A stranger?
Mayhap, but not to his soul.
But could he trust her?
An ache tightened his chest at the thought of leaving her on the morrow. It could be no other way. What she made him feel, want, made little sense. Yet, for the first time since he’d awakened from his brush with death, he found himself wanting to share with someone the dark secret of the family he wished to reclaim.
No, not someone, Cristina.
Yet, however she moved him, to give into his yearnings would further complicate an already muddled situation.
“But what about—”
He handed her an oatcake. “Eat.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted his offering, her eyes darkening with understanding. Cristina leaned back against a large boulder and took a bite.
Patrik followed suit, the soft thunder of water a fitting echo of his mood. Through the break at the end of the falls, darkness stole the last fragments of day. Too soon the dawn would come, and the realities of tomorrow would unfold.
He studied Duncan’s arrow. Given the ember’s warmth, his brother had stayed here but hours ago. What had made him pass through? Had the English seized Lochshire Castle?
Nay, his eldest brother, the Earl of Grey, held a significant force. His knights combined with Lochshire Castle’s strategic location, surrounded on three sides by a loch, made a strong defense. Still, something significant must have occurred to send Duncan this far south. Not that he would be discovering the why of it now. When he met with Bishop Wishart, he would learn the reason.
The lass finished the last of her oatcake. Patrik handed her the water. “Here.”
“My thanks.” She accepted the leather flask. After a long drink, she passed it back.
Patrik quenched his thirst, secured the top and set it aside.
She cast a nervous glance at the entry. “Do you think anyone else will seek shelter within this night?”
“Mayhap, but only once has anyone entered while I rested here.”
“So, are you telling me not to worry?”
“I am. Any who would enter this hideout are rebels. Unlike the English, we change not our loyalty beneath threats.”
Guilt tore through Emma at the thought of the men tortured to gain Patrik’s name and identity ofDubh Duer.
“Here.” Patrik handed her another oatcake.
Sickened, she shook her head. She did not deserve to be in the company of such an honorable man. “I am tired.” Tired of the lies, of the betrayal she intended for a man who gave naught but courage and loyalty to those he loved.
Sir Cressingham had lied to her about Patrik, about his being a heartless man necessary to destroy. If anyone fit that description, ’twas Sir Cressingham, a man even the English despised. What else had the treasurer deceived her about?
“Cristina—”
“Where will I sleep?”
He frowned. “What is wrong?”
Everything. How did one confess to being a liar, to hurting the person who’d made her aware of wishes and desires she’d refused to believe could ever exist.
She stood. “I am tired.”
“You are.” He shoved to his feet and stepped toward her, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Do not—”
