His Conquest (24 page)

Patrik arched a brow, scanned the knights sprawled around them. “’Tis English blood that stains the earth.”

“Once I carve your worthless arse, I will find the Scottish whore. Scum, the lot of you.” The English knight angled his blade. “If she pleases me, mayhap I will allow her to live the night.”

Patrik tamped down his fury. His opponent wanted him angry, wanted his thoughts blurred with reckless emotion. Nay, too many battles lay behind him to make such a critical error.

With a roar, his enemy drove forward.

Patrik dropped and rolled. Steel whooshed a hairsbreadth above his head.

Shock that he’d missed twisted to outrage upon the knight’s face as he whirled.

Patrik shoved to his feet and swung. His blade met flesh, slashing the man’s throat in a satisfying spurt of crimson.

Knees trembling, the knight sank to the ground, his words mutilated within a gurgle of blood.

“Die, you bastard,” Patrik hissed. “Rot in Hades where one day your English king will join you!” Chest heaving, he ignored the groans of the dying men as he scoured the thick greenery for the lass. She’d run. Curse it!

Steel hissed against leather as Patrik secured his blade. He jerked his dagger free of the dying man, scooped up her tattered garment and followed the soft indents of earth that betrayed her passing.

With her screams of terror and the clash of blades, ’twould be but a matter of time before more of the English bastards arrived. He had to find the lass before they did. Given the graveness of his mission, the thought of abandoning her flickered to mind, a thought he abandoned just as quickly. As long as he breathed, never would English scum touch a Scottish woman he could protect.

Leaves rustled in the dense thicket ahead.

Patrik halted. He scanned his garb, grimaced. His tunic and trews splattered with the Englishmen’s blood would not ease her fear.

“Lass,” he called, keeping his voice soft as he listened for any sign of approaching men. “I know you are in there. And afraid.”

Silence.

He stepped closer. “You know me not, but the woods are thick with English. More knights will come. We must go. Now.”

A leaf shook. “How do I know I can trust you?” Her soft, trembling words held both courage and caution.

“I give you my word, that of a Scottish knight.” He held out her tattered gown.

Long moments passed. He sensed her silent scrutiny, struggled to bank his impatience. His mission was crucial; the sooner he saw to her safety, the faster he could deliver the writ.

“Place the gown near the bush.”

With slow steps, Patrik moved forward, laid the battered garment into the shadows as she’d asked.

“Move away.”

He eased back.

A slender arm reached out, snatched the torn garb, then disappeared. Leaves shook. Hints of creamy skin against shadows slipped into view as she dressed.

He scanned their surroundings. “We must hurry.”

The leaves stilled.

A fresh wind stirred, hinting at the warmth of the oncoming day, thick with the tension infusing the moment.

“Lass—”

The woman stood.

Patrik’s breath left him in a rush. Though clad in a torn gown tied in hurried knots, her face marred by bruises from the knight’s rough handling, she appeared as if crafted by the fey in the shifting light.

Nay, a paltry description for the beautiful woman who stood before him.

Thick chestnut hair with hints of bronze framed softly carved cheeks, a full mouth that would tempt a saint and emerald eyes that held naught but distrust. Her eyes. As if spellbound, he couldn’t look away. They held him, mesmerized him, drew him as no other.

Embarrassed to catch himself staring, he cleared his throat. “Lass, I will not harm you,” he said, keeping his words soft. “I swear it.”

“Your name?”

The soft sweep of her burr wrapped around him like a dangerous luxury. He gave a brief bow. “Sir Patrik Cleary at your service.” Regret touched him. Not Sir Patrik Cleary MacGruder, the latter a name he’d lost the right to speak.

In a nervous sweep, she took in his garb. “You are loyal to Scotland?”

The doubt in her voice he understood. “Aye.”

“The English knights?” She shot a glance toward the spot where her captors had stripped her a short time before.

“They are dead.”

If possible, her face paled further.

“They chose their fate,” he stated, unapologetic.

She rubbed her thumb over her fingertips in a hesitant slide. “They did.” Her breath trembled. “I thank you for rescuing me. Had you not…”

“Our worry is to leave. We must be as far away as possible before the English find their comrades slain.”

“Of course.” Nervous fingers tugged on a ragged tie as she assessed him.

What did she see? With the Englishman’s blood staining his tunic, did she wonder if he was as merciless as the men who had tried to rape her? Did doubts crawl through her as to why he would come to her rescue?

“My name is Christina Moffat.”

Her soft words erased his dark thoughts. A strange warmth touched him that after her terror of this day, she offered a sliver of trust. In this war-ravaged country, a name wrongly given could mean death.

He extended his hand toward her. “Come.”

With hesitant steps, she moved from the brush. Dirt clung to her gown, the garment failing to hide the luxurious sweep of creamy skin, or the bruises left by brutal hands. She stared at Patrik’s hand, then looked away.

He dropped his hand. “Never feel embarrassed. The shame is theirs. May they rot in Hades.”

Thick chestnut lashes lifted. “They did not rape me.”

Given mere moments more, they would have accomplished the deed, a fact they both knew. He remained silent, understood her battle against the terror clawing at her mind, allowed the lass to focus on her innocence retained.

“They have been slaughtered!” a man’s voice roared nearby.

“Blast it!” Patrik caught her hand and pulled her with him. Sticks cracked beneath their feet, limbs whipped his body as he pushed her before him, then followed at a run.

“Their blood still runs,” another man called. “Whoever killed them is nearby. Find them!”

A horse whinnied.

“They have mounts,” Christina gasped as she leapt over a tumble of low brush.

He cleared the thicket, close on her heels. “Aye.” And would easily catch up to them. Familiar with the land, he knew their only hope. Turning to the right, he led her through the tangle. “Hurry.”

The leather of their flat-soled shoes slapped against earth as they ran. After several moments, the dense foliage of the forest gave way to a field dotted with tufts of fresh grass, brave buds of flowers and sweeps of heather.

Christina jerked her hand free.

Patrik whirled, his breaths coming fast. “We cannot stop.”

She stared at the roll of hills leading to the formidable mountains to the north. “The brambles before us would not hide a field mouse.”

“The English will be thinking that as well,” he agreed. “But I know of a place to hide. Trust me.”

Trust him?

Sir Patrik’s piercing hazel eyes held hers. He was a warrior, from his muscled arms to his carved cheekbones and deep baritone voice. A man used to giving commands. A man many feared.

A man she, too, would be a fool to dismiss.

She turned in the direction they’d come and scoured the concealing woods. Shadows littered the dense foliage, providing numerous places where they could hide.

A shiver crept through her. Why was he exposing them? If anyone scanned the field, they would be seen. No, it was too late to question her decision. She’d committed herself to the journey long before this day.

She turned toward the handsome Scot, a man as intriguing as he was dangerous. A man who, if he learned the truth, that her real name was Emma Astyn, a woman acclaimed as one of England’s top mercenaries—both known and hated by the Scots—would kill her.