“Emma is English.” Satisfaction rolled through the treasurer’s words. Sir Cressingham shot her a caustic glance. “’Twould seem she achieved a bit of her task for the coin paid.”
Fury swept Patrik’s face, anger so hard, so deep, Emma wished to shrivel up and die.
“Emma was paid to meet you,” Sir Cressingham continued, the cold enjoyment of his words heightening her remorse. “To retrieve the writ you carried and unveil the one who betrays us within King Edward’s trusted circle. But as we have you, she is no longer necessary—for now.” He nodded to the guards. “Use her as you will, but leave her alive. I will deal with her once I am through with the rebel.”
“No!” Emma screamed. Fury spewed from Patrik’s eyes. Anger she deserved, but he should not pay for her treachery. “Do not kill him. Please.”
Sir Cressingham’s face darkened. “Remove her!”
Lust gleamed in the guards’ eyes.
She struggled against their hold; they pulled her back. “I am sorry, Patrik. You were never supposed to follow me.”
Two guards hauled her out, shoved the door shut. Torchlight cut through the blackness, ominous flickers battering the night.
Her heart slammed in her chest. Think. She could not allow Patrik to die.
Night-chilled grass gave beneath her steps as the guards half led, half dragged her.
With hard laughter, they hauled her inside a room barren except for a half-made bed and a near-gutted candle. Rough hands shoved her back. In the murky torchlight, she caught the predatory gleam of their eyes.
A brutal hand caught her gown, tore.
Coolness swept her naked breasts.
Laughter echoed within the chamber. Then silence descended, a silence so cold and deadly, she struggled to breathe.
“Take off your garb,” the closest knight ordered. “Let me see what you gave the Scottish bastard.”
“Please, no,” she whispered, allowing the fear of her youth to fill her voice, shrinking back as if terrified. She crouched amidst their vicious leers, slid her hand beneath the folds of her gown and clasped her dagger.
The closest man shot the other a warning glare. “I will have the wench first. Hold her for me.”
Revulsion filled her as the other man nodded, then strode forward.Step closer, you tail of a dog.
His booted foot strode across the floor, each echo harsh with his intent.
A handsbreadth away, Emma unsheathed her blade, slashed the man’s neck. As he gasped, she spun and drove the dagger into the other man’s heart.
Shock scraped her assailant’s face. “Bitch.”
“No, a woman.”
On a pained moan, he crumpled to the floor.
Emma jerked the blade free, rushed to the door and peered into the blackness.
No guards.
As she tied her torn gown, she glanced toward the building where Sir Cressingham held Patrik. She must save him. But how? Alone and with but a blade against a roomful of knights, she posed little threat to them. Her mind rumbled with thoughts, ideas she cast aside as quick as they came.
Emma stilled, knew what she must do, a choice that might cost her life. For Patrik it was a risk she would take.
With a prayer for his safety, she bolted into the night.
Hours later, exhaustion shrouded Emma as she stood within the bailey of Lochshire Castle. A ring encircled the full moon low in the sky, at odds with the rising sun as it struggled against the angry cast of gray.
Torches severed the eroding darkness, the battle of flame against night naught compared to the furious glares of the MacGruder brothers and the Baron of Monceaux as they bore down upon her.
