“’Tis interesting how defensive you become when I speak of your feelings toward Patrik.”
He was right. Frazzled, she’d allowed her emotions to guide her, not a trait of one of England’s top mercenaries. Or, did that woman any longer exist? Sir Alexander’s intense gaze unnerved her further.
“I thought you hated him,” Emma said, needing to change the topic.
Sir Alexander grunted. “Patrik has not seen the last of my fist, but my feelings are not what we speak of. ’Tis yours.”
“Why would they matter to you?”
“Why do you ask?” Sir Alexander countered.
Flustered, she stood. “I answer to no one concerning my feelings, especially you.”
“No one?” Sir Alexander said, his eyes assessing her as if he could see through her every lie.
Emma backed away. “I will fetch water.”
“I took you not for a coward.”
She glared at the dangerous rebel. “Tend to your brother, ’tis what you are good at.” Emma turned on her heel and walked to the well, emotions churning, hating her weakness when it came to Patrik, and despising even more the treachery she had once planned.
Bedamned to the writ. She could return to Sir Cressingham, reveal the location of the rebel hideout, then claim they were attacked by thieves and she’d managed to slip free without time to steal the writ. But would he believe her? Never had she failed in a mission.
Before the neatly stacked stones housing the well, she hung her head at the thought of Patrik, at the anger and hurt he would feel once he learned the truth. It was unrealistic to suppose that somehow he would not learn she was a mercenary, or discover her role in his life. With his connections, he would find out.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. Bedamned!
“Lass.”
Sir Alexander’s deep burr had her stiffening. “Go away.”
Muscled legs came into view. “I meant no harm in my questions.”
She glared at him. “No? Did you not intend to pry? Are you not used to bruising your way through until you find what answers you seek?”
At her angry retort, admiration glittered in the rebel’s eyes. “I have been accused of being a wee bit forceful.”
Emma narrowed her gaze. “You are the most frustrating man. Your wife must be a saint.”
“She is. And aye, he is a bloody pain in the arse,” Sir Duncan agreed as he walked over and stood by her side. “But he loves Patrik as much as he wishes him dead.”
Overwhelmed by these men, she stepped back. “I am going to stay beside Patrik.” She started off.
“Lass.”
At Sir Alexander’s voice, she turned.
He nodded toward a full water pouch near the base of the well. “You came for water, did you not?”
At the touch of humor riding his voice, she scowled, swiped the pouch and strode toward where Patrik lay.
As she hurried off, Duncan crossed his arms. “What do you think of the lass?”
Alexander grunted. “She loves him.”
“Aye, ’twas my thinking as well.” Duncan rubbed his chin. “Did you see how she stitched up his cuts?”
“Her hand has done that work before.”
