Читать книгу Forbidden Knight - Diana Cosby - Страница 10

Chapter Four

Holding Thomas before her as he lay slumped in the saddle, Alesone guided his mount down the steep incline. The sharp tang of pine filled her each breath as she scoured the curtain of snow, making out naught but several trees nearby. With her sense of direction lost in the swirl of flakes, had she traveled in the wrong direction?

Where was the blasted monastery?

The horse edged around a clump of fir, and Thomas’s limp frame rocked against her.

On edge, she pressed her fingers against his neck.

A low, steady pulse thrummed.

’Twas weak, but he still lived. Cursing the miserable weather, she narrowed her eyes against the fall of white, struggling to make out any sign of culled stone.

As the destrier crested the rise, she caught the faint scent of smoke.

“Whoa.” Through the whip of flakes, Alesone strained to catch a shimmer of light, the outline of a building, anything to guide her.

Naught.

A gust howled past.

Icy shards buffeted them, and she tucked her cape tighter around Thomas. With the amount of blood he’d lost, if they didna find shelter soon he would…

Nay! After Grisel, she couldna lose Thomas as well. However extraordinary their first meeting, the warrior’s actions were given to protect his king.

Like magic, the clouds overhead thinned. Within the sun’s rays, the snow tossed about with mayhem moments before spiraled earthward like fairy dust.

The tang of smoke again slipped past.

On a relieved exhale, Alesone urged the horse down the steep terrain. They broke through a stand of fir, and the smell grew stronger. She dug her heels into the animal’s flanks, the thud of hooves upon snow a potent reminder of the knight’s life slipping away.

At the end of the field, a line of oak and ash arched skyward as if to bar her path. Refusing to give up, she guided her mount into the shadows, and then wove through the tree-laden maze. Without warning, the thick swath of trees fell away.

Far below, framed within a snowy blanket of white, smoke swirled from the chimney of a stone hut. It wasna the monastery, but at least it was a place where they could seek shelter.

She stilled. Was whoever lived below loyal to Bruce or Comyn? Were they kind hearted souls who would help without question? Or men who chose to live alone and wouldna appreciate her presence? With Thomas’s declining condition, little choice remained.

By whatever means necessary, whoever lived within would help them. Alesone headed down the slope.

* * *

The fire in the hearth popped with cheerful abandon as a stocky man close to her age, with thick red hair secured in a leather tie walked over. He halted at her side, a bowl of warm water in his hand. “How does he fare?”

“The same,” Alesone replied, thankful the stranger, John MacLairish, had nae only welcomed them without hesitation, but had carried Thomas inside and insisted on helping to tend to him.

He set the bowl on the table. “’Tis a nasty wound.”

“Aye.” She soaked the cloth, surprised and thankful to discover the depth of his healing skills. After wringing out the excess water, she wiped away any lingering dirt, and then threaded the needle. “He has lost a lot of blood.”

John grunted. “From the look of the damage where the arrow went through, he is fortunate he didna die.”

She smothered the rush of fear, well aware of the severity of Thomas’s condition. The next few days would determine if he lived. “He is a strong man.” And as determined and mule-headed as any she’d ever met. And loyal as well, a warrior she could trust. Unsure how to deal with the feelings Thomas inspired, she refocused on her task.

“You didna mention his name,” John said.

Unease shivered through her. She kept her hand on the needle, and out of view, wrapped her other hand around her dagger. “Thomas.”

“Is he from this area?”

Heat touched her cheeks at the reminder of how little she knew about her champion. He’d kept away from any topic that allowed her familiarity. Given the minimal time they would remain together, a situation that wouldna change.

Shame filled her at the personal details of her life that King Robert had disclosed to this stranger, the shared information more humiliating because she knew naught about Thomas. “I dinna know.”

Confusion flickered in the man’s gaze, and then he shrugged. “It matters little. I thought for a moment he looked familiar, but I could easily be mistaken. Many years have passed since I saw the man I knew, nor would I expect him to be traveling here.”

Thankful his question came from naught but curiosity, Alesone released the weapon and returned to her task. With skillful ease, she pressed together the ragged edges of the wound and began to sew.

“’Tis a fine hand you have with a needle.”

At the appreciation in her host’s voice, she glanced up. “I was taught by a remarkable woman.”

“Here, let me help.” He pressed Thomas’s skin together, and she continued to stich the gash closed. “I am sure she is proud of you.”

Her hand trembled, but she steadied herself. “She was.” After several more stitches, Alesone secured a knot, and moved to the next injury. A short while later, she stretched to ease the ache of her muscles. “That is the last wound that needs tending.” She damned the tremor, aware ’twas driven by exhaustion and worry.

Alesone made a poultice, then cleaned and replaced John’s needle and his remaining herbs.

“You are fortunate to have found my home. The storm was a nasty one.”

An understatement. “I smelled smoke from your fire. The snow had stopped by the time I reached the craig, and I was able to see your cabin.”

“Thank God you did.”

Indeed. Nor were they out of danger. Comyn’s men still searched for them.

On an unsteady breath she sat and laid her hand on his neck. However weak, the soft flutter of his pulse offered hope. “I pray he will recover.” Her hand shook as she set the basket aside.

“Steady, lass. God willing, your man will survive.”

Her man? With his firm resolve, she doubted Thomas belonged to anyone but himself. Once he’d delivered her to Avalon Castle he would depart and never think of her again. With so little time together, a part of her, however foolish, would miss him.

“You are traveling through?” John asked, breaking into her musings. At her frown, he smiled. “If you lived nearby, over the years we would have met.”

Feeling foolish, she smiled. “Of course. Excuse me, I am tired.”

Somber eyes held hers. “Aye, you would be.”

“We are headed south.” A lie. The stakes were too high to trust a stranger with the truth.

“What are you called?”

“Elyne,” she replied, refusing to risk him recognizing her name. Regardless if Robert Bruce had stormed their surrounds a fortnight prior and seized the land, those who lived in this swath of the Highlands may still remain loyal to Comyn. Nor would she chance that her father’s men had traveled through, given John her name, and bid him to alert them if he saw her.

After smearing the mix of herbs atop the sewn gashes, she wrapped them with clean strips of cloth. “We are headed toward the monastery.” Alesone glanced over. “Is it far?”

He shook his head. “From the next knoll, through the break in the trees, you can see the roof.”

A spark popped in the fire, and the red glow swirled skyward within the smoke.

John settled in a nearby chair. “I admit that I disapprove of your husband allowing you to travel in such a storm.”

Caught off guard by his comment, she turned. “He isna my husband.” At the flicker of interest in his eyes, she silently groaned. The last thing she needed was a man’s interest in her, especially a stranger. Nor could she take back her words. “Thomas is my escort.”

“Your nae being married doesna excuse his exposing you to such dangerous weather,” John said, a touch of anger in his voice. “But I admit I am pleased to learn that you arena wed. Living near the monastery and miles away from the closest village, rarely do I see women, even less often one of such intelligence and beauty.”

Unused to compliments, Alesone, fumbled with how to reply, and in the end decided to change topics. “Once he is well enough, we will leave.”

At the nerves in her voice, a frown worked across the imposing man’s brow. “Are you in danger?”

Dread crawled through her at his question. Had he recognized her? She covertly slid her hand next to her dagger. “Excuse me?”

The man’s eyes narrowed on Thomas. “Did he abduct you? If so, dinna fear telling me the truth. I will protect you.”

After years of being shunned, that a complete stranger would step into the role of her protector left her humbled. Moved by his kindness, Alesone shook her head. “Nay, he was kind enough to offer me aid.”

Doubt simmered in the man’s gaze. “I saw only one horse.”

However gallant, they’d met but a short while before. Though he’d helped her without hesitation, his noble actions far from secured her trust. “I swear to you, Thomas has been naught but a gentleman. My horse grew lame, and he offered me escort.” The truth, or as close as she would share.

The red-haired man studied her a long moment, and then nodded. “The reason for your journey must be grave to travel in such dire conditions.”

Fleeing the Bruce’s camp and barely escaping Comyn’s men raced through her mind. “’Tis complicated.”

An understanding smile touched his mouth. “Most things in life are.”

Thomas shifted.

Thankful for the diversion, Alesone tucked in the blanket his movements had shoved aside. “He is coming to.”

On a groan, Thomas lifted his lids. “Alesone?” he whispered.

“I am here.”

Pain filled eyes met hers, then narrowed on the man at her side, the confusion shifting to a scowl. “W-who are you?”

“I am called John,” he stated, his voice gruff. “’Tis my home you abide in. The lass brought you to my door earlier this day. Given the weather, you are fortunate she found me before you died.”

* * *

Fortunate? Pain swamped Thomas as he took in the binding over his shoulder. Aye, luck was behind them indeed.

“I stitched up your wounds a short while ago,” Alesone said with quiet warning. “You dinna need to be moving about.”

Guilt slid through him. Bedamned, ’twas he who was charged with her protection. And he’d failed. Worse, he’d passed out, forced her to face the threat of those in pursuit while stranded with a wounded and unconscious man. “I thank you for bringing me to safety. I owe you much.”

Compassion darkened her gaze. “You owe me naught, ’tis what I do.”

Thomas had met many women in his life, but none as selfless or courageous as Alesone. That she would dismiss her bravery when most would have broken down or abandoned him, assured him of her depth of character, the same strength he’d witnessed in Templar Knights.

Moved, he studied her through the blur of pain. As a man of strong will, regardless of how she made him feel, he’d kept her at a distance. Never had he meant her to become important to him beyond his duty. By risking her life to save his, regardless of his wish or hers, a bond had formed.

He muttered a curse, as drawn to her as he was torn to keep her at a distance. Now what? With his fealty pledged to Robert Bruce, was there a choice?

A movement to his right had him glancing over. Thomas eyed the stranger, and noted the man assessed him as well. What had she told him? With his allowing them to remain within his home, clearly naught that’d place them in danger.

Red brows narrowed. “I am John MacLairish.”

As he took in the stocky man, a sense of familiarity tugged at him. In his youth a lad with the same name had lived within Dair Castle, the son of the castle’s smithy. Although John was a commoner, he and Thomas had often sparred, and the two boys had shared the dream of one day becoming knights. Years later they had again met, this time on a crusade. John MacLairish had indeed achieved his ambition, but it had ended during a battle that had left his leg disabled. He could walk and ride, but nae to the standards required of a Templar Knight.

Thomas narrowed his gaze. God’s teeth, ’twas John! “’Tis—” Coughs wracked his body.

“Your throat will be dry,” Alesone said as she held a cup to his mouth.

Cautious, he took several sips, then pushed the cup away. “I thank you.” He met John’s gaze. “I am Thomas MacKelloch.”

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.

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 of His will.”

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?”

The monk settled in the chair beside the bed. “You awaken, my friend. I thought you had meant to sleep well into the winter.”

At the teasing in the holy man’s voice, a hint of a smile tugged at Thomas’s mouth. He shifted, winced at the effort, and then sagged back. “I tried.”

The warmth in the monk’s eyes eroded to concern. “’Tis good to see you again, Thomas. I admit my surprise at finding you here after—”

“’Twas unplanned.” Face pale, Thomas cut his gaze to her. “You have met Mistress Alesone.”

“Indeed. And grand company she is.”

A blush swept her cheeks at Nicholai’s praise, and through the haze of pain, irritation slid through Thomas. His friend always had a way with women, to put them at ease, to say the right things, traits in war that held little value.

She cleared her throat. “I explained how you were escorting me and en route, we were attacked.”

“With Scotland at war,” Nicholai said, his voice grim, “’tis unsafe to travel without guard, more so with a lass.”

“I agree, but our travel was by King Robert’s decree.”

Surprise flickered on his friend’s face. “He is still nearby? After he took Urquhart, Inverness, and Nairn, I’d heard he marched toward Elgin.”

“I see you still keep your ear to the ground.”

“One of the many tasks I take care of,” Nicholai said.

Nay doubt that and much more. Though his friend didna inquire further, Thomas understood that once alone, he would have questions, more than on the topic of Scotland’s king.

“Now that you are awake,” the monk said, “mayhap I can convince Mistress Alesone to retire to the chamber provided her and rest. Since your arrival three days ago, she has refused to leave your side.”

Tenderness filled him at her concern, compassion far from deserved. The blush on her face deepened, and his body stirred with awareness, one far out of bounds of what she should make him feel.

She cleared her throat. “As I sewed your wounds, I wanted to ensure they healed properly. I assure you,” she said, her words rushing out. “’Tis nay more than any healer would do.”

It was, especially when they now resided at the monastery where others knowledgeable in healing could have seen to him, a fact they both knew. “Mayhap,” he said, his voice tender, “but I insist you rest.”

She hesitated as if searching for an excuse to remain. “I will if you promise that you willna try to get out of bed on your own.”

“I will take care.” When she made to speak, he held up his hand. “Nay more.”

Alesone stood and wove, exposing her exhaustion. Brother Nicholai stood, but she shook her head. “I can make it without help.”

“Mayhap,” the monk said, “but I insist on walking with you.” He glanced at Thomas. “I will return.” His friend escorted Alesone into the corridor.

The door closed behind them. Silence filled the chamber broken by the echoes of distant voices, along with the bongs of the bell announcing the conical hour.

Memories filled Thomas. Even with the many years that had gone by, his time living here remained clear as if nay time had passed. How many mornings had he awoken within the monastery and struggled to accept his lot of having devoted his life to God? At the time he’d risen to face each day, nay duty too mundane, his every act atonement for his sins. However, then as now, naught could repair the grievous wrong he’d wrought.

At the scrape of the door, Thomas glanced up.

“I thought perhaps you might have fallen back asleep,” Nicholai said.

“I was remembering my time here.”

“Your time living here, or the reason for it?”

Thomas swallowed hard. “You always were able to figure out what I was thinking.”

“And you, my friend, were always too hard on yourself.” Sage eyes studied him. “I had hoped that by now you would find forgiveness for yourself. It brings me great sorrow to see you still cling to your pain.”

Grief raged through him and the outrage he’d smothered over the years broke free. “I killed my brother! There is nay forgiveness for that!”