Sir Patrik drew a circle in the water. “I am trying.”
“How can you be so positive?”
He looked at her then, his face a play of shadows and determination. “To be otherwise is to give up hope.”
Was that what she had done? Given up hope to avoid hurt? It made sense, but never had she considered her withdrawal as anything but avoidance of pain.
The heaviness of her thoughts overwhelmed her. “I was wrong to come.” Emma made to stand, but the rebel caught her wrist.
“Stay. Sit for a while. With me.” The soft pad of his thumb skimmed the sensitive skin at her inner wrist. “It would please me greatly.”
Heat spilled through her at his touch. “Sir Patrik, I—”
“Patrik.”
“What?”
“Call me by my given name.”
She swallowed hard, fought to feel nothing. Failed. “’Tis unseemly.”
His thumb stilled. “’Tis my wish.”
“Patrik,” Emma breathed, testing the familiar use of his name on her tongue as if to taste the forbidden.
In a gentle move, he drew her against him, brought her head against his chest and slowly began to stroke her hair.
She gave a shaky exhale. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”
“I would be wanting to, but right now, ’tis not what you need.”
At his thoughtfulness, tears burned her eyes. No, she couldn’t feel this much for him. ForDubh Duer. It mattered not that for this moment her task was but a blur within her mind, that right now it was only him and her struggling against the sorrows of life.
“Is that why you left the pallets,” she asked, “because you wanted to kiss me?”
His fingers paused within her hair, then he slowly continued to stroke the unbound length. “Aye. A thought I am not proud to admit. You have known enough anguish.”
“As have you.” She snuggled closer, savoring the sense of protection, humbled by his honor, traits absent from her life since Father Lawrenz. Except the priest’s thoughts were of God, of educating her and helping her find a path to stability and faith. Patrik was dedicated to war, but a warrior who wanted her as a man did. “Thank you.”
In answer he pressed a chaste kiss upon her brow. “We should both get some rest.”
“We should.” But she lay against him saddened that this fragile moment, like her excursion into normalcy, would all too soon end.
The soft pad of footsteps upon dirt echoed in the silence as Emma followed Patrik down the tunnel, his candle held high. Since they’d departed the cavern this morning, he’d said little, which suited her fine.
Better than last eve when she’d made an error in dredging up the emotions of her past. Yes, they lent credibility to her supposed near rape yesterday, and had earned Patrik’s protection, but they’d unleashed horrific dreams throughout the night.
She must gain Patrik’s trust, but other ways existed besides exposing her weaknesses, emotions the Scot might use against her. Had her years as a mercenary taught her naught?
Thank God he’d not tried to kiss her as they’d sat beside the pool. Had he reached for her . . . No, ’twas better not to ponder how his mouth would feel upon her own. Except, her body warmed at the thought, her mind welcoming the intimacy of his embrace.
Ahead, a faint wisp of light fractured the blackness.
Hope ignited. “Have we reached the other side?”
“Aye,” Patrik replied.
Her relief to be free of this godforsaken complex of tunnels fell away. How close were they to his friends? She needed to discover who was the traitor to King Edward before they arrived.
