Chapter 19 #2
On a muttered curse, he dropped his head and gasped for breath, each draw shoving pain through his chest. Saint’s breath, somehow he still lived. With a grimace, he tested his arms, surprised that either worked. He lifted a leg, ignored the burst of pain, and then raised the other. Neither broken.
For now.
Cressingham’s knights took but a respite.
They wanted him to think, to fear their return and the next round of abuse.
A wry smile edged his mouth. ’Twas the third time since last night that they’d hauled him back from another beating.
He sobered. The next time they came, he doubted he’d see these walls again.
Regardless, they’d nae drag a secret from his lips. The rebel contact within King Edward’s court would remain safe.
Images of Cristina’s face . . . nay, of Emma’s, rolled through his mind.
Hurt beyond what the English could ever deliver battered him.
She’d lied, slept with him to gain information for that bastard Cressingham.
Like the stories of her past. Lies, the lot of them.
Had anything that’d spilled from her mouth held truth?
A fool.
She’d played him, was quick to use his weaknesses to ensnare him in her trap. And he’d fallen, given her his trust, and worse, his love.
He remembered her destroyed look when Cressingham had announced her scheme along with her real name.
Nae, ’twas but another act well played. He’d heard of the mercenary Emma Astyn.
Her abilities to pull off the most dangerous mission were legendary, and the reason Cressingham had chosen her for this task.
Memories flashed by, the days of her travels with Patrik, the deceit she’d crafted with a woman’s smile, the love they’d made. Aye, ’twas no doubt why she was one of England’s top mercenaries, she would do anything, hurt anyone for a bloody farthing, including profess her love.
Where was she now, congratulating herself after a fine meal and counting the coin made?
A part of him wished to accept that she indeed regretted her act, that Emma’s pleas had been real when Cressingham had ordered her hauled away.
He swallowed hard, damned himself. When it came to her, he no longer knew what to believe.
Sickened by the swill of lies, he braced himself against the waves of pain.
What had she told Cressingham about the rebels?
Saint’s breath, she’d seen Griffin at Lochshire Castle.
As well, she knew of the rebels’ pathway beneath the ben, and the hideout behind the falls.
If he did not warn Seathan, hundreds of Scots could die.
And with Griffin’s position exposed . . .
God help them all.
Body shaking, Patrik pushed himself up. His legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor.
Through sheer determination, he pushed to his knees.
Sweat streamed down his face, mingled with blood as he crawled to the door.
Panting, he clawed to reach the handle. His hand closed upon the rough wood. He held tight.
Tugged. “Open, you bastard!” He again pulled.
It held firm.
Dizziness swamped him and Patrik slid to the floor. Hopelessness descended. “Nae, damn you. I will not give up!” Teeth clenched, he grabbed the door, jerked.
Nothing.
“Nae!”
Head pounding, Patrik lay back. He’d ignored his instincts about Emma, the subtle hints that something was amiss. Blast it, how many times during their days together had he allowed his need for her to trample common sense? Now, due to his neglect, many Scots would die.
Tree limbs scraped the building like clawing fingers. Another soft scratch echoed near the entry. A moment later, the soft brush of branches was repeated.
Numb, he stared at the sturdy wood. The wind was kicking up. A storm must be moving in. A weak, painroughened laugh battered his throat. What did that matter? Here he would die, but his death mattered not. It was the loss of the people who had given him their trust that he could not accept.
Patrik again glanced at the door. Mayhap a chance still existed. After the hours of beatings, the guards would expect him to be subdued. When they again entered, they would nae expect an attack.
With his legs screaming, Patrik shoved himself to his feet. Head spinning, he pressed himself back against the wall. Enter, you bastards.
If a chance existed to warn his fellow Scots, he would take it. He knew it would be his last.
A slight thump echoed from outside.
Patrik frowned. That did not sound like a tree. Guards? Why did they not bloody barge inside as the arrogant bastards had three times before?
The door gave a subtle creak, edged open.
He readied himself to attack.
“Patrik?”
At his eldest brother’s whisper, Patrik almost dropped to his knees. “Seathan?”
“Aye.” The door was shoved open wider. Weak afternoon sun outlined his eldest brother as he hurried inside, with Alexander on his heels.
“Wh-Where are the guards?” Patrik stumbled out.
Alexander’s nostrils flared. “Dead.”
Seathan peered out the door, and then glared at Patrik. “I told you not to go after the lass.”
“Th-This was personal,” Patrik replied.
“If it involves one of us, it involves the family,” Seathan stated. “Come. We must hurry.”
On shaky legs, Patrik stepped forward, crumpled. His brothers caught him.
“Aye,” Alexander muttered, “’tis a threat you are.”
Patrik stayed his tongue. He would nae take his anger at himself out upon his brothers. Despite the pain, he staggered out with their aid.
At the side of the building, they pressed against the rough wood, hiding in the shadows.
A short distance away, within a small clearing at the edge of the woods, fractured rays of light exposed Emma.
“What in Hades!” Patrik hissed.
“Say naught,” Alexander warned as he glared in her direction.
Say naught? What in God’s name was going on? Sickened, he knew. Emma had lured his brothers to their death. “Nae. ’Tis a trap,” Patrik forced through the pain. “The la-lass is not Scottish, but an English mercenary!”
“She is.” Anger edged Alexander’s voice.
“Bloody hell! Do-Do you not hear what I am saying?” At Alexander’s nod, Patrik shot the middle brother an incredulous look. “Then why are—”
“Quiet, both of you,” Seathan warned. “’Twill be time enough to discuss this once we are safely away.” He scanned their surroundings. “Go.”
With his brothers half carrying him, they hurried across the open field. At a cluster of brush, they halted; Patrik worked to catch his breath.
“Christ’s blade,” Seathan hissed.
Alexander edged closer. “What is it?”
“Look toward the other end of the field,” Seathan said.
“Bedamned,” Alexander cursed, “Knights are headed to their quarters and will pass close by.”
“Aye.” Seathan glanced at Patrik. “We have but a short distance. Can you make it?”
Patrik nodded. If necessary he would crawl.
Seathan and Alexander caught his shoulders, helped him up, and then bolted toward safety.
An English knight appeared from a tent a short distance away, shielded his eyes against the slant of the sun. “The rebel escapes!”
“Run!” Seathan ordered.
Pain roared through Patrik; he willed his body forward.
As Patrik and his brothers reached the edge of the woods, Emma withdrew her bow, as did several rebels hidden nearby. Arrows whizzed over their heads, followed by the cries of the wounded English.
A limb slapped Patrik; he pushed it aside, kept moving.
“To your mounts,” Seathan ordered as they moved past.
Emma and the other rebels loosed another slew of arrows toward those giving chase.
Screams and outraged yells echoed in their wake.
Fragmented sunlight spun around them as they ran through the forest. Amidst his painful haze, Patrik’s fury grew.
He wanted her nowhere near his brothers.
What lies had she told them to make them believe her, to lead them to their deaths?
Bedamned, well he knew her expertise when it came to twisting truths.
The crash of brush in their wake alerted them the English had reached the forest.
An arrow hissed past. Another whipped by a handsbreadth away and lodged in a nearby tree.
Patrik forced himself forward, his side aching, his entire body threatening to collapse.
They forged through a dense thicket, and Duncan came into view at the head of a small contingent.
“Mount,” Seathan ordered.
Duncan swung up, reached down for Patrik.
A yell had Patrik glancing back.
Several paces away, an English knight trained his arrow on Alexander.
Fear tore through Patrik. “Nae!”
At Patrik’s shout, Emma turned. As if in slow motion, she watched Patrik dive against Alexander a second before an arrow sank deep within Patrik’s chest.
“Patrik!” Fury tore through her. Emma drew her bow, released; the knight who’d shot Patrik collapsed.
“Help me put Patrik on the horse,” Lord Grey ordered.
Sir Alexander caught Patrik’s other shoulder, lifted him to Sir Duncan.
The English broke through the trees.
“Go!” Lord Grey called as he swung up on his steed.
Sir Alexander mounted, caught Emma’s waist, hauled her before him and dug his heels into his mount. Clods of dirt flew as his bay surged ahead.
She clung tight as flashes of trees whipped by. A league away, they galloped toward a ridge thick with fir. As if a door opened, they rode through. Immense rock jutted up before them, and within a crevice lay a large gap.
Without hesitation, the earl and his men cantered inside. The last of their party halted, then hurriedly covered the entry.
As his men worked, Lord Grey turned his mount, pinning Emma with his ominous gaze, his threat clear. Never would he allow her the freedom to reveal this rebel hideout. It was an unfounded worry. With deception a foul taste upon her tongue, she would never reveal this secret.
Through the shards of waning light, Emma glanced at Patrik, found him slumped in Sir Duncan’s arms. Fear tore through her. “Is he . . .”
“He is alive.” Angst darkened Sir Duncan’s gaze. “Barely. If he does not see a healer soon, he will die.”