“I assure you, not every Scot would have cared about a woman alone. Not all men live with honor.”
Eyes as angry as cynical watched him, searched his as if seeking a sign of deception. Saint’s breath, someone had hurt her terribly, beyond that of the violence served this day. “Any who would turn from a woman in need is a coward, or in bed with the English. Neither of which I tolerate.”
At his words, her body relaxed. “I share your dislike of traitors to our country.”
He nodded. “Aye, they will soon learn they have made a grave error. Those true to Scotland will fight until our country is free.”
A smile flickered, then faltered upon her face. Cristina lowered her eyes, then looked up from beneath thick lashes. “Without your aid . . .” Her body trembled. “I am sorry.”
“Do not be. You have suffered much this day.”
“I—” She shook her head.
Bedamned! Patrik stepped over and drew her against him, the touch, the softness of her body a foreign luxury, one he’d long denied himself. He ignored the awareness, the needs she inspired and held her close. The lass needed comfort, to find belief in good, to understand that not all men were bastards driven by carnal lust.
He stroked her hair. “Let the tears come, lass. They need to be shed.”
After a long moment, on a shaky sigh, Cristina stepped from his hold. Tears glistened in her eyes, but none shimmered upon her cheeks. “I am sorry. Long since have I learned crying solves nothing and betrays weaknesses held.”
A belief of his as well. Then again, she was a lass. He gave her a gentle smile. “It has been a trying day.” Aye, the lass had endured much, but before him she held her own. Who was this woman? Though she was a lass, she reminded him of himself.
Neither could he understand why she was alone in a forest thick with the English. “Come.” Patrik started forward. His questions would be answered. Too much lay at risk to allow them to go unasked.
They strode by a rough column of stone that speared the low ceiling, one of many cluttered within the maze of caverns. The uneven splay of dirt upon the floor played accomplice to the time-worn cylinders, awkward pillars that crafted eerie shadows in the candle’s flickering light.
He inhaled the cool air, infused with the faint scent of tallow. “Once we depart the tunnel, I will take you to friends.”
Her steps at his side slowed. “Friends? Can I not go home?”
His chest squeezed tight. Of course. With her beauty, Cristina would have long since wed. “Worry not, my friends will ensure you are reunited with your husband.”
In the muted light, the flicker of flame exposed her distress. “My hu-husband?”
“What is it?” From the fresh pain within her voice, the stiff set of her frame, he knew.
And prayed he was wrong.
Chapter 3
“The English knights mu-murdered my husband.”
The angst of Cristina’s admission wrapped around Patrik like a blanket thrown, her whispered words but a punctuation of pain. “Saint’s breath, lass.”
She crossed her arms, a defensive measure that shielded naught of the turmoil within.
“When?”
A thick second passed. “Two years ago while Gyles and I slept, the English torched our home. We awoke to crude laughter and the stench of smoke.” She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them, her expression haunted by the nightmares ravaging her mind. “Gyles yelled for me to escape.” She shook her head. “I refused to leave him. As he pushed me from our bed, the English smashed the door and cut him down. So I ran.”
Hatred welled, built upon fury as Patrik imagined her brutal shock at witnessing her husband murdered. Though two years had passed, she’d far from recovered. A fate he well understood.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“After the knights almost . . .” She dragged in an unsteady breath. “My focus is on that of making it through this day. Tomorrow and its decisions will come soon enough.” She turned toward the loom of darkness. “How long will it take us to reach the other side?”
“More than a day.” He lauded her fortitude, courage he’d rarely seen in a woman.
Except for Nichola.
