Chapter Eighteen
Alec held Joanie’s hand and pulled her just behind him, keeping her close, shielding her from the chaos of the city.
He could feel her heart pounding, overwhelmed by vendors pushing their goods, racing children, beggars, the stench of bodies and excrement both human and animal.
Large pigs roamed the alleyways. Wagons barreled through the roads, heedless of passersby who dodged the wooden wheels and clomping hooves.
“Here’s a fine roast for you,” a stout man with a greasy bald head and a long leather apron said as he thrust a live chicken toward Joanie.
The hen flapped its wings in her face. Gasping, she turned away, hiding against his back.
Still holding tightly to her hand, he twisted his other arm behind him, encircling her, his hand pressing her closer.
Thatch and clay one-story homes and shops soon gave way to stone buildings, two and three-stories tall as they neared Tower Gate.
With fewer shops and marketers, the pace of the city slowed as did Joanie’s heartbeat.
Alec gently pulled her alongside him, keeping his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.
“We have almost reached the city limits,” he said.
She nodded, resisting the urge to expel her breath in relief.
Having spent nearly six months within the same four walls, the noise and commotion of the city jolted her to her core.
But they were not free from London yet. Her eyes trained on the armored soldiers guarding the gate.
The visors of their helmets were open. She glimpsed their hard eyes and the stern set to their lips as people passed beneath their watchful gaze.
One of the guards rested his armored fist on the hilt of his sword.
The closer they drew to the gate, the closer she pressed to Alec, unable to tear her eyes away from the guard’s iron hand.
“Breathe,” he whispered in her ear.
But she couldn’t. If there was one thing she had learned in her nineteen years, it was the hurt a man could inflict with his fist.
It was not until the city retreated in the distance that she dared to breathe deep the country air.
Having been within the confines of London for years, most of that time spent indoors, the farther they walked the more enraptured with her surroundings she became.
Bare limbed trees flanked both sides of the road, their branches stretching like a barren canopy across the white winter sky, making her feel small, but for once not in a bad way.
In the distance, rolling hills captured her eye, reminding her of her grandmother’s music.
Again, she wondered what the Highlands of Scotland looked like — the land so loved by her grandmother.
The beauty was almost enough to distract her from the tall, mysterious stranger at her side ... almost.
She glanced up at Alec. He no longer held her hand.
He walked beside her, his face unreadable, although she could see his eyes scanning the road, the trees, keeping vigilant note of their surroundings.
She thought of his arm encircling her, protecting her during their race through the city.
Mary did say she could trust him. Still, he looked so hard.
Then she remembered, trust him or not, he was her master, although he did take back the money he paid for her — did he own her or not?
“You didn’t pay one-hundred silver marks for me in the end, did you?”
“I did not,” he answered, not looking at her. “I stole it back.”
Then she remembered how he had said that it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d stolen money. “You’re a criminal?” she burst out.
He glanced down at her for a moment before looking away. “Only in England?”
Her heart started to pound again. “What are you in Scotland?”
“A secret.”
“I do not understand.”
She waited for an answer, her heart racing faster.
Just then his hand snaked out and he clasped hers, pulling her just behind him, once more shielding her — but from what?
The crowded streets of London were far behind them.
A moment later, a wagon came into view. Warmth from his hand shot through her.
The closer the wagon approached, the more heat poured off him.
His hand was steady, strong, and yet it felt like motion, churning waves or gusting winds, like his touch was alive.
Power coursed through him, and yet, his expression and stance betrayed none of the feeling and tension she felt. His face remained cold.
When the wagon passed, he released her hand, and the warmth that had held her mesmerized was suddenly gone. She felt lost for a moment. She glanced at him sidelong, wondering what magic he possessed.
“I’m part of a network of rebels fighting for Scottish independence.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected him to tell her anything so revealing, and she could hardly connect the cold English merchant she had first met in the king’s palace with this Scottish thief and rebel.
“I was sent to the king’s palace to spy for the cause by Abbot Matthew of Haddington Abbey, which is our destination, in case ye were curious.”
He had not glanced at her once while he spoke, and by his tone one might have thought he was discussing the condition of the roads upon which they trod, not causes, rebels, and the secrets of the Church and kings.
“Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you worried I will tell someone?”
Alec stopped then and looked down at her.
Joanie’s wide brown eyes looked up at him with both curiosity and, of course, the one emotion he had come to expect from her: fear.
He reached into his satchel and withdrew a hunk of dried meat.
He tore it in half and gave her a piece, intentionally grazing his fingers against her skin, touching her.
As before, his mind’s eye saw nothing, no flashes of memories, no secrets revealed.
He had not even seen the old woman since the very first time he heard her sing.
When he touched her, he saw nothing, which perplexed him to no end.
What made her different? Regardless of why, she was such a relief to his soul.
He wanted to keep on touching her simply because he could.
He backed away and leaned against the tree, sliding to the ground. He took a bite of meat and continued to study her. At length, he looked her square in the eye and said, “Nay, I’m not worried that ye might tell someone.”
She shied away from his direct gaze, her eyes darting downward to study her hands. “Because who would I tell, right?” she asked. He felt the sob rise in her throat, although her voice betrayed none of the rush of feeling inside her. “I have no one. I’m alone in this world.”
He shook his head. “That’s not why.” He paused for several moments, watching her as she stood. He knew she did not know what to do: sit, stand, run away. “Besides, ye’re not alone, are ye?”
She blushed and dipped her head.
His face was still the same, beautiful and cold, like a statue, but she glimpsed something in his eyes like the barest breath of a smile.
“Let’s just say, I can see a person for what they really are,” he said. They locked eyes again, his burning straight to her soul.
“What do you see in me?” she whispered, walking closer as if beckoned by the hint of warmth she glimpsed beneath his hardness. Slowly, she knelt beside him. His long black hair hung straight past his chest and gleamed in the sun. His black eyes held hers.
“Fear mostly,” he said quietly. “Ye’re afraid of most everything around ye.
And ye’re afraid of me. But I have also felt yer strength.
” He stopped for a minute, considering her.
“Ye’ve more strength in ye then ye realize, I think.
But more than anything, I feel yer goodness. Ye’ve a kind soul, Joanie.”
She considered his words. How did he know what he knew? She was afraid of him, not that his words alleviated her fear. In some ways, they made her more afraid.
“Ye need not fear me, Joanie,” he said in a soft voice, which wrapped around her as if he caressed her without even touching her.
His black eyes softened as she stared at him. She felt drawn to him, as if the same heat she had felt when he held her hand coiled around her, pulling her closer to the pulse of life that defied his emotionless facade.
He leaned back and rested his head against the tree and closed his eyes.
The breeze picked up and lifted his hair and it danced for a moment in sunshine.
His upturned face remained impassive but relaxed.
His lips were not pressed into a grim line and she could see their fullness.
Looking at him, she felt a pang in her heart.
He was so beautiful. Her eyes journeyed from his face to his shoulders.
His body was strong, leanly built. His hands were hard, his long fingers sleek and effortlessly elegant like the rest of him.
She leaned forward, wishing to touch his skin, to feel the energy that somehow poured from him like a waterfall crashing into a still pool. Then, as if he had read her mind, his eyes remained closed, but he reached out, grazing his fingers across her palm. His touch lasted only a moment.
“Come,” he said. The emotion she had thought she detected in his voice was gone. “We are not far from a village. We need supplies and a room for the night.”