After all the shite Boyd had given him about being a knight, Alex still couldn’t believe that his partner had been knighted. No doubt he’d done it to prove something to his wife. But as Alex had been reminded too many times in England, there was more to being a knight than wearing spurs and a surcoat.

Boyd hadn’t missed the taunt. And the return flare of anger in Boyd’s gaze told Alex that he had not forgotten who won the last time they crossed swords—or in that case, fists.

“I hope MacGregor can get someone to sell tickets,” MacSorley quipped. “I can’t believe I missed the strongest man in Scotland eating dirt.”

Alex’s gaze shot to Boyd’s in surprise. He’d told them. Somehow knowing that he’d been hearing MacSorley’s jabs for years felt like some form of recompense.

Without another word, Alex rode through the gap in the circle. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t look back. That was all too clear.

He’d thought the day he’d taken a knife to his arm and obliterated the tattoo that marked him as a Guardsman had been the most difficult. He was wrong. Coming face-to-face with his former friends, and seeing the way they looked at him . . . that had been far worse. They might not have killed him, but it felt as if eighteen knives had eviscerated him all the same. He knew how badly he’d betrayed them, but it wasn’t until that moment that he’d really felt it.

He still couldn’t believe they’d let him go. He’d half-expected MacRuairi to slip a dagger in his back as he rode by—

He stopped, all of a sudden realizing what he’d missed . . . and the significance: MacRuairi hadn’t been there, and Alex knew all too well what that might mean.

Already riding hard for the castle, he quickened his pace.

The rest of the army was still straggling in as he came storming through the gate. After finding his men, he told them what he wanted them to do. He didn’t identify MacRuairi by name, just that he thought one of Bruce’s men might be in the castle. They were to tell him—and only him—if they saw anything suspicious, but not to approach. Fortunately, Alex was familiar with Carlisle—and MacRuairi’s methods—and knew the likely places to look. But if the famed brigand had been here, he wasn’t any longer.

Still, Alex knew MacRuairi’s absence couldn’t be a coincidence.

Maybe Pembroke had learned a little humility from his defeat earlier, because when Alex told him his concerns, he not only listened, he took them to the keeper of the castle, Sir Henry de Beaumont. Security was tightened, the guard was increased, and when the attack came later that night, they were ready.