Chapter 4 #3
Emma followed, shielding her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. She glanced back, scoured the thick foliage in her wake. Except for the rise and fall of the land, she discerned no sign of the entry. Incredible.
“Cristina?”
“Coming.” She stole one last glance toward where, somewhere within the dense tangle, the tunnel’s opening lay. Sir Cressingham would be pleased. The English treasurer could advise John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, to set up his forces at either entry to ambush the rebels.
Guilt edged through her that in the end, she would betray Patrik.
She shoved the emotion aside. A year had passed since King Balliol had abdicated his throne at Brechin, resigning his Kingdom of Scotland to King Edward.
Regardless of the Scots’ wishes, an English king ruled their land.
It was the rebels’ decision to continue this fruitless war, not her guilt to bear.
If Patrik hated her when he learned her true identity, so be it. By then she would be gone, her mission long since completed. Nor would he ever find a Scottish woman named Cristina Moffat.
A shout echoed in the distance.
Patrik caught her hand and hauled her beneath the dense brush.
“Stay!” With his body close to the ground, he inched up the embankment to the trail they’d walked moments before.
After a quick search, he jumped to his feet and used a branch to erase any sign of their passage.
Tossing the limb aside, he hurried beneath the shield of leaves, then covered her body with his.
“Say naught,” he whispered.
As if with his body flush atop hers it was possible to think? Emma scoured their surroundings for any sign of movement, tried to ignore the hard length of him, the feel of his entire body pressed against hers.
And failed.
Wind rattled leaves overhead.
A raven flitted in the tree above, then flew away.
Footsteps sounded nearby.
A stick cracked, closer this time, followed by a muttered curse.
Patrik’s calloused hand covered hers with surprising gentleness.
She stared at the tangle of scars battering his skin, the muscled hand atop hers. She should pull away, not feed this delusion of his protecting her. Instead, Emma savored his touch, his protectiveness in a world that offered none.
Patrik’s body tensed, his unruly sandy hair tangled within the mash of leaves, but his hand upon hers held steady, the dagger in his other hand held readied.
“They found the four of them dead,” a gruff voice said.
Through the twist of brush, she made out an English knight, his garb smeared with dirt, evidence of hard travel. Another warrior appeared. The steady pad of steps exposed several knights in the contingent.
“The bastard rebels,” another man cursed. “Not even a king to back, yet they fight on. And for what?”
Another man grunted. “Wallace stirs the pot.”
“He killed Sheriff Heselrig as if ’twas his right,” the first knight spat with disgust. “And Sir William Douglas running with the traitor.”
“They will be stopped,” the second man said. “Sir Cressingham is not a man to infuriate.”
Their voices faded as they passed, but Patrik remained still. He’d counted five men. Had he been alone, he would have slain the lot.
Precious seconds passed.
Silence.
Convinced the knights had left, he sheathed his dagger, his body hard from the intimate contact. He grimaced. Focus on the danger, lad.
Patrik shifted to her side. “They are gone.”
Emerald eyes turned on him, dark, etched with concern. “Will we go back to the cave?”
“Nay.” He understood her worry, but he knew the land about them. Nor would he be fool enough to linger and be tempted to touch her further. “We will travel deeper into the woods before turning north.”
“North? Your friends live in the Highlands?”
He shook his head. “’Tis a safer route.”
Cristina hesitated; then her hand relaxed within his, her eyes brimming with trust. “When will we leave?”
He watched her mouth, the subtle movement, imagined plundering the soft depths. “Now.” Patrik pushed to his feet, helped her stand, his blood racing hot. Bedamned, he ought not to think of the lass, but the danger at hand.
Her eyes met his. Awareness flared.
Heat sliced through him.
“Are we not leaving?”
The huskiness of her burr drew him. “’Twould be wise.”
She didn’t move.
Blast it, did she have to stare at him with that destroying mix of need and innocence? Innocence? Nay. Married she’d been and lain with a man many a night, tasted the pleasures of the joining.
So why did he hesitate? They needed to leave, to go before he did something foolish—like kiss her.
Sunlight slicked the soft glisten of her mouth.
Bedamned! As if guided, his hands cupped her face. “Tell me you want me to stop.”
Her lower lip trembled. “And if I did, ’twould be a lie.”
On a groan Patrik covered her mouth. Heat, it poured through him at her sultry taste. He drew out the kiss, savored the searing intensity. At her shudder he pulled her against him, trailed his hand from her face to the curve of her neck, slanted his mouth and took the kiss deeper.
She moaned as her body pressed against him, shuddered.
“Ah, lass,” he murmured as he nibbled along the curve of her jaw. However much he wanted to make love with her, this was neither the time, nor the place. Blood pounding hot, Patrik lifted his head.
A blush heated her face. “I—” She glanced to the side. Frowned. “What is that?”
Patrik looked over.
A pace away, sprawled within the tangle of grass and leaves lay the writ.