THEY ARRIVED AT the castle shortly before dawn. Alex’s mother had taken one look at the half-starved, beaten young woman in his arms—Joan had been asleep and he refused to set her down after she’d woken—and immediately whisked her away. After losing a husband and two sons to the war—her sons in horrific executions—Lady Agnes Seton had endured more than her share of tragedy, but had done it all with a strength that had never faltered.

Alex knew there was no one who could care for Joan more capably than his mother—except maybe her own—but it was still hard to let her go.

As he stood in the Hall and watched the two women disappear into the donjon stairwell, he felt a fist tighten around his chest. The rage that he’d experienced on first seeing Joan emerge from that pit—beaten, starved, and barely resembling the strong, passionate woman he’d left eleven days before—had turned inward. This was his fault. He’d done this to her.

He hadn’t realized his former partner had come up beside him. “Get your sword.”

“Why?”

Boyd didn’t answer.

Despite being exhausted—God knew the last time that he’d had more than a couple of hours of sleep—Alex followed him out to the practice yard.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the answer to his own question. Alex needed to vent his anger, and there was no place better to do it than battling his former partner.

It took only a few minutes for the light sparring to turn to no-holds-barred combat. That’s how it had always been between them. They never gave half-measure. The two men exchanged blow after blow, until Alex felt as if his arms were going to fall off. Until he could barely find the strength to lift his sword or block the powerful blows.

Christ, the bastard had only gotten stronger in the past two years—which was saying something for the strongest man in Scotland. The fact that Alex was out of practice only made it worse. But he didn’t give up. Finally, Boyd took mercy on him and put down his sword.

Dirty, thick with sweat, and exhausted, both men sat—collapsed—on the stacks of hay that the men used as benches.

After they’d caught their breath, Alex said, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure. If you want to beat yourself up, I’m always happy to help.” Before Alex could tell him to go to hell, Boyd turned serious. “There was nothing you could have done.”

The fact that Boyd knew he blamed himself made it worse. Alex was almost too tired to argue—almost. “You’re wrong. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, if I’d admitted that I made a mistake and swallowed my damned pride a little earlier, this wouldn’t have happened.”