Honor sensed his anger. “How old were you then?”
“Seven,” Alan replied.
“You hated leaving him, did you not?” She knew she ought to leave well enough alone, but he seemed to need to speak of it.
Alan smiled sadly, his profile clear, even in the near darkness. “Aye, I missed him, missed the family I took for granted, missed my friends. Especially Tav.”
“You knew Tavish even then? I assumed you just met on this last campaign.”
“He fostered a while at Rowicsburg before I left. Did he not tell ye? His mother married an English knight when she was widowed of Tav’s father. Old Beauchamp sent Tav to Da for training up in the English way. We were like brothers, though Tav was four years older than I.” A moment of silence hung between them. “When I had to leave, Tav stayed on. I hated him for it then, not knowing that he left as well soon after. We only just met up again when he came to fight fer th’ Bruce.”
Honor wanted to comfort that young lad torn from his home and friends. “At least you had your mother with you when you went away.”
He laced his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Aye, for a whole fortnight. Then she returned to Da.”
“Mon Dieu! She left you there?” Honor could not imagine a mother abandoning her child. “How could she!”
Alan smiled at her, apparently amused at her belated defense. “I was seven, after all. ’Tis the usual age to send out for fostering. Mam told me her brother Angus would treat me as the son he never had.”
“And did he?” Honor found herself caught up in his story, worried for the boy he had been.
“Aye, he did that. Beat me every day thereafter!”
Honor moved closer without a thought but to comfort. She cupped his face with one hand. “Beat you? Oh—” Tears streaked down her cheeks, but she made no effort to stop them. Her memories of swinging slaps and harsh accusations rose up and broke free.
A huge arm encircled her and drew her close. “Well, dinna greet over it!” She felt his laughter as much as heard it since her head rested against his bare chest. “Ah, Honor, ye have too tender a heart. I’d ne‘er have told ye had I known ye’d weep.” He drew away a little and caught her tears on one rough finger. “Here now, ’twas not so bad as all that.”
Honor knew how bad it was. She found it near impossible to stop crying long enough to speak. He made light of what had happened, his only defense against it. His pride would not allow him to admit the true horror of it to her, but she knew. God, how she remembered. “Only a base, mean coward raises his hand to his child! I hope you killed him when you grew old enough!”
“Killed him? What a thing to say! He’s my uncle, Honor.”
“He beat you! Called you foul names! Locked you away in the dark!” she accused. “You should kill him!”
“Nay, sweeting,” he soothed. “He didna do all that, I swear. He only strapped me when I cursed him and tried to run away. My own hardheadedness caused it. I acted the hellion on every waking hour for nigh a year. I earned every blow and more, believe me.”
Honor grasped his arm and drew him close, frantic to let him know she understood in spite of his denial. Better than anyone in the world, she understood. “You lie to soothe me, husband, but I know what you feel inside. You hurt still, but it’s over now. He cannot hurt you now. I will never let him beat you more!”
“Stop this!” he ordered, his voice brisk. “I tell ye ‘twas naught more than my uncle’s caring to make me behave as a mon and not some snot-nosed weakling. Ye make yerself ill wi’ all this weeping. Now cease!” He shook her gently.
Honor caught herself in midsob, aghast at her mistake. Her body lay flush against him, her heart thundered with grief for a much abused child. But Alan of Strode was not the child she wept for, she realized suddenly.
“I would sleep now,” she whispered, horribly embarrassed and at a loss as to how she might explain away her foolishness. Surely he would guess why she had taken on so.
“Aye,” he agreed, tenderness softening his voice to velvet as he smoothed her hair with his hand. “Sleep, mo cridhe.”
She almost missed his vow, hushed as it was. “No mon shall ever raise a hand to ye again. Not whilst I draw breath. I swear it on my life.”
Exhaustion stole over her as she lay within his arms. Did she dare believe he would keep such a promise? She feared she had already revealed too much of herself, far more than she had ever let Tavish see. Great danger lay in admitting one’s fear and vulnerability. No, because of all she knew to be true of men, Honor dared not take him at his word. She could not possibly give this knight her full trust after only a few short hours’ acquaintance.
For all his seeming straightforwardness and honorable promises, Sir Alan of Strode would bear watching. And her subtle direction, as well, in order to keep the upper hand in this alliance. This new husband of hers seemed entirely too good to be true. And if she had not learned anything else in her twenty-one years, Honor knew that what seemed too good to be true, was. Always.
Alan feigned sleep until he heard the slow, steady breathing that marked Honor’s slumber. Poor angel, he thought with a frustrated sigh. Her defense of him against his uncle told a clear enough tale of her own poor treatment. How long had that rogue father of hers tormented her?
Alan’s blood boiled with an eagerness to kill the man. Slowly. Painfully. Muscles tensed and trembled with the need of it. Red bursts of fury clouded his reason. He fought the tremendous urge to leap from the bed and head for France. Sorely tempting, but impossible, of course. Alan sucked in a steadying breath.
Hatred proved an unfamiliar and unsettling emotion for Alan. Even the opposing forces at Bannockburn had not engendered this feeling. That had been war, an impersonal conflict in which he understood the enemy’s motives. Greed and lust for power, he could fathom well enough in a man. He could not hate his uncle Angus just for being what he was, or his parents for their neglect. They were his blood and he loved them despite what they had done. But for a parent to attack a defenseless girl-child? Hatred might be new to Alan, but it had a name now. Lord Dairmid Hume.
Tavish had told him of the man, wondering why Hume laughed in his face and threw him out that summer in Paris when he had asked for Honor’s hand. Then, before the snows came, Honor had arrived in Scotland with the marriage contract in hand and her priest in tow. Perhaps Hume ran mad on occasion. Still, that did not excuse cruelty to one’s own get. The man sorely needed to die. God help the wretch if he ever set foot on Scots soil again and Alan heard tell of it.
He turned his head and examined Honor’s sleeping profile. A draft in the candlelight sent shadows dancing across her perfect features. God’s own jest, this faultless lady was his wife.
She had been right about one thing. Tav must have been caught up in the devil’s own fever to have wished her such a fate. Alan knew if he lived to be one hundred, performed all manner of charity, gave up all his sinful ways and prayed every hour on the hour, he would never deserve her. Not that he was likely to do all that. He was what he was. But even Tavish had not been good enough for Honor and had been quick to admit it.
Sadly, Alan closed his eyes and denied himself the pleasure of regarding her tranquil beauty. He would not impose himself on her, he decided firmly. Not ever. Such a gentle one as she must not be sullied by his rough touch.
He would husband her in his own way, then. With his life would he protect her. With all the wits he possessed he would try to amuse her and keep her content. He could guide her through life’s trials and train up her son to be an honorable man. All this he would do and gladly, he vowed fervently to himself. “But I will not