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?”
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?”
“’Tisnaeyour 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.”
