Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (10 page)
The image of Cristina as a child came to mind. A girl without a family, without anyone to love her. She’d found salvation within the teachings of a priest.
In his youth, Patrik had had his family, his early years rich with warm memories. And when his own family was murdered, he’d known the love and support of the MacGruders, men whom he had once called brothers. But Cristina had known naught but cruelty and loneliness.
And soon, he too, like everyone else in her life, would leave her to fend for herself.
Still, the image of her sinking the dagger into the knight’s lower back haunted him. Few held such expertise with a weapon. A priest may have taught her to use a knife, but Patrik wondered whether a man of the cloth had imparted such skill.
He took in the woman before him, a woman who at every turn proved herself not the person whom he believed her to be. But then, she knew not the truth about him either. Whatever her secrets, he doubted they could be as dark as the actions of
Dubh Duer
.
Dubh Duer
.
Chapter 8
With a seasoned eye, Patrik scanned the blackened path beyond the trees. The moon offered but meager wisps of light.
“We have seen no one in a long while,” Cristina whispered.
“Aye, but no doubt they have left guards hidden along the path. The question is, how many and how far down? However arrogant, the English are not fools.”
“No,” she replied, her voice on edge, “though their methods are at times crude.”
Fury trembled through him. She referred to her rape. “I would not err in underestimating the English, but neither will I or other rebels allow them to take a country that is ours.”
“And how will you or the other Scots stop them? King Edward’s army is tremendous.”
Sadness echoed in her words, revealing the exhaustion of a woman who had endured too much.
“Tremendous mayhap,” Patrik agreed, “but an army without a heart.”
“And what of the Welch archers and their infantry reinforcements? Many Scots, those who have not pledged fealty to King Edward, are poorly trained and fight out of sheer determination.” She shook her head. “And more. ’Tis not merely a formidable army the rebels face, but deception within.”
“You speak of whom?” he asked, surprised by her claim as well as her knowledge of English defenses.
“The Earl of Carrick. Rumor has it that the rebels’ hope of him becoming their future king may be in vain, for he is considering abandoning Scotland’s cause to again swear his fealty to King Edward.”
Anger brewed at her mention of Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick. “No matter the whispers, Robert Bruce’s heart is true to Scotland.”
“And this is shown how, by the numerous times Lord Carrick has switched his loyalties to whichever country he perceives has the most to offer him?”
“Strategy is Lord Carrick’s strength. Though he is the rightful claimant to the Scottish crown, ’tis denied him. So, he engages in becoming Scotland’s king as if playing a game of chess. With our forces severely diminished, he considers whether it is prudent to lie low within the enemy camp.” Despite his explanation, Carrick’s behavior ate at Patrik like a festering wound, and was the reason he and other Scots supported William Wallace, a man whose loyalty to Scotland never wavered, regardless of danger.
“By the many times Robert Bruce has switched his support between England and Scotland,” Cristina said, “I doubt the English king believes in Lord Carrick’s loyalty.”
“Indeed,” Patrik agreed. “And that is the reason the king no longer appoints Lord Carrick to oversee anything of great importance.” Again the lass surprised him with her understanding of Scottish politics, but her sincerity and the frustration in her voice assured him she struggled with Robert Bruce’s decisions as much as he.
“So why would King Edward make such a pretense of accepting Lord Carrick’s fealty? Why has he not charged Robert Bruce as a traitor and order him hanged?”
Patrik scanned the moonlit sky, then their surroundings for any sign of the English. “With Lord Carrick a strong competitor for the Scottish throne, such a bold move might invite greater dissent toward King Edward. Many of the Scottish nobles have sworn fealty to the English king under duress. Longshanks accepts Lord Carrick’s fealty to keep an eye on him.”
“Longshanks—I am unfamiliar with the term?”
Unfamiliar? How? ’Twas a nickname known by many a Scot. He blew out a sigh. Having lived on her own, she must have missed the term. A fact at odds with her insight on Scotland and England’s political state; her knowledge was enormous compared to most commoners.
“The name is given to the English king because of his height.”
“Not too pleasing a nickname.”
Though she spoke quietly, he heard her nervousness. Why? “There are others the English king has garnered, but they are unfit to speak before a lass.”
“That I can believe. Though King Edward tolerates Lord Carrick, I doubt he would find such leniency for Sir Wallace.”
Patrik gave a rough laugh. “Aye, with the disruption Wallace has served the English king, if our rebel leader was ever captured, King Edward would make an example of him.” A shudder rippled through him. “A day I pray never comes.” Seathan, his oldest brother, was a trusted advisor to Wallace, and courted danger by the mere connection.
“How long do you think Wallace can evade the king?”
“Until Scotland is free.” A question popped into Patrik’s mind. “Where did you hear that Robert Bruce is again considering swearing fealty to King Edward?”
Though Patrik had asked with ease, Emma caught the dangerous curiosity beneath his question. Curse her tired mind. What he must never learn was that she’d acquired the fact while she was briefed for her mission by Sir Hugh de Cressingham.
Unease shuddered through her. Her meeting with the treasurer of the English administration in Scotland seemed as if a lifetime ago. A time when her heart lay dead and her greatest desire was to face the next challenge. A mission that would bring the coin that allowed her to exist.
But, in a few short days, because of Patrik, everything had changed.
“A week ago, I entered a tavern to buy some bread and smoked meat,” Emma lied, hating every word. “Several English knights were at a table nearby, drinking and talking loudly. Not wanting to draw their attention, I kept to the shadows. I overheard them boasting that Robert Bruce was again considering abandoning the rebels.”
Patrik remained silent.
Did he believe her? To remain here would only allow him more time to think, and her more time to slip and reveal something to further raise his suspicions.
She rubbed her arms as if chilly. “Will we be leaving here soon?”
He hesitated. “Aye. We will remain near the path, but I dare not use it.” He stood. “If you see or hear anything, tap my shoulder.”
Relief swept over Emma. Each foolish slip was minor, but if Patrik began to piece them together, he might begin asking more questions, requiring answers she could never give. Worse, if he learned Sir Cressingham had hired her, Patrik would believe their lovemaking was naught but another tool to deceive him.
Ashamed her deception had tainted the intimacy between them, she reminded herself that if he learned the truth, Patrik would use every means at his disposal to find her.
And he would soon discover the Scottish woman named Cristina Moffat didn’t exist.
However much she wished to remain with Patrik, she could not linger. This night, once he’d fallen asleep, she would take the writ and leave. After she met with Sir Cressingham and passed him the writ, along with information she’d gleaned, she could wash her hands of this damnable situation.
God in heaven, she’d made a fine mess of it. However much Patrik made her feel, never could she forget he was a man who had given his heart to the Scottish cause.
Coldness swept through her as she pushed aside another branch. “How far will we go tonight?”
“A bit more. We cannot risk traveling to my friends. This detour has gained us a day’s time together if not more.”
She glanced at him. “Where are we headed?”
“A rebel camp.” Patrik kept his answer vague. She would be safe while he met with Bishop Wishart, and his friends would keep an eye on her.
That he believed it necessary to have her watched left him restless. She was a stranger, a lass he’d known but days, despite the bond that had formed between them.
If they’d shared naught but sex, he could have dismissed it, but the lass had given him her trust. He’d witnessed her discovery as he’d touched her, her genuine surprise as she’d fallen apart, which confirmed what she’d shared about her life. Many a woman could act, but a lass could not fake her body’s first time.
Her body’s first time?
Nay, not her first time with a man, but her first time with a lover who cared.
Nay, not her first time with a man, but her first time with a lover who cared.
A rock shifted beneath his foot and the earth gave away. He grabbed a limb, caught himself from slipping back.
“Patrik?”
“I am fine.” ’Twould teach him to be mulling over the lass. He scanned the sky. The moon loomed overhead. “We have traveled a fair distance west and should be well away from the knights, but we will continue a ways farther. I will take no chances.”
“Do you think the English forces we came across were sent to search for us after they found the four knights you killed when you rescued me?”
“Mayhap.” But he suspected another reason. In preparation for the main English force pushing northward to seize Stirling Castle, smaller bands of knights were being sent ahead to weaken the opposition. Then, when the main force arrived at the castle gates, the Scots would have naught but the fortress walls and rations as their defense.
And as Cristina had noted, with Welch archers in tow, if the Earl of Surrey led the knights up to the drawbridge, the walls would be burned if not destroyed. This was the reason rebel forces must turn them back at Stirling Bridge.
A sliver of moonlight cut through the forest, weak against the stubborn darkness, but enough to outline the shadows of exhaustion lining Cristina’s face.
The angst churning inside him softened. “We will rest, and then continue tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“To our right is a large boulder, the top flat.”
She studied the mix of shadows and light. “’Tis a long drop from the cliff.”
“Aye, but height gives us the advantage to hear anyone approaching.”
“And to see their outlines in the moonlight.”
He nodded, impressed by her calm. After this day’s strife, most women would have shuddered at the idea of remaining in the wilderness. Then, most women would not have been able to kill a man with such skill.
“Come.” Somber, he strode toward the swath of stone. At the flat expanse, he cleared away any foreign debris. “Without a blanket, we will be cold.”
“At least it is not winter.”
“True.” He paused. “And we can use each other’s bodies for warmth.”
“’Tis a possibility.”
The sensual heat in her voice made thoughts of the knights and this day’s confrontation slide away. He walked over to her and stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“I am going to miss you, Cristina Moffat.” He’d expected a soft smile, a look of tenderness, not for her to try to pull away. He held her against him, suspecting the reason. “You think of your husband.”
She stiffened.
“Your husband is dead, that I cannot change. And I regret that my words made you think of him. It was not my intent.”
“I know.” Her body sagged. “I am tired.”
And troubled, still haunted by memories of her husband. He could tell by the sadness within her eyes when she believed he wasn’t watching. How would it feel for a woman to think of him so, for a woman to long for him, and when the time came, to mourn his passing?
“Cristina, look at me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she turned.
He stroked his thumb along her moonlit cheek. “Two years have passed since your husband’s death. You cannot live in the past forever. It will steal the time before you and strip away the happiness yet to be found.”
A lesson he’d learned only after his brothers believed him dead. A death he’d allowed them to believe was real. A fitting penance for his attempt to kill his brother’s wife, Nichola, when her only crime was that of being English. If only he could take back that day.
For too long he’d allowed his hatred for the English to taint his life. Through the months as he’d recovered, he’d had time to think, time to regret.
A sad sigh spilled from her mouth. “Do you believe anyone truly finds happiness?”
He thought of his parents, the remembered laughter of his youth. “Aye, but you do not?”
“ No.”
The simple conviction within Cristina’s reply disturbed him more than if it’d held vehemence. Questions of how much her husband had truly loved her resurfaced. The more Patrik learned, the more he was convinced her marriage had been crafted for protection, her tenderness toward Gyles that of appreciation, not love. The thought pleased him.
“Tell me about how you met your husband?”
At Patrik’s question, Emma tensed. “I do not want to speak of him.” An understatement since there was no
him
.
him
.
“It has been two years since he died.”
Heart pounding, she struggled for words. What should she say? Already she’d made up more than she could keep straight.
He sat on the stone, drew her to sit beside him, and then guided her head against his chest. “I wish to know.”
“If it was only so simple.”
She recalled a beggar on the streets nearby the orphanage in her youth, a man who had one day disappeared. Not disappeared. Murdered. The fact that his body had never been discovered meant one of two things. The killer had been crafty, or most likely, no one cared enough to try to find him.
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