“She took it,” Patrik whispered.
Seathan nodded. “Aye.”
An ache built inside, stripped any warmth within until Patrik was left empty. Cold. “Where is she?”
Anger flashed in Alexander’s eyes. “We are not sure.”
“What?” Patrik sat up. Dizziness assailed him. He ignored the aches that came with healing, and focused on his outrage.
“Sir David de Moravia arrived with a large contingent shortly after we left you this morn.” Seathan cast a glance at Griffin, frowned. “During the commotion, she disappeared.”
“Do you think she has left?” Patrik asked.
“I have guards scouring the entire castle,” Seathan replied, “but with each entry well guarded, I believe she is still within.”
Patrik glanced at the empty table. However much he wanted to agree, a part of him sensed otherwise.
“Aye, we will find her,” Patrik agreed, with more confidence than he felt. Saint’s breath, the English could not learn of their informant!
He hadn’t wanted to believe Cristina would take the writ, hadn’t wanted to believe his brothers’ doubts. Bedamned, they’d made love, she’d given herself to him in the most intimate of ways. Yet, ’twould seem with the first opportunity, as Alexander had suspected, she’d taken the writ.
Who was this woman he loved?
She’d whispered that she loved him. Was that a lie as well?
Furious, Patrik sat, swung his feet on the floor and stood. Another wave of dizziness assailed him, threatened to take him under. He focused on his anger, determined to find her, to learn the truth.
“Christ’s blade,” Seathan said. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Looking for her.”
“Like bloody hell,” Alexander spat. “Do nae worry, we will catch the lass. On that I swear my life.”
Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “With darkness coming and the drawbridge up, she is locked within.”
“Besides,” Seathan said, “Sir David has asked to meet with you.”
Patrik met his eldest brother’s gaze.
“As I, Sir David was shocked to learn
Dubh Duer
is my brother.” Seathan grimaced. “Since you find it necessary to move, come down once you are dressed.”
His mind a haze, Patrik nodded.
“I will stay and help you,” Duncan said.
Patrik shook his head. “Nae.”
Duncan hesitated. With a frown, he followed his brothers out.
Alone and on unsteady legs, Patrik walked to the window. Clouds skimmed the sky in delicate wisps. The sun, an angry blaze of orange, lowered upon the horizon. What else had Cristina lied about?
The bells of Vespers echoed.
Against the darkening skies, fires upon the shore sprouted.
“Blast it, where are you?”
A soft knock sounded upon his door.
“Enter,” he called, supposing a servant brought fresh water or food.
The door inched open and wide green eyes peered inside.
Surprised to see the wee lass, Patrik stepped forward. “Joneta?”
“Can you come here, Sir Patrik?”
Confused, he walked to the door, opened it wide. “Methinks it is late for you to be about.” He peered down the corridor, surprised to find it empty. “Where is your mother, lass?”
The child shifted before him. “She thinks I am abed.”
“As you should be. The hour grows late.”
“But I promised,” she rushed out.
Coldness sifted through him. “What did you promise, lass?”
Small hands lifted her blanketed doll. Joneta unwrapped the woven fabric, exposing the leather-bound writ.
Cristina had taken, then returned, the writ. What did that mean? A better question: Why had she wanted it at all? “Where did you get that?” He kept his voice light, free of anger.
“Mistress Cristina.” With a tug, the child pulled the rolled leather, held it out to him. “She said to give it to you after the bells of Vespers.”
He took the bound leather, checked. The seal upon the writ remained unbroken. Relief swept him. At least their informant within King Edward’s castle was safe, as was the news he passed. His brothers and Griffin would be relieved.
“And a fine task you have done,” Patrik said.
The girl fidgeted. “There is more.”
“More?” Hope ignited. Did Cristina await him below?
“Aye. She said to tell you that she loved you.” She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “’Tis silly as you already knew such.”
He swallowed hard. “Where is she?”
Sadness tugged the corners of her mouth. “She left.”
“The keep?”
Joneta shook her head. “Nae. This morn I watched her don a cape and go through the gatehouse with the men and women who walked alongside the wagons filled with supplies.”
“My thanks.”
The girl turned to leave. Hesitated. “Sir Patrik?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Mistress Cristina said she did not think she was coming back.”
Unable to speak, he nodded.
After a curtsy, Joneta hurried down the hall.
Heart breaking, Patrik closed the door. He dragged on his garb, ignoring the aches, the pain of moving his sore limbs. Aye, he would meet with Sir David de Moravia and give Seathan the writ, but he would not tell his brother she’d left the castle. After, he would leave to find Cristina—alone.
However much he wanted his brothers’ aid, the burden of finding her, and gaining answers concerning her interest in the writ, lay upon him.
The slap threw Emma back. The knights holding her arms prevented her from slamming to the floor. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as she pushed past the pain.
“Sir Patrik Cleary and I were caught in an English raid.” She shook her head to clear her mind, exhaustion skewing her thoughts. That same exhaustion had caused her to miss the English knights hidden within the brush. They’d easily captured her and hauled her before Sir Hugh de Cressingham. “Sir Patrik was killed.” A lie, but she hoped to be long gone before the treasurer of the English administration in Scotland discovered the truth.
Face red, Sir Cressingham shoved himself up from his oversized gilded seat and waddled toward where the guards held her tight. Lids puffed, jowls drawn down by fat, he halted a pace away. “Where is the writ?”
“I found none.”
“You lie,” Sir Cressingham boomed.
Through the roar of pain she shook her head. “’Tis the truth. I swear it.”
Malice flared within his puffy eyes. “Emma Astyn, you are acclaimed as one of England’s top mercenaries, a woman who has never failed in a mission, a woman I paid a king’s ransom to befriend
Dubh Duer
. Now, after a setup to meet with Sir Patrik Cleary that left four of my knights dead, you dare tell me you have failed?” His hand shot out.
Pain exploded in her skull.
“Where is he!”
“De-Dead,” she replied, sinking into the welcome blackness. Cold water splashed her face. She gasped, fought the flood of pain.
Sir Cressingham hauled her to him. “You will find no reprieve.”
A commotion outside had her turning. Vision blurring, she fought to focus.
Chubby hands shoved Emma toward the guards.
A knight shoved open the door. “Sir Cressingham, we have caught
Dubh Duer
.”
No! She’d left him asleep in Lochshire Castle. Horror flooded her as they hauled Patrik inside, his body slumped against the guards who carried him, his face a mass of purple where their fists had pummeled his flesh.
“Patrik!” She’d not meant to talk, to expose that she cared.
Sir Cressingham’s eyes narrowed on her. “He seems not dead to me. What other lies have you told me?”
“Cristina, wh-what is going on?” Patrik rasped.
“It seems,” Sir Cressingham said, “Emma has played us both.”
Patrik frowned. “Emma?”
Sir Cressingham grunted. “For a man known for his wit, ’twould seem you are a fool.”
Confusion marred Patrik’s face, his eyes a haze of pain.
“Emma, dear,” Sir Cressingham drawled, “tell him.”
The words curdled in her throat. Please, let Patrik not learn the truth this way.
Silence.
“Then allow me to introduce you,” Sir Cressingham said, venom dripping from his every word. “Meet Emma Astyn—”
Patrik’s face paled. “A woman acclaimed as one of England’s top mercenaries.”
Chapter 19
God in heaven no! Emma ached at Patrik’s stricken expression, struggled to somehow try to explain. She had never meant for him to learn the truth. “I am so sorry! Patrik—”
“Silence her!” Sir Cressingham ordered.
A guard cupped her mouth, another held her secure.
Disbelief carved every line of Patrik’s face. “Na-Nae Scottish?”
“Emma is English.” Satisfaction rolled through the treasurer’s words. Sir Cressingham shot her a caustic glance. “’Twould seem she achieved a bit of her task for the coin paid.”
Fury swept Patrik’s face, anger so hard, so deep, Emma wished to shrivel up and die.
“Emma was paid to meet you,” Sir Cressingham continued, the cold enjoyment of his words heightening her remorse. “To retrieve the writ you carried and unveil the one who betrays us within King Edward’s trusted circle. But as we have you, she is no longer necessary—for now.” He nodded to the guards. “Use her as you will, but leave her alive. I will deal with her once I am through with the rebel.”
“No!” Emma screamed. Fury spewed from Patrik’s eyes. Anger she deserved, but he should not pay for her treachery. “Do not kill him. Please.”
Sir Cressingham’s face darkened. “Remove her!”
Lust gleamed in the guards’ eyes.
She struggled against their hold; they pulled her back. “I am sorry, Patrik. You were never supposed to follow me.”
Two guards hauled her out, shoved the door shut. Torchlight cut through the blackness, ominous flickers battering the night.
Her heart slammed in her chest. Think. She could not allow Patrik to die.
Night-chilled grass gave beneath her steps as the guards half led, half dragged her.
With hard laughter, they hauled her inside a room barren except for a half-made bed and a near-gutted candle. Rough hands shoved her back. In the murky torchlight, she caught the predatory gleam of their eyes.
A brutal hand caught her gown, tore.
Coolness swept her naked breasts.
Laughter echoed within the chamber. Then silence descended, a silence so cold and deadly, she struggled to breathe.
“Take off your garb,” the closest knight ordered. “Let me see what you gave the Scottish bastard.”
“Please, no,” she whispered, allowing the fear of her youth to fill her voice, shrinking back as if terrified. She crouched amidst their vicious leers, slid her hand beneath the folds of her gown and clasped her dagger.
The closest man shot the other a warning glare. “I will have the wench first. Hold her for me.”
Revulsion filled her as the other man nodded, then strode forward.
Step closer, you tail of a dog.
His booted foot strode across the floor, each echo harsh with his intent.
A handsbreadth away, Emma unsheathed her blade, slashed the man’s neck. As he gasped, she spun and drove the dagger into the other man’s heart.
Shock scraped her assailant’s face. “Bitch.”
“No, a woman.”
On a pained moan, he crumpled to the floor.
Emma jerked the blade free, rushed to the door and peered into the blackness.
No guards.
As she tied her torn gown, she glanced toward the building where Sir Cressingham held Patrik. She must save him. But how? Alone and with but a blade against a roomful of knights, she posed little threat to them. Her mind rumbled with thoughts, ideas she cast aside as quick as they came.
Emma stilled, knew what she must do, a choice that might cost her life. For Patrik it was a risk she would take.
With a prayer for his safety, she bolted into the night.
Hours later, exhaustion shrouded Emma as she stood within the bailey of Lochshire Castle. A ring encircled the full moon low in the sky, at odds with the rising sun as it struggled against the angry cast of gray.
Torches severed the eroding darkness, the battle of flame against night naught compared to the furious glares of the MacGruder brothers and the Baron of Monceaux as they bore down upon her.
The guard on her right, his hold upon her arm firm, nodded. “Lord Grey. Mistress Cristina was caught trying to slip along the shore past the knights camped there.”
The earl and his brothers halted before her, the four massive men forming an intimidating wall. “Where is Patrik?”
Emma held his angry gaze. “Sir Hugh de Cressingham has him.” She fought to control her emotions. “When I left, he was alive. Please, you must save him.”
Sir Alexander stepped forward. “Save him?” He glared at his eldest brother. “’Tis a bloody trap.”
Sir Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Is he dead?”
She shook her head, ashamed, deserving their wrath and so much more. “When I escaped he was alive.”
“Escaped?” Sir Alexander snorted.
“If we find Patrik dead,” Lord Monceaux said, “none will save you.”
“Who are you?” Though softly spoken, cold fury rolled through Lord Grey’s voice.
She steadied herself. “Emma Astyn.”
Sir Alexander cursed, Sir Duncan stared stunned, and the Earl of Grey’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“One of England’s top mercenaries,” the Baron of Monceaux said, fury etched within each word.
The pride she’d held at her hard-earned title, wilted beneath the reality of the harm she’d done. “Yes, but no longer.”
Lord Grey arched a skeptical brow. “And we are to believe you?”
“By God, lass,” Alexander growled, “Patrik lies dead and you think to spew words we will be foolish enough to swallow? Or to follow you to where Patrik is supposedly
held
?” His jaw tightened. “For what, the bastard Cressingham’s men to kill?”
Panic stole through her. “’ Tis the truth. I swear it. If you do not save Patrik, he will die!”
“That I believe,” the earl said. “If the deed is not already done.” Lord Grey stepped closer. “You will regret your part in this. Guards,” he called without taking his eyes from her, “take her to the dungeon.”
“No!” Emma struggled against his knights’ hold. “You must believe me!”
The earl motioned his men to take her away.
The knights started forward, their grasp firm.
Tears streamed down her face as she dug her heels into the dirt. Damn them! “You need me to show you where Patrik is.”
Silence.
The guards continued.
“Without my help, you cannot save him!” Frantic, she twisted in their hold, and caught sight of Lady Nichola near the keep holding her son, her face pale. Alexander’s wife had heard everything. As if it mattered. Or, maybe it did.
“Nichola,” Sir Alexander called, “go inside.”
“No.” Hysteria washed over Emma. To think, her only chance to save Patrik was to gain the help of the woman he’d tried to kill. A vague hope, but at this moment, all she had. “My lady, if help does not arrive, Patrik will die.”
Remoteness shrouded Lady Nichola’s eyes. “The choice to save him is not mine.”
“But your opinion matters,” Emma pleaded as the guards wrestled her forward. “You know the terror of being a captive, of believing your life is forfeit.”
Nichola swept a protective hand around her son, stepped back. “It is not the same.”
“No? Like Patrik, were you not betrayed?” Tears burned Emma’s throat as the guards continued to lead her away. “Patrik regrets his deed, damns his attempt on your life. In penance, he kept away from his brothers, away from a family he loves. My lady, a year has passed. Tell me, has he not sacrificed enough? Has he not grieved his mistakes long enough? Or will you never forgive him?”
“Enough!” Lord Grey said.
Emma struggled against the guards. “No—”
“Wait,” Lady Nichola interrupted.
“Bedamned!” Sir Alexander stormed over to his wife. “You will not be badgered about by Cressingham’s hireling, a woman who lured my brother to his death!”
If possible, Lady Nichola’s face paled further. The child in her arms shifted, struggling.
“Take our son inside,” Sir Alexander said. It wasn’t a request.
Lady Nichola’s somber eyes held Emma’s. “She is right. You have reclaimed a brother believed dead. Instead of accepting his heartfelt apology, acknowledged his sacrifices made, I clung to anger.”
“Patrik tried to kill you,” Alexander spat.
“Mayhap,” Lady Nichola replied, “but ’twas not out of malice. He loved you, tried to protect you, believed me unworthy of your love. His past guided his actions; actions he now understands were wrong, actions he now regrets.”
The scar on Sir Alexander’s face jumped. “’Tis not the time to discuss this now.”
Lady Nichola’s expression softened. “It is. Long past time.” Taking an unsteady breath, she turned toward Lord Grey. “I believe her.”
“Guards, halt,” Lord Grey ordered.
Sir Alexander spun to face his brother. “Bloody hell.”
Humbled by Nichola’s faith, Emma shook her head. “How, my lady, when I have but lied to you from the start, entered your home with naught but deceptive intent.”
“I thought you were trying to sway me to convince the men to help?” Lady Nichola asked.
Emotions swamped Emma. “I am. Thank you, my lady. Never will I forget your generosity.”
“’Tis a lard-bloated lie,” Alexander grumbled.
Lady Nichola gave her husband a quelling glance, then turned to the earl. “As I said, the choice is not mine to make, but if I was asked, I would take Mistress Emma’s word, allow her to ride along with you to save your brother.”
Anger sparked in Lord Grey’s gaze.
Emma trembled, prayed Lady Nichola’s belief was enough. “I will lead you to Patrik. No tricks, no deception, to that I swear.”
The earl’s nostrils flared; then he nodded.
The Baron of Monceaux studied her a long moment, then crossed his arms. “’Twould please me to take down any bastard who would bring a woman harm.”
A hard smile kicked up Sir Duncan’s mouth. “Likewise.”
Heart pounding, Emma turned to Sir Alexander, his glare raw with displeasure.
“I will ride,” Sir Alexander said between clenched teeth, “but expect naught of my trust.”
As if she cared. All she wanted was Patrik alive. Tears filled Emma’s eyes. “My thanks.”
Alexander shook his head. “Do nae thank me. I go for my brother.”
Sprawled upon the damp earthen floor, Patrik opened his eyes. Through swollen lids, he stared at the seep of afternoon light beneath the entry as the guards’ steps faded.
On a muttered curse, he dropped his head and gasped for breath, each draw shoving pain through his chest. Saint’s breath, somehow he still lived. With a grimace, he tested his arms, surprised that either worked. He lifted a leg, ignored the burst of pain, and then raised the other. Neither broken.
For now.
Cressingham’s knights took but a respite. They wanted him to think, to fear their return and the next round of abuse. A wry smile edged his mouth. ’Twas the third time since last night that they’d hauled him back from another beating. He sobered. The next time they came, he doubted he’d see these walls again.
Regardless, they’d nae drag a secret from his lips. The rebel contact within King Edward’s court would remain safe.
Images of Cristina’s face . . . nay, of Emma’s, rolled through his mind. Hurt beyond what the English could ever deliver battered him. She’d lied, slept with him to gain information for that bastard Cressingham. Like the stories of her past. Lies, the lot of them. Had anything that’d spilled from her mouth held truth?
A fool.
She’d played him, was quick to use his weaknesses to ensnare him in her trap. And he’d fallen, given her his trust, and worse, his love.
He remembered her destroyed look when Cressingham had announced her scheme along with her real name. Nae, ’twas but another act well played. He’d heard of the mercenary Emma Astyn. Her abilities to pull off the most dangerous mission were legendary, and the reason Cressingham had chosen her for this task.
Memories flashed by, the days of her travels with Patrik, the deceit she’d crafted with a woman’s smile, the love they’d made. Aye, ’twas no doubt why she was one of England’s top mercenaries, she would do anything, hurt anyone for a bloody farthing, including profess her love.
Where was she now, congratulating herself after a fine meal and counting the coin made? A part of him wished to accept that she indeed regretted her act, that Emma’s pleas had been real when Cressingham had ordered her hauled away. He swallowed hard, damned himself. When it came to her, he no longer knew what to believe.