And why shouldna she be baffled? As he held her gaze, he felt the same. Never had a woman inspired a need to share his past with her, or to help her deal with her own troubles. She did both.
What was it about her that drew him? Her strength? Fortitude? Determination? Her innate gentleness? Or a dangerous combination? He’d thought her stubborn, but now he realized ’twas determination, one driven by the passion of her beliefs. Regardless if when they’d first met he hadna wanted a connection between them, the bond forged by pain and strengthened by understanding, grew with each passing day.
A part of him dreaded his return to Dair Castle and the upcoming confrontations with his father, but another looked forward to the time he and Alesone would spend together. An irrational yearning. However much she intrigued him, stirred feelings inside he hadna wanted, he could allow, nay more. In the end he would rejoin Robert the Bruce.
After her losing Grisel, ’twas best to keep things between them simple. And if he enjoyed her company, or found her pleasing to look on, ’twas expected.
* * *
“What are you doing sitting up?”
At the anger in Alesone’s voice, Thomas turned, caught the bedpost to steady himself, the soft light of dawn filling his chamber. “’Tis a wound in my chest and arm, nae my legs.”
She scowled. “You forget I sewed several stitches in your left thigh.”
He grimaced. “Minor injuries.”
Muttering something he had little doubt wasna a compliment, she stormed over. “You need to sit.”
Tired, his body aching, he grimaced. “If you are here to badger me, you can…” From the turmoil in her eyes, her upset more to do with finding him on his feet. “What is wrong?” “Nicholai’s men have returned with John.”
“How bad is he?” Thomas said as he stepped toward the door, grimaced at the blast of pain.
Alesone blocked his path. “You must remain abed or you will tear open your stitches. Look at you all but swaying on your feet!”
Damning that he’d grown lightheaded, Thomas shot her a cool glare as he stumbled over and sat on the bed. “How bad is John hurt?”
“A few broken bones, bruises. I have already treated and sewed the cuts,” she said. “He will survive.”
“Thank God.”
“J-John asked me to tell you that he didna tell Comyn’s men where we were.”
Thomas muttered a curse. “And almost died because of it.”
“He made the choice. You would have made the same one for him.”
“Aye,” he ground out, understanding the code of a Templar, the offering of one’s life for another without hesitation. “but it doesna make it easier.”
“Nay.” Dismay darkened her eyes. “I should have insisted that he travel with us to the monastery. Regardless of the storm, I should have expected Comyn’s men to trail us. If anyone is to blame for his injuries—”
“’Twas nae your fault,” Thomas broke in, furious she’d twist the situation in any manner and feel guilt. “That honor goes to your father.”
“’Tis.” Her voice wavered.
“You were tired and exhausted,” he continued. “You made the best decisions you could at the time. ’Twas a miracle neither of us froze.” He glanced toward the door. “Where is he?”
“At the end of the corridor.” She hesitated. “First, you must try to sleep a couple more hours.”
God’s teeth. “Conditions?”
A becoming flush touched her cheeks. “You have already been up and about. It is clear from your trembling that your body is exhausted.”
At his silence, she arched a questioning brow. Blasted stubborn lass. He gave a curt nod.
Alesone walked over.
“What are you doing?”
