One
Alexander Armstrong woke to a throbbing pain in his left arm that threatened to steal his breath. Sweat dripped from his brow and coursed down between his shoulder blades. He glanced at the pillow and sheet, already certain they were soaked, much like they were most nights. He lifted his limp arm into his lap and rubbed the pain in his upper arm. He struggled to calm his breathing after the terrifying nightmare. It was the same night after night: the memory of his last battle flashing before his eyes. The scent of death filled his nostrils, and the cacophony of metal on metal and screams of death blended into the most horrifying melody he’d ever heard. As the pain dulled to its regular constant, Alex wiped the sweat from his brow and laid down once more. He prayed that would be the only nightmare he suffered that night, almost unwilling to return to sleep.
Ever since the Armstrongs’ battle with Clan Scott, he’d felt unmanned. He knew his cock still worked, but he faced a problem far worse than that. He’d lost his ability to fight, to be a warrior. To be the heir to a powerful border clan. As he rested on his damp bed, he recalled the most gruesome fight he’d ever endured. The carnage was greater than normal, and he’d come the closest to losing his life that he had since he first rode into battle at six-and-ten. This most recent battle, ten years later, was the first time he’d been that scared.
The injury to his arm wasn’t his first serious battle wound either, but it was the only one that remained. Even the jagged scar that ran along the right side of his face had healed, marring his once-handsome visage. He recalled the laceration he’d taken to his left thigh three years earlier. He—along with his family and the healer—feared he would lose his leg. But with time and effort, it healed, and Alexander returned to the lists, horseback, and fighting. His right hand brushed the raised scar on his left ribs, remembering the pain from that puncture and the broken ribs that had accompanied it. That had healed, despite spending six moons feeling like he would never again take a deep breath. But his arm. That would never heal.
Alone in his chamber, his maudlin thoughts consumed him. There were still elements of self-pity that he was no longer the attractive and fierce warrior he’d once been. But what crushed him daily was guilt. Battling alongside Clan Elliot, Clan Armstrong defeated the Scotts that day, so it wasn’t the victory that haunted him. It was knowing he could never lead his clan as they deserved. For the past six months, he’d argued almost every day with his father and brother that Brice should replace him as heir and tánaiste. Neither considered it, both growing red in the face. Now they both walked away rather than hearing or indulging Alex’s protestations that he remain next in line to the Armstrong lairdship. He lived with the constant feeling of failure, and no one understood.
With dawn approaching, Alex accepted that his opportunity to sleep had passed. In his previous life, the one before he became worthless, saddling his horse and an hour’s ride resolved his inner turmoil. Now he couldn’t even saddle his own horse without help. Once mounted, which was a trial in and of itself, he could still maneuver his mount. He’d had the destrier since he was a colt and had trained him to the sensitive signals from his thighs and how he held the reins. He could ride one-handed with ease—because he once wielded a sword in the other.
It took Alex several weeks and countless attempts, along with curses that painted a blue streak in his chamber, but he’d learned how to tie the laces of his breeks and button his waist-length doublet. He refused to allow his mother or servants to dress him like he was a child. He kept what dignity he could muster. As the earliest morning rays inched above the horizon, Alex donned his clothes and opted for a walk.
“I heard you moving around,” Brice said as he fell into step with his older brother, who wore a perpetual frown at odds to Brice’s perpetual smile. They’d fought back-to-back against the Scotts. It was when Brice took a blow to the head that knocked him away from Alex that their opponent struck, nearly severing Alex’s arm from his body. He still couldn’t explain how he maintained the strength to slice through his opponent and drag Brice out of the melee. He supposed it was the vow he’d made to his mother six years earlier, that the brothers would always fight together and protect one another, that gave him the strength. He couldn’t allow his baby brother, three years his junior, to perish. But in the end, it was Brice who’d bound his shoulder and applied pressure to the bleeding. His younger brother kept him alive. And Alex wasn’t certain he was grateful.
“Woke up early,” Alex muttered.
“You know I’m coming with you.” Brice spoke as though it were obvious.
“And you know I don’t need a nursemaid.”
Brice pulled on Alex’s right arm, making him stop as Brice stepped in front of Alex. “Stop being an arse to me. I’m not bluidy well minding you. Once upon a time, we enjoyed each other’s company. You may be different now, but I still want my brother.”
Alex blinked several times before he nodded. He was different, and it wasn’t just his appearance. It was the guilt, the memories that haunted him, his obvious inadequacies. That was what changed him. His mind was still as sharp as it had always been, and his father still counted on his advice on clan matters, particularly those dealing with diplomacy and strategy. With time on his hands since he no longer went to the lists, he managed the clan accounts and ledgers with their seneschal. He also continued to read and write most of his father’s correspondence. He accepted that he was still useful to an extent, but he knew he only had those additional duties because he was incapable of performing the ones expected of him.
“I’m sorry,” Alex mumbled. “You’re too easily and too often the scapegoat to my foul temper. It’s not right.”
The two men slipped through the postern gate, acknowledging the guard who stood watch beside the portal. They remained quiet until they were certain the men on the battlements couldn’t hear their conversation.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Alex admitted. When did he ever? Between resting on his injured arm or the nightmares, he hadn’t slept through the night since he was unconscious with fever.
“Neither did I,” Brice whispered. When Alex furrowed his brow, Brice swallowed. He’d said nothing about his own nightmares because he’d feared only making Alex’s worse. But perhaps he did his brother a disservice to allow him to think he suffered alone. “I see it over and over, every night. It never leaves me.”
“You dream of it too?”
“I’d hardly call them dreams. There’s nothing pleasant aboot them. They’re nightmares far worse than any child’s who’s afraid of the dark. They’re so vivid that I’m certain it’s really happening until something jolts me awake. Everything was just so much worse.”
The brothers fell back into silence, both recalling the sheets of rain that fell, creating bogs that made horses go lame or sucked men’s boots in like drying mortar. The wind had nearly blown even the most enormous warriors to the ground. The midmorning sky had darkened to what appeared like early night. The Armstrongs’ and Elliots’ combined forces outnumbered the Scotts, but their enemy had elevation to their advantage. The Armstrongs and Elliots fought not only their enemy but also the slope of the hilly terrain. Had the weather not sabotaged them, it would have been inconvenient and impractical, but it wouldn’t have been so lethal. The Scotts swarmed and overpowered their rival partners. Alex was certain it was an act of God that granted victory to the Armstrongs and Elliots.
“I didn’t realize,” Alex said as they reached the Liddel Water’s bank. The river flowed before them as they stood staring toward the Hermitage. Neither could glimpse it, but they knew where it lay. It was near there that they met the Scotts. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“And make you feel worse?” Brice glanced at Alex, who stared at him. “I didn’t want you to think you’re to blame, and I know you would have. You already swear it’s your fault that the ogre struck me down. The enemy was in front of me, not behind or to the side. You couldn’t have known. You fought your own opponent, but you still blame yourself. Alex, I’m no more a child than you are. You may have three years more experience, but that was hardly my first battle. Would you blame someone else the way you blame yourself if I’d partnered with, say, Angus? Or Brant? Or Peter? Would you never forgive them?”
“You never should have been there.”
“Are you blaming Mother now?” Brice said, aghast, but Alex realized his brother was mocking him. “It was she who made us swear to always fight alongside each other. So it’s her fault?”
“Who’s being the arse now?” Alex demanded.
“It’s a fair question if I follow your reasoning.”
“You should have remained here. It’s foolish that we ride out together. What if we both died? Who would be heir then?”
“Now you really are treating me like a child.”
“I’m bluidy well thinking aboot our clan. What if you’d died, and I was left like this? What then?” Alex fumed.
“You’d be laird when Father dies, like we’ve always known.”
