"How long were you at the abbey?"

"Three years."

Fayth tried, without success, to imagine Alex in the flowing robes of priesthood, hair short and tonsured. "I didn't think it took that long to become a monk... or is it different, being a priest?"

"Oh, aye, it's different. But I failed at both. Most are novitiates for but a year... mine obviously went on much longer. The abbot said I lacked humility."

"That's all you lacked?"

Alex quirked a brow at her, as if to determine whether the question was sincere or sarcastic, then said, "There are twelve degrees of humility. I couldn't quite grasp them. But you're right, I failed in other ways. According to the abbot, I am unable to refrain from the desires of the flesh. I cannot banish evil and impure thoughts-thoughts of revenge. I drink too much wine, I talk too much, I laugh too much-and too loudly-I tell coa.r.s.e stories that are deemed inappropriate for chaste ears, and," he grinned wickedly at her, "I simply canna love chast.i.ty."

"I see," she said, trying to look thoughtful, though her cheeks were heating up, vaguely remembering a fever-induced kiss that had been far from chaste. She forced the memory away and tried to imagine Alex in a monastery, drinking and laughing while the other monks frowned reprovingly. She smothered the smile threatening to form.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I didn't want to be a priest... I tried, for my mother... It was her deepest desire to have a son in the Church. Rob was heir and Patrick... well, it was clear from the start there wasna a pious bone in Patrick's body. That left me."

"Was your mother... disappointed?"

Alex became very solemn. "Aye." He inhaled deeply, thoughtfully. "She taught me all I knew of G.o.d, afore the abbey. Her vision of the Lord was a good one and I thought it was a worthy thing to serve Him. I lied to her, told her it was what I wanted." He shrugged one shoulder. "I thought it would be easy to conform and be a good priest. But my mum's G.o.d was not at the abbey. Oh, they were strict and chaste and verra good men, in their own manner, upholding what they believed to be G.o.d's will in the most literal sense." He sighed. "But I didn't see G.o.d there. And now I must wonder, if He's not there, where indeed, is He at all?"

He didn't seem inclined to say more. She watched him twist the cup in his hands, not drinking. His words troubled her. Was it blasphemy he uttered? She didn't know, not being well churched herself.

He glanced up, following her gaze. "Here." He offered her the cup.

"Oh, no." She shook her head. "You must drink it. It will make you better."

To her chagrin, he stood with little effort and sat beside her. "You should drink it, too."

She could feel the heat from his body. He was like a fire, blazing nearby, and she was so cold. His arm brushed against hers. She had the urge to press herself to his heat, let it engulf her.

She took the cup for something to do with her hands and sipped at it. She handed it back. "Thank you."

He watched her intently and finally she met his gaze with a challenge. "What?"

"I'm making you uneasy."

"No," she lied, shaking her head a bit too vigorously. "Not at all."

"You know not what to think anymore, eh? Now that you no longer hate me."

"How presumptuous of you."

"So you do still hate me?"

She refused to look at him. She must hate him. And yet, in her heart, she knew he was right, the hate had faded, replaced by something new, something she cared not at all to examine. But it was wrong that it should die! Jack's murder was still unavenged and she sat here sharing a cup of swill with his murderer.

"Do you hate me or not? It's a simple question."

Why couldn't she answer him? She tried to force herself to say, Yes, I despise you. But it was such an untruth she couldn't force it past her lips.

"I can't imagine why you'd care," she said finally.

"I don't."

"Good."

They fell silent, Alex sipping at his cup. He offered it again. "So... why do you still hate me?"

Fayth blurted out, "Because you killed Jack Graham, the man I was to wed."

"Aye, I think you've mentioned that-"

The anger surged forward fresh and she welcomed it. It was better than the giddy-headed confusion that seemed to grip her when he was near. "Because if he were alive I wouldn't be here now-I would be a wife and a mother. You ruined my life."

He gave her a puzzled frown. "You want to be a wife and mother?"

She didn't know what she expected, but not this. "Of course I do."

"Of course?"

"Of course!"

He mulled that over for an infuriating minute. She felt a strange burning in her eyes. What did he think? She didn't like men, or children? That she didn't want a normal life?

"I like gowns and jewels and baths, but I don't see why I must confine myself to them, why I can't experience other things."

"And be seen."

"Yes! And be seen!"

She was nearly panting with agitation. How dare he a.s.sume things about her? He didn't know her! He couldn't know her.

"So... was Jack Graham one of those things you wanted to experience?"

"I loved Jack." She'd thought the anger would bolster her, remind her of who she was, but now she only felt like crying. Crying for the loss of her future, of all that could have been.

He seemed to sense her distress. "I'm sorry, la.s.s. I didn't mean to make ye grieve again."

She choked back a small sob. She felt his hand on her back, urging her forward, to lay her head against him. She resisted, panicked at the idea of being enfolded in his arms again. The fever-induced kiss hadn't been a dream-the danger of it recurring forced her to finally acknowledge it. She was afraid for it to happen again, afraid she would forget everything she was in his arms. But he only pressed harder until her head fell against his good shoulder, his arm draped around her. She kept her eyes closed, her heart beating frantically against her breast.

Jack's murderer was comforting her! She would surely burn in h.e.l.l for this. It felt as though she was already burning, deep in her belly, her chest, her neck. Would he kiss her now? Her mouth tingled in antic.i.p.ation. G.o.d no, she could never hate him-not anymore.

He shushed her, though she made no sound, and slowly she began to relax. She didn't know why she was so frantic. She'd spent the past two days leaning against him, hardly able to lift her head for long moments. She lay on his shoulder in the cave, his arms wrapped around her to keep her warm. She found the heat of him, the familiar smell and feel, oddly comforting.

His fingers trailed across her jaw and chin and she opened her eyes. She knew it must be very painful to move his shoulder-she couldn't hold her own arm up for more than a few seconds-and so she leaned back from him slightly, to look into his face. She caught her breath at his expression. He did seem to be in pain, though she questioned whether it was the physical kind. His eyes clouded, as if he were concentrating very hard on something. On her.

"Are you well?" Hesitantly, she reached up and touched his face. He was still very hot, though she'd a.s.sumed from his conversation he felt better.