about another sibling who’d lived.
Why?
Had Sir Cressingham set her up? That made no sense. The treasurer of Scotland hated Patrik, salivated at the idea of watching the Scot gutted, then making the rebel’s death an example to all who dared defy him.
So why had neither his man nor he told her about Patrik’s brother? Mayhap his sibling had played little or no role in the Scottish uprising? Or, his fealty lay with King Edward. What if neither man knew Patrik had a brother who had lived?
From the raw grief on Patrik’s face, he struggled at the thoughts his brother inspired. If his brother was indeed loyal to the English king, that would explain Patrik’s strife.
His strife, but not her increasing distaste for her mission.
“I am sorry. I have upset you.” More so than he would ever know. He’d lowered his defense, a trust she now would shamefully exploit.
Scarred fingers picked up a stick to shove an ember free. Then he buried the heated wood within the dirt. Angst-stricken hazel eyes lifted to hers.
“The arrow belongs to your brother?”
“Aye.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he lifted the stick. Against the cheerful pop of the fire, he nudged aside the mound of ash, exposing the remnants of the arrow. He again lifted the shaft, rolled it slowly within his fingers. A charred line of soot remained. He stared at it, closed his eyes, then opened them. “At times a man is a fool and cannot see the precious gift he holds until it is lost.”
The intensity of his words unnerved her. Well she understood the pain of losing someone you loved, the emptiness and the loss. Except life cared naught for your pain, or hurt, but moved on. ’Twas you who chose to step forward or to remain buried within your grief.
“Was your brother killed?”
Patrik laid the charred shaft at his side. “Nay. But to them I am dead.”
Them? He had more than one brother alive?
Cristina’s eyes widened with questions, but Patrik remained silent. A fool he was for telling the lass anything of the MacGruders. He barely knew her. But as he’d held the arrow, emotions had stormed him, the pain immense. And he’d found admitting the truth to her had brought a wisp of relief.
Blast it, he wanted his brothers back, he wanted to use the surname MacGruder, desperately so. With their love and support during the years when he’d struggled to find stability after his family’s death, how could he not?
Grief washed through him as he studied Cristina. A stranger? Mayhap, considering the amount of time he’d known her, but something about her drew him, had from the start. Her beauty he couldn’t deny, nor the desires she inspired, but what lured him was more than the intrigue of the flesh. From the bits of her life she’d shared, he sensed she carried enormous hurt, pain carved by years of suffering, emotions only those who had survived similar ordeals understood.
A stranger?
Mayhap, but not to his soul.
But could he trust her?
An ache tightened his chest at the thought of leaving her on the morrow. It could be no other way. What she made him feel, want, made little sense. Yet, for the first time since he’d awakened from his brush with death, he found himself wanting to share with someone the dark secret of the family he wished to reclaim.
No, not someone, Cristina.
Yet, however she moved him, to give into his yearnings would further complicate an already muddled situation.
“But what about—”
He handed her an oatcake. “Eat.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted his offering, her eyes darkening with understanding. Cristina leaned back against a large boulder and took a bite.
Patrik followed suit, the soft thunder of water a fitting echo of his mood. Through the break at the end of the falls, darkness stole the last fragments of day. Too soon the dawn would come, and the realities of tomorrow would unfold.
He studied Duncan’s arrow. Given the ember’s warmth, his brother had stayed here but hours ago. What had
Why?
Had Sir Cressingham set her up? That made no sense. The treasurer of Scotland hated Patrik, salivated at the idea of watching the Scot gutted, then making the rebel’s death an example to all who dared defy him.
So why had neither his man nor he told her about Patrik’s brother? Mayhap his sibling had played little or no role in the Scottish uprising? Or, his fealty lay with King Edward. What if neither man knew Patrik had a brother who had lived?
From the raw grief on Patrik’s face, he struggled at the thoughts his brother inspired. If his brother was indeed loyal to the English king, that would explain Patrik’s strife.
His strife, but not her increasing distaste for her mission.
“I am sorry. I have upset you.” More so than he would ever know. He’d lowered his defense, a trust she now would shamefully exploit.
Scarred fingers picked up a stick to shove an ember free. Then he buried the heated wood within the dirt. Angst-stricken hazel eyes lifted to hers.
“The arrow belongs to your brother?”
“Aye.” A muscle worked in his jaw as he lifted the stick. Against the cheerful pop of the fire, he nudged aside the mound of ash, exposing the remnants of the arrow. He again lifted the shaft, rolled it slowly within his fingers. A charred line of soot remained. He stared at it, closed his eyes, then opened them. “At times a man is a fool and cannot see the precious gift he holds until it is lost.”
The intensity of his words unnerved her. Well she understood the pain of losing someone you loved, the emptiness and the loss. Except life cared naught for your pain, or hurt, but moved on. ’Twas you who chose to step forward or to remain buried within your grief.
“Was your brother killed?”
Patrik laid the charred shaft at his side. “Nay. But to them I am dead.”
Them? He had more than one brother alive?
Cristina’s eyes widened with questions, but Patrik remained silent. A fool he was for telling the lass anything of the MacGruders. He barely knew her. But as he’d held the arrow, emotions had stormed him, the pain immense. And he’d found admitting the truth to her had brought a wisp of relief.
Blast it, he wanted his brothers back, he wanted to use the surname MacGruder, desperately so. With their love and support during the years when he’d struggled to find stability after his family’s death, how could he not?
Grief washed through him as he studied Cristina. A stranger? Mayhap, considering the amount of time he’d known her, but something about her drew him, had from the start. Her beauty he couldn’t deny, nor the desires she inspired, but what lured him was more than the intrigue of the flesh. From the bits of her life she’d shared, he sensed she carried enormous hurt, pain carved by years of suffering, emotions only those who had survived similar ordeals understood.
A stranger?
Mayhap, but not to his soul.
But could he trust her?
An ache tightened his chest at the thought of leaving her on the morrow. It could be no other way. What she made him feel, want, made little sense. Yet, for the first time since he’d awakened from his brush with death, he found himself wanting to share with someone the dark secret of the family he wished to reclaim.
No, not someone, Cristina.
Yet, however she moved him, to give into his yearnings would further complicate an already muddled situation.
“But what about—”
He handed her an oatcake. “Eat.”
After a brief hesitation, she accepted his offering, her eyes darkening with understanding. Cristina leaned back against a large boulder and took a bite.
Patrik followed suit, the soft thunder of water a fitting echo of his mood. Through the break at the end of the falls, darkness stole the last fragments of day. Too soon the dawn would come, and the realities of tomorrow would unfold.
He studied Duncan’s arrow. Given the ember’s warmth, his brother had stayed here but hours ago. What had
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