Chapter 16 #2
“Nay, you do not understand,” Alexander said, wanting him to comprehend the wrong he’d committed.
“I cared not that Patrik’s sparring with the English had left him seriously injured, or that he staggered before me, or that his body lay bruised and stained with his blood.
I attacked. Brutally. At that moment, I wanted Patrik dead.
” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them.
“God’s teeth. I tried to kill my own brother. ”
“You did,” Griffin replied, his voice somber, “what any man in your position would have done. What I would have tried as well.”
Alexander fisted his hands at his sides. “That does not make my actions right.”
“No,” Griffin agreed, “but it makes you a man, one who loves his wife, one who stops at nothing to protect what is his.” He paused. “What about the woman?”
His body still trembling with emotion, Alexander unfurled his hands. “After I began hitting Patrik, instead of screaming as most lasses would, Mistress Cristina jumped upon my back and started to strangle me, her grip sure.”
“After the years the English have ravaged Scotland, torched its towns and slaughtered its people,” Griffin said, “why would you find a woman who knows how to protect herself odd?”
“I should agree,” Alexander replied, “and I find myself trying to dismiss my worries. But en route to Lochshire Castle, I caught her trying to slip away.”
Seathan’s eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
“What? That I saw the lass climbing toward the back of a wagon holding Patrik’s water pouch?
That at my words she jumped as if a thief caught?
” Alexander grunted. “I should have allowed her to climb from the wagon and gained proof of my suspicions. Now, I have naught to base my claim upon but her reaction and the feeling that something about the lass is amiss.”
“Mayhap,” Seathan said. “But instinct often saves a warrior’s life.”
Alexander glanced at Patrik. “Curious I will be to hear his thoughts on the lass.”
“As I.” Duncan frowned. “Remember when Patrik stood within the bailey apologizing to Nichola, how he was barely able to stand? Remember how the lass defended him like a she-wolf would her cub?”
“She is knowledgeable as well,” Alexander added, “and speaks as if schooled. She claims no lineage, but whatever she is, it is far from common.”
Griffin arched a brow. “You believe she is of noble birth?”
“When we first found her,” Seathan explained, “she wore a gown befitting gentry. She explained the dress was a gift and she but a commoner.”
“I am confused,” Griffin said. “Aside from Patrik saving her life, what significance does this woman hold?”
“The lass,” Alexander grumbled as he eyed his brother-in-law, “is in love with Patrik.”
Flames flickering within the hearth greeted Emma as she opened her eyes. On a yawn, she glanced out the window. Stars splashed the sky, shimmers of light as if a thousand wishes cast.
Stars?
The hand-spun blanket tumbled down the bed as she shot upright. She’d slept the entire day! By now she’d meant to be long gone.
And what of Patrik? Had he succumbed to fever? Was he recovering and lost deep within a healing sleep?
A plate of food sat upon a nearby table. Guilt crowded her as she stood, stowed the fare in a small sack and secured it beneath her gown. Before she departed, she must know how Patrik fared, see him one last time.
Heart aching, she walked toward the door.
Stopped.
Lady Linet’s careful refusal to allow her to see Patrik echoed in her mind as did Lord Grey’s whispered words to his wife. No, if she sought permission to see Patrik, she would not be welcome. So she would not ask.
After Patrik’s previous attempt to kill Sir Alexander’s wife, would his chamber be guarded? Or, had his apology this day swayed Lord Grey? If any, ’twas her chamber that should be guarded.
Emma walked to the entry. Hand trembling, she inched open the wood door.
Torchlight illuminated the corridor, the flicker of flames falling upon mounted tapestries along with ancient weapons of war. Not a guard in sight.
She blew out a relieved breath, then stilled. Why was there no guard? The brothers did not trust her. Or did they believe she could not escape?
A claymore secured upon the wall directly across from her chamber caught her attention. A finely carved figure graced its leather-bound hilt. Intrigued, she stepped closer. Not a figure.
A fairy.
Delicate wings were spread open as if to take flight, the woman’s face impish, her eyes captured in an expression of pure delight. The delicate carving should seem awkward atop the brutal weapon. But against all sense, the fairy’s presence seemed right.
A shiver ran through her. Emma touched the hidden dagger secured against her thigh. Fortunately she did not need the claymore. Not that she would be foolish enough to try to procure this family heirloom. Though desperate, she was far from a fool.
The bells from the chapel pealed with a somber ring.
What was she doing wasting precious time? She needed to find Patrik, then slip away. The steps winding up the turret came to mind. Had they left no guards on this floor because he was installed above?
Unsure of anything, she glanced one last time toward the opposite end of the corridor. Not an echo or a whisper of movement anywhere. With quiet steps, she reached the turret and began her ascent.
A window above revealed the night sky, the shimmer of stars seeming brighter than usual. She blinked. They remained intense. Emma frowned, certain fatigue played with her mind.
Several steps up, a sturdy oak door came into view. Fixed upon forged brackets, a bar straddled the wooden expanse.
Patrik! They’d locked him inside. At least they hadn’t cast him in the dungeon.
Chest tight, she hurried up the steps. At the door, with a quick glance behind to ensure no one was coming, she quietly lifted the bar, then rushed inside.
She came to a standstill.
Moonbeams swirled within the single arched window, silvery strokes that sifted to illuminate the chamber as if at the wave of a hand.
Near the back wall stood a bed graced with a hand-stitched coverlet, a unique blend of yellow and .
. . With a frown she crossed the room, ran her hand over the finely spun fabric.
Silver.
No, silver embroidery would cost an enormous amount, possible only for kings. Or was it a gift from the crown? The sword below with the fairy on the leather-bound hilt came to mind. Odd, she sensed the two were related.
Unsettled, she took in the chamber. Nearby, an ivory-framed mirror lay upon a small table.
A cross pendant sat askew upon the time-worn wood as if awaiting its owner, its chain trailing atop a simple gold ring.
Upon the far wall, a finely crafted tapestry depicted a forest scene, one notably similar to the piece hanging in the turret below.
Once again, fairies peeked through the breaks in the leaves.
Never would she have pictured Lord Grey allowing such a whimsical chamber in a fortress designed for war.
As she continued to scan the chamber, a sense of peace swept over her, a contentment so complete she could have lain upon the bed, closed her eyes and slept. Odd, never in her life had she felt so accepted, so relaxed.
At an echo of laughter Emma glanced up. Caught within the strokes of a brush upon the ceiling, fairies played above her. They seemed vaguely familiar. She glanced at the tapestry, then back up.
Duplicates.
Upon the ceiling, the artist had recaptured the playful images woven within the tapestry. Except, whoever had crafted the imagery above had allowed their creativity free rein. Instead of mere eyes, or a hint of wings, entire fairies appeared.
Understanding dawned. Of course, this room belonged to a woman, someone important to the brothers. It explained the unexpected whimsical feel. This was a place where dreams abounded. And more important than the wealth within was the feeling of love.
Love.
Emptiness filled her, an ache for what she would never have.
Emma rubbed her arms. However much she yearned to stay, to lie upon the bed and wish her troubles away, she must leave.
The morrow would bring but more complications, more questions that she could never answer. First, she must find Patrik.
“He is two doors down from the chamber given you.”
At the woman’s lyrical voice, Emma whirled.
Within a chair near the hearth sat an elderly woman regarding her with wizened eyes. Flames danced within the fireplace, and she held a half-completed embroidery within her hand.
“I-I did not see you when I entered.” Nor the fire. Wouldn’t she have noticed the flicker of flames upon her arrival?
“Your mind is troubled.” A smile warmed the old woman’s face. “Worry not, Patrik is out of danger.”
Whoever she was, the brothers must have informed this woman of her and Patrik’s arrival, his wounds, as well as any changes in his condition.
“My thanks.” Emma worried her thumb over the tip of her fingers. “My apologies, I wished to see him and thought he was here.”
Warmth caressed the woman’s smile. “Patrik sleeps. On the morrow, he will fare better, but this night he should rest.” The matronly woman set aside her delicate handiwork. “And what of you?”
Nervousness slid through Emma. “What of me?”
“’Tis late to be about, especially for a lass in an unfamiliar castle.” She arched a brow. “Will you return to your chamber this night and find your bed?”
“As you said, it is late. Where else would I go?” But her words fell out too fast, and the food stowed beneath her gown gave evidence of her guilt. Emma caught a glimpse of sadness in the woman’s eyes, as if she knew her thoughts. Impossible.
“Indeed, where else would you go,” the elderly woman agreed. “But beware, secrets are spun in the dark of the night, secrets crafted with innocent intent, but in the end, secrets that could destroy.”