Candlelight flickered in the gloom, the soft, pungent scent of the tallow melding with the musty air. He extended his hand. “Come.” Cristina stared up at him, the wariness on her dirt- and flame-smeared face easy to read. “Unless you wish to remain here?”
She scrambled to her feet. The tattered gown hung on her like a crude joke, a harsh reminder of her perils this day, and a sober warning to be gentle with her.
Well he knew of the hurt within, of the time needed to find stable ground when one’s life lay destroyed. Memories of the MacGruders, whom he’d once claimed as family, of a surname he no longer used, to keep hidden, rose to the forefront of his mind. He stowed the hurt, the ache of three brothers lost, fellow rebels who for the year past believed him dead.
A belief for the best.
His thoughtless actions had severed their tie, had destroyed a bridge that could not be rebuilt. But that knowledge did not end his desire to be with his adoptive family. Bedamned. Why did he think of his past, or wish for bonds lost? The memories would invite but further misery.
Patrik focused on the woman, on what for this moment he could control. “We are safe.”
Skeptical eyes studied him. “Why did you save me?”
He frowned. “Is the reason not easy to understand?”
“The English roam Scotland, butchering in the name of their king. No one is safe to interfere in their actions, regardless of the brutality served.” She hesitated. “You could have easily ignored my situation.”
“Why would I have left you at the mercy of those who have none?” Patrik studied this woman who looked as if created by the fey, but viewed the world with a warrior’s eye.
“I assure you, not every Scot would have cared about a woman alone. Not all men live with honor.”
Eyes as angry as cynical watched him, searched his as if seeking a sign of deception. Saint’s breath, someone had hurt her terribly, beyond that of the violence served this day. “Any who would turn from a woman in need is a coward, or in bed with the English. Neither of which I tolerate.”
At his words, her body relaxed. “I share your dislike of traitors to our country.”
He nodded. “Aye, they will soon learn they have made a grave error. Those true to Scotland will fight until our country is free.”
A smile flickered, then faltered upon her face. Cristina lowered her eyes, then looked up from beneath thick lashes. “Without your aid . . .” Her body trembled. “I am sorry.”
“Do not be. You have suffered much this day.”
“I—” She shook her head.
Bedamned! Patrik stepped over and drew her against him, the touch, the softness of her body a foreign luxury, one he’d long denied himself. He ignored the awareness, the needs she inspired and held her close. The lass needed comfort, to find belief in good, to understand that not all men were bastards driven by carnal lust.
He stroked her hair. “Let the tears come, lass. They need to be shed.”
After a long moment, on a shaky sigh, Cristina stepped from his hold. Tears glistened in her eyes, but none shimmered upon her cheeks. “I am sorry. Long since have I learned crying solves nothing and betrays weaknesses held.”
A belief of his as well. Then again, she was a lass. He gave her a gentle smile. “It has been a trying day.” Aye, the lass had endured much, but before him she held her own. Who was this woman? Though she was a lass, she reminded him of himself.
Neither could he understand why she was alone in a forest thick with the English. “Come.” Patrik started forward. His questions would be answered. Too much lay at risk to allow them to go unasked.
They strode by a rough column of stone that speared the low ceiling, one of many cluttered within the maze of caverns. The uneven splay of dirt upon the floor played accomplice to the time-worn cylinders, awkward pillars that crafted eerie shadows in the candle’s flickering light.
He inhaled the cool air, infused with the faint scent of tallow. “Once we depart the tunnel, I will take you to friends.”
Her steps at his side slowed. “Friends? Can I not go home?”
His chest squeezed tight. Of course. With her beauty, Cristina would have long since wed. “Worry not, my friends will ensure you are reunited with your husband.”
In the muted light, the flicker of flame exposed her distress. “My hu-husband?”
“What is it?” From the fresh pain within her voice, the stiff set of her frame, he knew.
And prayed he was wrong.
Chapter 3
“The English knights mu-murdered my husband.”
The angst of Cristina’s admission wrapped around Patrik like a blanket thrown, her whispered words but a punctuation of pain. “Saint’s breath, lass.”
She crossed her arms, a defensive measure that shielded naught of the turmoil within.
“When?”
A thick second passed. “Two years ago while Gyles and I slept, the English torched our home. We awoke to crude laughter and the stench of smoke.” She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them, her expression haunted by the nightmares ravaging her mind. “Gyles yelled for me to escape.” She shook her head. “I refused to leave him. As he pushed me from our bed, the English smashed the door and cut him down. So I ran.”
Hatred welled, built upon fury as Patrik imagined her brutal shock at witnessing her husband murdered. Though two years had passed, she’d far from recovered. A fate he well understood.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“After the knights almost . . .” She dragged in an unsteady breath. “My focus is on that of making it through this day. Tomorrow and its decisions will come soon enough.” She turned toward the loom of darkness. “How long will it take us to reach the other side?”
“More than a day.” He lauded her fortitude, courage he’d rarely seen in a woman.
Except for Nichola.
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 name
Dubh Duer
had 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.
“How long will it take?”
The rebel halted and turned. Yellow light cast hard shadows against eyes that saw too much. “We are safe.”
Mouth dry, she yearned for light. Warmth. A sign of life. Not this terrifying blackness that eroded her calm. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I was but curious.”
Curious? The lass was petrified, but determined not to show it. But, as long as they traveled together, she would nae face her demons alone. Patrik turned and started forward.
Hours passed as they trekked beneath the ben. Though he caught her quickened breaths, never did the lass cave to panic.
Rock curved. Ahead, the tunnel sloped down to a narrowed opening wide enough for only a single man to pass. Candlelight exposed time-worn walls smeared in colors of brown and gold and in places hints of red.
“We will need to crawl through,” he said.
“Cr-Crawl?”
He glanced back. In the play of light, her lips grew tight and her eyes widened with fear. “It is the only way through. You can do it.”
Cristina angled her chin. “Of course I can. I was but waiting for you to go first.”
He turned away before she caught his smile. Saint’s breath, the lass was a woman to admire. A waft of fresh air hit him as he knelt, then crawled through the narrow opening. Candlelight flickered in a mad dance. He edged forward, the blackness fading as the dim glow ahead grew brighter.
“I smell fresh air?”
Patrik inched forward. “Aye, we are nearing the center of the ben.”
“The center? Why would we find fresh air so deep within the mountain?”
A smile touched his face as he remembered his first time through the complex tunnels, his shock when he’d reached this cavern. “You will see.”
“See? Our escape is no riddle.”
“Nay, lass, that it is not.” Somber, he pushed forward. The tunnel fell away. He blew out the candle, then stood.
The shuffle of clothing echoed behind him as she crawled. “How can I see when—” She gasped. “Oh my . . . it is . . .” Cristina stood in the soft spray of shimmering light, like a child catching sight of a gift unveiled. “’Tis wondrous.”
The awe in her voice touched him. And as he’d suspected, her fear was forgotten in her wonder at this magical place. “Aye, when I first viewed this cavern, I felt the same.”
“There is . . .” She slowly turned as if to try to take it all in, then halted, her face filled with amazement. “It is as if—”
“As if we have found the secret passage to the Otherworld.” At her frown, he realized he’d spoken aloud of the fey, of things like wishes that he would be a fool to believe in.
“The Otherworld?”
He frowned. The lass was Scottish, her soft burr a testament to her heritage. How could she not have heard of the home of the fey?
At Sir Patrik’s confused glance, Emma froze. With her ignorance of the Otherworld, she’d made an error. The last thing she wanted was to invite doubt. She made her body tremble, then her knees give slightly.
Sir Patrik caught her. “What is wrong?”
With shaky fingers, she touched her brow. “ ’Tis nothing. A wave of dizziness came upon me.”
A grimace tightened his mouth. “’Tis no wonder, after all you have endured this day. You need food and rest.”
Guilt wove through her at his sincere concern for her false claim. “My thanks,” she said, too aware of him, of the strength behind the man, and that for the first time in her life she’d met someone who challenged her on every level. With gentle strength, he guided her forward. However much she wished to break away, she must keep up the appearance of dizziness.
Fragmented rays of sunlight streamed from a fracture within the immense ceiling and spread out in a magnificent shimmer, exposing a huge cavern punctured by spears of rock arching to the ground. Color infused the grand stones, from the deepest brown to a myriad of oranges.
Along the edge of the cavern lay a pool, a mirror to the magnificence, its stillness reflecting an identical image of the immense beauty above.
“The water is warm.”
Sir Patrik’s soft burr rolled over her. She turned to find him standing at her side, and heat swept her cheeks. She was too aware of his presence, drawn to a man who invited naught but danger.
“Warm?” she repeated, the nervousness within her voice very real.
“Natural springs lie below the pool. No one knows the why of it.” Patrik paused. “After this day, you would be wanting to bathe.” In the soft light, he saw that red flushed her cheeks. Embarrassment? Of course. He released her hand, stepped back. “You will have complete privacy.”
The flush on her face grew. “My thanks.”
“Should you need me, call. I will be nearby standing guard.”
Cristina’s expression grew serious. She stared at him a long moment. “I am not sure why, but I believe you will protect me.”
Touched by her words, more so than was wise, he nodded. “Take the time you need. I will set out some food. You will not see me, but I will be nearby.”
“But—”
“Lass, we are both tired and hungry.”
She searched his face. “What about you?”
“Me?”
“This day has been a trial to you as well. You should bathe first.”
He stiffened, disliking the warmth her thoughtfulness infused in him. Too long had passed since anyone worried about him. “I will bathe once we have eaten.” Patrik stepped back.