A fresh wind stirred, etched with the warmth of the oncoming day, thick with the tension infusing the moment.
“Lass—”
The woman stood.
Patrik’s breath left him in a rush. Though garbed in a torn gown tied in hurried knots, her face marred by bruises from the knight’s rough handling, caressed within the fractured light she appeared as if crafted by the fey.
Nay, a paltry description for the beautiful woman who stood before him.
Thick chestnut hair with hints of bronze framed softly carved cheeks, a full mouth that would tempt a saint and emerald eyes that held naught but distrust. Her eyes. As if a spell cast, he couldn’t look away. They held him, mesmerized him, drew him as no other.
Embarrassed to catch himself staring, he cleared his throat. “Lass, I will not harm you,” he said, keeping his words soft. “I swear it.”
“Your name?”
The soft sweep of her burr wrapped around him like a dangerous luxury. He gave a brief bow. “Sir Patrik Cleary at your service.” Regret touched him. Not Sir Patrik Cleary MacGruder, the latter a name he’d lost the right to speak.
In a nervous sweep, she took in his garb. “You are loyal to Scotland?”
The doubt in her voice he understood. “Aye.”
“The English knights?” She shot a glance toward where her captors had stripped her a short time before.
“They are dead.”
If possible, her face paled further.
“They chose their fate,” he stated, unapologetic.
She rubbed her thumb over her fingertips in a hesitant slide. “They did.” Her breath trembled. “I thank you for rescuing me. Had you not . . .”
“Our present worry is to leave. We must be as far away as possible before the English find their comrades slain.”
“Of course.” Nervous fingers tugged on a ragged tie as she assessed him.
What did she see? With the Englishman’s blood staining his tunic, did she wonder if he was as merciless as the men who had tried to rape her? Did doubts crawl through her as to why he would come to her rescue?
“My name is Cristina Moffat.”
Her soft words erased his dark thoughts. A strange warmth touched him that after the violence of this day, she offered a sliver of trust. In this war-ravaged country, a name wrongly given could mean death.
He extended his hand toward her. “Come.”
With hesitant steps, she moved from the bush. Dirt clung to her gown, the knots far from shielding the luxurious sweep of creamy skin, nor the bruises left by brutal hands. She stared at Patrik’s hand, then looked away.
He dropped his hand. “Never feel embarrassed. The shame is theirs. May they rot in Hades.”
Thick chestnut lashes lifted. “They did not rape me.”
Given moments more they would have accomplished the deed, a fact they both knew. He remained silent, understood her battle against the terror clawing her mind, allowed the lass to focus on her innocence retained.
“They have been slaughtered!” a man’s voice roared nearby.
“Blast it!” Patrik caught her hand and pulled her with him. Sticks cracked beneath their feet, limbs whipped his body as he pushed her before him, then followed at a run.
“Their blood still runs,” another man called. “Whoever killed them is nearby. Find them!”
A horse whinnied.
