here, let me help you lie down.”
For a moment he fought her, a shot of pain rewarding his effort. As his dizziness increased, he complied.
“However much you dinna like it,” Nicholai said, “at the moment you have little choice.”
Pained by the truth Thomas grimaced.
“I will be back shortly. Mistress Alesone, ensure that he doesna get up.”
She nodded.
With a warning look, the monk departed.
Flames in the hearth crackled into the silence as Thomas met her troubled gaze. “I never meant to involve you in any of this.”
“I know, but I believe your friend’s decision is wise.”
“You dinna know the situation.” He cursed the ire in his voice, anger nae meant for her.
“I know you have family who wants you,” she said, her words heartfelt, “something I would give anything to have.”
Abandoned as a child, though raised by a woman who loved her, her own blood had shunned her. He understood her yearning to have a family, except she wasna aware of the reason that had torn his apart, a wound that couldna be repaired.
“You are blessed to have a friend who cares enough for you to intercede.”
“Cursed is more like it. Nicholai knows how I feel about my family. He had no right to interfere.” Thomas laid his hand over hers, needing to touch her. “Alesone, my frustration isna at you.”
“I know,” she replied, but he caught the soft waver. “I—”
The door scraped open, and Nicholai stepped inside, followed by Thomas’s father.
Chapter Seven
Through the hot burn of tears, Thomas stared at his father. The thick mane of white evidence of the years past, the aged weathered lines carved in his face a testament to his strife, and the pale green eyes filled with anguish, suffering he’d caused.
A raw ache built in his chest. If he ever again faced his father, he’d envisioned the encounter a stoic if nae awkward event. A cool measuring look to the other, his father’s scowl as he weighed the man Thomas had become, and a brief verbal exchange. Then, without incident, they would part.
He fisted his hands in the covers as he stared at the man who’d raised him, taught him how to wield a sword, and was stunned after all these years to find a need for his acceptance.
God’s teeth! He was a Knight Templar, had led men into battle, and faced overwhelming odds in combat. Yet, with each moment, the defensive shield he’d carefully built around his heart crumbled.
Dark memories flooded him of the day they’d buried Léod, of the soul-tearing sobs of his mother and her inconsolable grief. Of how through sheer will he’d nae collapsed as they’d lowered his brother’s body into the rain-drenched earth, and with each inch, numb, aching, how he’d cursed that it wasna him who’d died.
However much he wished to turn away, Thomas held. ’Twas his actions that’d caused his family’s torment, and ’twas his guilt to bare. “Father.” His voice wavered within the deafening silence.
The Duke of Westwick’s lower lip began to quiver. “My s-son.”
The pain in his father’s voice drove another blast of misery through Thomas. Clinging to his composure by a thread, he remained silent.
With slow steps, the noble walked over as Nicholai moved to the side.
As he paused before the bed, Thomas noted how the man’s jaw trembled, and that tears pooled in his eyes.
“I…” The duke shook his head. “Never did I think to see you again.” His voice broke at the last.
Again Thomas cursed Nicholai’s intervention. Didna his friend understand he’d done naught but ripped open old wounds, ones that would take many years, if ever, to heal? “I meant to keep away.”
At his rough whisper, anger slashed the frailty in his father’s expression. “I didna teach you to run from your troubles.”
The ache in his chest drove deeper. “At the time ’twas best that I left. I would think, considering everything, you would welcome my decision to become a monk.”
“I was wrong to allow you to escape to the monastery. I believed distance and prayer would help you heal. When I learned you had departed the monastery without a word to anyone in the family…” Aged eyes narrowed. “Your leaving broke your mother’s heart.”
A heart shattered by his brother’s death, except his father refused to accept the truth. “’Twas never my intent to hurt Mother, she had already suffered enough.” His voice trembled, and he silently cursed. “I pray she has moved past the torment I caused.”
The little color in his father’s face drained. “Y-your mother is dead.”
Despair ripped through him, sucking his every thought until his mind blurred with grief. Dead? He looked away, his each inhale dredged with tears, the ache in his soul storming him with ruthless vengeance. When he thought he could speak, utter anything without again falling apart, he turned. “Ho-how?”
“Two years ago she grew ill. Healers tried to save her.” A tremor shook his father’s voice, but he continued. “In the end, there was naught that I, or anyone else could do but pray.”
“I…” Thomas fought for composure against the swell of heartache. Throughout his youth, regardless the cause, he could always turn to his mother. Steadfast, calm when others were frantic, she was the cornerstone that’d held their family together.
That he would never see her again. God’s teeth, how did one respond to such devastating news? Regret was a pathetic offering when one’s soul lay ragged. Yet, he had naught more to offer. “I am sorry.”
Sadness weighed on his father’s face. “While I am sharing tragic news, your sister, Orabilia, came down with the sickness and died shortly after. And a year past, your brother Matheu died in battle.”
Coldness clutched Thomas until he shook. Through the haze of shock, Alesone’s soft sniffle cut through his sorrow.
The surprise in his father’s eyes as he glanced toward her shifted to a scowl.
“Father,” Thomas forced out, doubtful a way existed to salvage this situation. He shot Nicholai a cool look before turning to his father. “May I introduce Mistress Alesone. She saved my life.”
The gruff expression faded. “Mistress Alesone, please accept my deepest gratitude.”
“I…” She gave a shaky nod.
“Alesone,” Thomas said, “may I introduce His Grace, Duke of Westwyck.”
She curtsied. “Your Grace, ’tis an honor to meet you. My deepest regret for the loss of your wife and children.”
“I thank you.” The noble cleared his throat. “I regret your having heard our exchange.”
As did Thomas, more so with Alesone still struggling to cope with the loss of Grisel. Never had he planned for her to know of his past, or to learn that like her, scars tormented his youth.
Bedamned, now wasna the time to linger on such troubling thoughts. With his father’s fealty, he couldna risk him learning of Alesone’s importance to Comyn. “I am escorting Mistress Alesone. En route, we were attacked, and through good fortune, we ended up here.”
A grim line settled on the duke’s mouth while he studied him. “Once healed and with Mistress Alesone delivered, did you intend to come home?”
He damned the question, nor would he avoid the topic. If naught else, he owed his father this truth. “Nay.”
The cool expression on his father’s grew fierce. “Where are you headed?”
&n
bsp; Long seconds passed.
Shrewd eyes held his. “Blast it, Thomas, is the destination of such secrecy?”
Tingles prickled Thomas’s skin. “’Tis naught anything I can discuss further.”
The duke’s mouth thinned. “As I rode into the outskirts of the monastery,” he said, his words calculated, “I was halted by Comyn’s men. They seek a man and”—his gaze shifted to Alesone “—a woman.”
She gasped.
“I take it,” his father said, his words ice, “’tis the two of you they are after?”
Thomas muttered a silent curse, glanced at Nicholai before facing his father. Blast it, he should have warned her of his father’s loyalty. “Aye.”
Face grim, the monk stepped beside them. “Your Grace, your son and Mistress Alesone are beneath the church’s protection.”
“Father,” Thomas said, his head pounding and grief distorting his ability to select his words with care, “’tis best if you leave.”
Veins throbbed in the elder’s head. “By God, I am nae going anywhere until I find out the reason Comyn’s men want you!”
* * *
Distraught by the conflict between father and son, and further troubled by how pale Thomas had become, Alesone stepped forward. Within the frustration and anger, neither had she missed the silent yearning in Thomas’s eyes, the same reflected in his fathers. Though strife had torn their family apart, she refused to allow her situation to be the reason for continued conflict.
“Comyn’s men are here because of me, Your Grace.”
The Duke of Westwyck’s hard gaze leveled on her, the intensity reminiscent of his son’s. “Why?”
“’Tis nae your concern,” Thomas snapped.
Aged eyes narrowed. “I asked Mistress Alesone.”
Thomas shot her a warning glare.
With her father’s claim of the blood tie and offering gold to whomever captured her, her vow to King Robert was void. “Lord Comyn is my father.”
Shock paled the noble’s face.
“Alesone,” Thomas growled, “the duke’s loyalty is to Lord Comyn.”
She froze. The reason Thomas’s hadna answered. What had she done! Refusing to show fear, she angled her jaw. “Neither will I return to my father.”