Blast it. However tempted he was to haul her up, Alexander gently touched her shoulder.
Emma’s eyes flew open. Confusion, then recognition flared. “Sir Alexander!” She shot from the bed, her eyes wide with panic. “I did not mean to stay here. I but came to return Patrik’s halved stone.”
He scowled. “The one in your hand?”
Mistress Emma looked down and red slashed her cheeks. “I will return it now.”
By the sword, he was making a mess of it. “The stone does not matter. Patrik has a fever. We know not whether he will live.”
Her face paled. “God in heaven, I must see him.”
The desperation of her words did not move him. But if her presence helped Patrik, so be it.
“Please, I beg of you—”
“You do nae have to ask.” Alexander grimaced. “’Tis why I came.”
Chapter 21
Fear slid through Emma as Sir Alexander escorted her down the turret, erasing the last wisps of sleep. No, Sir Alexander was wrong. Patrik would live. Though well she knew life offered no guarantees.
Grim-faced, the fierce Scot strode down the corridor.
Outside the chamber, he stepped aside, motioned her forward.
Emma entered. The cloying scent of blood filled the air, accompanied by the stench of illness.
Lord Grey stood beside his brother’s bed along with Sir Duncan, desperation ravaging their faces.
Shaken, her gaze riveted on Patrik; sweat slicked his face as he shifted within his bed and began to ramble. “My lord?” Her voice trembled.
“Patrik has been asking for you. We hoped—” Lord Grey shot Sir Alexander a grim look. “We hoped your presence would calm him.”
A futile hope indeed. “No, my lord. After the lies I have told him, I am the last person he would wish to see.”
Sir Alexander grunted. “My belief as well, but in his delirium he asks for you.”
“For me?” The displeasure on the men’s faces assured her the fierce knight’s claim was true. On unsteady legs, she crossed the chamber.
“A guard will remain outside if you have need of anything,” Lord Grey said. “If Patrik’s condition changes, we are to be informed.”
God in heaven. “After all I have done, you would entrust me with Patrik?”
“We do this for our brother.” With a grim look, the earl and his brothers strode out. The soft thud of the door echoed in their wake.
Struggling to keep hold of her emotions, Emma sank onto the chair. “Patrik?”
He tossed his head back and forth, and garbled words fell from his lips.
“Patrik, ’tis Emma.” Fingers trembling, she laid her hand atop his. Warmth invaded her palm, a wash of unhealthy heat. Terror slid through her. “Patrik.” Please God, let him hear her. “Patrik, I am here.”
A frown creased his brow. “Cristina?”
“Yes,” she replied, her heart breaking. He wanted Cristina, a woman he believed was honest, a woman with whom he’d found peace. Not Emma. Not the traitor. Fine then, if ’twas Cristina he wanted, that she would give him.
Ignoring the call of sleep, Emma spoke of their journey, of the laughs they’d shared. After the first few moments, he calmed. As he lay there, the rightness of this moment filled her. How easy it was to envision sharing the months, the years ahead. Time she had lost because of her betrayal.
A cloud slid over the sun and cast the room into dismal shadows. The church bells began to toll.
