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.”
