A grin creased John’s face, and he laughed. “God in heaven, I thought ’twas you, and then decided I was daft, a result of living on my own too long.”
Alesone’s eyes widened with disbelief. “You know each other?”
“Aye,” John said, his voice rough with emotion. “A long time ago Thomas and I fought side by side until…” He paused. “I shouldna have doubted ’twas you.”
“Many years have passed,” Thomas said. “’Tis good to see you, my friend.” He glanced at the twist in John’s leg. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough.” He arched a brow. “I would say a fair piece better than you.”
Thomas grimaced. “The truth. I am escorting Mistress Alesone to—”
“I dinna think you should be talking so much given your health.”
At the nerves in her voice, Thomas realized that she didna understand the inherent loyalty of the Templars, one that with their oath sworn would always hold true. Nor would he explain. “Sir John and I have been friends since our youth. I trust him with my life.”
“And,” his friend said, “that I live is due to Sir Thomas. After he carried me from the battlefield, ’twas he who ensured that when I returned to Scotland, I would have a place to live.”
Uncomfortable with the laud, Thomas exhaled. “’Tis Brother Nicholai MacDaniell who deserves the thanks for your home.”
“’Twas your letter requesting his aid that guided him,” John said. “An entreaty your father sanctioned.”
Though their travel to the monastery would leave them leagues from Thomas’s home, the soul-deep yearning to see his family caught him off guard. Since he’d fled those many years before, he’d smothered his need of those dear to him beneath his guilt, and had foolishly believed himself immune to any reaction to his family, however near.
Against the rush of unwanted feelings, Thomas focused on the fact that they’d traveled farther south than he’d planned. ’Twould add several days or more until they reached Avalon Castle.
He glanced over, caught Alesone leaning forward to catch every word. Blast it. His past was exactly that. He didna wish to linger on events that he couldna change.
Sadness darkened his friend’s gaze. “Your father still laments your leaving.”
That he doubted. After his younger brother’s death, if his father thought of him, ’twas with hate.
John sighed. “Your family will be—”
“They dinna know I am here. Nor will they.”
“Thomas, your father still grieves.”
Mouth tight, he held his friend’s gaze. “I willna discuss the matter.”
“We were once close friends,” John said, his words weighted with sincerity. “Friends who could talk to each other.”
Tempted to accept his offer, Thomas shook his head instead. “Years have passed.”
“Mayhap, but the man I knew was like a brother to me, and wouldna have cared.”
Thomas ignored his subtle emphasis on their Templar connection and closed his eyes. After what he’d done, how could his family truly accept him back into their home? For a while they might open their doors, welcome a son they’d believed lost. But with each passing day, memories of his unforgivable act would fester in their hearts and erode any pleasantry until all that remained in his family’s mind was hate.
Another wave of heat seared him, and he groaned.
A hand pressed against his brow. “Oh God,” Alesone said, her voice faint through a blur of warmth, “he is beginning to fever.”
“I have herbs to treat him,” his friend said, “but far from enough.” Clothing shuffled. “I will ride to the monastery.”
Against the blast of pain, Thomas pried open his eyes. “I…” He gasped for a breath.
Her eyes dark with worry, Alesone took his hand. “Dinna talk. You need to rest.”
Mayhap, but beyond the worry, he saw curiosity. The lass had questions, ones he wouldna answer. Weak, he sagged back.
