The Rock Read online

  But it hadn’t been enough.

  The flicker was extinguished for the last time. Inside he went cold, dark, and empty. There was nothing left of the love he’d once felt for her. She was no longer his; she belonged to another man.

  He couldn’t even hate her. He understood why she’d done what she did. To just about everyone in this room, she had made the right decision. Choosing him was the “wrong” one. But it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  He thought she would love him enough to defy society’s dictates and her brother’s wishes. He thought she would give up the promise of great wealth for a more modest future. He thought she would fight for him as he would have for her. He thought that the strong, spirited girl he’d fallen in love with would face the demons of her past, not hide from them.

  But maybe he’d asked for too much. Maybe it had been unrealistic—naive—to expect that she’d give everything up when all he had to offer her was himself. He wasn’t even a knight yet.

  But in the ashes of what remained of his heart, a sense of finality emerged. To hell with her. If she didn’t love him enough to fight for him, if she couldn’t see that the worth of a man did not lie in bags of gold, castles, or titles, it was her loss.

  MacKay and Sutherland tried to make him leave, but he refused. He would do this, damn it. All of it. So when the Guard finally filed before the high table during the long meal to wish the happy couple congratulations, Thom was among them.

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t steel himself, and didn’t avoid meeting her gaze. He bowed before her, and with all sincerity wished her happiness. “I hope you find everything you ever wanted.”

  She gazed up at him, pale and stricken, obviously not knowing what to say or do. Finally she stuttered, “Th-th-thank you.”

  He would have moved on and left it at that if he hadn’t glanced down and seen the thin edge of brass under her sleeve.

  His muscles went so rigid they might have turned to ice. For one maddening heartbeat he wanted to reach down, rip it off her wrist, and throw it into the damned fire behind them.

  She must have sensed the danger, because she inhaled a gasp and wrapped her hand around her wrist.

  But she needn’t have been alarmed. As quickly as the flash of rage had appeared, it fled. His expression was perfectly impassive as he looked her in the eye and said, “I think you should probably remove that now.”

  Before she could respond, MacKay had shuffled him forward.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, the big Highlander slapped his hand on Thom’s back and said grimly, “I think that’s enough of a flogging for tonight. It’s time to find that help.”

  Help turned out to be amber liquid that burned like fire as it went down his throat. For the first time in his life Thom drank himself to oblivion. MacKay and Sutherland—and maybe a few others (his recollections were hazy)—got him good and drunk.

  But he did remember one thing. It had been some kind of contest—the Guardsmen were always challenging each other over something. Thom recalled looking up from his flagon of uisge beatha to see a blade flying over his head. It stuck in the waddle-and-daub wall of the alehouse the men had taken him to. Another dagger had followed . . . and another. Apparently they were trying to strike a mark and playing a game of who could get closer. But that wasn’t what mattered, for an idea had penetrated the drunken haze.

  MacKay was right. The drink did help—at least until Thom woke up. But by then, he knew what he had to do.

  23

  EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT. Elizabeth had to be the most fortunate woman in Christendom. It was the celebration the likes of which she’d always dreamed. She was seated next to the king—who would soon be her uncle by marriage—in a beautiful gown, drinking the finest wine from the royal feasting cup (a jewel-encrusted mazer made of gold!), eating off silver plates, with silver spoons and salt dishes in every direction. Even though it was Lent, her belly would be full. Who in their right mind would refuse a life such as this? Was it so wrong to not want to struggle?

  Elizabeth wouldn’t admit she’d made a mistake, not even when a cold sweat broke out over her skin and her heart raced so fast she thought she would pass out during the ceremony, or when she couldn’t meet Joanna’s eyes throughout the feast, or when her nauseous stomach wouldn’t let her take more than a few bites of food, or when no amount of wine drunk from the gilded mazer or heat from the fire would warm the chill inside her, and especially not when her heart squeezed through the vise of her throat as Thom came forward to offer his congratulations.

  What had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? That things would stay the same? Maybe not, but not this either. The look in his eyes had cut her to the quick, and the first vestiges of true panic fluttered in her chest. It was as if she had looked into the cold, emotionless gaze of a stranger. The man who’d held her in his arms and touched her so tenderly and passionately was gone—as was the love she’d always sensed, maybe at times taken for granted, and finally admitted that she returned.

  It was at that moment that the full import of what she’d done hit her. What did it matter if the cup she drank from was gold if everything tasted like ash? She’d wanted to call him back. But what could she say? She’d made her decision.

  Wrong. Coward. She wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the offending voice in her head that wouldn’t quiet.

  Instead she donned a mask of happiness and slid off the bracelet, tucking it into the purse at her waist. Thom was right: it was time to put the past behind her.

  This marriage was what she wanted.

  The smile on her face was so brilliant she almost convinced herself that she was happy.

  The meal was barely over before she threw herself into the wedding plans. There was so little time to waste. The wedding was to take place at the abbey in three weeks—a few days after Easter and the end of Lent—and there were many details to which to attend. Every important noble in the country would be there, and Randolph and the king intended to make it the grandest celebration his young reign had yet to see.

  Wasn’t it wonderful? How fortunate she was! What little girl didn’t dream of a faerie-tale wedding fit for a . . .

  Princess.

  Her chest pinched. She had to stop doing this. She had to stop thinking about him. She knew just what to do to take her mind off it.

  Jamie had given her an unlimited budget for purchasing new clothes and shoes—what Jo called his guilt money—and Elizabeth didn’t waste any time in spending it. The very next morning she dragged Joanna and her cousin to seemingly every cordwainer, clothier, and haberdasher in Edinburgh. By the time they returned to the abbey they were exhausted, and the merchants on the high street had quite a bit more silver in their purses.

  Elizabeth had piles of lace and beaded trim, ribbons of every color, veils, purses, chemises, designs for new slippers to think about, and stacks of colorful fabric for new gowns that were now strewn across her bed.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked, holding the long swath of blue to her neck. “Have you ever seen such beautiful silk? The merchant said it was the finest he’s ever seen. It’s all the way from the Far East, not Spain or Sicily.”

  “It was certainly priced as if Marco Polo had carried it back along the Silk Road himself,” Izzie said dryly. She’d recovered from her illness, although she did seem a bit more wan than usual. “I think cousin James might have a few regrets when he gets back.”

  Jamie had left this morning on a mission to nearby Stirling to help Edward Bruce with the siege.

  “I think it’s very beautiful,” Joanna said. “The color matches your eyes. And I suspect for once Jamie will have very little to say about your merchants’ bills.”

  Elizabeth ignored the subtle reference to Jamie’s supposed guilt—he had nothing to feel guilty about, he had not forced her into this, it had been Elizabeth’s decision—but Joanna wouldn’t listen. “Do you think it is right for a bridal gown? Perhaps if we have the cloth