Chapter Eleven
Wind buffeted the window as Thomas sat in the chair and stared at the hearth, the gentle waver of flames at odds with the storm howling outside. Grimacing against the pain, he leaned closer, held his hands against the warmth.
Another blast of wind screamed outside.
The air tinged with the scent of smoke, he tugged the blanket tighter around him, thankful this night he and Alesone were safe.
Out of danger was another matter.
A soft tap sounded on the door.
With a frown, he glanced over. What was she doing up so late? Nay doubt wanting to check on him. “Enter.”
Hewn wood scraped, then his father stepped inside.
Unsure of the reason for his nocturnal visit, Thomas hesitated. He’d believed for the first day, mayhap two, his father would keep his distance. If for naught more than time to acclimate to his presence. “I didna expect to see you so late. ’Tis well past Compline.”
“I had meant to arrive earlier, but there were several matters requiring my attention.” Tired lines creased his brow as he settled in a chair close by. “I took a chance, as I believed you might be asleep.”
“With the herbs Alesone gave me, so did I,” he said, doubting his father’s visit was to address such a mundane issue.
His father studied him for a long moment. “You have grown into a fine man.”
Guilt tightened in his chest. “You know naught about me.”
Aged eyes narrowed. “A fact,” he said, his voice cool, “you ensured by remaining away.”
Bedamned, he didna want to discuss this now. Or ever. “’Twas for the best.”
“For whom?”
“As if you need to ask?” He shoved to his feet, clenching his teeth against the burst of pain. Blast it! “For you, for my family. My foolishness cost Léod his life.”
Eyes dark with sorrow, his father unfurled his lean frame and stood. “I loved your brother, was devastated by his death, but when you left the monastery, I lost you as well.”
And his family, the heartache of his decision so long, haunted Thomas still.
“You disappeared without a word, neither would Brother Nicholai reveal where you had gone.” A wry smile touched his face. “I admit threatening him if he didna tell me, a sin I shall carry for the rest of my days. His assurance that you were in good hands gave me something to hold on to.” He paused. “Will you at least tell me where you went?”
“Does it matter?”
“Aye,” his father snapped. “I want to know what was so bloody important that you would disappear without a word.” Anger flared in his eyes. “Did you think your leaving wouldna hurt me or your mother?”
“I needed time away, time to think, and a place where I could somehow find forgiveness.”
“And the monastery didna give you that?”
Thomas shrugged. “If I had entered for the right reasons, mayhap.” He stared at the sparks rising within the wisps of smoke. Nor would he mention his argument with Donnchadh before he’d left Dair Castle. The decision to leave had been his, but he would give his father a piece of the truth. “I believed by immersing myself in studies to become a monk, surrendering any chance of a family, ’twould be my penance for Léod’s death.”
The duke gave a shaky nod. “After your brother’s death, our entire family grieved, but you were inconsolable. I thought your living in a holy setting would give you time to calm, to realize Léod’s death ’twas naught but an accident.”
“One caused by me!”
“Enough!” His father’s brows slammed together. “I canna tell you the number of times throughout my life that I have made reckless decisions, ones that resulted in a people getting injured.”
“But nay one ever died,” Thomas said.
His gaze narrowed to dangerous slits. “And death is the bar of judging a poor decision?” he demanded, his voice rising. “So I should feel that if nay one died from whatever imprudent decision I had made, then ’tis excused?”
God’s teeth. “That is nae what I am saying.”
“’Tis,” he said, his face red with anger. “Listen to yourself.”
Thomas stared at the man he’d admired in his youth, one he’d wanted to emulate once grown, but after all that’d passed, he doubted he could ever begin to fill this great warrior’s shoes.
Alesone’s plea to accept his father’s forgiveness echoed in his mind, but it wasna so simple. “I have listened to myself, tried to find a way to move on, and with my each attempt failed.”
The duke’s gaze softened. “You are nay longer alone, but with family.”
Aye, a father who wanted him to remain, and a brother who wished that he’d never returned. A slow pounding thrummed in his temple. Thomas stumbled to his chair, wished he had more herbs to dull the pain.
He rubbed his forehead. What did he say now? Or was there anything left? “I am sorry I left the monastery without informing you. Never did I mean to hurt you.” He blew out a rough breath. “I canna tell you how many times I wished the moment back, wished I had left Léod alone.”
The duke settled in the chair at his side. “But you canna go back.”
“Nay.”
“Neither does ignoring the fact erase the tragedy. When you bury your misfortunes beneath the demands of duty, you dinna live, but exist.” Hands scarred with age and time folded beneath the other. “Ask yourself what you want.”
“If only ’twas that simple,” Thomas breathed.
His father leaned back. “Why does it have to be difficult?”
He scowled. “Have you heard naught of what I said?”
“Aye, I have,” he blustered, “your words spurned by grief, but none of your life ahead.”
Bedamned! “I have…” Duty, as his father had said, nay thoughts for his own life. With his fealty given to Bruce and the upcoming confrontations as his king fought to unite Scotland, ’twas a fool’s lot to make plans. A swing of an opponent’s blade could sever any dreams made.
Weary, Thomas shook his head. “What do you want me to say? I doubt any reply I could give will rival those of your expectations. Nor do you have time to concern yourself with my aspirations. As Duke of Westwyck, you have responsibilities to fulfill, those with due time that will be passed down to Donnchadh, ones that dinna concern me.”
He stiffened. “Try answering my question of what you want.”
Panic swelled inside as Thomas he pushed his thoughts past duty, past a way of life that dictated his future.
His father arched a challenging brow.
“A home and a family,” he blurted out, stunned the thoughts had been buried in his mind.
“Both within your reach.”
“I am a knight. I own a horse and a few pieces of coin, nae enough to purchase a simple hut, much less attract a lass, nor will I accept a handout. Whatever I accomplish,” he said, his voice tight, “’twill be achieved by my own hand.”
Sadness touched his father’s expression. “You are more than a knight, but the Earl of Kincaid.”
“You are wrong, I gave up my title when—”
“’Tis still yours.”
Blast it, why was he arguing? ’Twas a deed long since done. “I rescinded the title after I left the monastery, a writ you should have received.”
“I did,” his father stated, “and burned the bloody document as quick.”
Burned it? Thomas stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”
“Because you are my son, and I had faith that one day you would return.”
Emotion tightened in his throat. “I have done naught to earn such.”
“My actions are nae your decision to make but mine. The right of a father, if you will.” He rubbed his brow. “Wherever you went, regardless of the guilt that drove you away, I am confident that you achieved many things for which you are proud.”
He paused. “Why do you say that?”
“You hold yourself with dignity, have a way about you that bespeaks confidence, and with your oath given to Robert Bruce, you are a man who isna afraid to fight for what you believe in.” He grunted. “If you had led a disreputable life, I doubt our king would be charging you with the task of protecting Mistress Alesone.” Shrewd eyes narrowed. “Where have you been all of these years? After everything, I deserve to know.”
With all that his father had endured, suffered, Thomas agreed. In brief, he explained how Brother Nicholai had confronted him, suggested his becoming a Knight Templar, a life where, in addition to serving God, he could protect Christians traveling to the Holy Land.
Tears misted in his father’s eyes. “I am so proud of you.” He gasped. “Mary help us.”
At his father’s distress, Thomas stilled. “What is wrong?”
“A fortnight ago I received a missive concerning news of King Philip’s charges against the Templars in Paris.”
Memories of King Philip’s scheme to arrest those of the Brotherhood flooded his mind. “The charges are false,” he spat, “lies spewed to claim our gold.”
Aged eyes held his. “As I suspected. I am thankful that you were among those chosen to leave. What of the Templars still in France?”
Thomas fisted his hands. “The Grand Master believes with Pope Clement’s intervention mayhap they can find a way to save the remaining knights. A belief I dinna share. With King Philip’s intent to claim the Templars’ wealth, any attempt at negotiations are naught but a wasted effort.”
His father paled. “You havena heard that France’s king imprisoned Jacques de Molay?”
God in heaven, nay! He closed his eyes against the avalanche of heartache. A gentle hand lay on his shoulder.
“There is naught shameful in showing grief, more so when ’tis for men you cared for and battled beside.”
Thomas met his gaze. “Nae, there isna.”
His father withdrew his hand, the pride in his eyes leaving Thomas humbled. “I dinna know the right way to say…” Overwhelmed, moved by the depth of his father’s forgiveness, he extended his hand. “’Tis important,” he said, straightening his shoulders as his palm slid against the man’s who shaped his world, “that you know how proud I am to be your son.”
He clasped his hand. “You are a fine man.” The duke gave a tight squeeze, and then let go. “I know you are in service to King Robert. Once you have finished escorting Mistress Alesone, I pray you will return, even if ’tis for a brief visit.”
Warmth touched Thomas’s heart, and for the first time in many years, a sliver of peace filled him. He nodded. “I would be liking that.”
A gust battered the window, and his father grimaced at the blackness churning outside flecked with bitter tosses of white. “’Tis a brutal storm this night.”
“’Tis.” With a fragile bond forged between them, Thomas stood and walked over to place a log onto the flames. Sparks jumped, swirled within the churn of smoke that disappeared into the hearth. “John MacLairish was a Knight Templar as well. He is a close friend.”
His father nodded. “I have always believed to be him a man of exceptional caliber.”
Thomas settled onto his chair. “After he was injured in battle, I wrote a missive to Brother Nicholai beseeching him to help find John work where he could support himself. For all he sacrificed, he deserved a life he could be proud of. One serving the monks would be an honorable profession.”
“Indeed.”
“And,” Thomas said, “’tis because of John that I am alive.”
His father arched a brow. “Explain.”
“After Alesone and I arrived at his hut, he rode to the monastery for help.” Anger slid through Thomas. “Days later when Comyn’s men trailed us to his home, John refused to give them any information of where we had gone, so they tortured him.”
“By God I will have their heads!” his father roared.
“Nae if I find them first. Nor,” Thomas said, his voice dry, “is the men’s brutality the most imminent concern. Lord Comyn will be furious once he receives the blistering report of your threatening his knights when they tried to block us from leaving the monastery.”
A satisfied smile curved his father’s mouth. “Aye he will. Exposing my true allegiance for Robert the Bruce is a day I have long awaited. As for John, once he is able to be moved, for his loyalty, he will be brought here and stay until he is healed.”
“I thank you. John is a good man.”
“He is.” His father rubbed his forehead, and then gave a tired sigh.
“’Tis late,” Thomas said, finding himself weary as well.
Stifling a yawn, his father stood. “I think ’tis time I found my bed.” Pride shown in his eyes. “’Tis good to have you back, my son.”
Humbled, he nodded. “’Tis good to be home.”
The duke departed and silence fell within the chamber.
With the strife between them eased, Thomas anticipated spending more time with his father, of learning about the man he’d become. More important, when the opportunity arose, he would return.
Flames flickered in the hearth. He shook his head in disbelief at the news of his nobility.
He still held the title.
Incredible.
At eleven summers he’d traveled to Conchar Castle with his father. A small but serviceable stronghold, he’d decided that when of age he would move there, marry, and raise a family. When he’d fled from his home so long ago and had revoked his title, a property he’d believed lost.
With the secret dissolution of the Knights Templar, the Grand Master had encouraged the escaping Brotherhood to marry and blend into society. After his strict way of life within the Order, never had he believed he would consider settling down in what the church defined as a normal life.
A thought his friend and fellow Templar Sir Stephan MacQuistan had shared several months prior. Thomas hesitated. Could he, too, find such happiness? Once his service to King Robert was complete, if he chose, he could reside in Conchar Castle. As for a woman to share his life, that was another matter.
Exhausted, Thomas closed his eyes, and embraced the weight of sleep. Wind slammed against the window as his mind began to blur, and he sank deeper into the numbing haze.
Without warning, the taste of Alesone’s kiss rushed his mind, the softness of her mouth, and of how she’d pressed against him.
Body aching, Thomas sat, the fatigue of moments before shattered. He glared at the wall separating them. With but a few steps he could be with her.
God’s teeth, what was he thinking? He was Alesone’s protector. As if that explained their kiss in the monastery? Aye he was attracted to her, but a woman like her wouldna appreciate a simple dalliance, neither would he insult her with such an offer. Nor did the lass need complications when her life was riddled with treachery.
Except with thoughts of her haunting his mind, the slow burn pulsing within his body grew. With a muttered curse, he stood. A walk down the corridor to take in the paintings of his ancestors and savor the happier memories of his youth should provide a welcome diversion.
He grimaced at the stiffness in his legs as he crossed his chamber. Thomas exited, tugged the door shut.
The slap of wind outside echoed from down the passageway with a savage howl.
Torchlight wavered within the corridor illuminating several paintings he remembered. His gaze paused on the new portrait hanging across from his chamber, one of his father standing beside his mother on the wall walk, the Highlands a formidable backdrop.
His heart aching, he lifted his hand to the canvas and traced the face of the woman he’d never see again. “I am sorry,” he whispered, the oils beneath his fingers rough like his words, “never did I mean to hurt you.”
A soft cry sounded from the room to his right. Another sob, this time quieter broke the wind-whipped silence.
Alesone! Had an intruder slipped inside the castle? Furious, Thomas withdrew his dagger, rushed to her door, and shoved. Blade readied, he scoured the room.
Flames cheerfully swayed in the hearth, at odds against the hurl of wind against the panes.
He glanced at her bed. Uncovered, she lay curled in a tight ball in the center, her blanket twisted, hanging off the bed in a violent twist.
On a moan, she shifted, her hand clawing in the air.
A nightmare. With an exhale, he secured his weapon tried to ignore how shimmers of golden firelight caressed the curves of her body. Trying to smother the burst of need, he walked over and drew up the covers.
She gave another cry.
Thomas touched her shoulder. “Alesone, wake up, ’tis Thomas.”
Lids thick with sleep lifted. Groggy eyes cleared, widened. On a gasp, she jerked the blanket around her as she sat. “What are you doing in my chamber?”
Bedamned! He glanced toward the door, half expecting his father to rush in. “Shhhh!” After a moment, thankful when nay one came to investigate, he turned. “I was in the corridor and heard you call out. You were having a nightmare.”
White knuckled, she clenched the cover. “I…” Her eyes darkened with horror, and she looked away. “Go away.”
And he would have, but she trembled. “What did you dream about?” he asked.
“C-can you just leave?”
The tremor in her voice had him sitting on the edge of her bed. “I want to know.”
She turned. “Why?”
“Because I care about you.” Bloody hell, how had he allowed that to slip out?
“’Tis unseemly for you to be in my chamber.”
Unseemly was a poor choice to describe how he ached to touch her. “Aye, but to ensure you were safe, ’twas well worth the risk.”
Her grip on the bed covering eased. “Given the circumstance of our first meeting, I dinna think I need a protector.”
The reminder didna temper his desire. With her but paces away and looking like every man’s fantasy he was a fool to remain. Except within her narrowing eyes the glint of tears lingered, and he suspected her bravado was naught but a mask to shield her upset. She needed a friend to listen to her worries. That he could give her.
“What were you doing up?” she asked.
“I couldna sleep and decided to go for a walk.”
Suspicion darkened her gaze. “At this late hour?”
Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “I havena been to Dair Castle since my youth, and I wanted to look around. There are so many memories here. Each curve, every room, brings more, some I had forgotten.”
Her eyes softened. “’Tis hard.”
“Indeed.” Emotion tightened in his throat. “I keep thinking that I will hear my mother’s voice, or see her.”
Alesone edged closer. “I would feel the same if I returned to Grisel’s hut.” A comely blush dusted her cheeks, and she edged away. “I thank you for checking on me, but you can go now? I will be fine.”
Naught but words, her distress easy to see. “Do you mind if I stay a while?”
Nervous eyes glanced toward the door.
“To talk,” he said. Wisps of golden firelight shimmered across her skin in silent invitation, and he silently groaned.
She gave a shaky nod.
“What did you dream about?”
“I-I was being chased by my father’s men and…” A tremor shook her shoulders, and then another.
The bastard! Reigning in his fury, Thomas drew her against him.
Alesone hesitated, and then laid her head against his chest.
Thomas wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin atop her head. As long as he drew a breath, nay one would hurt her again. Several moments passed, but he remained silent, gave her time to calm.
“I dreamt my father and his men were chasing me,” she finally whispered. “Then he was reaching out to grab me. I tried to fight him, but I couldna escape.” She sat back, and he immediately missed her body’s touch. Alesone sniffed. “’Tis ridiculous to be upset of thoughts found in one’s sleep.”
After having lived through his own night terrors he understood the traumatic visions nightmares could deliver. “At times in our life each of us struggle against memories, some awake, and some while we sleep. Though we could use the help of a friend, ’tis stubbornness that has us turning away from what we yearn for the most.”
“Words of experience?” Her warm breath brushed across his neck.
Needing to touch her, he cupped her jaw, stroked his thumb along the curve of her chin, and his body tightened at the slide of silky skin beneath. “Aye.”
Her gaze grew intense. Covers shifted as she moved closer, the mix of her scent her and lavender storming his senses.
If he leaned forward, their lips would brush, and he could taste her. Except he’d remained to offer her friendship.
“What are you thinking?”
Like a caress, her soft words stroked his need higher. “What I have nae right to.”
She turned the slightest degree, but the movement aligned her mouth to his.
Heart pounding, he struggled for his next breath. “I must leave.”
“A wise man said that there are times we all could use the help of a friend, but ’tis stubbornness that has us turning away from what we yearn for the most.”
He swallowed hard, didna move, didna dare to, the grip on his desire tentative at best.
“And at this moment,” Alesone whispered, “’tis you I yearn for.”