Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (14 page)
She drew back. “That should please you, not cause you upset.”
“If only it was that simple.”
“I do not understand.”
Neither could he explain. To tell her what she made him feel would only make the parting more difficult. “Once we arrive, I will ensure you are taken to wherever you wish.” He paused, his heart heavy. “I doubt we will see each other after.”
“I hear them talking again, Mommy.”
“Outside with you,” Marie whispered. “Pick me some fresh flowers.”
After a dramatic sigh, the creek of the door echoed. Except for the soft steps of Marie, silence fell below.
Patrik stroked his fingers through Cristina’s hair and gave her a tight smile. “If only we had such problems as the little lass.”
She nodded, her gaze cautious.
He fisted his tunic in his hands. “As much as I long to stay, it is time we depart.”
“You are not angry at me?” She hesitated. “I should have asked before I searched through your clothes.”
“Nay, there is much on my mind.” However much he wished to find peace, a niggling of doubt remained.
“I shall miss you,” she said.
The anguish in her voice matched his own. He drew her to him for a long kiss, savoring her softness, the taste uniquely hers. “I will miss you greatly as well.” More than he could ever admit. He nuzzled her neck, drew the tip of her breast into his mouth and tasted her one last time. On a groan he set her aside. “Get dressed, lass.”
Devilment glittered in her eyes as with seductive slowness, she lifted her gown, held it beneath her breasts, framing what he’d tasted, savored throughout the night.
He clenched his teeth. “Hurry, lass.”
If possible, her movements slowed, the mischief in her eyes assuring him she was well aware of her effect upon him. She drew on the gown and left the ties hanging loose, her body half shielded, half exposed to his view.
Bedamned! Hard as a rock and aching with need, he caught her and tossed her beneath him.
As he pressed his body atop hers, a chuckle escaped her. “What are you doing?”
“You tease,” he whispered.
“I tease you not,” she whispered.
As if her claim or the yearning in her voice bloody helped? He gave her a solid kiss, wanting to rip away her gown and drive deep. Through sheer effort, he restrained himself.
“On with you,” Patrik growled as he rolled free and tugged on his tunic, aware he’d be hard all day with thoughts of her.
With a wistful smile, she finished donning her gown.
Moments later, his blood still pounding hot, Patrik descended the ladder. Cristina’s every movement, her every shift above him drove him insane.
“You said last night you would leave at first light,” Marie added after they’d reached the dirt floor and had exchanged good mornings. She set a bundle wrapped in cloth on the table. “It is dried meat and bread for your travel.”
“My thanks,” Patrik said.
“Will you be breaking your fast with us before you go?” Marie asked.
“Nae,” Patrik replied. “But ’tis thankful we are for everything you and your husband have done.”
Heart pounding, Emma placed her hand within Patrik’s. “I add my thanks as well.”
“If you both are ever this way again,” Marie said, “our door is always open.”
“Aye,” Fergus added as he stepped to his wife’s side.
“That is very kind of you,” Emma said.
“If you would,” Marie asked, “please tell Joneta good-bye. ’Twould break her heart if you left without seeing her.”
Unbidden, tears burned Emma’s eyes. “Of course.”
Marie smiled. “The lass has a way about her that steals your heart.”
“She does. I will miss her.” Emma steadied herself, shaken to find her words true. Throughout her life she’d made sure she never cared, but since meeting Patrik, all her barriers lay crumbled. After she left, could she ever rebuild her emotional walls?
Overwhelmed by emotion, unsure of anything, Emma stepped outside and found the sun creeping over the horizon. A light coat of dew clung to the grass. Purple light glinted off each blade, giving the field a magical glow, the air fresh and cool.
Against the wisps of sun peering through the leaves, she caught sight of Joneta sitting upon the hill, near the trees shielding the crosses.
Heart aching, she glanced at Patrik. “I will be but a moment.”
“We must hurry.”
“I know. I will not be long.”
The rich scent of earth filled her each breath as she walked through the sway of moisture-laden grass, the lush blades streaking moist trails against the hem of her gown.
Emma cast a covert look at Patrik. Though he’d apologized to her, had responded to her teasing, she’d come to understand he thought things through long and hard. He’d mull over his suspicions, allow them to stew in his mind.
Thank God she’d hidden the leather tie within her hand, then had withdrawn it as if it was just found. She could not linger further. Somehow, in the next few hours she must take the writ and escape.
Guilt overwhelmed Emma. After making love to Patrik, could she steal it? Did she have any other choice? If she failed to secure the writ, she would be living on the run and in fear of her life.
The ground curved up. As Emma neared the trees, the soft hum of the child reached her, and a smile touched her mouth.
Her head bent in concentration, Joneta held several dandelions as she continued to pick more, their sturdy stems clasped within her hand, the doll dangling from beneath her other arm.
An image Emma would cherish forever. She halted several paces away. “Joneta.”
The little girl turned. Happiness blanketed her face. She jumped up, the flowers flopping in her hand. “Look what I picked!”
“I see.” She met the child halfway and knelt before her. “They are beautiful.”
Her smile widened as she held them out. “They are a surprise for you!”
Emma struggled to keep from breaking down as she drew the girl into a hug. “My thanks. Never shall I forget you.”
Joneta stiffened in her arms.
Confused, she leaned back, surprised by the girl’s frown. “What is wrong?”
“What is that?”
She turned. A flash of light glinted across the field along the dark shadows of the trees. Emma stilled. God in heaven, they were not shadows, but knights. From the standard, English.
Heart pounding, she stood, glancing to where Patrik awaited her near the crofter’s hut. The lower ground prevented him from seeing the threat. If she yelled, she would alert the knights they’d been seen.
“Do you know what that is?” Joneta asked naively.
Trembling, Emma took the girl’s hand. “Let us show your mother the beautiful flowers,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “She will love them. We must hurry before they wilt.” She started forward at a brisk pace. Please God, let them reach the crofter’s hut before the English attacked!
“Look over there,” the little girl said as they started down the hill, “it looks like knights.”
“So it does.” She kept her voice calm, kept moving. “We must tell your father.”
Joneta skipped at her side. “Do you think they are nice men?”
The thrum of hooves sounded from across the field.
The knights were heading for the crofter’s hut! “Patrik!”
He spun toward her.
“English knights!” Emma pointed. “Across the field!”
Patrik withdrew his sword, waved her back. “Take Joneta and hide!” He sprinted toward the hut.
“Come.” Fear whipping through her, Emma led Joneta back up the hill toward the wall of trees.
The pounding of hooves battering the earth grew.
The little girl began to cry. “I want to go home.”
At this speed, they would never make it to the forest. Emma caught Joneta by the shoulders. “We must hide. Your parents would want that. Do you understand?”
Tears streaked the child’s face, but she nodded.
“Good, now run!” The thunder of hooves increased, drowning out the slam of her heart against her chest. She glanced back. Flames shot from the thatched roof. The bastards had set the hut on fire! Why? Fergus and Marie had done nothing to them in the past but given them food and water.
She made out Patrik and Fergus taking cover behind a wagon. Where was Marie?
The flames on the roof grew, arching into the sky as more crawled down the home’s sides.
Fury built atop fear as Emma pushed forward. The line of trees rose before them. If they made it to the woods, she could hide Joneta.
The contingent closed in on the hut. She scanned the knights. Twenty men. Patrik and Fergus were vastly outnumbered.
Wet blades of grass slapped against their feet. “Keep running,” Emma urged.
“My legs hurt.”
“I know.”
The knights in the field below widened their line and guided their horses into a wide arc.
They were forming a maneuver to attack!
A shout echoed across the field. Two knights were pointing at her and Joneta.
God in heaven, they’d been seen!
The two men broke from the line and galloped toward them.
“Hang on!” Emma lifted the girl and ran.
Hooves pounded behind them. An arrow streaked by, drove into the soil a pace away.
Joneta screamed.
Another arrow flashed past, lodged in a nearby tree.
They weren’t going to make it! Emma set the child down. “Run. Hide deep in the woods. Whatever happens, do not look back!”
Tears streaked the child’s face. “I do not want to leave you.”
“Go!” At her command, the girl stumbled back. “Hurry!”
Joneta turned and fled, the legs of her doll bouncing beneath her arm.
Furious, Emma reached for her knife as another arrow hissed by. She might die, but damn them, she would hold the knights off until Joneta hid.
Joneta’s scream had her whirling.
As if in slow motion, the young girl slammed against the ground. Her gown flew into the air, then it crumpled upon the still form.
“Joneta!” Emma ran to her.
The child lay still.
A scream caught in her throat as Emma stumbled to a halt. God, no! From the folds of cloth covering the girl’s body rose the shaft of an arrow.
Chapter II
Cristina’s scream ripped through the air.
Heart pounding, Patrik whirled. He searched the knoll where the two knights who had broken off from the contingent had ridden—straight toward Cristina and Joneta.
The knoll lay bare.
Were they dead? After witnessing Cristina’s skill with a blade, he clung to the belief they lived. He glanced toward the tufts of sod that covered a hideout belowground where Marie lay. If only time had allowed Cristina and the child to run back.
The rumble of hooves slammed against earth as the main contingent closed on them.
He peered through the weathered wood slats, cursed. The wagon he and Fergus hid behind would buy them seconds at best.
A flaming arrow shot past, sank into the crofter’s hut. Dark smoke belched around them. The thatched roof, which had been set ablaze moments ago, now shuddered beneath the greedy flames. Sparks rained through the air, the stench of soot and growing heat suffocating.
Several more arrows whipped by.
Against the swell of smoke and the screams of the knights, Patrik readied his sword. “When they are within two lengths, I will take one with a dagger, then use my sword.”
Fergus nodded. “As I.”
That accounted for four of eighteen. Nae, he’d not think about the odds. If he died, ’twould be slaying the bastards.
Hooves pounded the turf like belches of thunder. The line of English knights neared.
“Ready?” Patrik called.
Fergus lifted his dagger. “Aye.”
An arrow lodged a handsbreadth from Patrik. Another drove into the wagon. Shadows of the approaching men flickered across the slats.
“Now!” His weapons held tight, Patrik rolled away from the wagon. He sprang to his feet, aimed, then threw.
The closest knight tumbled from his horse.
With a war cry, Patrik angled his sword, charged.
Another knight, but paces away, whirled his mount.
Patrik lunged forward, swung. Steel echoed with a violent scrape. He angled his blade, drove it through the man’s heart.
Shock rippled across the man’s face. On a gasp, he tumbled from his mount.
Wild-eyed, the knight’s horse reared.
Patrik caught the reins, swung onto its back, reined hard to face his next aggressor. Pain seared his back. He slammed against the mount’s withers. Another blade from behind sliced into his left shoulder and his vision began to blur.
A knight rammed his horse, shoved his boot into Patrik’s face.
Pain shattered Patrik as he tumbled off his mount, slammed against the ground. Body aching, he reached for his sword.
A harsh grin carved his latest enemy’s face as he dismounted several paces away. The knight dropped his reins, raised a hand to the others who had approached.
“Finish off the other Scot,” the knight ordered. “I will dispatch this wastrel.”
The arrogant bastard! With a war cry, Patrik wiped away the blood smearing his vision and shoved to his feet. His body shuddered.
“Away with you, you dung-fouled cur,” Fergus yelled at the knights attacking him. Steel scraped. A grunt sounded.
From the corner of his eye, Patrik caught a knight stumble back, drop. Another man less. He focused on his attacker.
The Englishman charged.
Patrik met his assailant’s blade, twisted his sword. Before the man could break away, he shoved the knight back.
Fury darkened the warrior’s expression as he regained his balance. The knight surged forward, his blows merciless.
Patrik met his swings, each impact taking its toll upon his already exhausted body. Heat from the burning building scorched his back, the smoke clogged his throat. At the next assault, he deflected the man’s blow—barely.
Another drip of blood smeared his vision.
Bedamned, he’d not give in. Muscles screamed as he angled his blade toward the knight, swung. Honed steel wedged against bone.
The other man’s face shifted from pain to fury. Nostrils flared as he again lifted his blade.
A horn sounded across the field.
The knight glanced to the west.
Patrik followed his gaze. Stilled. Saint’s breath, another contingent rode across the field.
The English knight cursed.
Through his blurred vision, Patrik made out the Earl of Grey’s standard. ’Twas Seathan, his brother!
“To arms!” the knight before him roared. The knight shot Patrik a furious look. “I will be back to finish your sorry arse.” He bolted to his horse, swung up and kicked his mount to join his men, who were forming a line.
Patrik stumbled after him.
“Charge!” the English knight ordered. Dirt flew as he surged forward.
The thunder of hooves of the attacking rebels grew to an ear-thrumming barrage. At the first clash of steel, Patrik turned. He spotted Fergus lying on the ground and staggered over.
“’Tis rebels coming,” Patrik said.
His body a mass of cuts and bruises, Fergus turned to where Marie hid. The turf lay untouched. “Thank God.” Worry sagged his face as he scanned the knoll. “Joneta?”
“I will find her.” Patrik prayed she, as well as Cristina, lived. He nodded. “Go to your wife.”
The Scot started to stand, collapsed.
Patrik caught Fergus, his battered muscles rebelling at the extra weight.
On shaky legs, the Scot pushed himself free. He stood, barely. “Find Joneta. I—” Fergus muttered a curse, his haggard face roughened as if aged ten more summers. “—I must know.”
“Aye,” Patrik replied, understanding the other mans’ fear. Even with Cristina’s skill, well he knew the odds of finding either of them alive.
In the field echoed the familiar scream of horses, clash of blades and men’s curses. The lust for battle sang on his tongue, the urge to run into the melee, to drive his blade into another English bastard’s heart.
But if he tried, having lost too much blood and barely able to stand, he might well bleed to death before he ever reached the fighting. However much Patrik wanted to join the MacGruders, in his weakened state, he’d be more a hindrance to his brothers than a help.
And seeing a man alive they believed dead would give them pause. In the thick of battle, hesitation invited death. He blew out a breath. Seathan and his men outnumbered the English. His meeting with his brothers would come soon enough.
Patrik focused on the knoll. He must find Cristina and the girl.
Dizzy, exhausted, and his muscles rebelling with each step, he forced himself up the hill. Halfway up, the grass before him blurred. Gasping for breath he halted, his shoulder sticky with blood, the headstones in the distance a dark omen. He clenched his teeth and shoved forward.
Atop the hill, through the roll of grass, a flicker of clothing caught his attention. No, not clothing, but a body.
Cristina!
He ran, ignoring the pain, the jab of rock into his boots, how each uneven mound of dirt threatened to take him down. The clash of battle in his wake melded with the pounding of his blood, the scream of steel rang in cadence with his fears.
Several paces away, through the smear of blood and sweat, he made out English colors. Chest heaving, he stumbled to a halt. ’Twas one of the two knights that had ridden toward Cristina. The dagger she carried was embedded in his throat. He glanced down. The man’s sword was gone!
Through hazed vision, he scanned the grass and brush lining the edge of the forest.
Nothing.
Bedamned. Where was the other knight? Had he rejoined the others, or, furious she’d taken his comrade’s life, had he chased her down and killed her? Nae, she’d taken the dead knight’s sword.
A chance they lived existed.
Heart pounding, Patrik pushed forward.
Near the edge of the trees, red stained a rock.
No! Patrik stumbled forward.
Over the top of a fallen tree lay another body.
Throat tight, he rounded the weathered stump. Saint’s breath, ’twas the second knight, the other man’s sword embedded in his chest.
Tears of relief burned his eyes. His body shook, and he clasped a twisted root angling up, fought for balance as he absorbed the enormity of Cristina’s singlehanded act.
Distant screams merged with the clang of steel. A Scottish war cry tore the air.
Heart pounding, Patrik turned. Seathan’s men were making quick work of the English. Thank God. Now to find Cristina and Joneta.
Body aching, he wove forward. How far had they gone? Was either injured? Please let the impossible have happened, that neither be harmed.
Despite the blur of pain, adrenaline kept him moving. The forest rose up before him. He stumbled into the shadows, fighting to stay conscious.
“Cristina!” His feeble call echoed into the woods as if a poor jest against the battle raging beyond. “Cristina!”
Shadows clung to him as he entered the forest, the sodden leaves smearing the drips of blood staining his tunic.
“Retreat!” someone shouted in the distance.
Patrik turned. Through the breaks in the trees, he caught flickers of the English knights fleeing toward the opposite side of the field.
A war cry rose as several of Seathan’s knights gave chase, the rebels fading into the sea of green. The remainder of Seathan’s contingent cantered toward the burning home where Patrik had left Fergus to aid his wife. His brother would ensure they were well tended.
Patrik turned, shoved away a limb.
A child’s whimper echoed ahead.
He pushed forward. “Cristina?”
“Patrik?”
The relief in her voice soothed his ragged emotions. He stumbled forward.
From behind a thicket, she stood, Joneta in her arms, an arrow shaft extending from the folds of the child’s clothing.
God no! “Joneta?”
“Is fine.” With the child cradled against her, Cristina walked from the brush, tears streaking through the grime and smear of blood upon her cheeks. “When I first saw her, I-I thought the same. The arrow hit the doll’s wooden chest.” A weak smile wobbled on her lips. “Joneta would not let her go.”
“Mama,” the child whimpered.
Cristina pressed a kiss upon the girl’s brow. “’Tis fine.” She sent Patrik a questioning glance, her fear easy to read.
He nodded. “They are alive.”
“Thank God. I—” Her face paled. “You are hurt.”
“A wee bit.”
She shot him a scowl. “’Tis more than a bit. I will tend to you once we return to the cottage.”
“It is gone.”
The stark emptiness of Patrik’s words impaled Emma. Heartsick, she stared through the trees, where smoke swirled in heartless abandon as flames devoured this family’s home. Despite war and tragedy, happiness had bloomed there.
Until now.
All her life she’d known emptiness and hurt; she’d learned to bury her emotions deep, to forbid herself to feel or care. But Patrik had changed that. Now, ’twould seem the storm of emotions he’d unleashed would consume her, strip away her well-built defenses.
Emma clutched the child tight. The man she loved was wounded and bleeding, a family destroyed. Her anger grew. Fergus and Marie had given the English naught but water and food. Their payment, destruction of their home.
Tears burned her eyes, but she pushed them away. This was war. What the English delivered this day but a token of what her betrayal of Patrik would bring. At thoughts of her vow to Sir Cressingham, nausea swirled in her gut.
Joneta buried her face against Emma’s neck, the child’s tears hot against her skin. “I want Mama.”
“I know.” At least the girl’s parents lived. Joneta didn’t yet understand that family was the greatest gift, a treasure neither time nor money could buy. Emma knelt and set the girl before her on a moss-coated rock. In a deft move, she removed the arrow from the doll and handed it back to the child. “We will take you to—”
The thrum of hooves rumbled. Branches cracked.
Emma looked back. She swept Joneta into her arms. “More knights!”
Patrik took in the oncoming riders. His body relaxed. “’Tis the rebels. We are safe.” But as the riders closed on them, his face paled.
If they were safe, then what was wrong? “Patrik?”
“Say naught,” he whispered.
On edge, Emma set the child down. “Joneta, go behind the tree. Hide there until I tell you to come out.”
“Nae,” Patrik said, pain edging his voice, “she is—” He blanched, pressed his shoulder. “—in no danger.”
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