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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