“Welcome to you. My name is Marie,” the woman said, but the warmth in her voice far from put Emma at ease. This night, she had intended to escape. Surrounded by a family ’twould prove a near impossible feat, especially since she must first relieve Patrik of the writ. Curse the entire situation.
The woman tsked. “Sorry I am at hearing about the English curs who attacked you. I have a gown for you.”
Emma nodded. “My thanks.” A movement from the edge of the doorway caught her attention.
Red hair, bright like a flame, tumbled across the cheek of a young girl she guessed to be five summers. Wide green eyes stared out, a mix of curiosity and shyness.
Emma’s heart melted.
At the bump against her leg, the woman glanced down and smiled. She caught the child’s hand, drew her forward. “This is my daughter, Joneta.”
Clutching a bedraggled doll, the girl stared up at Emma in awe. “Are you a fairy from the Otherworld?”
Unused to children, Cristina fumbled for an answer.
“Aye she is, lass,” Patrik stated as he strode past Emma and knelt before the child. “And who might this bonny lass be?”
Delight sparkled on the girl’s face, overtaking her shy smile. “Joneta.”
He winked. “And a bonny name to match.”
She giggled, and then peered at Emma. “Did she indeed come from the Otherworld?”
“I am not sure,” Patrik replied, “but I suspect so. I found her beneath a lily.”
Her eyes widened further. “Truly?”
“Aye,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “And now that I have found her, I am thinking of keeping her.”
Patrik’s eyes met Emma’s. The truth in them stole her breath.
The girl squirmed in her mother’s hold. “Can I see the fairy?”
“Her name is Cristina,” Patrik said as he stood. “She is a shy one.” The panic in Cristina’s eyes caught him by surprise. The lass had taken a man’s life without hesitation, yet when confronted by a mere child, she stood frozen. His heart softened. ’Twas shame of her tattered gown. Except through the eyes of a child, the torn bits of gown indeed appeared like the magical dress of the fey.
“Joneta,” her mother said. “Go and finish sweeping the floor.”
The girl pursed her lips. “Are you staying the night?” she asked Patrik.
“If you will be having me,” he replied.
She clasped her hands behind her back, rocked to and fro. “And her?”
The imp would steal the stoutest man’s heart. “Aye.”
With a squeal of delight, the lass rushed inside, her flame-red hair bouncing in her wake.
Marie laughed. “Never do I know what my daughter will say.” She turned to Cristina and her expression grew somber. “These days, rarely do we see anyone aside from the English. ’Twill be nice having another woman to talk to. Come inside when you are ready.” She entered her home.
Cristina’s fingers worried the side of her tattered gown. “Do you know them?”
“Nae.” He caught her hand, rubbed his thumb along the soft curve at her palm.
She pulled away, shot a nervous glance toward the doorway. “Then how can you trust them?”
He caught her hand again, held firm. “They are Scots. ’Tis our way to help each other without question.” A fact she should know. Then again, Cristina had said she’d never heard of the fey. Saint’s breath, the lass was a confusing mix. “Come.” He drew her with him as he entered the crofter’s hut. The rich scent of simmering venison greeted them as did the fragrance of onions and herbs.
The woman smiled. “We are having stew. Fergus killed a roebuck yesterday. Lucky you are.”
“Aye,” Patrik agreed, but Cristina’s face had paled. Why? Outside, he’d believed her withdrawal was due to her embarrassment at the ragged state of her gown as well as his having informed Fergus and Marie of the English knight’s attack. But then, she’d floundered beneath the attention of the little girl.
Until this moment, they’d traveled alone. Now, he suspected there was more to her awkwardness. After the fractured life of the orphanage, had Cristina’s husband kept her secluded, not allowed her to meet or befriend others?
It would explain much. ’Twould seem her husband’s attention was little more than that of a rutting boar. Her innocence in the art of making love proved he’d neither given her proper attention, nor ensured that she found her pleasure.
What other cruelties had the lass endured beneath her husband’s hand? ’Twas fine with him that the bastard lay rotting beneath the earth. A man who treated a woman so poorly deserved no better.
They would remain here but one night. Another gown would give her confidence, but mayhap the next few hours around a family would show her another side of life, one with laughter, sincerity, and kindness. He wished he could give her more, but on the morrow their time together would end.
The thought of leaving Cristina left an emptiness in his heart. His heart? Nae, that he could never give. Too many challenges lay ahead. Even without the uncertainty of war, his personal life remained a mire.
He grimaced. Mire was an understatement when he thought of his relationship to the men he desperately wished to reclaim as brothers. Did the possibility of rebuilding a bond with the MacGruders exist?
Patrik gave an inner shake. Now was not the time for such musings. “I will go and help your husband with the wood. ’Tis thankful we are for the night’s lodging.”
A blush spread across Marie’s cheeks. “The pleasure is ours.”
With a nod, Patrik left.
The woman wiped the sweat from her brow, set the cloth on a nearby peg to dry. She shot a worried glance at Emma. “How fare thee?”
She spoke of the supposed near rape. “I am fine.” The lie twisted in Emma’s gut.
Marie nodded. “Come, let me give you the gown.”
“I appreciate your generosity.”
“Nonsense, ’tis an offer I am happy to make.” The sturdy woman dug through a stack of gowns folded neatly within a trunk. “Here is the one I was searching for.” She withdrew a soft green gown embroidered with gold threads at the neck. “My mum gave this to me when I was younger.” A smile curved her mouth as she laid her hand upon her stomach. “After several babes, it no longer fits, nor do I believe it ever will. I was going to use scraps of it to begin sewing a blanket, but I would much rather see it worn.”
The beauty of the garb stunned Emma. Never had she owned anything so regal. “I will be traveling. A gown so fine is far from befitting such use.”
“’Tis better than sitting in the dark and collecting regrets.”
Emma longed to touch the intricate weave, the beautiful workmanship. “If you are sure?”
The woman’s smile widened. Marie held out the gown. “Try it on.”
Moments later Emma ran her hand along the delicate embroidery, following the pattern of leaves.
“I was right, the gown is a fine color for you.” Marie sighed. “To think I once fit into it, but I doubt I ever looked so well.” She paused. “Would you mind if I fixed your hair?”
Emma hesitated. Never had a woman paid her any attention, unless as a child to be scolded.
“I have embarrassed you,” Marie said. “’Twas not my intent.”
Touched, Emma gave her a shy smile. “No, ’tis only that I am without words to repay your kindness.”
The woman’s smile widened. “There is no need for such. Take a seat and I will fix your hair for your husband.”
Her husband? She believed Patrik her husband? Emma should correct the woman, but she allowed the claim to linger, to sift through her mind as if a wish as the woman deftly combed and braided her hair.
A short while later Marie stepped back, a satisfied expression on her face. “Your man will be pleased.”
Heat stroked Emma’s face. However wrong, for this night, she would live the dream that Patrik was hers. “My thanks.”
A smile beamed on the woman’s face. “My pleasure.” She stowed the brush in a worn wooden box, then walked over and stirred the stew. “I have one more task before we eat. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Yes,” Emma replied.
Golden rays wrapped by orange sank through a wash of purple as they stepped outside.
Marie sighed. “I so enjoy the long hours of the summer. There is something about the length of daylight that warms the soul.”
Emma scanned the color-filled sky. Never had she considered the length of the hours of the day, much less how they affected her. Now, she took in the sweep of fields dotted with heather and a myriad of wildflowers she had paid little attention to before.
“’Tis beautiful here,” Emma breathed.
“Aye, ’tis God’s land.”
The pad of running feet slapped behind them. “Mama, can I come?”
A warm, easy smile touched Marie’s face. “Aye.” She took her daughter’s hand, cradling the small fingers within hers as she walked toward the west.
Emma followed. Upon a small rise, sheltered beneath the twisted limbs of a massive oak, she made out three small white crosses. Unsure, she halted at the outer edge.
The woman paused before the crosses. Sadness touched her face. “These are my children. One died during childbirth, the other two from fever. Gauwyn—” A smile touched her mouth. “He had the biggest smile. And his laugh could steal your heart.” Her smile faltered.
Unsure what to say, to do, Emma walked to her side. “Do you come here often?”
“Aye. They are my children.” Marie knelt beside the graves. One by one, she tugged the tiny weeds creeping from the soil, leaving the wildflowers blooming to sway before the carved crosses like a promise of hope.
Emotion stormed Emma as Marie tended to those she’d given birth to, only to watch them die.
As if sensing her grief, Joneta walked over, reached up.
Emma clasped the young girl’s hand, her heart weeping inside. The image of holding Patrik’s child flickered to mind. A child she’d cherish. But what if she lost their babe? If faced with such adversity, could she be as strong as Marie? Would she have chosen to go on? Though she lived a life filled with danger, the challenges she faced made no demands on her heart.
On shaky knees, she released the girl’s hand, knelt beside the woman, pulled at a stubborn weed. “How can you come here and face such losses each day?”
“Losses? Aye, in a sense.” Tenderness warmed Marie’s face. “But for a time I was blessed with sharing their time on earth.”
Emma focused on her task, humbled by this woman’s faith. Memories of her youth in the orphanage tumbled past. Over the years, few workers had cared about the children within. Most often, those who ran the orphanage did so for the coin earned. In their eyes, the death of a child made one less mouth to feed, one less order given, one less child’s cries to echo throughout the night.
“Here, Mommy.”
Emma glanced over.
Joneta held out a sprig of heather to her mother.
She drew her daughter into her arms, gave her a huge hug. “And a gift you are as well.”
The girl kissed her mother on her cheek, and then walked over to Emma. She brought her other hand from behind her back. A yellow flower lay within her palm. “For you.”
Tears misted Emma’s eyes as she stared at the delicate petals. To some it would seem a simple gift, but never had she received such a kind offering. “My thanks.”
Ignorant of her emotional struggle, Joneta knelt before her, her wide green eyes filled with delight. “Hold it up to your neck.”
Emma frowned. “Why?”
“It reflects yellow on your skin if you like the lads.”
“And what if there is no reflection?” she asked, charmed.
A frown tied the girl’s brow. “I am not sure, but I will ask my da. He is the one who told me about the flower.”
Her father? Never had she believed a man would hold thoughts of such whimsy. Neither had she met such a caring family. Was this what a true marriage wrought?
“Do it,” Joneta urged.
Her throat tight, Emma held up the flower to the curve of her throat.
“I knew it,” the child squealed. “’Tis yellow I see.”
Her mother shot Emma a wink. “I suppose she likes the man she came with.”
Delight sparkled in the little girl’s eyes. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Emma said with a laugh. Emotion swamped her at thoughts of Patrik, at the enormity of what he made her feel. The lighthearted moment shattered.
Ignorant of Emma’s panic, Marie chuckled. “As the lad is her husband, I would be agreeing.”
“Here.” The girl laid her doll within Emma’s hands.
Overwhelmed by thoughts of Patrik, of his growing importance in her life, she stared at the doll unseeing.
What exactly did she feel for Patrik? She could not feel love. She did not know how. Still, a hard pressure tightened in her chest, one she refused to study too deeply.