The Legend (28 page)

"I killed him!" he
whispered into her flesh.

Peyton clutched him fiercely. She
hurt so terribly for him; as huge and mighty as he was, he was not beyond agony
of the heart. It was the only threat his physical power could not overcome.

"It was an accident,
darling, an accident," she whispered fervently. "You had no way of
knowing it was your brother."

He coughed, a great guffaw of
pain and anguish. "But why did not he use the signal? I shall never
understand 'til the day I die! I have never understood!"

"As you said, mayhap he
forgot in the heat of excitement," she said soothingly, stroking his head,
the back of his neck, his shoulders. "In any case, do you think if the
situation were reverse, Peter would have acted any differently? What if it had
been you racing down the dim corridor, too frightened to remember a
pre-arranged signal? Do you think Peter would have identified you first before
striking? Of course not. He would have struck first to preserve his own life,
which is what you did. You cannot berate yourself for your own sense of
self-protection."

He did not say anything for a
moment, clutching her tightly against his massive body. In fact, Peyton could
barely breathe, but she ignored the discomfort. Alec was demonstrating his
anguish and if eased him to hold her tightly, then so be it. She was content to
offer what comfort she could.

Alec had heard her words before,
coming from Ali's lips, from his own father. But suddenly, they made a good
deal more sense coming from Peyton. Mayhap it was because she was far removed
from the situation and had a clearer vision of the circumstances. The same
opinion coming from Ali and his father had been simply words intended to ease
his guilt, but coming from Peyton, they actually meant something.

He lifted his great head, gazing
at her and feeling tremendously frail in her arms, as if she held all of the
answers he had been searching for all of these years. "Are you always so
wise?"

She smiled, touching his face.
"Always, darling."

He smiled feebly and returned his
face to her breast again, feeling weaker emotionally than he had in years. It
was as if something had been lifted from him, or drained out of him. In any
case, he felt a sense of relief that was both unexpected and gratifying.

"Is this why you refuse to
live as a fighting man anymore?" she asked softly.

He nodded faintly. "I lay
down my sword the moment I killed my brother and I have not wielded it
since."

Peyton kissed the top of his head
tenderly. "My poor Alec. Do you know my aunt heard a silly tale that you
were called The Legend because of your skill with a blade?"

"Silly or not, it is
nonetheless true. I was knighted at eighteen, a full three years sooner than
most knights because I was far more skilled than most seasoned warriors. Peter
was knighted a year later at twenty-one and I swore he never forgave me for
having the audacity to be knighted before him. Any reputation I achieved was
before the tender age of twenty-one."

Peyton smiled vaguely. "You
are indeed a great warrior, then. England lost a mighty son when you lay down
your blade."

He was silent a moment. "A
hell of a lot of good my knightly skill did me. I led Edward's advance party
into ruin and I killed my own brother all in the same day. I was far too
confident for my own good and it led to nothing but destruction."

"You were young, my
Alec," Peyton said softly. "You are far too harsh on yourself. Men
are allowed mistakes, sometimes great ones, but they must continue on."

"Alec Summerlin is not
allowed mistakes."

"By whose decree?" she
demanded softly.

"Mine."

They remained as they were for an
endless amount of time. Peyton continued to hold and caress him as if he were a
small child needing solace, and somewhere in the process began to hum softly.
It was an old lullaby, something her father used to sing to her when she was
very young, a gentle melody that reminded her of happier days. She hoped it
would remind Alec of happier days, too. She had a sweet, clear voice and he
closed his eyes as she hummed to him, knowing the tune from his childhood.
Coupled with the warmth of her body and the contentment he was experiencing, it
was enough to lull him into an emotionally-spent doze.

Peyton felt him relax in her arms
but she continued to hum, to maintain the peaceful mood. Lord only knew that he
had been struggling with guilt for twelve years with barely a moment's
reprieve. In her arms, she wanted him to feel safe for the moment.

Peyton was sure she had been
standing for hours with Alec leaning against her soft bosom when there was a
sharp rap on the door. She moved to wake Alec, but he was already out of her
arms and bolting to his feet, six and a half towering feet of muscle and flesh.
She was amazed that he had come alert so quickly as he bade the caller to
enter, but not before grasping Peyton's hand in his own.

A tall, thin man entered the
room, followed by the monk who had gained them entrance to the monastery. He
eyed the lady and her knight.

"I am Father Lenardon,"
he said in a soft-pitched voice. "I understand you wish to be wed."

"That is correct," Alec
replied evenly. "My lady and I wish to be wed this night."

The monsignor raised an eyebrow.
"There is more involved than a simple ceremony, my lord. I must have
permission...."

"There is no one to give
permission, father," Peyton said quickly. "I am an.... orphan. My
father died six months ago and I have no living relatives."

"And I am prepared to pay a
handsome sum," Alec put in on her heels, so as not to give the priest time
to deny their request. "We have ridden a very long way and wish to be on
the road again soon, properly wed in the eyes of God and England. Will you do
this for us?"

The monsignor looked them over,
head to toe, as if to determine the truth of their statements. "Your lady
is not a fugitive or a captive?"

"Of course not," Peyton
said irritably, then quickly added, more politely: "We simply wish to be
married, Father."

Truthfully, there was nothing
more the deacon could say. It was not uncommon to perform quick marriage
ceremonies to those whose circumstances required it, and he was always pleased
to marry a couple rather than have them commit sins of the flesh outside the
bounds of matrimony.

He glanced at Peyton again, who
certainly did not look the part of a fugitive or captive. The hulking knight
next to her was the largest man he had ever seen and he had no desire to
provoke his temper by a refusal. Better to get it done with quickly so they
could be on their way.

"Very well then," he
said. "Follow me."

Peyton felt a distinct tingling
in her stomach to realize the monsignor would indeed marry them. In a short
amount of time she would be Lady Summerlin, a title she found she would be
proud to bear. Almost more than Lady Deveraux; aye, more than that even.

They followed the monsignor and
the monk down the narrow hall and into a dimly lit chapel. Banks of expensive
tallow candles burned dimly and two oil lamps blazed by the gilded altar. The
monsignor moved to the other side of the altar and motioned Alec and Peyton to
stand in front of him.

Kissing the scarlet silk mantle
offered to him by the monk, the monsignor donned his cape of office as the monk
and another brother moved to prepared a few necessary items for the ceremony.

The monsignor wasted no time.
Draping the scarlet mantle about his shoulders, he made the sign of the cross
before the couple and began to intone the marriage mass. Peyton tried to listen
to his words, his monotonous tone, but her attention was continually diverted
by the fact that she was actually getting married. It was happening so quickly
that she could scarcely believe its actuality, and even though Alec wasn't
touching her, she could feel his body heat like a roaring blaze. This man whom
she had come to know more intimately than she had ever known anyone in her
entire life was to be her husband.  Not James, but Alec.

The priest droned onward and
recited a prayer, to which Alec crossed himself and murmured a response.
Swiftly, he knelt and pulled Peyton with him, who made the sign of the cross
and mumbled her response a split second later. She was supposed to close her
eyes, for the monsignor was repeating a marriage invocation, but she couldn't
seem to keep her lids sealed.

The enormity of the entire
situation was weighing heavily on her and she was having difficulty
concentrating. She always thought her wedding would be a huge affair, full of
flowers and music with Ivy by her side. Instead, she found herself in a chapel
in a distant city being married by a man who appeared to be running a race to
conclude the marriage sacrament.

But the evidence remained; she
was getting married. In fact, she was already married. Married to a man she
felt closer to in three days than she had felt with James during the ten years
they had known one another. She wondered seriously why she and Alec were so
comfortable with one another, as if each understood the other's character
without question and accepted it as such.

It was odd and wonderful, and she
almost did not feel as if she was betraying James anymore. Certainly he would
want her to be happy, would not he? Or had he expected her to play the part of
the devastated lover for the rest of her life? Knowing the man as she had, he
could be selfish and petty. But she refused to believe that he would have
demanded she remain true to his memory.

Even if an order for faithfulness
had been his dying declaration, she realized she would have willing betrayed
him for Alec.

The monsignor made the sign of
the cross again and Alec rose, gently pulling Peyton to stand beside him. The
priest mumbled a binding prayer and bade the couple to drink from a common
chalice. The wine was vinegary and tart, and Peyton gazed deep into Alec's eyes
as she took a healthy swallow. They continued to stare at each other as the
monsignor said the final blessing and informed the new husband that he was
allowed kiss his bride. Lady Peyton de Fluornoy Summerlin received a chaste
kiss from her husband.

Alec gave her a wink and
immediately thanked the monsignor, paying the man with a twenty mark gold piece
and five additional one mark gold pieces. All in all, an extremely expensive
ceremony and Peyton watched him though somewhat dazed eyes; she could hardly
believe they were actually wed even as the evidence of that bought union
exchanged hands.

A lesser brother drew up the
marriage contracts, one copy for Alec and another copy for the church's
records. Peyton was able to sign her name to the church's register, having to
ask her new husband how to spell his last name. She nearly spelled it
Summerlyn, much to his amusement, but he commented that he liked the spelling
better that way. Without further delay, he escorted his wife from the church
out into the dark night, the freshly sanded marriage contract clutched
carefully in his massive fist.

"What now?" she asked
as he untethered Midas.

"That will depend on
you," he said, fumbling with the reins.  "We can either ride back to
Blackstone and face my father's wrath immediately, or we can steal away for a
few blissful hours at an inn."

She smiled. "I choose the
inn."

He matched her grin. "I
thought so."

He lifted her onto his horse and
mounted behind her. "I know of a quiet tavern near the edge of town. The
proprietor and I are old friends."

She yawned happily, the events of
the night sinking in and a healthy joy settling. "Well and good. He can
keep you occupied for the rest of the night while I sleep."

He raised his eyebrows. "I
think not, Lady Summerlin. You will occupy my attention, asleep or not."

"But you promised to leave
me alone to recover."

"I lied."

She giggled as Midas clip-clopped
down the cobbled road.

Alec reined his horse in front of
a bustling tavern, eyeing the establishment as he dismounted. Peyton, too,
looked surprised at all the activity.

"This is your quiet
inn?" she asked.

He shrugged feebly and pulled her
off the charger. Gathering their two satchels as well as his crossbow, he took
Peyton's arm and led her inside.

The common room was warm and
fragrant, smelling of roasted meat and old ale. Smoke from the blazing hearth
cast a faint fog in the room, shrouding the occupants like a mist. It was a
busy place, full of ladies and knights, men-at-arms and loud whores, and Alec
drew distinct stares with his enormous presence as they made their way into the
depths of the noisy room. His sky-blue eyes grazed the room for his friend, but
the man was nowhere to be found until a whooping shout pierced the air.

"Alec!" came a boom.
"I thought it was you, you blond devil!"

Alec and Peyton turned to see a
large man bounding toward them, almost plowing over a serving wench in his
eagerness. Peyton instinctively stepped back, pressing against Alec as the man
came upon them; he was nearly as large as Alec with unkempt black hair and
black eyes like polished onyx. A well-manicured beard was the only
characteristic that singled him out from the rest of the shabby crowd and he
reached for Alec's hand, pumping it hard in greeting.