Regret streaked through him at thoughts of the English noblewoman his brother, Alexander, had abducted. Of a time when he’d chosen to protect his family, of a decision ill made, and a decision too late to repair.
Through sheer will, Patrik purged the dark memories, potent reminders of his family lost. One would think with a year past, the pain would ease.
He took in the beautiful woman before him. ’Twould seem Cristina shared his sorrow. And what of her feelings for her husband lost? Was her love so great she might never recover?
Jaw tight, he turned toward the blackened tunnels ahead, thankful she was ignorant of his musings. The image of her full lips and emerald eyes filled his mind, but it was the pain in her eyes that captured him most.
He frowned. Never had a woman incited in him more than a desire for a lusty romp. But with Cristina, he felt more. Something about her drew him.
Unease filtered through him. Nay, his protectiveness bolstered his feelings, made him aware of her as of no woman before. Both of them had suffered loss of family at the hands of the English. How could he not feel a connection to the lass? Still, the intensity of the emotions Cristina inspired left him on edge.
His mission had not changed. He must deliver the writ to Bishop Wishart with news that John de Warenne was preparing to depart for Berwick to rejoin forces with Hugh de Cressingham before the end of July. Each day lost stole another the rebels needed to prepare for the impending attack. As for Cristina, he must keep his feelings for this woman whom he’d rescued in perspective.
“This passage takes us beneath the ben?” she asked.
“Aye.” He grimaced. At least one of them had their mind on reality.
“You have but the single candle.”
The worry in her voice had Patrik glancing over. “Others are hidden along the way.” He explained no more. Regardless of the circumstance that had tossed them together, he knew naught of her. Though she professed to be a Scot, a woman whose life had been torn apart, she was a stranger and his country’s freedom as well as countless lives lay at stake.
After he’d recovered from his supposed death a summer past, he’d ridden to Glasgow to speak with Bishop Wishart, had confessed his sins and asked for forgiveness. Then, on trembling knees before one of Scotland’s two remaining guardians, he’d begged to remain an integral part of the rebel movement to reclaim his country’s freedom.
Sage eyes had studied him, the bishop’s grimace a dark omen. Then, as if a gift given, Wishart had granted him both. After informing Patrik of secret rebel hideouts, those known only to a select few, the bishop had asked him to be his special liaison between himself and Sir Andrew de Moray, a rebel leader in the Highlands. That had been his life, except for a few trips to receive missives from their informant within King Edward’s walls, a task that kept him well north of his brothers.
At the bishop’s suggestion, he’d agreed ’twould risk being exposed to continue using the surname MacGruder. The nameDubh Duerhad been created by Wishart as an added cover to ensure no connection was made between him and the MacGruder brothers.
Patrik exhaled. Little time existed to ponder the past or poor decisions made. He could change neither. “Come, we should be safe within the caves, but I want to put more distance behind us.”
Relieved by Sir Patrik’s lack of questions, Emma followed. He’d accepted her story as truth. Neither had she missed the fury on his face at the tale of her supposed husband’s murder. His mention of family had inspired her tale as well as the false tears. More important, the story explained why she was in the woods alone.
And unprotected.
As for traveling to his friends, she must find a way to delay their journey. She needed time alone with the rebel, time to build more trust, and time to cull as much rebel information as possible to pass to Sir Cressingham. As well, she needed to find where Sir Patrik stowed the writ.
Still, the Scot’s compassion caught her by surprise. The man Sir Cressingham had described held none, the rebel naught but a cold, harsh warrior whom few dared to cross. Though the man was both formidable and withdrawn, she caught shadows within Sir Patrik’s eyes, those of a man who’d witnessed too much, those of a man who refused to allow himself to care, to risk emotions that fate could destroy.
An outlook they both shared.
Emma shoved the twinge of apprehension aside. Their similarities changed naught. As with every other mission she’d undertaken, she refused to become personally involved, to allow feelings to break through her emotional barriers.
His handsome face held great appeal. With his honed muscles, agility and certitude, she had no doubt his deftness with a blade matched his intensity as a lover. Intimacies she’d overheard other women discuss. Intimacies she refused to allow within her life.
Allow? No, accept. Well she knew a man’s touch, the brutal taking. Well she remembered the rape during her youth, how she’d lain in the narrow alley afterward, damp with the stench of sour rain, wishing for death.
However drawn she might be to Sir Patrik, she doubted he could erase the demons haunting her mind.
Candle held before him, the Scot moved with a catlike grace, that of a warrior, his body taut, his hand clasped upon his sword, readied for danger. She understood his kind, the iron will with which warriors like he pursued their every decision.
Memories of him attacking the English knights smothered her admiring thoughts. Never could she forget his merciless assault. Beyond the skill, she’d witnessed his anger. An animosity long nurtured.
No, with him she must keep up her guard. Neither would she be foolish enough to kindle any emotion toward him. To foster feelings for Sir Patrik on any level would invite risk.
Yellow light wavered upon an unending labyrinth. Ahead, the cave began to narrow. Uneasy, Emma followed the fluid outline of the half-gutted taper’s glow, too aware of the embracing blackness. If the flame died they would be lost in unending darkness.
“How much farther until we reach the next candle?”
“A ways yet,” he replied, his deep burr offering little comfort.
