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
