Alec had been struggling with Peter’s death for twelve years but, suddenly, he found a great deal of comfort in Peyton’s sweet touch. He had never allowed anyone to comfort him in his grief, not even Ali, because his brother’s death had been his burden alone to bear. No one had been able to ease his sorrow with a word or a gesture.
He had always maintained his emotionless facade when thinking or speaking of Peter; at least, he tried to. But as Peyton caressed him softly and kissed his cheek, he suddenly felt his twelve-year-old dam crumbling like the mighty walls of Jericho. Piece by piece, it began to dissolve and he suddenly grabbed Peyton against him, burying his face in the swell of her bosom.
He couldn’t keep his grief to himself anymore; he needed to be absolved somehow, and Peyton was offering her comfort. He hadn’t known this woman but a few days and already he felt as if he had known her a lifetime. He began to realize exactly what he had meant when he told Ali that he needed her; mayhap his uncanny sixth sense was speaking to him, allowing him to release himself in this woman’s arms. All he knew was that, somehow, she promised assuagement if he would only submit.
“I killed him!” he whispered into her flesh.
Peyton clutched him fiercely. She hurt so terribly for him; as huge and mighty as he was, he was not beyond agony of the heart. It was the only threat his physical power could not overcome.
“It was an accident, darling, an accident,” she whispered fervently. “You had no way of knowing it was your brother.”
He coughed, a great guffaw of pain and anguish. “But why did not he use the signal? I shall never understand ’til the day I die! I have never understood!”
“As you said, mayhap he forgot in the heat of excitement,” she said soothingly, stroking his head, the back of his neck, his shoulders. “In any case, do you think if the situation were reverse, Peter would have acted any differently? What if it had been you racing down the dim corridor, too frightened to remember a pre-arranged signal? Do you think Peter would have identified you first before striking? Of course not. He would have struck first to preserve his own life, which is what you did. You cannot berate yourself for your own sense of self-protection.”
He did not say anything for a moment, clutching her tightly against his massive body. In fact, Peyton could barely breathe, but she ignored the discomfort. Alec was demonstrating his anguish and if it eased him to hold her tightly, then so be it. She was content to offer what comfort she could.
Alec had heard her words before, coming from Ali’s lips, from his own father. But suddenly, they made a good deal more sense coming from Peyton. Mayhap it was because she was far removed from the situation and had a clearer vision of the circumstances. The same opinion coming from Ali and his father had been simply words intended to ease his guilt, but coming from Peyton, they actually meant something.
He lifted his great head, gazing at her and feeling tremendously frail in her arms, as if she held all of the answers he had been searching for all of these years. “Are you always so wise?”
She smiled, touching his face. “Always, darling.”
He smiled feebly and returned his face to her breast again, feeling weaker emotionally than he had in years. It was as if something had been lifted from him, or drained out of him. Inany case, he felt a sense of relief that was both unexpected and gratifying.
“Is this why you refuse to live as a fighting man anymore?” she asked softly.
He nodded faintly. “I lay down my sword the moment I killed my brother and I have not wielded it since.”
Peyton kissed the top of his head tenderly. “My poor Alec. Do you know my aunt heard a silly tale that you were called The Legend because of your skill with a blade?”
“Silly or not, it is nonetheless true. I was knighted at eighteen, a full three years sooner than most knights because I was far more skilled than most seasoned warriors. Peter was knighted a year later at twenty-one and I swore he never forgave me for having the audacity to be knighted before him. Any reputation I achieved was before the tender age of twenty-one.”
Peyton smiled vaguely. “You are indeed a great warrior, then. England lost a mighty son when you lay down your blade.”
He was silent a moment. “A hell of a lot of good my knightly skill did me. I led Edward’s advance party into ruin and I killed my own brother all in the same day. I was far too confident for my own good and it led to nothing but destruction.”
“You were young, my Alec,” Peyton said softly. “You are far too harsh on yourself. Men are allowed mistakes, sometimes great ones, but they must continue on.”
“Alec Summerlin is not allowed mistakes.”
“By whose decree?” she demanded softly.
“Mine.”
They remained as they were for an endless amount of time. Peyton continued to hold and caress him as if he were a small child needing solace, and somewhere in the process began to hum softly. It was an old lullaby, something her father used to sing to her when she was very young, a gentle melody that reminded her of happier days. She hoped it would remindAlec of happier days, too. She had a sweet, clear voice and he closed his eyes as she hummed to him, knowing the tune from his childhood. Coupled with the warmth of her body and the contentment he was experiencing, it was enough to lull him into an emotionally-spent doze.
Peyton felt him relax in her arms but she continued to hum, to maintain the peaceful mood. Lord only knew that he had been struggling with guilt for twelve years with barely a moment’s reprieve. In her arms, she wanted him to feel safe for the moment.
Peyton was sure she had been standing for hours with Alec leaning against her soft bosom when there was a sharp rap on the door. She moved to wake Alec, but he was already out of her arms and bolting to his feet, six and a half towering feet of muscle and flesh. She was amazed that he had come alert so quickly as he bade the caller to enter, but not before grasping Peyton’s hand in his own.
A tall, thin man entered the room, followed by the monk who had gained them entrance to the monastery. He eyed the lady and her knight.
“I am Father Lenardon,” he said in a soft-pitched voice. “I understand you wish to be wed.”
“That is correct,” Alec replied evenly. “My lady and I wish to be wed this night.”
The monsignor raised an eyebrow. “There is more involved than a simple ceremony, my lord. I must have permission….”
