Chapter Twenty
He held her hand and walked just slightly in front of her, having felt her heart begin to quicken the moment they entered the center of the village.
At that late hour, the streets were not nearly as busy as they had been when the sun still shone overhead; however, some people still milled about, eying Joanie and Alec with suspicion, making her increasingly nervous.
He too would have preferred a wooded camp or farm over a bustling village, but only to escape the constant barrage of human emotion that assailed his senses whenever anyone stood near.
Clearly, Joanie had the same preference for isolation, but his heart ached, knowing it was her fear of being hurt.
Life had taught her that men were cruel and that those more powerful crushed the weaker.
She hid for survival. Pulling her closer behind him, he shielded her, wishing he could block out the world around them.
But once they had what they needed for the journey north, they could avoid cities and villages until they made it to Haddington Abbey.
“A room for myself and my wife,” he told the proprietor of the only inn in the village.
The man scowled at Alec for several moments, his hands resting on his rotund stomach, before he finally outstretched his hand for payment.
Alec could feel his instant aversion, but he was unmoved.
He was used to people’s suspicion. He knew he made himself disagreeable, but what people didn’t realize was that Alec was simply keeping them out of his mind.
He was careful to avoid touching the man when he dropped the coins into his palm.
Judging by his open disdain of Alec, the surly way he eyed Joanie, and the fear in the hearts of the people who worked for him, Alec had no wish to see inside his dark soul.
Once the mind had seen something, it could not be unseen, and so many dark images already filled Alec’s mind.
“Betty, show them upstairs,” the man barked at a young maid carrying a bucket. She jumped a little at the harsh command, causing water to slosh on the floor.
“And watch what you’re doing, you lazy cow!”
Fear and fury shot out from Joanie’s heart straight into Alec’s.
He snaked his hand out and grabbed the innkeeper’s tunic, pulling him hard against his high table.
The moment he touched him, Alec knew he was a thief.
Grim images flashed before his eyes, but one came to the fore.
The innkeeper finished most evenings at the corner table near the hearth with some shop owners in the village.
Alec leaned close and in a low voice for the innkeeper’s ears only, he said, “Be kinder to those around you, or I will tell those who trust you what really happened to their money.”
The innkeeper froze, ceasing his struggles.
“How did you ...which one of those bastards...” The innkeeper’s eyes nigh bulged from his face as he sputtered.
A breath later, a nervous smile stretched his lips wide.
Casting his gaze sidelong at the maid, he said, “No worries, Betty dear. I will just have Robert clean—”
Alec tightened his grip.
“I ... what I meant to say is that I will clean that up. You just go ahead and take our guests up to their room.”
“I have many friends in town,” Alec whispered. “I will know if you mistreat anyone again.”
Joanie suppressed a smile as she watched Alec slowly release the innkeeper’s tunic, but inside she was nigh bursting with pride.
She knew naught what he had said to make the man suddenly so obliging, but she was overjoyed to have witnessed him being put in his place.
And by the way Betty smiled at Alec, Joanie knew he was not just Scotland’s hero anymore.
She followed Betty across the busy common room to the stairs. When they reached the top and started down a long hallway, Betty suddenly whirled around, her face beaming, the blond curls that framed her face danced as she dipped into a low curtsy.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes darting between Joanie and Alec. “I don’t know what you said, but I’ve never seen the master so flustered. He squirmed like the snake he is.”
Joanie smiled and glanced at Alec who dipped his head to acknowledge the young maid’s praise but kept silent.
Betty did not seem to mind, however, as she turned and prattled on about telling her mother when she left for the evening. “Supper is served in an hour downstairs,” she said, opening the door to their room.
“Would you mind bringing us a tray when time allows?” Alec asked.
She bobbed in a curtsy, her smile still beaming. “It would be my pleasure.”
Alec simply nodded and motioned for Joanie to enter.
“Goodnight,” she said to Betty.
A moment later, Alec shut the door behind him and leaned against the slatted wood for a moment. She watched him close his eyes and take several steadying breaths.
“Is it quiet now ... inside of you, I mean?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I feel them everywhere, but ‘tis as if it’s muffled now. Like a dream or even a ghostly presence.”
“Like you’re haunted.”
Alec locked eyes with her. “Exactly.”
Joanie felt her heart pound as she met Alec’s gaze. His black eyes were always intense — either cold and hard like an iron wall, almost hurtful in how they blocked out life, or they were probing, searching as if he were deep inside her.
At that moment, she was acutely aware of him, not just his intensity, but she was aware of him as a man.
He stood straight and walked toward her.
He seemed to fill the room with his height and powerful presence.
She did not feel unsafe. On the contrary, she believed him when he said he would never hurt her.
Still, she was painfully nervous. She didn’t know what to do or say.
When he stopped in front of her, she craned back her neck to meet his gaze. “We’re alone,” she suddenly blurted.
Embarrassed, she turned away and started to wander the room, touching the faded blue covering on the platform bed and grazing her fingertips across the table that was positioned in front of the shuttered window.
From the corner of her eye, she watched him cross the room to the cold hearth.
He moved with quiet ease. He was such a tempting combination of effortless elegance and confident ability.
He squatted down and began to light a fire.
She could not help but admire the way his back tapered to his narrow waist and the strong lines of his thigh and curve of his buttock.
“Oh God,” she said under her breath before she turned away.
Diana had often spoken of men with admiration for their bodies.
She would occasionally reminisce about past lovers and tease Joanie for turning a bright shade of crimson whenever she did.
Joanie never truly believed her when she said that some men could be gentle with a woman and make a woman’s body soar with pleasure.
But now, having witnessed Alec’s quiet confidence, his powerful strength, and his undeniable kindness, she could not help but wonder if there was any truth to Diana’s stories.
“Ye’re not afraid of me anymore,” he said quietly.
She jumped, startled by his voice. She turned around. He stood now, tall and lean, with his back still to her.
Did he know the true direction of her thoughts? Panicked, she searched the room for some way to hide from him. But he turned then and looked at her. “Now what are ye afraid of?”
She froze mid-step — to where she did not know. There was no escaping him, and even if she could, she knew escape was not what she really wanted.
“You again,” she said. Then she looked down at her feet. “And my own thoughts,” she said truthfully.
He did not answer, and so she forced herself to once more meet his gaze. The hardness had once more fled his face, but his gaze was no less probing, no less intense.
“Sit with me.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, and then she crossed her arms over her chest. “You mean, you want me to come over there?” she asked, wishing to keep a room between them.
She felt this pit of longing in her stomach, like hunger but for something she had never imagined before.
It was as if her very soul was starved, but then memories of the abuse and hatred that had been her life’s story flashed before her eyes — what was she thinking? Her soul had never been fed before.
“Don’t be sad,” he whispered, suddenly standing in front of her.
She looked up and lost herself in his eyes.
They were soft with concern. “So sad,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out his hand.
He hesitated, his fingers nearly grazing her cheek.
But then he touched her, so softly at first. She closed her eyes as the now familiar warmth shot through her.
She felt the pulsing life that filled his soul touch her very heart, her own soul.
He stepped even closer. She was surrounded by the heat of him, the feel of him, the scent of him, and everything within her wanted more.
He cupped her cheeks between his hands and brought his forehead to hers.
“Ye’re magic,” he whispered.
A burst of laughter rushed from her lips. She stared up at him with incredulity but then succumbed to the lulling motion of his touch. She closed her eyes to savor the feeling before saying, “Of the two of us, I’m sure you are the one with magic.”
He stepped away suddenly. She opened her eyes, shocked by the swift retraction of his touch. “Ye don’t understand,” he said, his arms stiff at his sides, his hands tightly fisted. “I do not touch people,” he said, his black eyes boiling with emotion. “At least not willingly.”
He flexed his fingers and looked down at his hands. “When I touch someone, I step inside them. I see their sins, their fears, their pain. I see the faces of people they have loved, or hurt, or lost.”
He raked both his hands through his long hair.
The moment before he spun away from her, she saw such an ache of suffering in his eyes, it brought tears to her own.
She stared now at his back, knowing he fought to regain the control he worked so hard to constantly maintain.
When he turned back around, his impassive mask shaped the contours of his face.
Her beautiful statue stood in front of her, but now she did not fear him. Now she understood.
Slowly, the hardness left his eyes, and he again stepped toward her. She held her breath as he drew closer still. Then he reached out his hand, and just his fingertips grazed hers. His touch ignited her soul, compelling her to weave her fingers together with his.
“When I touch ye,” he breathed, “I see nothing but ye. I am just a man. Ye’re just a woman.” A shiver shot from his body into hers, and she could not help but think that he was far from just a man. She looked up and met his gaze.
He swallowed hard. “I cannot tell ye how good it feels,” he said, his voice low. He drew her cloak away and reached for the last few pins sloppily containing her hair. “So beautiful,” he whispered.
She bent her head, unable to bear his kindness, his gentleness. Tears stung her eyes. Longing filled her with his every breath caressing her cheek. Warm and so close, it hurt as much as it pleased.
“Still so sad,” he said, crooking her chin and gently lifting her head so that he could see her face. “I cannot see yer truth. Ye must tell me.”
She swallowed the knot in her throat. “What do you want to know?”
“Ye,” he implored. “I want to know ye.”
Flashes of fists, knives, whips, and pokers combined with hurtful words — she did not want him to know her truth. It was too ugly.
“I know that emotion all too well,” he said, his voice soothing. “Ye’ve been hurt, Joanie. A lifetime of hurt. But the shame is not yers. None of it is yers. Do ye hear me?”
His searching eyes and full lips blurred like a dream as tears welled over her lids. “The scars across my body will tell you the story of who I am, how I came to be ... me.”
Once more he cupped her cheeks, and he lowered his head and gently kissed away a tear from her cheek, then another. Holding her gaze, he let his hands fall to his sides. “Let me see ye as ye really are.”
She couldn’t bear the idea of Alec seeing the ugliness that marred her body. Although healed over on the outside, each wound cut soul-deep. Inside, she still bled. How could she let him see?
“Do not be afraid. Trust in me,” he whispered.
Her breath caught. Dare she? Dare she truly trust Alec with her life, her story. She found her courage. “I do this for me,” she said quietly.
Hands trembling, she reached for her tunic and pulled it slowly over her head.
The warmth of the fire caressed her shoulders.
Her heart pounded, but she refused to turn back.
Drawing a deep breath, she lifted the hem of her kirtle and eased her tattered hose from her hips, peeling them down each leg.
Then she stood before him, head down and eyes closed, clad in naught but her sheer kirtle.
Pressing her lips together, she fought the desire to scream, to sob — for she knew what he saw — the layers of red lashes that covered her back and stomach. The burn marks. The angry bruises still marring her skin from her last fight with Geoffrey.
She opened her eyes when she felt his hands gently circle her waist. She gasped at the sight of his black eyes burning with midnight fire. Furious waves of heat emanated from his hands that held her so gently but burned her soul with the fire raging within him.
“Who did this?” he growled, the very words seemed to pain him. “Who hurt ye?”
A sob tore from her throat. “My father.” She drew a shaky breath. “And every master who has owned me since.”
He ran a thumb along the scar across her collarbone that slashed her chest.
“That was a knife,” she whispered. “It was the closest I ever came to dying.”
He bent down and kissed where he had touched.
The heat from his lips soothed below the surface, penetrating beyond layers of skin to where the true scars resided.
She reached her arms around his neck, weaving her hands through his hair and closed her eyes.
His lips trailed down her chest and stomach, kissing every hurt through the thin fabric of her kirtle.
He turned her around, his hands and lips spreading his magic breath and heat over her, inside her, everywhere.
Then he circled around her and stood in front of her, his black eyes now glistening with her story.
She expelled a breath she felt she had been holding her whole life as he lifted her into his arms. Cradling her, he crossed to the bed.
Lying beside her, he held her in his arms. She closed her eyes, feeling his strength surround her.
“Never again,” he whispered over and over until at last she believed him.