Chapter 4
Another tremor rolled through Emma as she stared up at Sir Patrik. Beneath the flicker of candlelight, she glanced over and studied her fingers, which moments before within her mind had dripped with blood. ’Twas a dream, naught more.
“Are you all right?”
Mouth dry, she turned toward the Scot. The worry on his face stole her breath. “Yes, I . . .” Emma stiffened, withdrew from his touch, shaken to find she missed the gentleness of his hands, a quiet strength that promised protection. God in heaven, she could tell him nothing.
“Your husband?”
“My husband?”
“You dreamt of his death?”
Of course Sir Patrik would think that. A husband who didn’t exist. Deception tasted ill upon her tongue.
No, not deception, a fable crafted to gain his trust, a fact she must remember.
Her time here was but a job to be done, a mission to be accomplished.
After, she would move on to the next job, never to think of this rebel again.
And if she believed she could simply erase this intriguing Scot from her thoughts, she was a fool.
Sir Patrik slid the back of his hand over her cheek, his gaze tender.
Emma steadied herself, fought to smother the awareness, sensations no man had ever inspired.
’Twas the plans gone askew yesterday that yielded these unwanted feelings, and learning that however cold or dangerous, Sir Patrik was a man loyal in his beliefs.
A way of life she well understood, a path she ruthlessly followed.
Except his loyalty was to a country he loved, while hers was only to herself.
What would it be like to have passion for what you fought for? To care for those you loved so much that to protect them, you would sacrifice your life?
“Cristina?”
Cristina. A woman who didn’t exist. A potent reminder this was but a farce. Damn Sir Patrik for making her wish for other than what she had. Her life suited her. Each decision was of her choosing. And when she was done, she would walk away. No loss. No regrets.
At the thought of leaving him, an ache built inside, a yearning of unexpected force. “Go away.”
“Ignoring the hurt but prolongs it like a fire banked. ’Tis opening the door to the pain, working past the hurt that makes it fade.”
His thoughtful words left her feeling more of a fraud. “Can you not see that I do not want to talk? That I wish to be alone?” Alone she was good at. Alone was safe. Alone she spoke no more lies.
“Aye,” he replied, “and I see the hurt, that of a lass who holds her misery too deep, mires herself in grief and forgets to live.”
Emma cast him a hard look. “Leave me alone.”
“And if I did, I would be like everyone else.”
The sincerity in his voice sliced to her soul. Her anger faded. Damn him for being so noble. He believed her grief was due to a husband lost, a family destroyed, when it was her realization that her life held naught but the promise of emptiness.
“I am tired.” Her quiet words echoed between them.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I never took you for a coward.”
She angled her jaw. “You know me not.”
“Nay? I know you are a woman alone, a woman afraid, and one who sleeps with troubled thoughts, but also a woman brave enough to hold her own when most would crumble.”
Uneasy, she rubbed her thumb against the tips of her fingers. He saw too much, made her feel more than was wise. “Do you always interrogate the women you save?”
A hint of a smile touched his mouth, one too alluring, one that should have seemed out of place with the brutal life he led. Instead, it made his all too handsome face more appealing.
“Nay. ’Tis not my normal lot to save a lass, nor to care. ’Twould seem with you, I have done both.”
“You cannot care for me.” Panic kicked in her chest. She’d not meant to speak aloud.
“Why?”
Because I am not the battered Scottish woman you think, but one of England’s top mercenaries, a woman whose real name you would know—and hate.
At his sharp glance, a shiver stole through her, one that had little to do with the coolness of the cave and everything to do with this dangerous Scot.
Emma rubbed her arms, wanting distance, to be away from a man who possessed the ability to read her so well. “Why would you care?”
A fair question, one that confounded Patrik as well. Yet, when he’d awoken to her cries, her face twisted in grief, a part of him had wanted to hold her, to save her from whatever demons tormented her mind.
Save her? An ache built in his chest as he studied Cristina against the backdrop of the blackened cavern, the weak flicker of flame upon her face like a golden caress. His body hardened with need.
Frustrated, he shoved the desire aside, the urge to touch her, taste her, everywhere.
She was not his to keep, nor could ever be.
His life was dedicated to winning Scotland’s freedom, not to musings of after the battle, of laying down his sword and walking into the arms of a lass.
His belief in permanence had died a year past when his brothers stood beside his grave at Lochshire Castle.
Yet, ’twould seem with this woman, logic fled.
Nay, his feelings for Cristina were born of more than a face so beautiful it could have belonged to the fey, or a body that would make a man weep. Within her eyes lay sadness, the same torment reflected back at him whenever he looked within a calm pool.
Regardless of the reasons, the trouble brewing within her drew him.
Patrik grimaced. As if he needed to be heaping more onto the burdens that toppled his life?
In addition to delivering the writ, he yearned to reclaim a family who believed him dead.
Remorse weighed upon him. Was such a feat possible?
Could he ever find forgiveness from the MacGruders?
He should tell the lass to go to sleep, then lie upon his pallet and push her from his mind.
Their time together was but days. Once he left her with his friends who lived within a nearby humble village, they would ensure she was delivered to a safe haven.
Then she would go on with her life, as would he.
With her face, her tempting lips but a handsbreadth away, the lass watched him expectantly, awaiting a reply. One he should not give.
He blew out a rough breath. “I care because I understand what it is to hold on to things we cannot change, and to do penance for poor decisions made.”
The anger within her expression ebbed to curiosity.
Blast it, why had he added the latter? He did not wish to speak of his past or become further involved with the lass. Both were unnervingly easy to envision.
She searched his face with fragile sincerity. “What happened?”
The image of his brother Alexander’s captive filled his mind. A captive who was now his brother’s wife. “I allowed the bitterness of my past to skew my judgment.”
Emotion flickered on her face, understanding, pain, and acceptance. “’Tis easy when life offers you naught but hurt to guide your decisions.”
Saint’s breath, what had the lass endured? Aye, her husband’s loss had devastated her, but from the wisdom of her reply, more than the pain of his death carved her words. “And what hurt has life offered you?”
“I told you of my husband.”
He caught her hesitation, the flare of uncertainty a split second before she spoke. Cristina rubbed her thumb over her fingertips, a trait he noted when she grew nervous or upset. Instinct flared. She withheld something. As if he, too, did not conceal secrets?
Patrik stood. “Go to sleep. We depart at the break of dawn.” He turned away. The scrape of leather against sand alerted him that she stood.
“Sir Patrik.”
He stopped, but didn’t look back.
Emma’s heart pounded. She didn’t want the Scot to go, but neither did she wish to lie to him anymore. So she would give him truth. Or, as much as she could.
“I was raised in an orphanage.”
The rebel turned.
Beneath his intense gaze, she struggled to find the right words. “Few want to care for a child abandoned.”
Silence.
“When I was ten and two summers, I ran away.” At the sadness in Sir Patrik’s eyes, she stiffened.
“I need not your pity. I made my way just fine. Then I met Gyles.” Her voice broke as her thoughts went not to an imaginary husband, but to Father Lawrenz.
“I did not want to care. I was a tough one, but he ignored my bluster, took time to help me, and incredibly, made me laugh.” And he had died.
Murdered for a pence. She swallowed hard.
“So yes, I understand bitterness and hate. I know the Bible says to forgive, but for the English who took Gyles’s life, I cannot. ”
Images of that fated day rolled through her mind. Of having finished her studies, and her excitement to share with Father Lawrenz her lessons learned. Of how she’d run from the chapel to meet the priest as he returned from his daily round of prayers with the elderly.
She’d taken a shortcut through an alley, and had stumbled upon a heap of black cloth. Then, she’d realized it was a man. In horror, she’d stepped closer. Instead of a drunk sleeping off a long night of drink, she’d recognized Father Lawrenz.
Horrified, she’d seen the blood.
The assignment of faith she’d penned with pride had tumbled to the ground, the page blown away by the stench-filled breeze.
And the fragile hope the priest had given her that she might live a normal life had shattered.
No, never could she forgive whoever had murdered Father Lawrenz.
Or forget.
Sir Patrik remained silent, the understanding in his expression urging her to continue. For the first time in her life, she wanted to share her tragedy, relate her pain to another who’d survived such torment.
“After Gyles’s death, I hurt so much. I ran away, wanted to be alone, wished never to see anyone who reminded me of Gyles or the life we had.
” The grief of finding Father Lawrenz murdered filled her, backed her words.
“I swore never to care for anyone again. With each passing day, I have grown stronger. More important, I have kept my promise.”
Until now.