Authors: Diana Cosby
His Destiny (5 page)
The moment shifted.
The blackness surrounding the meager flicker of flame seemed to embrace them, to heighten the fact they were very alone. The golden shimmers of light caressed her face, lured him to trace her skin, to sample the lush fullness of her mouth and discover whether it would fulfill its silent promise. He could all but taste her, a potent sensuality that beckoned him for more.
Unsettled by his musings, Patrik stepped back. “Rest, I will be nearby.” He strode off, damning his amorous thoughts.
As Sir Patrik’s figure faded in the darkness, Emma exhaled. What had just happened between them? Nothing. Everything. She’d witnessed his desire, an emotion the warrior stirred within her as well.
God help her, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Since her rape at twelve summers, never had she yearned for a man’s touch. But something about the Scot made the horrific memories fade, left her wanting.
Go to sleep. Leave him be. ’Twas safe.
Yet, he was hurting, tormented by a past he, too, had weathered. A past he believed her ignorant of. Emma stood, needing to talk to him, to help him. Not because of her mission, but because he was a man who under different circumstances she might have called friend.
Friend? Laughable truly. She made not friends, only contacts.
Or enemies.
She turned from the candle toward where Sir Patrik had faded into the gloom. Gathering her courage, she walked into the darkness. Her eyes slowly adjusted. Within the faint spill of candlelight, she caught hints of shapes within the cavern.
A soft splash echoed in the distance.
She caught the rebel’s faint outline. He sat upon a boulder, his feet dangling in the water.
Loneliness. It radiated from him as if a man sentenced. A feeling she knew too well. A feeling her harsh comments had inspired.
In silence, she walked over and sat.
He stared straight ahead. “You should be asleep.”
“I should.” Emma removed her slippers, set them aside, and then slid her feet into the warmth of the water. “I am amazed at how the distant candlelight still plays upon the columns of stone.”
“Why did you come?”
The roughness of his question alerted her that he battled against his wanting her. Warmth flooded Emma. “You asked me questions, questions I struggle with. My frustration made me lash out when you were but trying to guide me from my grief.”
“You were honest.”
“I was, but it does not make my curt manner right.”
“Right?” Sir Patrik asked. “Is there such a thing?”
“I do not know.” A sad smile touched her mouth. “Do not think too deeply; you will sound like me.”
Within the wisps of candlelight, a hint of humor touched his face, and then fell away. “Aye, a sad lot we are.”
She trailed her foot through the water. “So where does that leave us?”
“To go on, to believe our lives can be better.”
“Is that what you have done?”
Sir Patrik drew a circle in the water. “I am trying.”
“How can you be so positive?”
He looked at her then, his face a play of shadows and determination. “To be otherwise is to give up hope.”
Was that what she had done? Given up hope to avoid hurt? It made sense, but never had she considered her withdrawal as anything but avoidance of pain.
The heaviness of her thoughts overwhelmed her. “I was wrong to come.” Emma made to stand, but the rebel caught her wrist.
“Stay. Sit for a while. With me.” The soft pad of his thumb skimmed the sensitive skin at her inner wrist. “It would please me greatly.”
Heat spilled through her at his touch. “Sir Patrik, I—”
“Patrik.”
“What?”
“Call me by my given name.”
She swallowed hard, fought to feel nothing. Failed. “’Tis unseemly.”
His thumb stilled. “’Tis my wish.”
“Patrik,” Emma breathed, testing the familiar use of his name on her tongue as if to taste the forbidden.
In a gentle move, he drew her against him, brought her head against his chest and slowly began to stroke her hair.
She gave a shaky exhale. “I thought you were going to kiss me.”
“I would be wanting to, but right now, ’tis not what you need.”
At his thoughtfulness, tears burned her eyes. No, she couldn’t feel this much for him. For
Dubh Duer
. It mattered not that for this moment her task was but a blur within her mind, that right now it was only him and her struggling against the sorrows of life.
Dubh Duer
. It mattered not that for this moment her task was but a blur within her mind, that right now it was only him and her struggling against the sorrows of life.
“Is that why you left the pallets,” she asked, “because you wanted to kiss me?”
His fingers paused within her hair, then he slowly continued to stroke the unbound length. “Aye. A thought I am not proud to admit. You have known enough anguish.”
“As have you.” She snuggled closer, savoring the sense of protection, humbled by his honor, traits absent from her life since Father Lawrenz. Except the priest’s thoughts were of God, of educating her and helping her find a path to stability and faith. Patrik was dedicated to war, but a warrior who wanted her as a man did. “Thank you.”
In answer he pressed a chaste kiss upon her brow. “We should both get some rest.”
“We should.” But she lay against him saddened that this fragile moment, like her excursion into normalcy, would all too soon end.
The soft pad of footsteps upon dirt echoed in the silence as Emma followed Patrik down the tunnel, his candle held high. Since they’d departed the cavern this morning, he’d said little, which suited her fine.
Better than last eve when she’d made an error in dredging up the emotions of her past. Yes, they lent credibility to her supposed near rape yesterday, and had earned Patrik’s protection, but they’d unleashed horrific dreams throughout the night.
She must gain Patrik’s trust, but other ways existed besides exposing her weaknesses, emotions the Scot might use against her. Had her years as a mercenary taught her naught?
Thank God he’d not tried to kiss her as they’d sat beside the pool. Had he reached for her . . . No, ’twas better not to ponder how his mouth would feel upon her own. Except, her body warmed at the thought, her mind welcoming the intimacy of his embrace.
Ahead, a faint wisp of light fractured the blackness.
Hope ignited. “Have we reached the other side?”
“Aye,” Patrik replied.
Her relief to be free of this godforsaken complex of tunnels fell away. How close were they to his friends? She needed to discover who was the traitor to King Edward before they arrived.
As they neared the exit, sunlight scraped the uneven walls, exposing translucent spiderwebs woven within crevices above. Fresh air, infused with a hint of flowers and earth, blended with stale.
Emma exhaled. Mired in darkness for so many hours, she reveled within the sanity of light.
At the hewn opening, Patrik blew out the candle, stowed it within a carved hole in the wall, then peered through the shield of leaves and branches. “I see no one.”
She nodded, studying the meticulous weave of limb and leaf shielding the tunnel. With the entry so well hidden, it would prove difficult to find for the untrained eye.
“We have two days of travel before we reach my friends.”
That answered the question of how long she had to complete her task.
Patrik pushed aside a limb and stepped into the sunlight. “Though I see no one about, we must travel with caution. English knights could be nearby.” He strode forward.
Emma followed, shielding her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. She glanced back, scoured the thick foliage in her wake. Except for the rise and fall of the land, she discerned no sign of the entry. Incredible.
“Cristina?”
“Coming.” She stole one last glance toward where, somewhere within the dense tangle, the tunnel’s opening lay. Sir Cressingham would be pleased. The English treasurer could advise John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, to set up his forces at either entry to ambush the rebels.
Guilt edged through her that in the end, she would betray Patrik. She shoved the emotion aside. A year had passed since King Balliol had abdicated his throne at Brechin, resigning his Kingdom of Scotland to King Edward. Regardless of the Scots’ wishes, an English king ruled their land. It was the rebels’ decision to continue this fruitless war, not her guilt to bear.
If Patrik hated her when he learned her true identity, so be it. By then she would be gone, her mission long since completed. Nor would he ever find a Scottish woman named Cristina Moffat.
A shout echoed in the distance.
Patrik caught her hand and hauled her beneath the dense brush. “Stay!” With his body close to the ground, he inched up the embankment to the trail they’d walked moments before. After a quick search, he jumped to his feet and used a branch to erase any sign of their passage. Tossing the limb aside, he hurried beneath the shield of leaves, then covered her body with his.
“Say naught,” he whispered.
As if with his body flush atop hers it was possible to think? Emma scoured their surroundings for any sign of movement, tried to ignore the hard length of him, the feel of his entire body pressed against hers.
And failed.
Wind rattled leaves overhead.
A raven flitted in the tree above, then flew away.
Footsteps sounded nearby.
A stick cracked, closer this time, followed by a muttered curse.
Patrik’s calloused hand covered hers with surprising gentleness.
She stared at the tangle of scars battering his skin, the muscled hand atop hers. She should pull away, not feed this delusion of his protecting her. Instead, Emma savored his touch, his protectiveness in a world that offered none.
Patrik’s body tensed, his unruly sandy hair tangled within the mash of leaves, but his hand upon hers held steady, the dagger in his other hand held readied.
“They found the four of them dead,” a gruff voice said.
Through the twist of brush, she made out an English knight, his garb smeared with dirt, evidence of hard travel. Another warrior appeared. The steady pad of steps exposed several knights in the contingent.
“The bastard rebels,” another man cursed. “Not even a king to back, yet they fight on. And for what?”
Another man grunted. “Wallace stirs the pot.”
“He killed Sheriff Heselrig as if ’twas his right,” the first knight spat with disgust. “And Sir William Douglas running with the traitor.”
“They will be stopped,” the second man said. “Sir Cressingham is not a man to infuriate.”
Their voices faded as they passed, but Patrik remained still. He’d counted five men. Had he been alone, he would have slain the lot.
Precious seconds passed.
Silence.
Convinced the knights had left, he sheathed his dagger, his body hard from the intimate contact. He grimaced. Focus on the danger, lad.
Patrik shifted to her side. “They are gone.”
Emerald eyes turned on him, dark, etched with concern. “Will we go back to the cave?”
“Nay.” He understood her worry, but he knew the land about them. Nor would he be fool enough to linger and be tempted to touch her further. “We will travel deeper into the woods before turning north.”
“North? Your friends live in the Highlands?”
He shook his head. “’Tis a safer route.”
Cristina hesitated; then her hand relaxed within his, her eyes brimming with trust. “When will we leave?”
He watched her mouth, the subtle movement, imagined plundering the soft depths. “Now.” Patrik pushed to his feet, helped her stand, his blood racing hot. Bedamned, he ought not to think of the lass, but the danger at hand.
Her eyes met his. Awareness flared.
Heat sliced through him.
“Are we not leaving?”
The huskiness of her burr drew him. “’Twould be wise.”
She didn’t move.
Blast it, did she have to stare at him with that destroying mix of need and innocence? Innocence? Nay. Married she’d been and lain with a man many a night, tasted the pleasures of the joining.
So why did he hesitate? They needed to leave, to go before he did something foolish—like kiss her.
Sunlight slicked the soft glisten of her mouth.
Bedamned! As if guided, his hands cupped her face. “Tell me you want me to stop.”
Her lower lip trembled. “And if I did, ’twould be a lie.”
On a groan Patrik covered her mouth. Heat, it poured through him at her sultry taste. He drew out the kiss, savored the searing intensity. At her shudder he pulled her against him, trailed his hand from her face to the curve of her neck, slanted his mouth and took the kiss deeper.
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