“And Thom is doing well for himself,” Joanna said. “He’s a hero. It might not be as bad as you think.”
Elizabeth and Jamie exchanged a look, the threat hovering in the air between them. Jamie had the good grace to show a tinge of shame. They both knew how Joanna would react if Elizabeth told her what Jamie had threatened to do. But she didn’t. Even if he wouldn’t admit so now, she knew Jamie wouldn’t say a word about what he’d discovered.
“He has done well,” Jamie admitted. “But there will always be some who will see him as unworthy.”
“Do you?” Elizabeth asked.
The question hung in the cold night air. Years of friendship, years of anger and hatred, all coalesced in one important pause.
“No,” he finally admitted.
“I know you want to protect her, James,” Joanna said. “But doesn’t she have just as much right to be happy as we do?”
It was the final blow. They both knew Elizabeth had won. But her brother’s pride had taken a beating tonight, and she would not drive in the stake. She didn’t need to.
Joanna realized it as well. Always the mediator between the hardheaded siblings, she said, “Come inside. Let’s get some rest. We can discuss what is to be done in the morning.”
Unfortunately, the morning proved to be too late. When Joanna brought in the linen-covered sword that had been delivered to the abbey shortly before dawn, Elizabeth knew Thom was gone.
28
IT DIDN’T TAKEThom long to realize that he’d made a mistake. His father had summed it up quite succinctly on hearing the story not long after he arrived in Douglas: “Did you give the lass a chance?” Thom’s mouth had slammed shut. They both knew he hadn’t. “If you love her as much as I think you do, you should have stayed and fought. What the hell are you doing here?”
Was this the same man who’d told him for years that a future between him and Elizabeth was impossible? “I thought you’d be glad that I was back. I thought you wanted my help at the forge.”
“I was wrong,” his father had said simply. “You don’t belong here any more than Johnny or I belong on the battlefield. You would never be happy here. You were meant for something bigger. Didn’t what you did at Edinburgh convince you of that?”
“Aye, well, that’s no longer an option. So if you don’t want me, I’ll have to find another smith who does.”
His father had given him a long look, shaken his head as if he couldn’t believe a son of his could be so clodheaded, and walked away.
Thom had done what he’d always done when he needed to think. Packed a bag and made the half-day journey to Sandford just outside of Strathaven, where he’d spent two nights climbing the rocks and coming to the realization that his father was right: he was clodheaded. If the king’s men weren’t waiting to arrest him when he returned home, he was going to hop back on the nag that had brought him here and return to Edinburgh. Even if he couldn’t convince MacLeod to let him stay on with the Guard, even if he had to fight Randolph, and the king stripped him of everything, he would find a way to provide for her.
Actually, he already had a way. The sword he’d finished for Douglas and had delivered to Jo the morning he’d left had turned out even better than he’d anticipated. Perhaps more significantly, he’d realized that he’dlikedworking on it. It had relaxed him—the work was strangely comforting—and had given him something to concentrate on in between the intense and high-stress missions of the Highland Guard.
Smithing was a part of him just as much as being a warrior was. It would always be a part of him, and he didn’t feel the need to hide from that any longer.
His father and Elizabeth had been right, he could make his fortune as a sword maker if he wanted to. He could provide for her.
If she still wanted him, that is.
Clodheaded.
Damn. His step quickened as he drew near the cottage, so that by the time it at last came into view he was practically running. Then, seeing the smoke pouring out of the window, hewasrunning.
Bloody hell, the house had caught fire! He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water from the animal trough outside, and rushed inside.
The bucket dropped at his feet, soaking his boots, but he barely noticed.
His father had his arms around a woman, who was covered in soot. Had she not been wearing a beautiful light-pink gown—reminding him of the first time he’d seen her atop the tower all those years ago—it might have taken him longer to recognize her.
Elizabeth. His chest hitched to somewhere close to his throat.Here.
She and his father had both turned at the sound of the door—or maybe the bucket dropping—and Elizabeth’s devastated expression (his father had obviously been trying to console her) looked perilously close to tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his relief at seeing her outweighed by the fear that she might be hurt.
“The lass is fine,” his father said, answering for her. “She was making something to break our fast. The bread just got a little... well done.”
