Throat tight, he rounded the weathered stump. Saint’s breath, ’twas the second knight, the other man’s sword embedded in his chest.
Tears of relief burned his eyes. His body shook, and he clasped a twisted root angling up, fought for balance as he absorbed the enormity of Cristina’s singlehanded act.
Distant screams merged with the clang of steel. A Scottish war cry tore the air.
Heart pounding, Patrik turned. Seathan’s men were making quick work of the English. Thank God. Now to find Cristina and Joneta.
Body aching, he wove forward. How far had they gone? Was either injured? Please let the impossible have happened, that neither be harmed.
Despite the blur of pain, adrenaline kept him moving. The forest rose up before him. He stumbled into the shadows, fighting to stay conscious.
“Cristina!” His feeble call echoed into the woods as if a poor jest against the battle raging beyond. “Cristina!”
Shadows clung to him as he entered the forest, the sodden leaves smearing the drips of blood staining his tunic.
“Retreat!” someone shouted in the distance.
Patrik turned. Through the breaks in the trees, he caught flickers of the English knights fleeing toward the opposite side of the field.
A war cry rose as several of Seathan’s knights gave chase, the rebels fading into the sea of green. The remainder of Seathan’s contingent cantered toward the burning home where Patrik had left Fergus to aid his wife. His brother would ensure they were well tended.
Patrik turned, shoved away a limb.
A child’s whimper echoed ahead.
He pushed forward. “Cristina?”
“Patrik?”
The relief in her voice soothed his ragged emotions. He stumbled forward.
From behind a thicket, she stood, Joneta in her arms, an arrow shaft extending from the folds of the child’s clothing.
God no! “Joneta?”
“Is fine.” With the child cradled against her, Cristina walked from the brush, tears streaking through the grime and smear of blood upon her cheeks. “When I first saw her, I-I thought the same. The arrow hit the doll’s wooden chest.” A weak smile wobbled on her lips. “Joneta would not let her go.”
“Mama,” the child whimpered.
Cristina pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow. “’Tis fine.” She sent Patrik a questioning glance, her fear easy to read.
He nodded. “They are alive.”
“Thank God. I—” Her face paled. “You are hurt.”
“A wee bit.”
She shot him a scowl. “’Tis more than a bit. I will tend to you once we return to the cottage.”
“It is gone.”
The stark emptiness of Patrik’s words impaled Emma. Heartsick, she stared through the trees, where smoke swirled in heartless abandon as flames devoured this family’s home. Despite war and tragedy, happiness had bloomed there.
Until now.
All her life she’d known emptiness and hurt; she’d learned to bury her emotions deep, to forbid herself to feel or care. But Patrik had changed that. Now, ’twould seem the storm of emotions he’d unleashed would consume her, strip away her well-built defenses.
Emma clutched the child tight. The man she loved was wounded and bleeding, a family destroyed. Her anger grew. Fergus and Marie had given the English naught but water and food. Their payment, destruction of their home.
