Chapter 14
The creak of wood accompanied each rattle as the wheels of the wagon stumbled through another rut.
Emma caught the side of the weathered wood, her other hand upon Patrik’s shoulder to lessen his jolt.
Fractured moonlight spilling through a thick layer of clouds exposed the whiteness of Patrik’s face.
The pace Lord Grey had set was grueling despite the thick of the night. With English knights soon to return to where their troops lay slaughtered, the rebel lord’s move was prudent. Emma certainly did not wish to remain and risk any of Sir Cressingham’s returning knights recognizing her.
She laid her palm across Patrik’s brow, frowned when heat met her touch.
“How does he fare?”
At Sir Duncan’s voice, Emma turned. Carved within the swath of moonlight, the brother she’d learned was the youngest rode within a hand’s pace of the wagon.
“He is finally asleep, but his skin grows warmer with each passing hour.”
Duncan frowned as he scanned his brother sprawled atop the bundled clothes. “We are but a few hours from Lochshire Castle. Until we arrive, ensure he has plenty of water.” He nudged his mount into a canter, headed toward where Lord Grey led his men.
She prayed they’d soon arrive. With Patrik’s loss of blood, he’d continued to worsen throughout the night.
Each passing hour nursed her fear, and his delay in responding to her questions stoked it further.
Duncan’s earlier announcement that they’d sent a man ahead to alert the healer to their arrival underscored his concern.
Gently, she angled Patrik’s head up. Emma held the water pouch against his mouth, helped him take several sips. With care, she laid him back, then sagged against the slats. Each turn of the wheel, each creak of the wagon, fed her nerves.
In the distance, wisps of purple etched a subtle outline of the mountains around them as they continued to climb.
Dawn.
Please God, let them reach Lord Grey’s home soon. Emma stilled. What was she thinking? She didn’t have the luxury of remaining to tend to Patrik. She must escape before they entered the MacGruder fortress.
The writ!
Torn between duty, abandoning her mission and being on the run the rest of her life, she glanced around.
Marie slept near the front of the wagon, Joneta curled against her side with her thumb tucked into her mouth. Fergus rode ahead with Lord Grey’s men. Aside from the knight leading the horses that pulled the wagon, no one else rode nearby.
With ease, she could slip away with the writ before anyone noticed. Guilt swamped her at the thought of stealing the missive from Patrik’s limp body. She should be relieved. Had she not worried about how she would retrieve the document?
But with her feelings for Patrik running so deep, the taking of the writ meant betrayal. As if revealing the rebel tunnel beneath the mountain to Sir Cressingham or the hideout behind the falls did not offer the same?
The wagon jerked, rumbled on. Clouds severed the shards of moonlight and the struggling dawn, casting the forest into an ominous abyss.
Queasy, shrouded in darkness, Emma pushed to her knees. Did she truly have any other choice? If she remained, once Patrik learned the truth, he would hate her.
Hand trembling, hating herself for this damning act, she reached toward Patrik’s tunic to where she’d seen him slip the document beneath.
He groaned.
She pulled back. Another shaft of moonlight flickered through the forest, making his outline a shadow against blackness. God in heaven, why was she hesitating ? He was unconscious; ’twas not as if he was going to catch her. She again reached out, again hesitated.
Emma fisted her hand. She hated this feeling of helplessness, of not wanting to hurt Patrik. But she must retrieve the writ now and escape. Once they were inside Lochshire Castle’s gates, a healer would remain by Patrik’s side and any opportunity to claim the missive would be lost.
Damn the entire situation! Refusing to think further, she lifted Patrik’s tunic. Fingers trembling, Emma slid her hands beneath.
It wasn’t there.
Impossible! She had seen the writ yesterday. With gentle fingers, she again probed the woven fabric.
Nothing.
Possibilities raced through her mind. In the heat of battle, the fight with his brother, Lord Grey carrying Patrik to the wagon, or any number of events after, the writ might have slipped free. If so, had someone found it? Mayhap, one of the brothers? Regardless, it wasn’t here.
Now what? She glanced to where tender fingers of purple-edged light caressed the trees. No time remained. She must leave without the writ.
In silence she gathered the few items she would need. The dagger at her thigh weighed heavy, the water pouch secured around her waist more so. Emma wiped a tear from her eye. She was not abandoning Patrik. Sir Duncan had declared they would arrive soon, and a nurse waited to tend him.
Guilt had her glancing back. “I am sorry, Patrik. I can never be what you want.” Heart aching, she leaned forward, pressed a kiss upon his mouth. “I love you.” Before she changed her mind, she crept toward the rear of the wagon.
“Going somewhere, lass?”
At the gruff accusation in Sir Alexander’s voice, Emma stilled. She’d been so caught up in her decision, she’d not heard him riding up. Pulse racing, she slowly turned.
Eyes, hard and accusing, watched her from beside the wagon.
“I . . .”
“Go on,” he urged, his demand ripe with suspicion. “’Tis an explanation I find myself curious to hear.”
Each clop of hooves upon earth echoed as if a sentence of doom. She fought for calm. “Sir Duncan informed me we would soon reach your home.”
He arched a skeptical brow.
Think! “I was gathering my few belongings before we arrived.”
He snorted in disbelief. Hints of dawn exposed the hard angles of his face, the shadows lending a ferocious appeal to an already intimidating warrior. A man who by his actions reminded her so much of Patrik.
However much Sir Alexander cursed Patrik, he loved him and would protect him with his life.
The ball of fear inside softened. “If possible,” she said against the backdrop of jolts and bumps, “I wish to stay with Patrik as he recovers.”
“Aye, you will stay with us, lass. As for exactly where, that is another matter.”
Emma edged back to settle next to Patrik, refused to let Sir Alexander see her fear. “He is unconscious.”
“He will be tended to.” Shrewd eyes studied her. “I know not what game you play, but know this, ’tis dangerous.”
“I play no game.”
“That I believe. Whatever you are about,” he said, his burr deep, “’tis very real.”
She struggled for calm. He suspected that she’d tried to slip from the wagon.
Long moments passed. With the flare of his nostrils, Sir Alexander gave her a dismissive look, then continued to ride alongside the wagon, a harsh set to his jaw.
Emma glanced to the other side of the wagon where Joneta and her mother slept. A fool she’d been for allowing her heart to make her linger. No more. At the first opportunity, she would escape.
Once the Scots discovered her true identity, nothing would save her. Not even Patrik’s self-professed feelings.
In the gray-smeared morning sky a soft mist began to fall.
An air of expectancy built, a foreboding of something immense.
The path before them narrowed, either side framed by dense, light-smothering pines.
The clop of hooves echoed around her. The trail grew steeper, angling, carving its way up as if ascending to the heavens.
A gentle breeze whispered to life. The scent of wild herbs filled the air, a potent, clean aroma that rolled through her every breath. Through the gloom within the dense forest a break appeared.
The wagon creaked forward, hesitated as it moved over uneven ground. As they climbed higher, the dense swath of trees split like a door opening.
Her breath caught and Emma could only stare.
Below, an immense lake curved within the time-worn land, its shores shrouded by lush green and the hills surrounding it clothed by the dense forest. At the southern tip jutted a peninsula.
Forged upon its sturdy strip, a castle rose in proud defiance.
A castle that could have been taken from the pages of King Arthur.
A castle that could protect as well as imprison.
Drizzle saturated the air and clouds hung low, the dismal setting adding an ominous intensity to the landscape below.
Apprehension swept through her. It was easy to imagine Lord Grey ruling these unforgiving lands, a man backed by his brothers, rebels who cultivated their own brand of respect.
When she’d first met Patrik, she’d thought him intimidating, a man unlike most. Now, she realized his wit, strength, and intensity had been honed by his family. He belonged in this ruthless land, was hewn from its soil, its blood.
Whereas, she belonged nowhere.
Somber, she took in the single road. The only way in.
Or out.
Movement upon the distant wall walk caught her attention. Guards making their rounds, guards who ensured the castle’s protection, who would ensure she did not escape.
Coldness slipped through Emma, and she rubbed her hands upon her arms.
“’Tis Lochshire Castle,” Sir Alexander stated.
Emma stiffened. “’Tis magnificent.” And intimidating—a fact he well knew. She scanned the hewn walls, quarried stone that had taken enormous effort to haul to this strategic location. “It appears of Norman influence.”
He grunted. “You have a good eye. Indeed, ’twas crafted by the Normans, and passed through the generations since.” Pride etched his voice, that of a man backed by family, a man who knew his roots.
Roots at odds with the emptiness she called her life. She settled near Patrik, wished for a taste of such a bond. No, with the mire of her life, the deceit and the lies, such a dream was impossible.
“Are we almost there?” Joneta asked, the girl’s voice groggy with sleep.
Marie sent a tired look toward Emma, then brushed her daughter’s cheek with a tender hand. “Aye.”