As they neared the exit, sunlight scraped the uneven walls, exposing translucent spiderwebs woven within crevices above. Fresh air, infused with a hint of flowers and earth, blended with stale.
Emma exhaled. Mired in darkness for so many hours, she reveled within the sanity of light.
At the hewn opening, Patrik blew out the candle, stowed it within a carved hole in the wall, then peered through the shield of leaves and branches. “I see no one.”
She nodded, studying the meticulous weave of limb and leaf shielding the tunnel. With the entry so well hidden, it would prove difficult to find for the untrained eye.
“We have two days of travel before we reach my friends.”
That answered the question of how long she had to complete her task.
Patrik pushed aside a limb and stepped into the sunlight. “Though I see no one about, we must travel with caution. English knights could be nearby.” He strode forward.
Emma followed, shielding her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. She glanced back, scoured the thick foliage in her wake. Except for the rise and fall of the land, she discerned no sign of the entry. Incredible.
“Cristina?”
“Coming.” She stole one last glance toward where, somewhere within the dense tangle, the tunnel’s opening lay. Sir Cressingham would be pleased. The English treasurer could advise John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, to set up his forces at either entry to ambush the rebels.
Guilt edged through her that in the end, she would betray Patrik. She shoved the emotion aside. A year had passed since King Balliol had abdicated his throne at Brechin, resigning his Kingdom of Scotland to King Edward. Regardless of the Scots’ wishes, an English king ruled their land. It was the rebels’ decision to continue this fruitless war, not her guilt to bear.
If Patrik hated her when he learned her true identity, so be it. By then she would be gone, her mission long since completed. Nor would he ever find a Scottish woman named Cristina Moffat.
A shout echoed in the distance.
Patrik caught her hand and hauled her beneath the dense brush. “Stay!” With his body close to the ground, he inched up the embankment to the trail they’d walked moments before. After a quick search, he jumped to his feet and used a branch to erase any sign of their passage. Tossing the limb aside, he hurried beneath the shield of leaves, then covered her body with his.
“Say naught,” he whispered.
As if with his body flush atop hers it was possible to think? Emma scoured their surroundings for any sign of movement, tried to ignore the hard length of him, the feel of his entire body pressed against hers.
And failed.
Wind rattled leaves overhead.
A raven flitted in the tree above, then flew away.
Footsteps sounded nearby.
A stick cracked, closer this time, followed by a muttered curse.
Patrik’s calloused hand covered hers with surprising gentleness.
She stared at the tangle of scars battering his skin, the muscled hand atop hers. She should pull away, not feed this delusion of his protecting her. Instead, Emma savored his touch, his protectiveness in a world that offered none.
Patrik’s body tensed, his unruly sandy hair tangled within the mash of leaves, but his hand upon hers held steady, the dagger in his other hand held readied.
“They found the four of them dead,” a gruff voice said.
Through the twist of brush, she made out an English knight, his garb smeared with dirt, evidence of hard travel. Another warrior appeared. The steady pad of steps exposed several knights in the contingent.
“The bastard rebels,” another man cursed. “Not even a king to back, yet they fight on. And for what?”
Another man grunted. “Wallace stirs the pot.”
“He killed Sheriff Heselrig as if ’twas his right,” the first knight spat with disgust. “And Sir William Douglas running with the traitor.”
“They will be stopped,” the second man said. “Sir Cressingham is not a man to infuriate.”
