Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (17 page)
“You planned to kill her?”
“Aye, and almost succeeded,” he admitted, needing to cleanse his soul of his sin. It was important that Cristina and his brothers understand the reason behind his actions. He shifted, gasped at the slap of pain. Sweat broke out on his brow, and he wiped his forehead. “I had but caught up to her when Alexander found us. When I threatened Lady Nichola with a knife, he dove on top of me.”
Her eyes widened with shock. “Your brother tried to kill you?”
At the thrum of hooves, he glanced over to see Alexander drawing to a halt before them. Patrik nodded, faced Cristina. “Alexander was protecting Lady Nichola, a woman he loved. During the fight, my dagger fell to the ground, wedged against a rock. As we grappled, I rolled onto the blade.”
“So that was the reason your brothers believed you dead,” she whispered. Cristina shook her head. “How is it you lived?”
“A fact I would be curious to know also,” Alexander said as he dismounted.
Patrik met his brother’s hard gaze. “The guard sent with my body to Lochshire Castle that day was loyal to me. I must have moved, groaned, something to alert him that I lived. Through the pain, I knew naught of where he rode, nor did I care. Thankfully, I fell into blackness. Later, when I awoke, I learned I was at his cousin’s hut. The guard explained he’d dug and filled a grave, then informed everyone it was mine.”
Alexander grunted. “And believing our man loyal, neither I nor Seathan nor Duncan, thought to question his words.” His mouth tightened. “Where is he?”
“Riding beneath Sir Andrew de Moray’s colors.”
Alexander grunted. “And that is where he should stay.”
Patrik said no more. To Alexander, the Scot had betrayed him, even though his act had saved Patrik’s life. Well he knew Alexander’s ability to carry a grudge. Would his brother ever truly forgive him? Did he even deserve such absolution? Unsure of anything, he shoved to his feet. Pain screamed through his body, and his legs threatened to give.
Cristina scrambled to his side, caught his arm in support. “What are you doing? You must rest until we depart.”
“Which is why I am here.” Alexander glanced at Cristina, his face hard. “You are to ride in the wagon with the woman and child.”
Instead of backing down, she held her own. “With the graveness of his injuries, Patrik should travel there as well. If space is short, I will ride.”
Alexander scowled. “You will not be given your own horse.”
The hardness within his brother’s words set Patrik on edge. “Cristina, go help Marie and Joneta stow the last of their belongings.”
She hesitated. “Patrik—”
“Go.” Patrik nodded. “All will be well.”
Doubt flickered on her face. With a final cool glance at Alexander, she headed to where Marie was packing her belongings into a wagon.
Several long seconds passed. Alexander crossed his arms. “An interesting lass. She claimed you saved her from English knights.”
“Aye. I came across the bloody bastards about to rape her.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “Did you kill them?”
“Aye.”
“Good.”
For a moment, a sense of camaraderie settled between them, a taste of the bond he wanted back.
“Cristina deserves not your anger,” Patrik said. “She sought to protect me when she believed you a threat.”
“She did.” His brother’s eyes hardened. “To let you know, had I wanted to kill you a year past, the deed would have long been done.”
“Yet you allowed me to live.”
“A decision I still question.” Alexander hesitated. “I know not if I can find forgiveness for you.”
Emotion scraped Patrik’s throat. He nodded.
Silence stretched between them.
“Do you trust her?”
“Trust her?” Patrik frowned. “An odd question.”
“Mayhap, but one you chose not to answer.”
His lingering doubts tumbled through his mind: her skill with a blade, her calm during a fight, her search through his belongings. “’Tis not an answer simply given.”
“You bed a lass about whom you hold doubts?”
“Bedamned!” Patrik stepped toward him, wove. He clenched his teeth as he fought to maintain consciousness. “Had I my full strength, I would knock you on your arse.”
“You would try.” Tiredness etched his brother’s voice, at odds with the challenge. He rubbed his brow. “Once you had healed, why did you not return to Lochshire Castle?”
At the reminder of his home, guilt swept Patrik. How many times had he wondered the same? “And if I had, would you have forgiven me, accepted my apology?”
Alexander blew out a harsh breath. “Nay, I would have tried to kill you.”
“And now?” Patrik asked. “Here I stand before you and admit I was wrong.”
“I am thinking.”
However much he admired Alexander’s honesty, it pointed out the chasm between them. But he had to try to bridge it. “Your anger at me is no more than I feel for myself. The months of lying in pain allowed me time to think, to realize the grave wrong I had committed against Nichola, against you and my family.” He swallowed hard. “I stayed away not out of fear, but because I could nae understand how you would ever forgive me. I doubt I can ever forgive myself.”
Alexander scanned the field where the men had begun to mount. “I find I need time to decide. As for Nichola”—he faced Patrik—“whether she forgives you is not for me to decide.”
“Fair enough.” And more than he could have ever hoped for. Patrik shifted, and his fingers bumped against seasoned leather. The writ! In the mayhem of the day, incredibly, he’d forgotten. “Alexander, I must reach Bishop Wishart immediately.”
“Bishop Wishart, why?”
Patrik withdrew the leather-encased writ, stained by dirt, weathered by moisture. “I must warn him that de Warenne is preparing to rejoin forces with Cressingham before the end of July.”
His brother’s face blanched. “God’s teeth, it cannot be.”
“I was stunned by the news as well. I believed little could pry de Warenne back to Scotland.”
“’Tis not what I meant.”
“What?” Patrik asked, confused by the look of sheer disbelief on his brother’s face.
“’Tis why we are here.”
None of this was making any sense. “The bishop sent you to meet me?”
“Aye. Nay.” Alexander shook his head. “By my sword! Before the bishop surrendered to the English, he deployed a runner to Seathan, saying that he’d sent you on a dangerous mission, and expected your arrival along with the fact that you would be carrying important news. The bishop instructed Seathan to intercept you before you reached Roxburgh Castle.”
Terror sliced through him. “Wishart is in English hands?”
“Aye, he surrendered as well as Robert Bruce and William Douglas.”
“God no,” Patrik whispered. “What are we to do?”
Somber eyes held his. “Take this information to Wallace as the bishop instructed.”
His mind spun a thousand thoughts. Then, an odd one fell to the fore. “Wait, you said you did not know I lived?” Patrik asked, even more confused. “Yet Bishop Wishart penned my name in the writ to Seathan?”
His brother grimaced. “Aye, a name he wrote, but ’twas not Sir Patrik Cleary.”
Unease trickled through Patrik. He lifted his gaze to his brother’s assessing one. “And what name did Bishop Wishart use?”
Cobalt eyes pierced him.
A long second passed.
“Dubh Duer.”
Chapter 14
The creak of wood accompanied each rattle as the wheels of the wagon stumbled through another rut. Emma caught the side of the weathered wood, her other hand upon Patrik’s shoulder to lessen his jolt. Fractured moonlight spilling through a thick layer of clouds exposed the whiteness of Patrik’s face.
The pace Lord Grey had set was grueling despite the thick of the night. With English knights soon to return to where their troops lay slaughtered, the rebel lord’s move was prudent. Emma certainly did not wish to remain and risk any of Sir Cressingham’s returning knights recognizing her.
She laid her palm across Patrik’s brow, frowned when heat met her touch.
“How does he fare?”
At Sir Duncan’s voice, Emma turned. Carved within the swath of moonlight, the brother she’d learned was the youngest rode within a hand’s pace of the wagon.
“He is finally asleep, but his skin grows warmer with each passing hour.”
Duncan frowned as he scanned his brother sprawled atop the bundled clothes. “We are but a few hours from Lochshire Castle. Until we arrive, ensure he has plenty of water.” He nudged his mount into a canter, headed toward where Lord Grey led his men.
She prayed they’d soon arrive. With Patrik’s loss of blood, he’d continued to worsen throughout the night. Each passing hour nursed her fear, and his delay in responding to her questions stoked it further. Duncan’s earlier announcement that they’d sent a man ahead to alert the healer to their arrival underscored his concern.
Gently, she angled Patrik’s head up. Emma held the water pouch against his mouth, helped him take several sips. With care, she laid him back, then sagged against the slats. Each turn of the wheel, each creak of the wagon, fed her nerves.
In the distance, wisps of purple etched a subtle outline of the mountains around them as they continued to climb.
Dawn.
Please God, let them reach Lord Grey’s home soon. Emma stilled. What was she thinking? She didn’t have the luxury of remaining to tend to Patrik. She must escape before they entered the MacGruder fortress.
The writ!
Torn between duty, abandoning her mission and being on the run the rest of her life, she glanced around.
Marie slept near the front of the wagon, Joneta curled against her side with her thumb tucked into her mouth. Fergus rode ahead with Lord Grey’s men. Aside from the knight leading the horses that pulled the wagon, no one else rode nearby.
With ease, she could slip away with the writ before anyone noticed. Guilt swamped her at the thought of stealing the missive from Patrik’s limp body. She should be relieved. Had she not worried about how she would retrieve the document?
But with her feelings for Patrik running so deep, the taking of the writ meant betrayal. As if revealing the rebel tunnel beneath the mountain to Sir Cressingham or the hideout behind the falls did not offer the same?
The wagon jerked, rumbled on. Clouds severed the shards of moonlight and the struggling dawn, casting the forest into an ominous abyss.
Queasy, shrouded in darkness, Emma pushed to her knees. Did she truly have any other choice? If she remained, once Patrik learned the truth, he would hate her.
Hand trembling, hating herself for this damning act, she reached toward Patrik’s tunic to where she’d seen him slip the document beneath.
He groaned.
She pulled back. Another shaft of moonlight flickered through the forest, making his outline a shadow against blackness. God in heaven, why was she hesitating ? He was unconscious; ’twas not as if he was going to catch her. She again reached out, again hesitated.
Emma fisted her hand. She hated this feeling of helplessness, of not wanting to hurt Patrik. But she must retrieve the writ now and escape. Once they were inside Lochshire Castle’s gates, a healer would remain by Patrik’s side and any opportunity to claim the missive would be lost.
Damn the entire situation! Refusing to think further, she lifted Patrik’s tunic. Fingers trembling, Emma slid her hands beneath.
It wasn’t there.
Impossible! She had seen the writ yesterday. With gentle fingers, she again probed the woven fabric.
Nothing.
Possibilities raced through her mind. In the heat of battle, the fight with his brother, Lord Grey carrying Patrik to the wagon, or any number of events after, the writ might have slipped free. If so, had someone found it? Mayhap, one of the brothers? Regardless, it wasn’t here.
Now what? She glanced to where tender fingers of purple-edged light caressed the trees. No time remained. She must leave without the writ.
In silence she gathered the few items she would need. The dagger at her thigh weighed heavy, the water pouch secured around her waist more so. Emma wiped a tear from her eye. She was not abandoning Patrik. Sir Duncan had declared they would arrive soon, and a nurse waited to tend him.
Guilt had her glancing back. “I am sorry, Patrik. I can never be what you want.” Heart aching, she leaned forward, pressed a kiss upon his mouth. “I love you.” Before she changed her mind, she crept toward the rear of the wagon.
“Going somewhere, lass?”
At the gruff accusation in Sir Alexander’s voice, Emma stilled. She’d been so caught up in her decision, she’d not heard him riding up. Pulse racing, she slowly turned.
Eyes, hard and accusing, watched her from beside the wagon.
“I . . .”
“Go on,” he urged, his demand ripe with suspicion. “’Tis an explanation I find myself curious to hear.”
Each clop of hooves upon earth echoed as if a sentence of doom. She fought for calm. “Sir Duncan informed me we would soon reach your home.”
He arched a skeptical brow.
Think!
“I was gathering my few belongings before we arrived.”
“I was gathering my few belongings before we arrived.”
He snorted in disbelief. Hints of dawn exposed the hard angles of his face, the shadows lending a ferocious appeal to an already intimidating warrior. A man who by his actions reminded her so much of Patrik.
However much Sir Alexander cursed Patrik, he loved him and would protect him with his life.
The ball of fear inside softened. “If possible,” she said against the backdrop of jolts and bumps, “I wish to stay with Patrik as he recovers.”
“Aye, you will stay with us, lass. As for exactly where, that is another matter.”
Emma edged back to settle next to Patrik, refused to let Sir Alexander see her fear. “He is unconscious.”
“He will be tended to.” Shrewd eyes studied her. “I know not what game you play, but know this, ’tis dangerous.”
“I play no game.”
“That I believe. Whatever you are about,” he said, his burr deep, “’tis very real.”
She struggled for calm. He suspected that she’d tried to slip from the wagon.
Long moments passed. With the flare of his nostrils, Sir Alexander gave her a dismissive look, then continued to ride alongside the wagon, a harsh set to his jaw.
Emma glanced to the other side of the wagon where Joneta and her mother slept. A fool she’d been for allowing her heart to make her linger. No more. At the first opportunity, she would escape.
Once the Scots discovered her true identity, nothing would save her. Not even Patrik’s self-professed feelings.
In the gray-smeared morning sky a soft mist began to fall. An air of expectancy built, a foreboding of something immense. The path before them narrowed, either side framed by dense, light-smothering pines. The clop of hooves echoed around her. The trail grew steeper, angling, carving its way up as if ascending to the heavens.
A gentle breeze whispered to life. The scent of wild herbs filled the air, a potent, clean aroma that rolled through her every breath. Through the gloom within the dense forest a break appeared.
The wagon creaked forward, hesitated as it moved over uneven ground. As they climbed higher, the dense swath of trees split like a door opening.
Her breath caught and Emma could only stare. Below, an immense lake curved within the time-worn land, its shores shrouded by lush green and the hills surrounding it clothed by the dense forest. At the southern tip jutted a peninsula. Forged upon its sturdy strip, a castle rose in proud defiance. A castle that could have been taken from the pages of King Arthur. A castle that could protect as well as imprison.
Drizzle saturated the air and clouds hung low, the dismal setting adding an ominous intensity to the landscape below.
Apprehension swept through her. It was easy to imagine Lord Grey ruling these unforgiving lands, a man backed by his brothers, rebels who cultivated their own brand of respect.
When she’d first met Patrik, she’d thought him intimidating, a man unlike most. Now, she realized his wit, strength, and intensity had been honed by his family. He belonged in this ruthless land, was hewn from its soil, its blood.
Whereas, she belonged nowhere.
Somber, she took in the single road. The only way in.
Or out.
Movement upon the distant wall walk caught her attention. Guards making their rounds, guards who ensured the castle’s protection, who would ensure she did not escape.
Coldness slipped through Emma, and she rubbed her hands upon her arms.
“’Tis Lochshire Castle,” Sir Alexander stated.
Emma stiffened. “’Tis magnificent.” And intimidating—a fact he well knew. She scanned the hewn walls, quarried stone that had taken enormous effort to haul to this strategic location. “It appears of Norman influence.”
He grunted. “You have a good eye. Indeed, ’twas crafted by the Normans, and passed through the generations since.” Pride etched his voice, that of a man backed by family, a man who knew his roots.
Roots at odds with the emptiness she called her life. She settled near Patrik, wished for a taste of such a bond. No, with the mire of her life, the deceit and the lies, such a dream was impossible.
“Are we almost there?” Joneta asked, the girl’s voice groggy with sleep.
Marie sent a tired look toward Emma, then brushed her daughter’s cheek with a tender hand. “Aye.”
As if she were a colt trying out its newfound legs, Joneta shoved herself up and peered out. Eyes wide with excitement, she turned to Emma. “Look, a castle!”
Emma forced a smile.
“It is so huge!” The girl all but danced in the wagon. She scanned the thick woods. “Are there dragons?”
“No dragons, lass,” Sir Alexander replied, the gentleness of his voice catching Emma by surprise. If asked, she would have doubted a gentler side to this fierce knight existed. ’Twould seem his terse manner was reserved for those he did not trust.
On edge, she laid her hand upon Patrik’s brow. Sweat coated his face, pale with hints of a fever. Thank God they would soon reach a healer.
The crest of the hill grew smaller as they traveled down the steep slope, the trees of the forest giving way to fields. At the rough grate of wheels upon stone, she braced herself, aware they traversed the causeway to Lochshire Castle.
“Cristina?”
At Patrik’s gravelly voice, Emma glanced down. Hazel eyes, drugged with pain and exhaustion, watched her.
Her chest constricted with the love this man inspired. She slid a stray lock from his brow. “How fare thee?”
“My th-throat,” he whispered.
“Here.” Water sloshed as she helped him take a sip.
With a cough, he pulled away, dropped his head against the cloth-tied bundle. “How far un-until we reach Lochshire Castle?”
“So you are awake then,” Alexander said.
At his brother’s voice, Patrik turned his head. He grimaced. “So it would seem.”
Alexander grunted. “Sleep and a meal will serve you well.”
They would, but at the moment, neither was his biggest concern. “Nichola will be there.” The words stumbled out, but Patrik needed to say her name, prepare himself for the upcoming meeting, her justif ied anger.
Alexander’s mouth tightened. “Aye. My wife will not be expecting you.”
Nor any other within Lochshire Castle. Everyone believes me dead.
Alexander stroked his mount’s neck, cast his brother a speculative look. “Duncan has married since you left.”
Duncan was married? “Who?”
“Lady Isabel Adair.”
“But she left him a week before they were to wed. Duncan swore . . .” Patrik closed his eyes, fought against the throbbing in his head, then opened them. “Makes no sense.”
“It should not. But then, trust Duncan to step in the muck and come out as if a candlestick polished. A story I will let the lad tell you.” Alexander hesitated. “You should know, Seathan has taken a wife as well, an English noble. She is a fine lass, one I would give my life to defend.”
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