“The horses are ready,” Lady Nichola said in hushed tones from the entry.
“My thanks, my lady,” Emma whispered.
Alexander’s wife stepped inside. “Once Patrik awakens, I will explain that you have left, and as you requested, I will not tell him where you are.”
Emma swallowed hard. “I . . . Patrik’s involvement in the plan to rescue Bishop Wishart will keep him busy.”
“It will.”
Would Patrik ever think of her? Yes, but anger would taint his thoughts, anger he would never overcome. With her heart breaking, she took one last longing look, memorized the merest hint of dimples, the scar across his brow, the shadow of a beard.
I will always love you.
“I am ready.” Emma turned and walked to the door without looking back.
Emma set the woven laundry basket filled with clean clothes upon the ground. Wind whipped around her as she reached for the gown on top, secured it to the sturdy line of hemp. It was hard to believe a fortnight had passed since she’d arrived at the abbey, or how easy it had been to adjust to the simple lifestyle there. She reached for another gown.
The sounds of children playing prodded the emptiness within her soul. Though they were not her children, her life held purpose. Helping the orphaned children had allowed her to finally come to terms with her past and the death of the priest she’d adored. As for Patrik, however much she longed for him, at least here she’d found contentment, and here, she would live out the rest of her days.
She smiled at the sway of grass, the leaves clattering in the trees. None of the sisters had asked about her past, neither would she bring it up. Her desire to help was sincere, and they thankfully accepted it. For her, shelter and food was a fine exchange.
As Emma bent to retrieve the next sodden garment, a shadow darkened the basket. A smile touched her mouth. Which child needed her help now? She turned.
Hazel eyes pierced her.
She stumbled back. “Patrik!”
His warrior’s frame towered above hers. “You thought I would not come after you?”
“I . . . No. You should not be here,” she said.
Eyes blazing, Patrik caught her hand. “Come.”
Panic built, the curious looks of the others flustering her further. “Let me go!”
“If I did, I would be a fool.”
Unsure of anything, she followed as he strode toward the chapel. Once inside, he guided her to a pew. “Sit.”
Frankincense and myrrh scented the air as she stared at the man she’d believed she would never again see. Heart pounding, she fought for calm, too aware they were alone.
“What are you doing here? You and your brothers are supposed to be planning to free Bishop Wishart!”
“Just sit.”
Mouth dry, she sat. “But the bishop—”
“Plans have been made. Soon we will ride to accomplish the task.” Patrik crossed his arms. Candlelight framed the anger slashed upon his face. “Why did you request I not be told where you had gone?”
Her chest squeezed. “Is it not obvious?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Tell me.”
She clutched the time-worn bench, swallowed hard. “After you learned I was an English mercenary, you despised me. How could you not? I could not stay, my presence would only bring you more pain. Your having knowledge of my whereabouts would only upset you.”
Patrik took her hand. “When I awoke and learned you were gone, I ignored the sense of loss, assured myself I should be relieved you were gone from my life.” He curled his fingers over hers. “But with each passing day, the ache in my chest grew and I realized ’twas not from my wounds, but my heart.”
“Patrik—”
