Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (2 page)
Chapter 2
Rebellious sandy hair framed the eyes of a warrior as Sir Patrik watched her, those of a man confident in his decisions, those of a man who killed without hesitation. The beard shadowing the rebel’s face lent another layer to his dangerous aura, that of a man unbending, a man served many an injustice, and a man who had sent many an opponent to Hades. The blood spilled upon his sword this day but a pittance to the legendary Scot.
Dubh Duer.
A dark hero indeed if half of the legends detailing Sir Patrik’s exploits proved to be true. Emma shuddered at the stories told, at the tales of his complete ruthlessness when he set out to achieve a goal.
Dubh Duer
’s real name had eluded the English, but the man who had hired her, Sir Hugh de Cressingham, King Edward’s treasurer of the English administration in Scotland, was a man as determined as viciously inventive in achieving his goals.
’s real name had eluded the English, but the man who had hired her, Sir Hugh de Cressingham, King Edward’s treasurer of the English administration in Scotland, was a man as determined as viciously inventive in achieving his goals.
After losing many a knight to
Dubh Duer
’s blade, Sir Cressingham had publicly declared he would catch, torture, then kill his Scottish foe, a man other Scots admired, a man whose name was sparking rebellion in addition to that of another formidable Scot, Sir William Wallace.
Dubh Duer
’s blade, Sir Cressingham had publicly declared he would catch, torture, then kill his Scottish foe, a man other Scots admired, a man whose name was sparking rebellion in addition to that of another formidable Scot, Sir William Wallace.
On an attack against another powerful Scot, Sir Andrew de Moray, English knights had captured several followers of the rebellious Highland leader. To Sir Cressingham’s delight, one of the rebels had broken beneath his cruel torture. On the promise of sparing the man’s family, he had revealed with his dying breath that
Dubh Duer
was Sir Patrik Cleary.
Dubh Duer
—a Scot who hid in the shadows, a rebel who had integrated himself with Sir Andrew de Moray and the Bishop of Wishart.
Dubh Duer
was Sir Patrik Cleary.
Dubh Duer
—a Scot who hid in the shadows, a rebel who had integrated himself with Sir Andrew de Moray and the Bishop of Wishart.
Distrustful of the bishop’s loyalty to England from the start, a man who was one of the original Guardians of Scotland, Sir Cressingham had made it his personal task to catch Sir Patrik, as well as unveil proof of Wishart’s perfidy.
King Edward believed Scotland’s resistance was but mindless spurts of resentment, easily quelled, and had turned his attention toward the war with France and the development of the Flemish alliance. The king offered little response to Sir Cressingham’s warnings of Scotland’s growing unrest.
Furious with the English king’s dismissal and learning someone close to the king was smuggling military information to Wishart, Sir Cressingham had employed Emma. Then, he’d learned that the runner used for the covert messages was
Dubh Duer
.
Dubh Duer
.
With gleeful malice, Sir Cressingham had ordered her to befriend Sir Patrik, retrieve the writ he carried as well as discover who was sending traitorous information to the bishop. Once she’d gained the information, she was to ensure the rebel’s capture.
Confident in her abilities, lured by the amount of coin offered, Emma had credited the viciousness of
Dubh Duer
to fable and accepted the mission. She had learned the hard way never to let emotion sway her. After crafting the Scottish name of Cristina Moffat along with her character’s tattered past, she’d used her secret contacts to discover Patrik’s whereabouts. Now, faced with the daunting man whose life she’d chosen to infiltrate, the enormity of Emma’s task slammed home.
Dubh Duer
to fable and accepted the mission. She had learned the hard way never to let emotion sway her. After crafting the Scottish name of Cristina Moffat along with her character’s tattered past, she’d used her secret contacts to discover Patrik’s whereabouts. Now, faced with the daunting man whose life she’d chosen to infiltrate, the enormity of Emma’s task slammed home.
A challenge, but not an impossibility.
She nodded. “You lead, I will follow.” Never must he learn that Sir Hugh de Cressingham had hired her or her true identity. Once Sir Patrik lowered his guard, she could discover where he hid the writ, and with cloaked questions, the name of the traitor to England who’d spawned the missive.
With confidence, the dangerous Scot turned and led her up the steep incline at a brisk pace. They topped the crest; then he guided them toward a large rock jutting from the wash of green.
She stared in disbelief. “We are to hide behind this boulder?”
“Nay.”
Sounds of the English knights moving through the forest grew closer.
The man was mad. “Then where? We will never make it across the field without being seen.”
“We will.” The rebel knelt and parted the sturdy tufts of grass edging the massive stone. A narrow slit appeared. Shadows fell into blackness.
No, not blackness, but a hole large enough for a man to crawl inside. Surprised, Emma looked up. “An entry?”
“Aye, to a cairn.”
A grave site. She swallowed hard. Darkness, enclosed space, weathered bones, and decaying flesh.
“I do not see anyone,” a man’s voice boomed from the edge of the forest.
Sir Patrik caught her shoulder. “Go!”
Emma half climbed, half tumbled into the darkness, the ancient steps having long since eroded into a slide of stone. She refused to think of the uneven narrow walls on either side, blackness so dark it smothered any light, or the press of the earth, a cold welcome for the bodies within.
“Use your hands to guide you and keep moving forward,” he urged from above.
As if it was that easy. Dirt trickled over her. Behind her, in the spew of broken sunlight, she made out Sir Patrik’s half-bent frame.
“Keep moving,” he said. “I will be right behind you.”
Half crawling, she edged forward. When the light eroded, Sir Patrik’s steady voice guided her; her each step into the vat of blackness a major victory. The walls on either side fell away. Emma shoved down her fear as she entered the cavern that held the graves.
The thrum of hooves grew closer, and the ground above began to tremble. Loose rock clattered to the floor.
A whinny echoed nearby.
She whirled, opened her mouth to scream.
Sir Patrik clasped his hand over her mouth. “’Tis the knights approaching.”
With effort, she nodded.
The rebel released his hand.
“They are scouring the field.”
“Aye, prodded they are,” he said, his words rich with pride. “And mad as a badger stuck.”
With their four comrades slain, the knights would be furious. God in heaven, if they captured her and Sir Patrik now, it would destroy the fragile bond gained.
A bond formed only after weeks of careful planning.
Anger touched her that the men involved had died. She’d weighed all of the factors, had plotted out the specific details of the supposed rape. Like her, the knights who’d volunteered for this task had believed the chance of harm slight, the dangers ahead hers to face.
And they’d all been wrong.
Sir Cressingham would be furious when he learned of the loss of his men, but no more than she was at herself. She prided herself on her expertise, on the skill that those who hired her paid well for. However much she’d prepared, she’d underestimated Sir Patrik Cleary. A misjudgment she wouldn’t make again.
Emma started forward.
“Hold, lass.”
She stumbled to a halt, steadied herself against a rock; her hand was shaking. Focus on the mission. Naught but that mattered. “What is it?”
“I am going to take the lead.”
Frustrated at her wash of emotions, she smothered the upsetting thoughts, the kernels of feeling that made a person weak. She backed against the cool rock. Well she knew the choice in war, the risks taken, as had the knights.
The rebel edged past her, the hewn muscles of his body brushing her arm.
Warmth swept her.
She gasped, moved aside.
He reached over, caught her. “Do not fear me.”
At his soft burr, another burst of warmth swept through her. No, not warmth, awareness. Heart pounding, she froze, stunned. When he’d jumped into the clearing to rescue her, of all the descriptions she’d received, none had prepared her for the impact of the man.
Emma quelled her nerves. Did she not thrive on the tasks others feared? Did she not rush forward when others would retreat? She held not the weakness of caring, or believing that anything but her own decisions guided her life. Too many years had passed since she’d entertained the notion of believing in others.
Or given a damn.
Warm flesh slid over her hand. She tried to ignore the strength in Sir Patrik’s fingers as they curled around her palm. He believed he aided her. With her hatred of closed-in places, in this he did. But no more.
“Come.” He tugged her forward.
“The grass is flattened over here,” a distant voice called with anger.
Hooves rumbled above.
“They will catch us!” she whispered.
“Nay.”
“How can you be so sure? Our footprints on the grass will be seen and followed.”
Ahead of her, Sir Patrik halted. “Wait.” He released her hand. Stone grated. With a grunt, the scrape of stone again fractured the silence.
“What are you doing?”
“A tunnel lies beyond. When they find our entry, we must be within and the entry secured.”
A rebel hideout? A detail she would pass on. “How long is it?” She allowed nervousness to ride her voice, needing him to believe unease inspired her question, which in part was the truth.
“Worry not. I will lead you through it.” Dirt and small stones clattered into the distant opening. Sir Patrik hauled her forward.
A tremor slid through Emma as she half tumbled after him. She refused to think of the spiders or rodents inside, and whatever else lived within this blackened crypt. Thank God they would soon be out of the mind-numbing blackness.
“Wait here,” Sir Patrik whispered.
Stone scraped; he was closing the entry.
Leather padded against earth. Cloth shifted as he moved beside her. His body’s heat enveloped hers. “Say naught.”
“Do you see anything?” a muted voice called from the other side.
Emma jumped.
Patrik laid a calming hand upon the lass. Even if the English searched the burial mound, they would find nothing but stones and the bones of those once loved.
The knights knew naught of the secret rebel passage, a tunnel hewn through the earth into a maze of natural chambers leading to the other side of the ben. By the time he and the lass had reached the northern exit, the knights should be far away, and once he’d left her with friends in a nearby village, he could return to his mission.
He touched the writ secured beneath his tunic and again cursed their delay. Too many lives lay at stake for him to fail.
“Sir Patrik?”
At the fear in the lass’s whisper, he set aside his worrisome thoughts. “’Twill be fine.” He drew her against him, found her shaking. After the horrific events of the day, she would be in shock.
Although the situation was dangerous, he tread upon familiar ground. Too well he knew the twisted entertainment of the bastards. Anytime he drew English blood ’twas a day to celebrate.
Men’s voices on the other side of the stone grew louder.
She stiffened against him.
“They have but entered the cairn,” Patrik whispered to offer assurance.
“They will see where you have slid the stone.”
“Nay. The entry to the tunnel is well hidden. After a quick check within the blackness, they will believe that if we indeed hid inside, we remained but a short time.”
Long moments passed. The murmur of angry voices echoed from the other side, a muted curse, grumbles of dissent, then finally, blissful silence.
Patrik released a sigh.
“They are gone?”
“For now. When they find no other tracks leading away, they will return. By then, we will be long gone.” And the rebels’ secret passage would remain safe from English eyes. He hesitated. After saving the lass this day, would she expose the escape route? Under the circumstances, he believed not. Still, he would watch her.
Patrik released her and stood. “Wait here.”
“What are you doing?”
“If the knights return with torches, I must ensure that any trace of our passage within the cairn is erased.” With quick, efficient movements, he slid his hands up the wall until he felt the candle and the mound of dried grass placed there. He withdrew his dagger and flint. In seconds a flame sprang to life. Patrik lit the wick.
Yellow light from his candle flickered, then grew in the blackness, exposing the time-worn walls, the layer of uneven dirt around them and the tunnels beyond.
She gasped. “There are numerous tunnels.”
“Aye.” He smothered the fire, then replaced the remaining tinder for future travelers. “Anyone entering must know the route or they will become lost.”
Beneath the flickering light, her face paled.
“Do nae worry, lass. I am well familiar with the passages.” She appeared far from convinced. “Stay here. I will be but a moment.”
He shoved the stone aside, quickly retraced their steps and swept away any sign of their passage. Thankful to have finished the task, he slid the stone into place.
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