Silence stretched between them.
“Do you trust her?”
“Trust her?” Patrik frowned. “An odd question.”
“Mayhap, but one you chose not to answer.”
His lingering doubts tumbled through his mind: her skill with a blade, her calm during a fight, her search through his belongings. “’Tis not an answer simply given.”
“You bed a lass about whom you hold doubts?”
“Bedamned!” Patrik stepped toward him, wove. He clenched his teeth as he fought to maintain consciousness. “Had I my full strength, I would knock you on your arse.”
“You would try.” Tiredness etched his brother’s voice, at odds with the challenge. He rubbed his brow. “Once you had healed, why did you not return to Lochshire Castle?”
At the reminder of his home, guilt swept Patrik. How many times had he wondered the same? “And if I had, would you have forgiven me, accepted my apology?”
Alexander blew out a harsh breath. “Nay, I would have tried to kill you.”
“And now?” Patrik asked. “Here I stand before you and admit I was wrong.”
“I am thinking.”
However much he admired Alexander’s honesty, it pointed out the chasm between them. But he had to try to bridge it. “Your anger at me is no more than I feel for myself. The months of lying in pain allowed me time to think, to realize the grave wrong I had committed against Nichola, against you and my family.” He swallowed hard. “I stayed away not out of fear, but because I could nae understand how you would ever forgive me. I doubt I can ever forgive myself.”
Alexander scanned the field where the men had begun to mount. “I find I need time to decide. As for Nichola”—he faced Patrik—“whether she forgives you is not for me to decide.”
“Fair enough.” And more than he could have ever hoped for. Patrik shifted, and his fingers bumped against seasoned leather. The writ! In the mayhem of the day, incredibly, he’d forgotten. “Alexander, I must reach Bishop Wishart immediately.”
“Bishop Wishart, why?”
Patrik withdrew the leather-encased writ, stained by dirt, weathered by moisture. “I must warn him that de Warenne is preparing to rejoin forces with Cressingham before the end of July.”
His brother’s face blanched. “God’s teeth, it cannot be.”
“I was stunned by the news as well. I believed little could pry de Warenne back to Scotland.”
“’Tis not what I meant.”
“What?” Patrik asked, confused by the look of sheer disbelief on his brother’s face.
“’Tis why we are here.”
None of this was making any sense. “The bishop sent you to meet me?”
“Aye. Nay.” Alexander shook his head. “By my sword! Before the bishop surrendered to the English, he deployed a runner to Seathan, saying that he’d sent you on a dangerous mission, and expected your arrival along with the fact that you would be carrying important news. The bishop instructed Seathan to intercept you before you reached Roxburgh Castle.”
Terror sliced through him. “Wishart is in English hands?”
“Aye, he surrendered as well as Robert Bruce and William Douglas.”
“God no,” Patrik whispered. “What are we to do?”
Somber eyes held his. “Take this information to Wallace as the bishop instructed.”
His mind spun a thousand thoughts. Then, an odd one fell to the fore. “Wait, you said you did not know I lived?” Patrik asked, even more confused. “Yet Bishop Wishart penned my name in the writ to Seathan?”
His brother grimaced. “Aye, a name he wrote, but ’twas not Sir Patrik Cleary.”
