Chapter 11

The door to Isobel's rooms clicked shut, the sound echoing off the bare stone walls all around him. Alex stared at the passageway between their chambers and felt amusement bubble up inside him for the first time in many years.

He let out a great bark of laughter that seemed foreign to his own ears. When had he last had the opportunity to laugh at himself, or any part of his life for that matter?

His new wife was certainly proving to be a challenge. Standing before her that evening, the firelight reflecting in her hair, her beautiful face upturned toward him, he could have thrown her onto the floor and taken her right there.

At least this marriage willnae be boring.

With a grin playing on his lips, he made his way to the bed and sat down heavily.

It had been a long and tiring day, following an exhausting week of negotiations and toil on his part. He wanted to rest but knew there was far too much to do in the castle to allow himself the luxury of peace.

He thought back to their time on the cliffs, the memory of that kiss still lingering on his lips. He remembered the clammer of the waves on the shore below, and the fear that had consumed him as quickly as a waking dream.

Will I ever be rid of it?

The sea had been all he had known his whole life, yet sitting in this broken ruin, with decay and slime covering almost every surface, he felt more at home than he ever had on board a ship.

Perhaps he should have told Isobel of this. He could hardly expect her to understand his actions when she knew nothing about his life. Yet, the idea of confessing any of his past to her did not sit well with him. He had done terrible things to survive—what would she think of him if she knew?

He stood up and went to the fireplace, bracing himself against the stone mantlepiece, allowing the warmth to seep through the thin fabric of his léine and into his skin.

"How can I explain what I dinnae understand meself?" he asked the room at large, glancing at the door to her bedchamber.

What he wouldn't give to be with her tonight, to feel her smooth skin, to run his hands over her curves.

He shook his head. She had made her conditions very clear, and he would not break them.

The wind was howling so loudly now that he could hear a door banging in the underbelly of the castle. He regretted his decision to leave his glass of whisky downstairs. He was perturbed and restless, his mind foggy and dazed from the day's events.

Ever since he had stood on the cliffs, he had felt unlike himself. He had grown used to the absence of the sea, unprepared for how quickly it would affect him, even after months on dry land.

With a growl of frustration, he pushed himself away from the fire and headed back down to the kitchens to fetch himself another dram.

As he stepped through the doorway, however, he found Gavin seated at the long wooden table in the center of the room. He had clearly taken his master's departure as leave to finish off all the whisky in the castle. He was looking far less clear-headed than he had earlier in the evening.

As Alex advanced, Gavin pulled the bottle behind his back, raising his eyebrows at him in surprise.

"Should ye nae be with yer bride, makin' that heir she promised ye?" he asked, his words more slurred than they had been earlier. A dark bruise had fully formed beneath his eye, where Alex had hit him.

"Give me the bottle, ye dobber," Alex muttered, making a grab for it.

Gavin shook his head and refused to relinquish it, and they stood at stalemate for a moment, until finally, with a heavy sigh, Alex sat down on the bench opposite, fixing his friend with a glare. Gavin did not flinch, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Why arenae ye with yer wife?" Gavin asked, his eyes glassy but curious.

Alex shook his head. "She made her conditions clear. I'll leave it at that. I'll be with her in good time."

Both men jumped as a loud clap of thunder cracked above them. Their eyes rose skywards as the bolt of lightning that followed illuminated the room.

High above their heads was a long crack across the ceiling, and the rain was coursing down the timbers and running down the walls around them.

"It'll take years for this place to be up to the mark. I prefer wooden boards a foot from me face," Gavin muttered darkly as he chugged down another mouthful. He always was a melancholy drunk.

Alex shook his head. "Ye wouldnae ask to be returned to that ship if I offered ye all the gold in the world, and ye ken it. We're both well away from that life, and that's how it will remain until the end of me days."

"And what life do ye have now?" Gavin asked, belching loudly as he settled further into the benches. "Dinnae tell me ye relish being in charge of all these men, because I shall call ye a liar."

Alex shook his head. "These are me people, and I'm their Laird. I willnae follow in me faither's footsteps and choose me own desires over theirs."

"And what are yer desires, M'Laird?" Gavin asked, his eyes becoming less focused by the moment.

Alex watched him sway back and forth, aware that whatever he chose to say, his man-at-arms would likely not recall come morning. He felt raw and vulnerable tonight. Just married, and yet he could not be with his bride—finally free, and yet dogged by the memories of that accursed ocean.

"What kind of faither would I be to a bairn?" he whispered softly. "What if me faither's madness lies in me mind too, and after all of this toil to break free of his spell, I become just like him?"

Gavin's hand gripped his arm fiercely. "Ye arenae yer faither, Alex Bain. Ye never could be, ye never will be."

"How do ye ken that? We had to do terrible things on that ship, lad. Things I'd rather forget."

"Aye, we did." Gavin nodded solemnly. "We had a hard life—ye, most of all. But many of the men we served with chose that life. Ye didnae. Yer faither abandoned ye, his youngest son. Left ye to rot because ye didnae live as he lived."

He hiccoughed loudly. "As soon as ye had a chance to escape, ye did. Nay men would've followed ye if they didnae believe in ye. Ye'll be a good faither to any bairn. Ye ken what nae to do, that's what matters."

With that, Gavin collapsed forward in a drunken stupor, his hand still gripping Alex's arm with fierce strength.

Alex gently pried his friend's fingers off him and stood up, no longer wishing for whisky. He walked out of the kitchen, listening to the rain and the wind outside, and found himself in a narrow corridor with arched windows down its length, the rain lashing at them like whips in the night.

He walked swiftly to the door to his right, not caring where it led, and pushed it open. He found himself in the rear courtyard that might once have been a garden.

He looked about him, breathing in the night air as the rain beat down on him from all sides. He looked at the ivy climbing up the walls and the dark, broken statues that loomed in the corners. He sighed. His mother had loved roses. Perhaps this had been a garden she had created, somewhere she loved and tended to.

All of it lost to time.

He stared upwards into the tempest, his arms outstretched as he breathed in the fresh, freezing air from the sea.

Can I shed me old skin? Will I ever be worthy of the life I wish to live?

He wanted to saddle Jock and gallop out into his lands, to explore as a laird in a storm-ridden world.

He wanted to run up the stairs, barge into Isobel's rooms, and take her where she lay, her conditions be damned. He wanted to hold her, touch her body, feel her desire burst open for him again. How long had it been since he had felt another's skin against his own?

A violent flash of lightning rent the sky, and he lowered his arms, looking around at the rubble and ruins of his life. He could feel the rain dripping down his legs and into his boots. Perhaps it would be best to get to bed before he caught a chill and was no use to anyone.

He made his way slowly back inside, soaked to the skin, dejected and tired.

As he sat on his bed, the fire now reduced to embers in the hearth, he looked again at the adjoining door to Isobel's rooms.

Perhaps what he needed to do was to take his life one day at a time and carve out a path they could both tread together.

* * *

Isobel still couldn't sleep. Although Alex had told her he would not come to her rooms, the reality of his absence was harder to accept than she had expected.

The want in his eyes had been clear as he had looked at her, and yet he had rejected her—again. She sighed, shaking her head.

This is exactly what ye wanted. This is the condition ye set down.

She threw off the covers, walked over to the fire, and poked at the glowing logs, watching as red sparks flew up into the air and were whipped away into the chimney by the wind.

As she did so, she heard a thud somewhere close by and looked about her.

After a moment, she heard a low moan. With the poker still in her hand, she spun around, prepared to fight off any ghoul or spirit that made the unwise choice to disturb her rest.

As she listened, however, there was another, lower groan, and this time she recognized it was coming from Alex's room.

Putting down the poker, she made her way quietly to the adjoining door. Opening it, a soft breeze kissed her skin as she looked into the passageway. Another thump reached her ears, and she walked swiftly inside.

As she pushed Alex's door open, she tentatively poked her head inside and saw that he was thrashing in his bed, the sheets tangled around him as he tossed restlessly back and forth, in the throes of a nightmare.

She stepped into the room, shivering at the chill, and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

She walked over to the bed, mindful not to wake him, as his arms were flung wide, his long hair draped across his pillow.

"Get ye gone." His voice was muffled. "I'll kill ye!"

She stopped moving, her palms sweating, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched him.

"Ye are nay faither of mine." Alex flung his arm out of the bed and cried aloud. "Go back to hell, ye bastard."

Then his body went limp as he panted for a long while against the sheets. She could see a sheen of sweat across his bare torso as it rose and fell between heaving gasps for air.

Isobel watched him solemnly, this giant of a man, suddenly so defenseless in sleep, his voice cracking with anger and fear.

What kind of faither makes his own son hate him?

Isobel hesitated, wondering if she should wake him up in order to end his turmoil. She looked behind her, considering leaving him to the nightmares he had conjured from his old life. But something in her could not do it.

Tentatively, she sat down beside him, his moans and whimpers slowly ceasing as she took his hand, stroking it and trying her best to soothe him. After a little while, his breaths became less labored, and his fingers unconsciously tightened around her own, as though he felt her presence, even in sleep.

She sat with him for many minutes, holding his hand, brushing the hair from his face and stroking a finger along his jaw. By degrees, he relaxed into a deep sleep once more, all traces of the nightmare and the frown on his face disappearing.

Isobel waited to see if his nightmare would return, but he seemed settled and calm once more.

She stood up and made her way back to her room. As she closed the door and climbed under the covers, she realized she finally had an answer to her sister's suspicions.

If his ramblings were to be believed, Alex had killed his father, just as Lydia had said. As the tendrils of sleep began to penetrate her mind, she struggled to quieten her thoughts.

Who have I married?