She blew out a relieved breath, then stilled. Why was there no guard? The brothers did not trust her. Or did they believe she could not escape?
A claymore secured upon the wall directly across from her chamber caught her attention. A finely carved figure graced its leather-bound hilt. Intrigued, she stepped closer. Not a figure.
A fairy.
Delicate wings were spread open as if to take flight, the woman’s face impish, her eyes captured in an expression of pure delight. The delicate carving should seem awkward atop the brutal weapon. But against all sense, the fairy’s presence seemed right.
A shiver ran through her. Emma touched the hidden dagger secured against her thigh. Fortunately she did not need the claymore. Not that she would be foolish enough to try to procure this family heirloom. Though desperate, she was far from a fool.
The bells from the chapel pealed with a somber ring.
What was she doing wasting precious time? She needed to find Patrik, then slip away. The steps winding up the turret came to mind. Had they left no guards on this floor because he was installed above?
Unsure of anything, she glanced one last time toward the opposite end of the corridor. Not an echo or a whisper of movement anywhere. With quiet steps, she reached the turret and began her ascent.
A window above revealed the night sky, the shimmer of stars seeming brighter than usual. She blinked. They remained intense. Emma frowned, certain fatigue played with her mind.
Several steps up, a sturdy oak door came into view. Fixed upon forged brackets, a bar straddled the wooden expanse.
Patrik! They’d locked him inside. At least they hadn’t cast him in the dungeon.
Chest tight, she hurried up the steps. At the door, with a quick glance behind to ensure no one was coming, she quietly lifted the bar, then rushed inside.
She came to a standstill.
Moonbeams swirled within the single arched window, silvery strokes that sifted to illuminate the chamber as if at the wave of a hand. Near the back wall stood a bed graced with a hand-stitched coverlet, a unique blend of yellow and . . . With a frown she crossed the room, ran her hand over the finely spun fabric.
Silver.
No, silver embroidery would cost an enormous amount, possible only for kings. Or was it a gift from the crown? The sword below with the fairy on the leather-bound hilt came to mind. Odd, she sensed the two were related.
Unsettled, she took in the chamber. Nearby, an ivory-framed mirror lay upon a small table. A cross pendant sat askew upon the time-worn wood as if awaiting its owner, its chain trailing atop a simple gold ring. Upon the far wall, a finely crafted tapestry depicted a forest scene, one notably similar to the piece hanging in the turret below. Once again, fairies peeked through the breaks in the leaves.
Never would she have pictured Lord Grey allowing such a whimsical chamber in a fortress designed for war.
As she continued to scan the chamber, a sense of peace swept over her, a contentment so complete she could have lain upon the bed, closed her eyes and slept. Odd, never in her life had she felt so accepted, so relaxed.
At an echo of laughter Emma glanced up. Caught within the strokes of a brush upon the ceiling, fairies played above her. They seemed vaguely familiar. She glanced at the tapestry, then back up.
Duplicates.
Upon the ceiling, the artist had recaptured the playful images woven within the tapestry. Except, whoever had crafted the imagery above had allowed their creativity free rein. Instead of mere eyes, or a hint of wings, entire fairies appeared.
Understanding dawned. Of course, this room belonged to a woman, someone important to the brothers. It explained the unexpected whimsical feel. This was a place where dreams abounded. And more important than the wealth within was the feeling of love.
Love.
Emptiness filled her, an ache for what she would never have. Emma rubbed her arms. However much she yearned to stay, to lie upon the bed and wish her troubles away, she must leave. The morrow would bring but more complications, more questions that she could never answer. First, she must find Patrik.
“He is two doors down from the chamber given you.”
At the woman’s lyrical voice, Emma whirled.
Within a chair near the hearth sat an elderly woman regarding her with wizened eyes. Flames danced within the fireplace, and she held a half-completed embroidery within her hand.
“I-I did not see you when I entered.” Nor the fire. Wouldn’t she have noticed the flicker of flames upon her arrival?
“Your mind is troubled.” A smile warmed the old woman’s face. “Worry not, Patrik is out of danger.”
