Sickened by the swill of lies, he braced himself against the waves of pain. What had she told Cressingham about the rebels? Saint’s breath, she’d seen Griffin at Lochshire Castle. As well, she knew of the rebels’ pathway beneath the ben, and the hideout behind the falls. If he did not warn Seathan, hundreds of Scots could die. And with Griffin’s position exposed . . .
God help them all.
Body shaking, Patrik pushed himself up. His legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor. Through sheer determination, he pushed to his knees. Sweat streamed down his face, mingled with blood as he crawled to the door. Panting, he clawed to reach the handle. His hand closed upon the rough wood. He held tight.
Tugged. “Open, you bastard!” He again pulled.
It held firm.
Dizziness swamped him and Patrik slid to the floor. Hopelessness descended. “Nae, damn you. I will not give up!” Teeth clenched, he grabbed the door, jerked.
Nothing.
“Nae!”
Head pounding, Patrik lay back. He’d ignored his instincts about Emma, the subtle hints that something was amiss. Blast it, how many times during their days together had he allowed his need for her to trample common sense? Now, due to his neglect, many Scots would die.
Tree limbs scraped the building like clawing fingers. Another soft scratch echoed near the entry. A moment later, the soft brush of branches was repeated.
Numb, he stared at the sturdy wood. The wind was kicking up. A storm must be moving in. A weak, painroughened laugh battered his throat. What did that matter? Here he would die, but his death mattered not. It was the loss of the people who had given him their trust that he could not accept.
Patrik again glanced at the door. Mayhap a chance still existed. After the hours of beatings, the guards would expect him to be subdued. When they again entered, they would nae expect an attack.
With his legs screaming, Patrik shoved himself to his feet. Head spinning, he pressed himself back against the wall.
Enter, you bastards.
If a chance existed to warn his fellow Scots, he would take it. He knew it would be his last.
A slight thump echoed from outside.
Patrik frowned. That did not sound like a tree. Guards? Why did they not bloody barge inside as the arrogant bastards had three times before?
The door gave a subtle creak, edged open.
He readied himself to attack.
“Patrik?”
At his eldest brother’s whisper, Patrik almost dropped to his knees. “Seathan?”
“Aye.” The door was shoved open wider. Weak afternoon sun outlined his eldest brother as he hurried inside, with Alexander on his heels.
“Wh-Where are the guards?” Patrik stumbled out.
Alexander’s nostrils flared. “Dead.”
Seathan peered out the door, and then glared at Patrik. “I told you not to go after the lass.”
“Th-This was personal,” Patrik replied.
“If it involves one of us, it involves the family,” Seathan stated. “Come. We must hurry.”
On shaky legs, Patrik stepped forward, crumpled. His brothers caught him.
“Aye,” Alexander muttered, “’tis a threat you are.”
Patrik stayed his tongue. He would nae take his anger at himself out upon his brothers. Despite the pain, he staggered out with their aid.
At the side of the building, they pressed against the rough wood, hiding in the shadows.
A short distance away, within a small clearing at the edge of the woods, fractured rays of light exposed Emma.
“What in Hades!” Patrik hissed.
“Say naught,” Alexander warned as he glared in her direction.
Say naught?
What in God’s name was going on? Sickened, he knew. Emma had lured his brothers to their death. “Nae. ’Tis a trap,” Patrik forced through the pain. “The la-lass is not Scottish, but an English mercenary!”
“She is.” Anger edged Alexander’s voice.
“Bloody hell! Do-Do you not hear what I am saying?” At Alexander’s nod, Patrik shot the middle brother an incredulous look. “Then why are—”
“Quiet, both of you,” Seathan warned. “’Twill be time enough to discuss this once we are safely away.” He scanned their surroundings. “Go.”
With his brothers half carrying him, they hurried across the open field. At a cluster of brush, they halted; Patrik worked to catch his breath.
“Christ’s blade,” Seathan hissed.
Alexander edged closer. “What is it?”
“Look toward the other end of the field,” Seathan said.
“Bedamned,” Alexander cursed, “Knights are headed to their quarters and will pass close by.”
“Aye.” Seathan glanced at Patrik. “We have but a short distance. Can you make it?”
Patrik nodded. If necessary he would crawl.
Seathan and Alexander caught his shoulders, helped him up, and then bolted toward safety.
An English knight appeared from a tent a short distance away, shielded his eyes against the slant of the sun. “The rebel escapes!”
“Run!” Seathan ordered.
Pain roared through Patrik; he willed his body forward.
As Patrik and his brothers reached the edge of the woods, Emma withdrew her bow, as did several rebels hidden nearby. Arrows whizzed over their heads, followed by the cries of the wounded English.
A limb slapped Patrik; he pushed it aside, kept moving.
“To your mounts,” Seathan ordered as they moved past.
Emma and the other rebels loosed another slew of arrows toward those giving chase.
Screams and outraged yells echoed in their wake.
Fragmented sunlight spun around them as they ran through the forest. Amidst his painful haze, Patrik’s fury grew. He wanted her nowhere near his brothers. What lies had she told them to make them believe her, to lead them to their deaths? Bedamned, well he knew her expertise when it came to twisting truths.
The crash of brush in their wake alerted them the English had reached the forest.
An arrow hissed past. Another whipped by a handsbreadth away and lodged in a nearby tree.
Patrik forced himself forward, his side aching, his entire body threatening to collapse.
They forged through a dense thicket, and Duncan came into view at the head of a small contingent.
“Mount,” Seathan ordered.
Duncan swung up, reached down for Patrik.
A yell had Patrik glancing back.
Several paces away, an English knight trained his arrow on Alexander.
Fear tore through Patrik. “Nae!”
At Patrik’s shout, Emma turned. As if in slow motion, she watched Patrik dive against Alexander a second before an arrow sank deep within Patrik’s chest.
“Patrik!” Fury tore through her. Emma drew her bow, released; the knight who’d shot Patrik collapsed.
“Help me put Patrik on the horse,” Lord Grey ordered.
Sir Alexander caught Patrik’s other shoulder, lifted him to Sir Duncan.
The English broke through the trees.
“Go!” Lord Grey called as he swung up on his steed.
Sir Alexander mounted, caught Emma’s waist, hauled her before him and dug his heels into his mount. Clods of dirt flew as his bay surged ahead.
She clung tight as flashes of trees whipped by. A league away, they galloped toward a ridge thick with fir. As if a door opened, they rode through. Immense rock jutted up before them, and within a crevice lay a large gap.
Without hesitation, the earl and his men cantered inside. The last of their party halted, then hurriedly covered the entry.
As his men worked, Lord Grey turned his mount, pinning Emma with his ominous gaze, his threat clear. Never would he allow her the freedom to reveal this rebel hideout. It was an unfounded worry. With deception a foul taste upon her tongue, she would never reveal this secret.
Through the shards of waning light, Emma glanced at Patrik, found him slumped in Sir Duncan’s arms. Fear tore through her. “Is he . . .”
“He is alive.” Angst darkened Sir Duncan’s gaze. “Barely. If he does not see a healer soon, he will die.”
Chapter 20
The fading glimmer of stars etched the sky as Emma, positioned behind Lord Monceaux, rode toward Lochshire Castle. Sir Alexander had not grumbled at the move. With his brother rescued, he wanted naught more to do with her. A matter upon which they both agreed.
She glanced over at Patrik’s slumped form. The long hours of riding throughout the night had taken their toll. In the gray dawn light she could see the paleness of his face.
We are almost there, hang on please.
“Lord Grey arrives,” a guard called from the wall walk.
The steady thrum of hooves upon wood echoed as they crossed the drawbridge, then cantered beneath the gatehouse and into the bailey. Amidst the flicker of flames inside, knights awaited them. Unlike before, they now eyed her with distrust.
The earl drew his destrier to a halt, nodded to his brothers. “Take Patrik to his chamber.” He glanced toward one of his men. “Sir Malcolm, fetch the healer.”
“Aye, my lord.” Sir Malcolm hurried off.
Exhausted, Emma remained quiet as Patrik’s brothers carried him to the keep. She wanted desperately to be at his side.
“If he lives, ’tis because of you.”
At Lord Monceaux’s solemn comment, she turned. “If he dies, ’tis because I betrayed him.”
The baron nodded, his face grim. “A fact neither Patrik’s brothers nor I will forget.”
“Or should.” Emotions threatened Emma as she scanned Lochshire Castle. A Scottish stronghold held by men bound together by the strength of family, by the fight to reclaim their country, and by love.
It was Patrik’s home.
Though division existed between Patrik and his family, in time wounds would heal and he could rebuild the foundations of a life in which he could again find happiness. For that, Emma would give thanks.
Lord Monceaux dismounted, lifted her to the ground.
She turned toward the keep, the image of Patrik’s battered body all too clear.
“Mistress Emma.”
At Lady Nichola’s voice, she turned. Beneath the torchlight, Alexander’s wife stood upon the steps of the keep, the strain on her face telling Emma the woman had not slept this night. Her worry was yet another sin to add to Emma’s enormous list.
Heart pounding, Emma curtsied. “My lady.”
Her body trembling, Lady Nichola stepped closer. “You saved my husband’s brother.”
“No,” Emma said. “My deception did naught but place Sir Patrik, your husband, and your family in danger.”
“It did,” Lady Nichola agreed, “but you chose to return to Lochshire Castle, to expose the truth at the risk of your life. As for my family facing the English, ’tis not the first nor the last time for such.”
Guilt clung to Emma. “My deed is far from heroic, my lady. I returned because I love Patrik.”
“Regardless, he is safe.” Lady Nichola nodded. “Let us go inside. It has been a long night and you are tired.”
As was Lady Nichola. She’d earned none of this woman’s kind words.
Lord Monceaux drew his sister into a fierce hug. Then, in silence they walked to the keep. After entering the great room, Alexander’s wife headed for the turret.
Stunned, Emma glanced at Lady Nichola.
“You believed we would cast you within the dungeon ?” she asked.
“I have earned such grim quarters, my lady.” No, in truth, her betrayal could win her death.
“I will not lie, ’twas considered,” Lord Monceaux stated. “Neither will you be allowed to roam free. Too many questions remain to be asked.”
“Questions, my lord, I will answer,” Emma said.
The baron nodded.
In silence, Emma followed them up the spiral steps. Outside the chamber where she’d slept before, they halted.
The baron spoke in private with his sister, and then stepped back. “It has been a long night for you, Nichola. Go and rest. I will ensure Mistress Emma is cared for.”
Face pale, Lady Nichola glanced to where Sir Alexander’s voice echoed from inside Patrik’s chamber. “For all of us.” She nodded to her brother. “My thanks, Griffin.” She walked down the corridor.
Unease crept through Emma as the powerful lord followed her inside her chamber.
He closed the door, barred any path to escape. “This is my family. I will protect them by whatever means necessary.” He leaned forward until he was a handsbreadth away, his words laden with threat, his hazel eyes fierce with intent. “I would kill for them without hesitation.”
She angled her jaw. “As I.”
“And I am to believe you?”
“I have given you little reason to,” Emma agreed. “But I swear to you, I offer no threat.”
Lord Monceaux crossed his arms, his expression grim. “Words easily given, but do they hold truth?”
She remained silent. What could she say? In his place she would feel the same anger, hold as much doubt. Emotion scraped her soul. His family was all she had dreamed of: people who cared, people who would lay down their lives to protect each other.
For a long moment, he studied her. “For the first time since Patrik’s supposed death, my sister has begun to heal.” He paused. “Because of you. Because you spoke to her of what none of us dared.”
“What, that Patrik desperately regrets his attempt on your sister’s life? Do you not see, he cares, would do anything to regain his family?”
He exhaled and his warrior’s frame eased. “If asked before Patrik reappeared, I would have disagreed. Now, having watched him, witnessed the sincerity of his actions and his words, I agree. Regardless of my feelings, ’tis what my sister believes that is important.” Lord Monceaux paused. “Had you not confronted Nichola, she would have clung to her belief of Patrik’s intent, her hurt and fear blinding her to the truth or the ability to ever fully recover.”
“Do not paint my actions as valor,” Emma said. “My words to Lady Nichola were for Patrik. The horrors of witnessing the English slay his family stole his childhood. That same loathing guided his decisions toward your sister. His actions were wrong, an error he admits. I believe he should be given a chance to reclaim his family.”
The baron arched a curious brow. “And what of you?”
Caught off guard by his question, by her need for Patrik, and her longing for a chance at happiness she could never have, she shook her head. “I will find my own way.”
“In England?”
The coolness of his question left little doubt of his suspicions. “No, never will I return.”
“Where will you go?”
She arched a brow. “If I am allowed to leave Lochshire Castle?”
Shrewd eyes studied her. “You know who I am. Considering your past actions, how can either the MacGruders or I believe you?”
A fate she’d earned. “How long will I be kept here?”
“I do not know. For now, too much lies at stake to allow you freedom.” The baron stepped back. “A guard will remain at the bottom of the turret. Do not try to leave.”
As if she could slip away without learning Patrik’s condition?
“Go to sleep.” The baron strode out and closed the door.
Alone, Emma’s legs threatened to give way. Exhaustion and guilt weighed heavy upon her as she stumbled to the bed. She yearned to go to Patrik, to remain by his side, but the brothers refused to allow it. Heart aching, she knelt before the bed and folded her hands in prayer.
A tear wobbled down her cheek, dripped upon the bed. She sniffed. “Please, let Patrik live.”
Warmth pulsed in her pocket.
Shaken, she withdrew the halved stone. It glowed within her palm as if a gift.
A gift?
No, she’d stolen what was not hers to take. Another wrong she must right. On shaky legs she pushed to her feet, crossed to the door and inched it open.
The corridor stood empty.
If she tried to leave, a guard blocked the entry to the turret below, but she had access to the upper chamber. Fatigue weighted her steps as she made her way up the turret.
The first light of dawn welcomed her to the chamber.
On wobbly legs, she entered and walked to the bowl. Her fingers trembled as she laid the halved stone near the other.
“I return you to your home,” Emma whispered. Another tear slid down her cheek. Foolish. ’Twas but a gemstone, an inanimate object hewn from the earth. Though it didn’t make sense, it felt as if a part of her was torn away.
“That is because it is yours.”
At the older woman’s whisper, Emma whirled.
The elder stood before her, sadness woven upon her face, a woman Sir Alexander claimed no longer existed.
“Sir Alexander believes my spirit lives,” the woman explained. “He but fights the fact you see me and why.”
Emma closed her eyes. “No, you are not here.” Exhaustion had brought on this illusion.
“Nae, lass, ’tis no illusion.”
With her body trembling, Emma peered through her lashes.
The elder remained.
She gathered her courage. This woman, real or delusional, needed to understand. “Patrik and his gemstone belong here. This is his home, not mine. That he has made great steps in reclaiming his family is a blessing. If he lives—”
A sob escaped her, then another, the storm of emotions she’d held so long within spilling out. As she fought for control, the room spun around her. Emma put her hand to her head, fighting to focus. Staggering, she made it to the bed, barely.
A sad smile touched the weathered face as she looked down. “Sleep, my child. It has been too long since you have truly found rest.”
The soft voice curled around Emma like a tender hand. “No,” she whispered, “I must return to my chamber. I cannot stay here.” Heaviness weighed upon her. Unable to form coherent thought, she curled upon the bed. A sense of peace filled her. From above the fairies stared down. And she swore she saw one smile.
The healer stowed her herbs, a grimace weighing upon her wizened face. She nodded to Lord Grey. “Sir Patrik is gravely ill. Worse, he shows signs of a fever.”
“Will he live?” Seathan asked.
Alexander’s gut tightened at the question.
“I do not know,” she replied. “Only time will tell.”
The creak of the door had Alexander glancing toward the entry. Nichola stood at the doorway. “Go to our chamber. I will be there when I can.”
Face pale, his wife stepped inside. “I wish to see Patrik.”
Seathan nodded to the healer. “Leave us.”
The healer cast an unsure glance between them, secured the last bag of herbs, then hurried out.
Tense silence filled the chamber.
“Patrik is gravely ill. We do not know if he will . . .” Alexander muttered a curse.
Anguish darkened Nichola’s eyes. “God no.”
Alexander took his wife’s hand, cupped it in his own. “Go, please.”
“I would like to stay,” Nichola said, “if only for a while.”
At the rumble of voices, Patrik forced his eyes open. A pounding in his skull rewarded his efforts. His vision was blurred. Through sheer will, he focused. Stilled. “Nichola?”
At Patrik’s rough whisper, she whirled. With hesitant steps, she crossed the room. “I am here.”
Through the blur of pain, emotion swept Patrik as he stared at the woman he’d tried to kill.
She drew a slow breath, the turmoil in her eyes battling with anxiety.
“I am sorry,” Patrik forced out, doubting anything could ever cleanse his soul. “Never will I try to harm you again. That I swear.”
“When I believed you dead, I was relieved.” Nichola’s voice trembled; Alexander walked to her side, clasped her shoulder. Nichola shot him a thankful glance, and then faced Patrik. “When you first rode through the gates, I was as angry as I was afraid. The terror of your attempt upon my life left me feeling weak. For that, I hated you. For that, I wanted you dead.”
“And now?” Patrik asked, his question but a rough gasp.
Nichola shook her head. “As Mistress Emma pointed out, your actions were guided by the tragedies of your past.”
“Emma?” Patrik hesitated. “What do-does she have to do with this?”
“She is an interesting woman,” Nichola replied, “and loves you very much.”
“Lo-Loves me?” He grunted with disgust. “She betrayed me.”
“She did,” Nichola agreed. “But she also faced your brothers, admitted everything, her real name, and that she was hired by Cressingham. She risked her life to save yours.”
Head pounding, Patrik turned away. “I-I do not wish to speak of her.”
“Why?” Nichola demanded. “Because someone you trusted did naught but use you, gave but false words to achieve her goal?”