The magic of the discovery fell away.
Ignorant of her turmoil, Patrik led her toward the back of the gouged rock to where the pound of water echoed as but a soft rumble. “We will rest here for the night. In the morn, we will depart on the other side. We should reach my friends before the sun sets.”
“So soon?” Embarrassment touched her face.
Patrik remained silent, finding himself conflicted about reaching their destination. The hint of shadow against the waterfall’s soft color was a reminder of the oncoming night, the last one he and Cristina would share.
With a somber expression, she scanned the surrounding stone. She stiffened. “Someone else has been here.”
He followed her gaze. Charred remains of a fire lay near the back of the cavern. Patrik walked over and with his boot, nudged the coals.
Red flared within the embers.
On alert, he set down his pack and withdrew his sword. “Wait here.”
Cristina nodded.
He crept along the path leading to the other side of the falls. Bedamned. He was so caught up in the lass, he’d neglected to ensure the pathway behind the falls was safe. Only the rebels knew of its existence. Still, ’twas foolish to let down his guard.
After a thorough sweep of the entire hideout, he was confident no one was about. “Whoever built the fire is gone.”
Worry carved her face. “Do you think they will be back?”
“I am not sure. The only ones who know of this place are the rebels. If anyone should return, it will be a Scot.”
She shot a nervous glance at the opposing entry.
“Trust me.”
Emerald green eyes settled upon him, then softened with belief. “I do.”
Warmth touched him at her faith in him, and he found himself wishing she could be more to him than a brief interlude, another desire he must allow to pass.
“Come,” he said, “I have more oatcakes.”
“You are a man prepared.”
“Always.” Except she didn’t smile at his teasing, but watched him, her chestnut hair mussed, her tattered gown worthy of a beggar. To him she looked beautiful.
“While you were away, I found this within the ash.” She held out her hand. A length of carved wood lay on her palm.
With a frown, Patrik lifted the whittled, smooth length of wood into his hands. Where feathers had once existed, there were naught but charred lines.
“’Tis the remainder of an arrow.” He started to toss the useless shard into the embers, then hesitated. Cut into the shaft, a thumb’s length apart, sat two notches. The technique seemed familiar. Indeed, he knew many a Scot who crafted arrows and left his unique mark upon each.
“What is it?”
“Naught I—” Saint’s breath, ’twas Duncan’s arrow, the notches Alexander’s brand.
Pain rolled through him as he stared at the charred fragment. Time rolled back to when he and Duncan had followed Alexander to the loch near Lochshire Castle. Concerned for a man he considered his brother, he and Duncan had watched him from behind several bushes.
After ensuring Alexander needed not their help, Duncan had produced a bottle of wine. While Alexander had gone for a swim, they had stolen Alexander’s clothes. Hidden and with their minds blurred by drink, they’d convinced Alexander he was surrounded by the English. A fact he’d believed, until Duncan had shot an arrow nearby and Alexander had recognized his brand within the shaft.
The same two notches carved into the charred wood cradled in his fingers.
He glanced toward the other entry. Was Duncan still nearby? And what of his other brothers?
“What is wrong?”
