His Destiny (4 page)

Read His Destiny Online

Authors: Diana Cosby

BOOK: His Destiny
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“My thanks,” Emma replied, analyzing the myriad of emotions flickering through his expression. Surprise. Retreat. Coldness. She focused on the latter, intrigued by the rebel’s complete withdrawal. His shifts of emotion were slight, so faint, had she not watched for them, she would have missed them altogether.
A complex man indeed. When she believed she was beginning to see the real man, to understand him a bit, he withdrew. The violence he’d experienced as a boy, hiding as he’d watched his family slaughtered by the English, may have crafted the hatred blackening his soul, but something more had deepened the hurt within.
The information she’d gathered about Sir Patrik, though helpful, was far from complete. Logic assured her the gaps in his latter years would yield the insight she sought.
Discovering what haunted him wasn’t part of her task. Yet she found herself curious to know, drawn by the complexity of this intriguing Scot. On the outside a warrior who held his own, a man who intimidated the fiercest competitor, yet deep within, a man of intense passion.
Sir Patrik turned on his heel and strode around a large pillar.
Emma glanced at the still pool, then toward the ceiling spiked with enormous hanging rock, shimmering in the wash of light. Drawn, she walked over. At the edge, she turned. Along the outer fringe, the wondrous expanse of sunlight faded into complete blackness.
Silence.
Anxiety flickered through her. Had he left her alone? “Sir Patrik?”
“Aye?” His deep burr echoed from behind the pillar.
“Naught.” Embarrassed, she turned toward the water. It seemed to beckon her, lured her to enter and relax. As if for her being at peace had ever been possible ? She removed her gown. Water rippled as she waded into the mirrored pool.
Warm, silken luxury embraced her with each step, the sand a soft balm against her aching feet. Emma eased into the velvet depths and a sense of complete relaxation swept over her. It was as if her troubles were cleansed from her mind and nothing existed but this moment.
On a sigh she savored the sparkles of the sunlight on the rock around her, the shards of colors cast from their play like magic.
Magic?
A smile touched her lips. The thoughts fatigue spun. Never had she held any belief in magic or anything so whimsical. Life within an orphanage had taught her that neither hope nor magic existed.
With a sigh, she scooped a handful of sand and rubbed it against her skin, doubting she would ever feel truly clean. However incredible, the beauty of this chamber could not erase reality. This was yet another day, one to achieve a goal and once it was accomplished, to walk away.
Somber, Emma finished, then waded to shore. She pulled on the tattered gown, a stark reminder of her role, of the dangers she had yet to face, and of the penance for a poor decision made.
“I am finished,” she called out, her voice revealing none of her inner turmoil.
Solid steps echoed in the cavern. Sir Patrik walked into the swath of scattered light. He halted, his expression dark.
She tensed. “What is wrong?”
Wrong? Patrik smothered the unwanted surge of desire. The lass knew not that she stood with the prismed light as a backdrop. The rays framed her slender outline with lust-stirring clarity. And her damp garment clung to her full curves, a body that would make a grown man beg.
“I have placed oatcakes and cheese on the other side of the rock. Eat while I bathe.” He ignored her surprise at his abruptness as he strode past. With his body hard and aching, he was not fool enough to remain by her side and allow her to notice his interest. She’d endured enough this day without adding to her worries.
Irritated at his unexpected desire, he strode to the merge of sand and water and stripped. Tossing his garments in a tumbled heap, he dove into the deep end of the pool. Warmth churned around him, embraced him as he swam the entire length. He surfaced, turned and swam hard toward the opposite bank. The lash of water and burn of muscle did little to lessen his body’s need.
Reaching the end, he stood, cursed as Cristina’s alluring image remained emblazoned in his mind.
Warmth touched his chest.
Surprised, he glanced down. The halved malachite hanging around his neck glowed. He frowned and strode from the water. Was nothing to make sense on this blasted day? Why was he even wearing the gemstone ? ’Twas not as if he still belonged to the MacGruders. With his betrayal a year past, he’d given up the right to use their name or to be called their brother.
Except the memory of a proud day long past stirred in Patrik’s mind. A time when he’d stood beside Seathan, Alexander, and Duncan. Seathan, who was now an earl. Lord Grey. A smile touched his face, faded. Proud he was the day Seathan claimed the title. But the day was bittersweet because their father, the man who had adopted him, now lay cold beneath the earth.
A hard passing. He knew their middle brother, Alexander, carried guilt for it because the arrow that downed his father had been meant for Alexander.
Neither could Patrik forget the youngest brother. Duncan had lost both parents, his mother dying during his birthing, but he hid his grief behind a veil of cheer.
Patrik gripped the gemstone, a gift presented to him, as it had been to each of the brothers by their grandmother when they were knighted. Each halved gemstone was unique, each a badge of honor. After his betrayal, it was an honor he no longer deserved. Bedamned. He should toss it into the water.
His fingers squeezed tight; then he let his hand fall away. He could nae sever the final tie to his past.
Exhausted, he dried himself, tugged his tunic over the gemstone, then, as if a man sentenced, strode toward where the lass was eating.
He rounded the corner and halted. On the blanket he’d spread out, with the food he’d left for her gone, Cristina lay curled in a ball, asleep. Gentleness washed through him. ’Twas not her decision to appear in his life, to be forced along this dangerous path, or to have spawned the uninvited attention of the English knights.
Instead of lusting after her like a randy ass, he should remember she was scared, alone, and needed his protection.
Patrik sat at her side. In silence he ate, ignoring the silken wash of chestnut hair spilling around her face and the lingering urge to draw her against him. Once he’d finished eating, he stowed the remainder of the oatcakes and cheese within his leather sack and set it aside.
Fatigue washed over him. Aye, rest would serve them both well. The morrow and hard travel ahead would come too fast. With one last glance at the lass, he laid another blanket nearby and closed his eyes.
 
 
The body lay slumped before her. Vestments cloaked the lifeless figure like a macabre shroud. A scream built in Emma’s throat, but it would not come.
She tried to step back. As if weighted by stones, her feet refused to budge.
Blood spilled from beneath the finely spun cloth to curdle against the dirt and grime staining the ground.
Of its own volition, her trembling hand reached out and lifted the vestment.
Unseeing eyes stared out of Father Lawrenz’s pale face. Grotesque bruises marred the skin of the priest, the only man she had ever trusted, the only man who had ever shown her compassion, the only man who had taught her of faith.
No! She stumbled back, looked down. His blood smeared her hands, dripped through her fingers to pool at her feet.
She screamed.
“Cristina!”
“No.” She fought to break free of hands that held her tight. “Let me go!”
“Wake up. You are having a dream.”
A man’s concerned voice beckoned to her from a distance. Panic riding her hard, she struggled against the pull and jerked her eyes open.
In the murky light, Sir Patrik stared down at her.
Chapter 4
 
Another tremor rolled through Emma as she stared up at Sir Patrik. Beneath the flicker of candlelight, she glanced over and studied her fingers, which moments before within her mind had dripped with blood. ’Twas a dream, naught more.
“Are you all right?”
Mouth dry, she turned toward the Scot. The worry on his face stole her breath. “Yes, I . . .” Emma stiffened, withdrew from his touch, shaken to find she missed the gentleness of his hands, a quiet strength that promised protection. God in heaven, she could tell him nothing.
“Your husband?”
“My husband?”
“You dreamt of his death?”
Of course Sir Patrik would think that. A husband who didn’t exist. Deception tasted ill upon her tongue. No, not deception, a fable crafted to gain his trust, a fact she must remember. Her time here was but a job to be done, a mission to be accomplished. After, she would move on to the next job, never to think of this rebel again.
And if she believed she could simply erase this intriguing Scot from her thoughts, she was a fool.
Sir Patrik slid the back of his hand over her cheek, his gaze tender.
Emma steadied herself, fought to smother the awareness, sensations no man had ever inspired. ’Twas the plans gone askew yesterday that yielded these unwanted feelings, and learning that however cold or dangerous, Sir Patrik was a man loyal in his beliefs. A way of life she well understood, a path she ruthlessly followed. Except his loyalty was to a country he loved, while hers was only to herself.
What would it be like to have passion for what you fought for? To care for those you loved so much that to protect them, you would sacrifice your life?
“Cristina?”
Cristina. A woman who didn’t exist. A potent reminder this was but a farce. Damn Sir Patrik for making her wish for other than what she had. Her life suited her. Each decision was of
her
choosing. And when she was done, she would walk away. No loss. No regrets.
At the thought of leaving him, an ache built inside, a yearning of unexpected force. “Go away.”
“Ignoring the hurt but prolongs it like a fire banked. ’Tis opening the door to the pain, working past the hurt that makes it fade.”
His thoughtful words left her feeling more of a fraud. “Can you not see that I do not want to talk? That I wish to be alone?” Alone she was good at. Alone was safe. Alone she spoke no more lies.
“Aye,” he replied, “and I see the hurt, that of a lass who holds her misery too deep, mires herself in grief and forgets to live.”
Emma cast him a hard look. “Leave me alone.”
“And if I did, I would be like everyone else.”
The sincerity in his voice sliced to her soul. Her anger faded. Damn him for being so noble. He believed her grief was due to a husband lost, a family destroyed, when it was her realization that her life held naught but the promise of emptiness.
“I am tired.” Her quiet words echoed between them.
A muscle worked in his jaw. “I never took you for a coward.”
She angled her jaw. “You know me not.”
“Nay? I know you are a woman alone, a woman afraid, and one who sleeps with troubled thoughts, but also a woman brave enough to hold her own when most would crumble.”
Uneasy, she rubbed her thumb against the tips of her fingers. He saw too much, made her feel more than was wise. “Do you always interrogate the women you save?”
A hint of a smile touched his mouth, one too alluring, one that should have seemed out of place with the brutal life he led. Instead, it made his all too handsome face more appealing.
“Nay. ’Tis not my normal lot to save a lass, nor to care. ’Twould seem with you, I have done both.”
“You cannot care for me.” Panic kicked in her chest. She’d not meant to speak aloud.
“Why?”
Because I am not the battered Scottish woman you think, but one of England’s top mercenaries, a woman whose real name you would know—and hate.
At his sharp glance, a shiver stole through her, one that had little to do with the coolness of the cave and everything to do with this dangerous Scot.
Emma rubbed her arms, wanting distance, to be away from a man who possessed the ability to read her so well. “Why would you care?”
A fair question, one that confounded Patrik as well. Yet, when he’d awoken to her cries, her face twisted in grief, a part of him had wanted to hold her, to save her from whatever demons tormented her mind.
Save her? An ache built in his chest as he studied Cristina against the backdrop of the blackened cavern, the weak flicker of flame upon her face like a golden caress. His body hardened with need.
Frustrated, he shoved the desire aside, the urge to touch her, taste her, everywhere. She was not his to keep, nor could ever be. His life was dedicated to winning Scotland’s freedom, not to musings of after the battle, of laying down his sword and walking into the arms of a lass. His belief in permanence had died a year past when his brothers stood beside his grave at Lochshire Castle. Yet, ’twould seem with this woman, logic fled.
Nay, his feelings for Cristina were born of more than a face so beautiful it could have belonged to the fey, or a body that would make a man weep. Within her eyes lay sadness, the same torment reflected back at him whenever he looked within a calm pool.
Regardless of the reasons, the trouble brewing within her drew him. Patrik grimaced. As if he needed to be heaping more onto the burdens that toppled his life? In addition to delivering the writ, he yearned to reclaim a family who believed him dead. Remorse weighed upon him. Was such a feat possible? Could he ever find forgiveness from the MacGruders?
He should tell the lass to go to sleep, then lie upon his pallet and push her from his mind. Their time together was but days. Once he left her with his friends who lived within a nearby humble village, they would ensure she was delivered to a safe haven. Then she would go on with her life, as would he.
With her face, her tempting lips but a handsbreadth away, the lass watched him expectantly, awaiting a reply. One he should not give.
He blew out a rough breath. “I care because I understand what it is to hold on to things we cannot change, and to do penance for poor decisions made.”
The anger within her expression ebbed to curiosity.
Blast it, why had he added the latter? He did not wish to speak of his past or become further involved with the lass. Both were unnervingly easy to envision.
She searched his face with fragile sincerity. “What happened?”
The image of his brother Alexander’s captive filled his mind. A captive who was now his brother’s wife. “I allowed the bitterness of my past to skew my judgment.”
Emotion flickered on her face, understanding, pain, and acceptance. “’Tis easy when life offers you naught but hurt to guide your decisions.”
Saint’s breath, what had the lass endured? Aye, her husband’s loss had devastated her, but from the wisdom of her reply, more than the pain of his death carved her words. “And what hurt has life offered you?”
“I told you of my husband.”
He caught her hesitation, the flare of uncertainty a split second before she spoke. Cristina rubbed her thumb over her fingertips, a trait he noted when she grew nervous or upset. Instinct flared. She withheld something. As if he, too, did not conceal secrets?
Patrik stood. “Go to sleep. We depart at the break of dawn.” He turned away. The scrape of leather against sand alerted him that she stood.
“Sir Patrik.”
He stopped, but didn’t look back.
Emma’s heart pounded. She didn’t want the Scot to go, but neither did she wish to lie to him anymore. So she would give him truth. Or, as much as she could.
“I was raised in an orphanage.”
The rebel turned.
Beneath his intense gaze, she struggled to find the right words. “Few want to care for a child abandoned.”
Silence.
“When I was ten and two summers, I ran away.” At the sadness in Sir Patrik’s eyes, she stiffened. “I need not your pity. I made my way just fine. Then I met Gyles.” Her voice broke as her thoughts went not to an imaginary husband, but to Father Lawrenz. “I did not want to care. I was a tough one, but he ignored my bluster, took time to help me, and incredibly, made me laugh.” And he had died. Murdered for a pence. She swallowed hard. “So yes, I understand bitterness and hate. I know the Bible says to forgive, but for the English who took Gyles’s life, I cannot.”
Images of that fated day rolled through her mind. Of having finished her studies, and her excitement to share with Father Lawrenz her lessons learned. Of how she’d run from the chapel to meet the priest as he returned from his daily round of prayers with the elderly.
She’d taken a shortcut through an alley, and had stumbled upon a heap of black cloth. Then, she’d realized it was a man. In horror, she’d stepped closer. Instead of a drunk sleeping off a long night of drink, she’d recognized Father Lawrenz.
Horrified, she’d seen the blood.
The assignment of faith she’d penned with pride had tumbled to the ground, the page blown away by the stench-filled breeze.
And the fragile hope the priest had given her that she might live a normal life had shattered.
No, never could she forgive whoever had murdered Father Lawrenz.
Or forget.
Sir Patrik remained silent, the understanding in his expression urging her to continue. For the first time in her life, she wanted to share her tragedy, relate her pain to another who’d survived such torment.
“After Gyles’s death, I hurt so much. I ran away, wanted to be alone, wished never to see anyone who reminded me of Gyles or the life we had.” The grief of finding Father Lawrenz murdered filled her, backed her words. “I swore never to care for anyone again. With each passing day, I have grown stronger. More important, I have kept my promise.”
Until now.
“There comes a time,” Sir Patrik said, “when we must look back if we are to heal.”
“Why?” she asked, stunned that after everything he had endured, the rebel would offer such advice, but also intrigued. Never had she expected such depth from the brutal man Sir Cressingham had described.
Doubts of Sir Cressingham’s claims that Sir Patrik was a cold-blooded killer swept through her. As if she should be surprised the Scottish treasurer would lie to achieve his goal? Sir Patrik was no murderer, but a man haunted, an intelligent man who yearned to be whole.
“Why must we look back?” Sir Patrik asked, dragging her from her thoughts. “Because hatred kills one’s soul, denies one the healing time offers.”
“Healing?” Anger crept into her words. “When broken, does one’s heart ever truly heal?”
“I believe it is possible.”
“Then you are better than I. Never will I forget, nor let go of the hate.” He sighed, a long, lonely sound, but Emma held firm. In this she would give him truth. If he turned away from her, so be it. Already he made her feel more than was wise.
“And what has hate served you?” Sir Patrik asked.
“The ability to live, to go on each day.”
“And what of happiness?”
“Happiness? Our country is ravaged by war, those we love butchered beneath the Englishman’s blade, and you dare ask me of happiness?” Emma paused. “Tell me, are you happy? Is anyone?”
Sadness flickered in his eyes. “My questions were asked to guide you from your grief.”
“I want not your help.”
But Patrik caught Cristina’s tremble, and the hint of need that never quite left her eyes. She was afraid. God knew what she’d endured during her time as an orphan, or since her husband’s murder. The English knights’ attack was only the latest of the atrocities she’d survived.
They shared a battered past, each given a second chance. He, the MacGruders who’d adopted him and raised him as their own. She, a husband to heal her soul.
And both had lost the people they loved.
He took in the web of darkness within the cavern, his heart aching. He was nae the person to guide the lass from her misery while his own was still so raw.
“What are you thinking of ?”
The gentleness of her voice lured him to reply but he’d reveal no more. He’d known the lass but hours. Well he understood the dangers of giving trust. What he’d exposed about his personal life disturbed him. Never had he shared such intimacies with a woman.
“We both need to be finding our pallets,” Patrik said. “Dawn and the leagues we must travel will come soon enough.”
She hesitated. “Will you be able to sleep?”
“A question I should be asking you.”
A faint smile touched Cristina’s mouth, and he found he liked knowing he’d put it there. As he watched her, her eyes softened.

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