Chapter 5
Saint’s breath! With his blood pounding hot, the haze of need still searing his blood, Patrik pulled away, grasped the leather-bound parchment and shoved it out of sight.
Cristina sat up and glanced toward where he’d stowed the writ with a frown. “What is that?” she repeated.
“’Tis not of your concern.”
Hurt etched her face. “I see.”
She didn’t, but that could not be helped. Well he knew of his responsibility, the importance of his delivering the writ to Bishop Wishart. He’d lost over a day of travel, time he could ill spare, but he had no regrets.
He held out his hand. “We must go.”
She ignored his offer, stood. Leaves and twigs littered her hair and if possible, made her more alluring. “Please, tell me what is going on.”
Silence.
“Patrik?”
Her soft plea prodded him further. ’Twas his penance for kissing the lass. What had he been thinking? Nay, thinking was exactly what he hadn’t been doing. If he had, he would have led her away untouched. Neither did her taste lingering in his mouth help a wit.
“Come.” Patrik turned and headed north.
The rustle of leaves echoed as she followed. “What is in the bound leather?”
“Leave it.” He despised the coolness of his tone; his anger was at himself.
“Have I somehow upset you?”
He spun on his heel.
Cristina halted, her face pale, at odds with her lips swollen from his kiss.
God, how he wanted her. “I should not have touched you. ’Twas wrong.”
Her brow dipped in confusion. “What does your kissing me have to do with the missive?”
“Naught.” He drew in a slow breath, released it. “I am making a mess of this.”
She hesitated. “You did not enjoy kissing me?”
Blast it. “Nay, lass, I took great pleasure from the kiss. Far too much.”
“As I.” Wariness crept into her eyes as she cast a glance toward where he’d stowed the leather-bound document. “Are you wanted?”
Patrik gave a rough laugh. “As a rebel, aye. Longshanks wishes my head upon a pike.”
Red slashed her cheeks. “I—”
“Cristina, the missive I carry is of great import. Should it fall into the wrong hands”—he shook his head—“God help us all. ’Tis why I must see to your safety posthaste. As long as you are with me, you are in danger, more than you could ever believe.”
“Is that why you were nearby yesterday when the knights almost . . .” Her breath hitched and she looked away.
Patrik turned her to face him. “I will protect you.”
Emotion swamped Emma at his selfless offer of protection. Sir Cressingham would be pleased. ’Twould seem she had earned Patrik’s trust, a necessary accomplishment to fulfill the remainder of her task.
“Your vow is unnecessary,” she said.
“I wish I could do more.” He pulled a twig from her hair, tossed it aside. “But you cannot matter to me, lass. I have secrets, more than those within the document I carry. I can make no promise to any woman. Yet with you I have. More unsettling, I find no regrets in my heart.”
She ached at his tenderness. He spoke from his soul, while she wielded naught but lies. “I ask for no promise.”
A sad smile touched his face. “Not with words, but I see the question in your eyes.”
She tossed her head, a move for a role played, and despised her deception. “’Tis arrogant you are.”
“Am I?” He stroked the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Tell me, lass, do I matter naught to you?”
Her carefully chosen words fell away. “Patrik—” “Blast it. My feelings cannot be of import. I have a duty.”
As did she, but her role as a mercenary lay in shameful tatters. Somehow, within the tangle of a day, they’d connected far beyond what she could have ever imagined. Their troubled pasts, both blackened by tragedy and horror, had bonded them in a way that breeched their defenses.
Emma remained silent as he turned and strode forward. Patrik didn’t understand ’twas her he would hate. No, hate was too kind a word. After their kiss and supposed exchange of trust, he would curse her to Hades and bid her soul burn for an eternity.
Regret churned within. She had given her word to complete this mission. If she were to walk away, Sir Cressingham’s fury would know no bounds. A cold and vicious man, he would find her, whatever it took. For the rest of her life, she would be on the run.
In silence she followed Patrik, trying to lose her worries in the blur of green, the rich scent of forest etched with pine. Flickers of sunlight lit the path ahead, lending innocence to this day.
Innocence? As if she or Patrik could pretend such.
The rush of water echoed in the distance. With each step the tumble increased until it was a thunderous roar and the air grew heavy, rich with the taste of moisture.
As they rounded the next bend, several large boulders came into view. Mist hung above the stone, embracing the time-worn rock in a slick sheath.
Emma shielded her eyes as she looked up. “A waterfall ?”
“Aye.”
Intrigued by the vertical rush and the cloud of resultant mist, she moved to his side. “How long will it take us to walk around?”
“We will not.” He stepped up on the nearest boulder, held out his hand.
Emma hesitated.
“Do you trust me?”
Did she really have a choice? Emma laid her hand within his, savoring his touch, wishing her reason for being with him was different.
“Watch out, the rocks are slippery.”
With care they picked their way up the slick tumble of rock, over the tree limbs daring to weave amongst the rough stone.
“Hold on.” He hauled her onto a ledge.
The roll of white below collided with the black, the angry churn potent in its force. “It is magnif icent,” she yelled into his ear.
Patrik gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then led her toward the massive downpour. Water sloshed near her feet and mist billowed around her like a cloud. With her in tow, he moved parallel to the rushing water, then angled toward a smaller curtain. He halted and lifted a nearby thin, flat stone the size of a cauldron and held it over their heads.
“Hold on,” he shouted.
Was he insane? They would be washed over the side! “I—”
He tugged her with him as he stepped into the spewing rush. Water pounded, muted all but her panic. She closed her eyes as she stepped forward and braced herself to be swept away, to plunge down the sheer cliffs to her death.
Instead, with his grip steady against hers, her foot settled upon dry stone. Pulse racing, she opened her eyes. Water poured before her in a thunder of white, a powerful curtain racing past.
“It is the back of the falls!” she yelled with delight.
A smile widened his face. He nodded and set the flat stone aside.
Emma turned. Sunlight poked through the edge of the falls, the mist splintering the light into a rainbow of colors that splashed upon the jagged rock. She laughed out loud. It was truly amazing.
And another rebel hideout.
The magic of the discovery fell away.
Ignorant of her turmoil, Patrik led her toward the back of the gouged rock to where the pound of water echoed as but a soft rumble. “We will rest here for the night. In the morn, we will depart on the other side. We should reach my friends before the sun sets.”
“So soon?” Embarrassment touched her face.
Patrik remained silent, finding himself conflicted about reaching their destination. The hint of shadow against the waterfall’s soft color was a reminder of the oncoming night, the last one he and Cristina would share.
With a somber expression, she scanned the surrounding stone. She stiffened. “Someone else has been here.”
He followed her gaze. Charred remains of a fire lay near the back of the cavern. Patrik walked over and with his boot, nudged the coals.
Red flared within the embers.
On alert, he set down his pack and withdrew his sword. “Wait here.”
Cristina nodded.
He crept along the path leading to the other side of the falls. Bedamned. He was so caught up in the lass, he’d neglected to ensure the pathway behind the falls was safe. Only the rebels knew of its existence. Still, ’twas foolish to let down his guard.
After a thorough sweep of the entire hideout, he was confident no one was about. “Whoever built the fire is gone.”
Worry carved her face. “Do you think they will be back?”
“I am not sure. The only ones who know of this place are the rebels. If anyone should return, it will be a Scot.”
She shot a nervous glance at the opposing entry.
“Trust me.”
Emerald green eyes settled upon him, then softened with belief. “I do.”
Warmth touched him at her faith in him, and he found himself wishing she could be more to him than a brief interlude, another desire he must allow to pass.
“Come,” he said, “I have more oatcakes.”
“You are a man prepared.”
“Always.” Except she didn’t smile at his teasing, but watched him, her chestnut hair mussed, her tattered gown worthy of a beggar. To him she looked beautiful.
“While you were away, I found this within the ash.” She held out her hand. A length of carved wood lay on her palm.
With a frown, Patrik lifted the whittled, smooth length of wood into his hands. Where feathers had once existed, there were naught but charred lines.
“’Tis the remainder of an arrow.” He started to toss the useless shard into the embers, then hesitated. Cut into the shaft, a thumb’s length apart, sat two notches. The technique seemed familiar. Indeed, he knew many a Scot who crafted arrows and left his unique mark upon each.
“What is it?”
“Naught I—” Saint’s breath, ’twas Duncan’s arrow, the notches Alexander’s brand.
Pain rolled through him as he stared at the charred fragment. Time rolled back to when he and Duncan had followed Alexander to the loch near Lochshire Castle. Concerned for a man he considered his brother, he and Duncan had watched him from behind several bushes.
After ensuring Alexander needed not their help, Duncan had produced a bottle of wine. While Alexander had gone for a swim, they had stolen Alexander’s clothes. Hidden and with their minds blurred by drink, they’d convinced Alexander he was surrounded by the English. A fact he’d believed, until Duncan had shot an arrow nearby and Alexander had recognized his brand within the shaft.
The same two notches carved into the charred wood cradled in his fingers.
He glanced toward the other entry. Was Duncan still nearby? And what of his other brothers?
“What is wrong?”
Patrik tossed the arrow into the coals. “We need more wood.” Unable to shake the unsettled feeling, he turned and walked away.
Emma noted his stiff gate. As he rounded the corner, she took a stick and freed the half-burned shaft. She cradled the warm wood within her palm. From his reaction, this fragment belonged to someone he knew. It would belong to another rebel, so why would that leave him upset? At least the arrow didn’t indicate a woman.
Wood clattered nearby.
She started, glanced to where he stacked the wood. “I did not hear you return.”
Patrik remained silent as he knelt before the warm coals, his face taut. With care, he inserted moss, twigs, and other dry tinder. Then, he leaned close and gently blew upon the embers. Red flickered, dimmed to black. He blew another steady breath at the center. Embers glowed beneath the gray ash. Moments later, a wisp of smoke sifted through the moss. A flame ignited.
With care, Patrik fed the fire, small bits at first, then angled limbs that would easily catch, and finally, larger pieces that would burn the entire night. On a sigh, he sat back.
She settled beside him, his tension palatable. “You recognized the arrow shaft?”
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
Emma hesitated to push him, but something important had just occurred. She set the charred length before him. “This person means something to you, do they not?”
For a long moment, he remained silent. Then, fingers trembling, he picked up the carved wood and set it within his palm.
A part of her regretted the pain the memories invoked. God in heaven, look at her, allowing emotions to affect her mission? Shaken, she fought to deal with the realization that somewhere in their time together, Patrik had become too important to her, even more than her mission.
“Who does the arrow belong to?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Hard eyes, eyes like a wounded animal, met hers. He tossed the charred wood into the ash. “My brother.”