She tried.
Finally, they heard the sound of a bell shatter the night. Roused from bed, the occupants of the guesthouse, including Lady Mary, a handful of the other women, and the Bruce sisters, came pouring out into the abbey yard.
“What is it?” Lady Margaret Bruce asked.
“Something is happening at the castle,” one of the other women responded.
Elizabeth, Jo, Izzie, and Lady Helen exchanged glances, no one daring to give voice to their hopes.
But the bell was good. Surely it had to be good?
The excitement—the nervousness—was so overwhelming that when news finally arrived in a message from the king himself that the castle had been taken by a group of men who’d climbed the Rock, it was as if a dam had burst.
They laughed, they cried, they hugged, and did all three at once.
Elizabeth couldn’t believe it. Thom had done it. Dear God, he’d done it!
Though she had no confirmation that he’d survived the battle, she knew in her heart that he had.
When confirmation did come from Magnus, who’d arrived to fetch Helen to tend the wounded, Elizabeth was overjoyed to hear that not only had Thom survived, he was being hailed as a hero. She wanted to go with Helen, but Joanna held her back.
“Give him time to enjoy his moment with the others,” she said. “There will be time enough tomorrow to discuss the future.”
Jo was right. Elizabeth didn’t want to take this away from him. She would let him have this time with the men, but later she would find him whether he wanted to be found or not.
Besides, she had something to do first. Though unpleasant, it must be done. Before she finally went to bed, she went to the scriptorium to fetch a quill and ink. She had a letter to write.
25
THOM WAS SEATEDat the high table. After being roused from bed by MacLeod, he and the others had taken to the streets to join in the celebration, which had eventually wound its way into the Great Hall of Edinburgh Castle. The midday meal was a sea of people, the Hall stuffed to the gills with loyal Scots grateful to the king—and his men—for liberating the castle from the enemy.
And at the center was Thom.
From his position of honor beside the king on the dais, he could take it all in, savoring the moment for all that it meant. This was his moment, damn it. The blacksmith’s son had indeed climbed high—high enough to sit next to a princess. Lady Margaret Bruce was seated on his other side. But she wasn’t the princess who was bothering him.
Throughout the long meal, Thom was painfully aware of the woman seated on the other side of Randolph, who held the other position of honor beside the king. Fortunately, due to the two men being between them, the only conversation he’d had to endure with Elizabeth was when she and the other women had arrived at the table to take their seats, and she’d offered her heartfelt congratulations and “relief” that he was safe. Ignoring the plea in her eyes the one time they’d met, he’d given her offer more than it deserved: courtesy and nothing more.
But keeping up the wall of steel he’d erected around his heart wasn’t easy, especially when he could see how much his remoteness hurt her. But this is whatshe’dwanted, he kept telling himself. Not him. Which didn’t explain why he felt like he’d just kicked a kitten.
She’d tried to engage him in conversation a few more times, but the men between them proved a convenient barrier and means of evasion. Not to mention they were also speaking French. Of course they were. All nobles spoke French. Maybe that’s why he’d always hated it. It brought home the division between them in a way that could not be denied. He didn’t even speak the same bloody language.
It never would have worked out. He could see that now. She had tutors and he had no formal education to speak of; he’d grown up with one pair of boots for the winter, and she had a trunk full of pretty slippers; he melted gold and silver for a living, she wore it decorated with precious jewels in her hair. She was sophisticated and refined, he was provincial and rough.
He could go on and on. But even the fact that he was thinking abouthermade him angry.
He was furious with himself. He’d done what he’d set out to do—hell, far more than he’d ever set out to do—changing his fortune by earning a knighthood, a barony, and a place among the most elite warriors in Christendom. He’d done something no man had ever done before in climbing Castle Rock (solidifying his war name in the Guard as Rock), and in doing so had achieved battle immortality.
He should be basking in the glory, wallowing in the admiration, and delighting in all that he’d achieved. Instead it all rang hollow. None of it could fill the emptiness inside him or dull the ache where his heart used to be. None of it could make up for the one thing that he’d lost.
Damn her.
He made his escape at the earliest opportunity.
“Back to work already, MacGowan?” the king said as they stood to leave.
“Aye, sire. Some of the men have already begun taking down the south gate.”
The king nodded. “It is an unfortunate task but necessary. We can’t risk letting the English use this as a stronghold against us again, and I do not have the men necessary to defend itandmeet them on the battlefield.” He put his hand on Thom’s back. “But at least we will enjoy it for a few days. Tomorrow we will have quite a celebration—I hope you are ready.”
