They let the conversation drop, but the quickening of her pulse and race of her heart stayed with her throughout the long afternoon. This was not good. Not good at all. She couldn’t escape the feeling of doom hanging over her. But Joan would not overreact. No matter how desperate she was to learn what Alex knew, she wouldn’t do anything rash. She’d survived this long by being cautious and patient. There was nothing on that parchment that could give her away. Even if every instinct clamored to try to fetch the missive back to make sure, she would wait for Alex to make the first move. If he had one.

But her cousin had other ideas.

As soon as Alice had left the room to rest before the evening meal, Margaret turned to her. She looked as if she was close to tears. “I need your help.”

It was late by the time Alex returned to the small chamber near Pembroke’s that had been assigned to him while they were at Berwick. It wasn’t much bigger than an ambry and didn’t even have a small window to let in natural light, but what it lacked in size and amenities it made up for in privacy. He’d sent his squire to sleep in the barracks with the other lads, wanting—nay, needing—the solitude.

If he’d needed a reminder of why he was here, of all the horrors and injustices perpetuated in the name of war, of why he’d had to do something different, he had it.

After riding across the better part of the Lothian countryside with Pembroke since dawn, Alex felt all the bitterness, frustration, and anger that had driven him to try to find another way. Two years hadn’t changed a thing—if anything it had only gotten worse. The devastation wrought along the Borders, on both sides, was horrible. It was as if miles of countryside had been swathed in black ash. Homes and crops burned or ravaged to feed the armies, livestock raided, the only signs of life the people starving and living in conditions that were almost unimaginable. Something needed to be done, damn it, and that was why he was here. It had to end. Even if he had to lift his sword again to do it.

But right now he didn’t want to think about the looming battle; all he wanted to do was collapse on the narrow wooden bed and sleep. But after the hellish night before, he wasn’t taking any chances.

When the serving girl set the jug of whisky on the bedside table, however, he felt a wave of self-disgust. The drink wasn’t going to help. It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make him forget. He wasn’t going to let her turn him into a drunk, damn it. Overindulgence of drink was for the weak.

Don’t think about her. It’s over.