Chapter 3 #2
“There is . . .” She slowly turned as if to try to take it all in, then halted, her face filled with amazement. “It is as if—”
“As if we have found the secret passage to the Otherworld.” At her frown, he realized he’d spoken aloud of the fey, of things like wishes that he would be a fool to believe in.
“The Otherworld?”
He frowned. The lass was Scottish, her soft burr a testament to her heritage. How could she not have heard of the home of the fey?
At Sir Patrik’s confused glance, Emma froze. With her ignorance of the Otherworld, she’d made an error. The last thing she wanted was to invite doubt. She made her body tremble, then her knees give slightly.
Sir Patrik caught her. “What is wrong?”
With shaky fingers, she touched her brow. “ ’Tis nothing. A wave of dizziness came upon me.”
A grimace tightened his mouth. “’Tis no wonder, after all you have endured this day. You need food and rest.”
Guilt wove through her at his sincere concern for her false claim.
“My thanks,” she said, too aware of him, of the strength behind the man, and that for the first time in her life she’d met someone who challenged her on every level.
With gentle strength, he guided her forward.
However much she wished to break away, she must keep up the appearance of dizziness.
Fragmented rays of sunlight streamed from a fracture within the immense ceiling and spread out in a magnificent shimmer, exposing a huge cavern punctured by spears of rock arching to the ground. Color infused the grand stones, from the deepest brown to a myriad of oranges.
Along the edge of the cavern lay a pool, a mirror to the magnificence, its stillness reflecting an identical image of the immense beauty above.
“The water is warm.”
Sir Patrik’s soft burr rolled over her. She turned to find him standing at her side, and heat swept her cheeks. She was too aware of his presence, drawn to a man who invited naught but danger.
“Warm?” she repeated, the nervousness within her voice very real.
“Natural springs lie below the pool. No one knows the why of it.” Patrik paused. “After this day, you would be wanting to bathe.” In the soft light, he saw that red flushed her cheeks. Embarrassment? Of course. He released her hand, stepped back. “You will have complete privacy.”
The flush on her face grew. “My thanks.”
“Should you need me, call. I will be nearby standing guard.”
Cristina’s expression grew serious. She stared at him a long moment. “I am not sure why, but I believe you will protect me.”
Touched by her words, more so than was wise, he nodded. “Take the time you need. I will set out some food. You will not see me, but I will be nearby.”
“But—”
“Lass, we are both tired and hungry.”
She searched his face. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“This day has been a trial to you as well. You should bathe first.”
He stiffened, disliking the warmth her thoughtfulness infused in him. Too long had passed since anyone worried about him. “I will bathe once we have eaten.” Patrik stepped back.
“My thanks,” Emma replied, analyzing the myriad of emotions flickering through his expression.
Surprise. Retreat. Coldness. She focused on the latter, intrigued by the rebel’s complete withdrawal.
His shifts of emotion were slight, so faint, had she not watched for them, she would have missed them altogether.
A complex man indeed. When she believed she was beginning to see the real man, to understand him a bit, he withdrew.
The violence he’d experienced as a boy, hiding as he’d watched his family slaughtered by the English, may have crafted the hatred blackening his soul, but something more had deepened the hurt within.
The information she’d gathered about Sir Patrik, though helpful, was far from complete. Logic assured her the gaps in his latter years would yield the insight she sought.
Discovering what haunted him wasn’t part of her task. Yet she found herself curious to know, drawn by the complexity of this intriguing Scot. On the outside a warrior who held his own, a man who intimidated the fiercest competitor, yet deep within, a man of intense passion.
Sir Patrik turned on his heel and strode around a large pillar.
Emma glanced at the still pool, then toward the ceiling spiked with enormous hanging rock, shimmering in the wash of light. Drawn, she walked over. At the edge, she turned. Along the outer fringe, the wondrous expanse of sunlight faded into complete blackness.
Silence.
Anxiety flickered through her. Had he left her alone? “Sir Patrik?”
“Aye?” His deep burr echoed from behind the pillar.
“Naught.” Embarrassed, she turned toward the water. It seemed to beckon her, lured her to enter and relax. As if for her being at peace had ever been possible ? She removed her gown. Water rippled as she waded into the mirrored pool.
Warm, silken luxury embraced her with each step, the sand a soft balm against her aching feet. Emma eased into the velvet depths and a sense of complete relaxation swept over her. It was as if her troubles were cleansed from her mind and nothing existed but this moment.
On a sigh she savored the sparkles of the sunlight on the rock around her, the shards of colors cast from their play like magic.
Magic?
A smile touched her lips. The thoughts fatigue spun. Never had she held any belief in magic or anything so whimsical. Life within an orphanage had taught her that neither hope nor magic existed.
With a sigh, she scooped a handful of sand and rubbed it against her skin, doubting she would ever feel truly clean. However incredible, the beauty of this chamber could not erase reality. This was yet another day, one to achieve a goal and once it was accomplished, to walk away.
Somber, Emma finished, then waded to shore. She pulled on the tattered gown, a stark reminder of her role, of the dangers she had yet to face, and of the penance for a poor decision made.
“I am finished,” she called out, her voice revealing none of her inner turmoil.
Solid steps echoed in the cavern. Sir Patrik walked into the swath of scattered light. He halted, his expression dark.
She tensed. “What is wrong?”
Wrong? Patrik smothered the unwanted surge of desire. The lass knew not that she stood with the prismed light as a backdrop. The rays framed her slender outline with lust-stirring clarity. And her damp garment clung to her full curves, a body that would make a grown man beg.
“I have placed oatcakes and cheese on the other side of the rock. Eat while I bathe.” He ignored her surprise at his abruptness as he strode past. With his body hard and aching, he was not fool enough to remain by her side and allow her to notice his interest. She’d endured enough this day without adding to her worries.
Irritated at his unexpected desire, he strode to the merge of sand and water and stripped.
Tossing his garments in a tumbled heap, he dove into the deep end of the pool.
Warmth churned around him, embraced him as he swam the entire length.
He surfaced, turned and swam hard toward the opposite bank.
The lash of water and burn of muscle did little to lessen his body’s need.
Reaching the end, he stood, cursed as Cristina’s alluring image remained emblazoned in his mind.
Warmth touched his chest.
Surprised, he glanced down. The halved malachite hanging around his neck glowed.
He frowned and strode from the water. Was nothing to make sense on this blasted day?
Why was he even wearing the gemstone ? ’Twas not as if he still belonged to the MacGruders.
With his betrayal a year past, he’d given up the right to use their name or to be called their brother.
Except the memory of a proud day long past stirred in Patrik’s mind.
A time when he’d stood beside Seathan, Alexander, and Duncan.
Seathan, who was now an earl. Lord Grey.
A smile touched his face, faded. Proud he was the day Seathan claimed the title.
But the day was bittersweet because their father, the man who had adopted him, now lay cold beneath the earth.
A hard passing. He knew their middle brother, Alexander, carried guilt for it because the arrow that downed his father had been meant for Alexander.
Neither could Patrik forget the youngest brother. Duncan had lost both parents, his mother dying during his birthing, but he hid his grief behind a veil of cheer.
Patrik gripped the gemstone, a gift presented to him, as it had been to each of the brothers by their grandmother when they were knighted. Each halved gemstone was unique, each a badge of honor. After his betrayal, it was an honor he no longer deserved. Bedamned. He should toss it into the water.
His fingers squeezed tight; then he let his hand fall away. He could nae sever the final tie to his past.
Exhausted, he dried himself, tugged his tunic over the gemstone, then, as if a man sentenced, strode toward where the lass was eating.
He rounded the corner and halted. On the blanket he’d spread out, with the food he’d left for her gone, Cristina lay curled in a ball, asleep.
Gentleness washed through him. ’Twas not her decision to appear in his life, to be forced along this dangerous path, or to have spawned the uninvited attention of the English knights.
Instead of lusting after her like a randy ass, he should remember she was scared, alone, and needed his protection.
Patrik sat at her side. In silence he ate, ignoring the silken wash of chestnut hair spilling around her face and the lingering urge to draw her against him. Once he’d finished eating, he stowed the remainder of the oatcakes and cheese within his leather sack and set it aside.
Fatigue washed over him. Aye, rest would serve them both well. The morrow and hard travel ahead would come too fast. With one last glance at the lass, he laid another blanket nearby and closed his eyes.
The body lay slumped before her. Vestments cloaked the lifeless figure like a macabre shroud. A scream built in Emma’s throat, but it would not come.
She tried to step back. As if weighted by stones, her feet refused to budge.
Blood spilled from beneath the finely spun cloth to curdle against the dirt and grime staining the ground.
Of its own volition, her trembling hand reached out and lifted the vestment.
Unseeing eyes stared out of Father Lawrenz’s pale face. Grotesque bruises marred the skin of the priest, the only man she had ever trusted, the only man who had ever shown her compassion, the only man who had taught her of faith.
No! She stumbled back, looked down. His blood smeared her hands, dripped through her fingers to pool at her feet.
She screamed.
“Cristina!”
“No.” She fought to break free of hands that held her tight. “Let me go!”
“Wake up. You are having a dream.”
A man’s concerned voice beckoned to her from a distance. Panic riding her hard, she struggled against the pull and jerked her eyes open.
In the murky light, Sir Patrik stared down at her.