Chapter 7
Cristina shook her head.
Furious she’d deny what existed between them, Patrik caught her mouth in a demanding kiss. When she finally kissed him back, he pulled away, his blood pounding hot.
“Regardless of what either of us wants, this
is
about us.” He spun on his heel, strode up the narrow path and muttered a curse. Aye, he should have said naught. She was right, he could offer her nothing, a fact that grated upon him.
Throughout the day, he kept their pace steady. The roll of the rugged terrain was demanding, the summer heat forcing them to halt to refill his water pouch in nearby streams many times over.
Hours later, the rough path they followed narrowed, the slide of land to his left making the way treacherous but not impossible. Once they passed this narrow gap, naught except a field lay between them and his friends. After he explained the situation to them, he’d immediately depart to deliver the writ.
A fact he’d withheld from Cristina.
The slap of the impending loss stunned him. Focus, lad. Now is not the time to be thinking of the lass, or of what never can be.
An overhang of trees shaded the path ahead, the shadows a cool relief from the late afternoon sun. Wind tumbled in the forest as sunlight spilled through the leaves like gemstones.
A quiet thump sounded nearby.
Patrik halted, held up his hand.
“What is it?” Cristina asked as she worked to catch her breath.
He scoured the trees and rocks ahead. “I heard something.” He gestured to a clump of bushes. “Hide behind them. Once I am sure no one is about, I will return.”
She hesitated. “Be safe.”
“You worry for me?”
A blush touched her cheek. “Mayhap.”
He caressed his thumb across the smear of dirt upon her chin, too aware of the day’s passing, the short time left before he must depart and never see her again.
On a sigh he dropped his hand. “Go.”
She gave a solemn nod, then slipped into the thicket.
Patrik took in the sky, the wash of orange smeared by hints of red. Soon the sun would set. If someone was up ahead, he needed to hurry while he could still see.
Accompanied by the rattle of the leaves, he crept forward.
A low murmur echoed ahead.
Were the bloody English holed up for the night? Or was it his brothers, who knew these hills and might be on a rebel mission?
Regret squeezed his chest. If his brothers indeed lay ahead, however much he wished to see them, he would take Cristina and backtrack to another route. He refused to allow her to witness what surely would be an angry confrontation.
Angry? Nay, after his trying to kill Alexander’s wife, Nichola, his brother would want him dead.
This time for good.
With one last glance at where Cristina hid, he edged closer. Limbs shivered above him, the rich scent of earth and forest thick in each breath.
A horse snorted in the distance. Another man’s voice reached him, this time closer.
Patrik scanned his surroundings. In the distance, he caught the outline of a man hidden within the fold of trees. Blast it, he couldn’t make out whether the guard was friend or foe. He knelt. Using the brush as cover, he crawled forward.
Firelight flickered ahead.
A sinking settled in his gut. No Scot would dare light a fire. Several paces closer, he peered through the shadow-dredged leaves.
In the clearing a campfire burned. Cast in the flicker of yellow light, he made out several English knights.
Blast it. Of course the bastards would make camp in the open, a fire of no concern. They believed the rebels but a few Scots, easily quelled. They knew naught of Bishop Wishart’s secret orchestration of events, of his covert meetings and correspondence with skilled strategists such as Andrew de Moray and James Stewart, or of the bishop’s garnering of support for Wallace.
Patrik counted ten men. Too many for him to kill in a charge. Neither did time allow him to wait and take them out one at a time. The only way around the knights was to backtrack. That was the reason the Englishmen had chosen this position on the trail, to prevent any rebels from moving past.
Patrik scoured the darkening skies. Some ways back lay another trail. It would take them leagues away from his friend’s home, but closer to reaching the bishop.
On a muttered curse, he crawled back. At a safe distance, he stood and ran. As he neared where Cristina hid, she stepped from the bush. As always, her beauty stole his breath.
“What did you find?”
“English knights are camped ahead. I saw one sentry and suspect there are others positioned about.”
She rubbed her thumb over the tips of her fingers. “What are we going to do?”
“We will take another route.” He paused. “You will have to remain with me.”
“I see.”
But he heard the worry she tried to hide. He took her hand. “I had not meant to keep you with me. ’Twill be dangerous.” However much he wished her safe, a part of him cherished the extra time they would have.
He carefully led them back, using the last of the light to follow the path. As they made their way around a massive boulder, he caught sight of four English knights striding up the path. He grabbed Cristina, covered her mouth and pulled her behind a tree.
“English knights,” Patrik whispered.
“You there,” a deep voice boomed. “Step from the trees.”
Mayhap they had only seen him.
Cristina turned to him.
“Come out, now!” a rough voice demanded.
The bastards wouldn’t touch her, he vowed. But with the knight’s demand echoing around them, ’twould be moments before the other men at the campfire heard the commotion.
Patrik signaled for her to remain, freed his blade and stepped into the clearing.
The English warrior closest to him shot a glance at the tree. “There is another.”
Blast it, he’d seen Cristina. No, mayhap in the gathering darkness, he believed a man hid there. “We seek but to pass through.”
The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever hides within must come out.”
Bedamned, once they saw Cristina, they would want her. He tightened his grip upon his blade. The bastards would never touch her. Against four, surprise was his only hope. Before the knight closest to him realized his intent, Patrik sank his dagger deep into the warrior.
On a gasp, the knight stumbled back as he withdrew his blade, his legs collapsing beneath him.
Withdrawing his sword, Patrik turned. Blades clashed. Patrik cursed each scrape, each echo of steel.
A knight strode toward where Cristina hid.
No! Patrik drove his sword deep in the closest Englishman’s chest, yanked, and whirled to meet the next attacker. With two quick stokes, he delivered the man to his fate. As the knight slumped to the ground, Patrik kicked the injured man back, bolted to head off the warrior striding toward the boulders.
Steps pounded in his wake.
As Patrik started to turn, the injured knight tackled him from behind. His sword clattered to the ground near the knight’s weapon. Fury drove him forward, the primal urge to protect Cristina burning his mind.
“Come out,” the fourth man ordered as he neared the trees.
Patrik slammed his fist into the injured knight’s face, kicked him away, then grabbed his sword and jumped to his feet.
In the murky light, Patrik caught Cristina emerging from the shield of trees. Bedamned! “Get back.”
She held, her focus riveted on the guard.
The knight bore down on her.
Damn her, she was going to get herself killed!
The knight was but two paces away, yet she held. “Leave her!” Patrik yelled.
The warrior spun toward him.
Thankful, Patrik raised his blade and willed the lass to hide.
“Patrik, behind you,” Cristina warned.
He whirled as the injured knight he’d kicked away charged. In a deft maneuver, Patrik rounded his blade, served him a deadly blow. He turned.
The knight towered over Cristina, blade raised.
Panic ripped through him, the distance between him and the knight was too great. “No!”
As if in slow motion, the knight attacking Cristina glanced at Patrik.
With the knight’s back toward her, Cristina raised her blade and drove it deep with methodical precision.
The knight’s eyes flared in shock. He stumbled forward, collapsed. Face twisted in agony, he clawed at the dagger shoved in his lower back, a location skilled warriors used for a quick, sure kill.
What in Hades? Patrik lifted his gaze.
With stunning control, Cristina walked forward with a calm step and withdrew her blade, its tip slick with the man’s blood. She turned toward Patrik, and stilled.
Their gazes clashed. Hers dark, unreadable.
The entire event had taken mere seconds, her action delivered with deft sureness. She’d never faltered, never betrayed the terror she must feel.
He opened his mouth to ask her what the bloody hell was going on.
A branch cracked. The angry sounds of men echoed in the distance as well as the pounding of steps.
The English approached! He secured his weapons as she stowed hers. He caught her hand. “Run!”
The slap of leaves whipped him, the tangle of stones threatened to take him down as he hauled her alongside. He pushed on, using every wisp of light to guide them, Cristina on his heels.
The sound of the men’s steps echoed behind them as if a curse.
Gasping at his side, Cristina began to falter. At this pace, it was only a matter of time before the knights caught up to them.
They started up the next incline. In the dim light, a shield of brush and boulders rose to their left.
Patrik pulled her up the incline, helped her hide behind the largest rock. “Do not move.”
Pulse racing, Emma caught the shadows of the English knights racing down the path.
“They went this way,” a man yelled.
“How can you be sure?” another snarled, “I can barely see.”
“We will split up,” the first man said. “Sir Henry, take four of the men and follow the path south. They could not have gone far.”
Footsteps echoed as the men hurried past, then the slap of leather upon earth faded.
Silence echoed like a tomb as the events of moments before replayed in her mind. She’d meant to stay hidden. But when she’d peered out and saw the knight striding toward her, she’d exposed herself with the intent of distracting the warrior to give Patrik time to finish off the other three knights. But the knight had come too close, the bloodlust in his eyes assuring her of his intent to kill her.
Then, the other knight had attacked Patrik, and she’d been left without a choice. Her years of being a mercenary had taken hold. No thought, pure reaction.
Except, she’d never meant for Patrik to see.
Questions. He would have them. How could he not? He’d witnessed her killing a man with deft precision. How would she answer them?
Patrik shifted at her side, his dagger ready if they were discovered. Little did he know that with her honed skill, her blade was just as lethal.
Slowly, his body relaxed. “They are gone.”
Unsure what to say, Emma remained silent.
He glanced over. “Are you well?”
“Yes.”
“We must remain hidden until the knights have returned to their camp,” Patrik whispered, “then we will backtrack and take a different path.”
His body vibrated with tension, and she could well imagine the questions in his mind. It would behoove her to dictate the direction of their discussion.
“I learned to handle a knife as a child.” Her quiet words fell into the night, the moon slipped into the sky, filling the forest with an eerie glow.
“I did not ask.”
“I know, but I need to explain.” She found his acceptance of her more important than she would ever have believed. “Growing up in an orphanage teaches a child many things about life, including the dangers.”
“Who taught you how to handle a blade with such skill?”
“Father Lawrenz.”
“A priest?”
“He was worried about me.”
Patrik turned toward Cristina, finding only hints of her face within the shadows. “What happened to cause a man of God to teach you to wield a blade?”
Silence grew around them, broken by the cry of a distant owl. “Few care what happens to an unwanted child. The safety of those cast within an orphanage is but an illusion.”