Chapter 5 #2
After ensuring Alexander needed not their help, Duncan had produced a bottle of wine.
While Alexander had gone for a swim, they had stolen Alexander’s clothes.
Hidden and with their minds blurred by drink, they’d convinced Alexander he was surrounded by the English.
A fact he’d believed, until Duncan had shot an arrow nearby and Alexander had recognized his brand within the shaft.
The same two notches carved into the charred wood cradled in his fingers.
He glanced toward the other entry. Was Duncan still nearby? And what of his other brothers?
“What is wrong?”
Patrik tossed the arrow into the coals. “We need more wood.” Unable to shake the unsettled feeling, he turned and walked away.
Emma noted his stiff gate. As he rounded the corner, she took a stick and freed the half-burned shaft.
She cradled the warm wood within her palm.
From his reaction, this fragment belonged to someone he knew.
It would belong to another rebel, so why would that leave him upset?
At least the arrow didn’t indicate a woman.
Wood clattered nearby.
She started, glanced to where he stacked the wood. “I did not hear you return.”
Patrik remained silent as he knelt before the warm coals, his face taut.
With care, he inserted moss, twigs, and other dry tinder.
Then, he leaned close and gently blew upon the embers.
Red flickered, dimmed to black. He blew another steady breath at the center.
Embers glowed beneath the gray ash. Moments later, a wisp of smoke sifted through the moss. A flame ignited.
With care, Patrik fed the fire, small bits at first, then angled limbs that would easily catch, and finally, larger pieces that would burn the entire night. On a sigh, he sat back.
She settled beside him, his tension palatable. “You recognized the arrow shaft?”
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
Emma hesitated to push him, but something important had just occurred. She set the charred length before him. “This person means something to you, do they not?”
For a long moment, he remained silent. Then, fingers trembling, he picked up the carved wood and set it within his palm.
A part of her regretted the pain the memories invoked. God in heaven, look at her, allowing emotions to affect her mission? Shaken, she fought to deal with the realization that somewhere in their time together, Patrik had become too important to her, even more than her mission.
“Who does the arrow belong to?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Hard eyes, eyes like a wounded animal, met hers. He tossed the charred wood into the ash. “My brother.”
A brother? Irritation flared. No one had disclosed that Patrik had a brother.
Sir Cressingham, as well as another man in his employ, had explained how English knights had murdered Dubh Duer’s family.
A resultant hatred guided his hand within battle, a savageness that had led to the legends of the merciless Scot, Dubh Duer.
But nothing about another sibling who’d lived.
Why?
Had Sir Cressingham set her up? That made no sense. The treasurer of Scotland hated Patrik, salivated at the idea of watching the Scot gutted, then making the rebel’s death an example to all who dared defy him.
So why had neither his man nor he told her about Patrik’s brother? Mayhap his sibling had played little or no role in the Scottish uprising? Or, his fealty lay with King Edward. What if neither man knew Patrik had a brother who had lived?
From the raw grief on Patrik’s face, he struggled at the thoughts his brother inspired. If his brother was indeed loyal to the English king, that would explain Patrik’s strife.
His strife, but not her increasing distaste for her mission.
“I am sorry. I have upset you.” More so than he would ever know. He’d lowered his defense, a trust she now would shamefully exploit.
Scarred fingers picked up a stick to shove an ember free. Then he buried the heated wood within the dirt. Angst-stricken hazel eyes lifted to hers.
“The arrow belongs to your brother?”
“Aye.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he lifted the stick.
Against the cheerful pop of the fire, he nudged aside the mound of ash, exposing the remnants of the arrow.
He again lifted the shaft, rolled it slowly within his fingers.
A charred line of soot remained. He stared at it, closed his eyes, then opened them.
“At times a man is a fool and cannot see the precious gift he holds until it is lost.”
The intensity of his words unnerved her. Well she understood the pain of losing someone you loved, the emptiness and the loss. Except life cared naught for your pain, or hurt, but moved on. ’Twas you who chose to step forward or to remain buried within your grief.
“Was your brother killed?”
Patrik laid the charred shaft at his side. “Nay. But to them I am dead.”
Them? He had more than one brother alive?
Cristina’s eyes widened with questions, but Patrik remained silent. A fool he was for telling the lass anything of the MacGruders. He barely knew her. But as he’d held the arrow, emotions had stormed him, the pain immense. And he’d found admitting the truth to her had brought a wisp of relief.
Blast it, he wanted his brothers back, he wanted to use the surname MacGruder, desperately so. With their love and support during the years when he’d struggled to find stability after his family’s death, how could he not?
Grief washed through him as he studied Cristina.
A stranger? Mayhap, considering the amount of time he’d known her, but something about her drew him, had from the start.
Her beauty he couldn’t deny, nor the desires she inspired, but what lured him was more than the intrigue of the flesh.
From the bits of her life she’d shared, he sensed she carried enormous hurt, pain carved by years of suffering, emotions only those who had survived similar ordeals understood.
A stranger?
Mayhap, but not to his soul.
But could he trust her?
An ache tightened his chest at the thought of leaving her on the morrow.
It could be no other way. What she made him feel, want, made little sense.
Yet, for the first time since he’d awakened from his brush with death, he found himself wanting to share with someone the dark secret of the family he wished to reclaim.
No, not someone, Cristina.
Yet, however she moved him, to give into his yearnings would further complicate an already muddled situation.
“But what about—”
He handed her an oatcake. “Eat.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted his offering, her eyes darkening with understanding. Cristina leaned back against a large boulder and took a bite.
Patrik followed suit, the soft thunder of water a fitting echo of his mood. Through the break at the end of the falls, darkness stole the last fragments of day. Too soon the dawn would come, and the realities of tomorrow would unfold.
He studied Duncan’s arrow. Given the ember’s warmth, his brother had stayed here but hours ago. What had made him pass through? Had the English seized Lochshire Castle?
Nay, his eldest brother, the Earl of Grey, held a significant force.
His knights combined with Lochshire Castle’s strategic location, surrounded on three sides by a loch, made a strong defense.
Still, something significant must have occurred to send Duncan this far south.
Not that he would be discovering the why of it now.
When he met with Bishop Wishart, he would learn the reason.
The lass finished the last of her oatcake. Patrik handed her the water. “Here.”
“My thanks.” She accepted the leather flask. After a long drink, she passed it back.
Patrik quenched his thirst, secured the top and set it aside.
She cast a nervous glance at the entry. “Do you think anyone else will seek shelter within this night?”
“Mayhap, but only once has anyone entered while I rested here.”
“So, are you telling me not to worry?”
“I am. Any who would enter this hideout are rebels. Unlike the English, we change not our loyalty beneath threats.”
Guilt tore through Emma at the thought of the men tortured to gain Patrik’s name and identity of Dubh Duer.
“Here.” Patrik handed her another oatcake.
Sickened, she shook her head. She did not deserve to be in the company of such an honorable man. “I am tired.” Tired of the lies, of the betrayal she intended for a man who gave naught but courage and loyalty to those he loved.
Sir Cressingham had lied to her about Patrik, about his being a heartless man necessary to destroy. If anyone fit that description, ’twas Sir Cressingham, a man even the English despised. What else had the treasurer deceived her about?
“Cristina—”
“Where will I sleep?”
He frowned. “What is wrong?”
Everything. How did one confess to being a liar, to hurting the person who’d made her aware of wishes and desires she’d refused to believe could ever exist.
She stood. “I am tired.”
“You are.” He shoved to his feet and stepped toward her, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Do not—”
“What?” he said, taking her hand. “Touch you?”
She closed her eyes, her pulse racing too fast. “I cannot do this.”
“Tell me.”
Aching, she opened her eyes, stared at the man she’d sworn, if necessary, to kill. As if she could raise a blade against Patrik.
She despised her emotional defenselessness, had since she’d watched the last pile of dirt tossed upon Father Lawrenz’s grave. A child of twelve, she’d sworn never again to be placed in such a position. A vow she’d kept.
Until now.
Until Patrik.
Overwhelmed, Emma tried to pull away.
Patrik’s grip held firm. “Lean against me.”
“I-I cannot.”
“You can. Try. For me.”
“You do not understand what you ask.” Nor the dangers he invited. Against all logic, against what her mind ordered, she stepped forward and laid her head against his muscled chest. Too aware of him, comforted by the steady beat of his heart, she closed her eyes.
“You scare me.”
He gently stroked her hair. “I know.”
“Arrogant, too.” But she didn’t look up, didn’t dare.
A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Aye, I have been called that a time or two.”
“’Tis not funny.”
He drew back, the humor on his face fleeing. “Nay, lass, I find naught amusing about what you make me feel.”
As if his admission helped anything. “Patrik—”
He gently cupped her face, lifted her chin until their eyes met, until it was as if he could see straight to her soul.
“I have tried to understand the why of it, to figure out what about you intrigues me, and have told myself I am wrong to want you when you still grieve for a husband lost. And at every turn, I fail.” He shook his head.
“My feelings for you make little sense, especially considering the meager time I have known you.” He paused.
“However wrong, I want you, want to make love to you.”
Her body trembled at his confession while her mind screamed for her to break free. Already she’d crossed lines she could never repair.
He stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “I have no right to ask, to want you this much, but damn me, I do.” Patrik searched her face. “Tell me you do not want this and I will leave you alone.”
Tears burned her eyes. After being raped during her youth, Emma had believed the only man she would ever care for was Father Lawrenz. Now, she understood her feelings for the priest were those of a girl searching to be accepted. Nothing compared to the depth of a woman wanting Patrik’s touch.
Long moments passed. Still, he held, waited, giving her every opportunity to step away.
And if she did, if she allowed her assault of ten and two summers to guide her decision, smother what he made her feel, she would never know the joy of being with a man who made her feel desire.
She was wrong to consider intimacy, especially when it would be tangled in lies. But the desire in his eyes, his need for only her, filled an emptiness inside she’d never believed any would touch.
Bedamned the consequence. However wrong, for this one night, she would hold what destiny would deny her.
On a shaky breath, Cristina reached up to kiss him.