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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