John tugged on his cloak and limped toward the door. “I will return shortly.” A shot of snow swirled inside as he stepped out.
The door scraped shut. Silence filled the hut, but Thomas heard Alesone’s sigh.
The room blurred, then again came into focus. He coughed. “A drink.”
She lifted the cup to his mouth.
He swallowed, the cool slide welcome, and then sagged back. “My thanks.” In the flicker of firelight, lavender eyes dark with worry held his. Blast it, he didna deserve her concern. His task was to protect her, to keep her safe. He’d done neither.
She pressed a damp cloth against his brow. “John is a fine friend.”
The numerous times he and John had roamed the woods as children came to mind, how they’d shared their dreams of one day becoming knights and battling side by side. In time the ambitions of youth faded beneath the reality of a war, one that had almost killed his friend. “Aye, he is.”
Alesone pressed the cool rag across his brow. “Why did you leave your home?”
“’Twas time,” he said, his voice tight.
“Why did John say that your father still grieves since you left?”
Bedamned! Images of his brother’s death and his mother’s heartbreak stormed him, the grief he’d delivered his family unrepairable. “We will be together but days. My past matters little.”
Hurt streaked her gaze. “I see.”
God’s teeth, she didna. Another wash of heat rolled through him and the room blurred. Prickles of knife-edged pain covered his body and threatened to take him under. He clenched his teeth until the sensation abated. As quick, the next wave stormed him; exhausted, he sank into the welcoming blackness.
* * *
The soft bongs of a distant bell rang through the monastery as Alesone sat beside Thomas while he slept. In the last few hours he’d calmed, and a touch of color warmed his skin, at odds with the deathly pallor he’d had when they’d arrived three days prior.
Her eyelids began to sag, and she caught herself. With a yawn, she snuggled deeper into the blanket Brother Nicholai MacDaniell had laid across her, and looked around.
The glow from the fire in the hearth illuminated the lone crucifix hanging on the wall. The simplicity of the chamber touched by the scent of herbs relaxed her further.
Soft steps sounded from the corridor.
She glanced toward the entry.
The door scraped open. A tall man garbed in a long brown robe stepped inside. Though a monk, he bore a warrior’s build. She sat up. “Brother Nicholai.”
He nodded. “How does Thomas fare?”
The deep, easy cadence of his voice soothed her. “He is sleeping soundly at last.”
Hazel eyes warmed with relief. “A good sign. If he continues improving over the next day, I feel confident he will recover.” He shook his head. “With all that Thomas has endured, ’tis a miracle that he is still alive.”
“If you hadna brought him to the monastery…” Instead of returning with herbs, John had led Nicholai and several monks inside. In a trice, they’d secured Thomas beneath covers in a cart led by a team of oxen and rushed him to the monastery. “I thank God you and the other Brothers arrived in time.”
Kind eyes held hers, those that’d watched her with steadfast strength and belief since they’d met. “Thomas lives because ofHiswill.”
Tenderness warmed her. “Yes, he does.”
Thomas shifted.
At the rustle of covers, Alesone looked down. “He is coming to.”
“Run, Alesone!” Thomas rasped.
“The danger has passed,” she soothed, keeping her voice soft as she’d done throughout his rambling delirium these past few days. She pressed a damp cloth across his brow. “You are safe.” A frown worked its way across his brow as Thomas lifted his lids. He glanced over. “Nicholai?”
