His Destiny Read Free

press of the earth, a cold welcome for the bodies within.
    “Use your hands to guide you and keep moving forward,” he urged from above.
    As if it was that easy. Dirt trickled over her. Behind her, in the spew of broken sunlight, she made out Sir Patrik’s half-bent frame.
    “Keep moving,” he said. “I will be right behind you.”
    Half crawling, she edged forward. When the light eroded, Sir Patrik’s steady voice guided her; her each step into the vat of blackness a major victory. The walls on either side fell away. Emma shoved down her fear as she entered the cavern that held the graves.
    The thrum of hooves grew closer, and the ground above began to tremble. Loose rock clattered to the floor.
    A whinny echoed nearby.
    She whirled, opened her mouth to scream.
    Sir Patrik clasped his hand over her mouth. “’Tis the knights approaching.”
    With effort, she nodded.
    The rebel released his hand.
    “They are scouring the field.”
    “Aye, prodded they are,” he said, his words rich with pride. “And mad as a badger stuck.”
    With their four comrades slain, the knights would be furious. God in heaven, if they captured her and Sir Patrik now, it would destroy the fragile bond gained.
    A bond formed only after weeks of careful planning.
    Anger touched her that the men involved had died. She’d weighed all of the factors, had plotted out the specific details of the supposed rape. Like her, the knights who’d volunteered for this task had believed the chance of harm slight, the dangers ahead hers to face.
    And they’d all been wrong.
    Sir Cressingham would be furious when he learned of the loss of his men, but no more than she was at herself. She prided herself on her expertise, on the skill that those who hired her paid well for. However much she’d prepared, she’d underestimated Sir Patrik Cleary. A misjudgment she wouldn’t make again.
    Emma started forward.
    “Hold, lass.”
    She stumbled to a halt, steadied herself against a rock; her hand was shaking. Focus on the mission. Naught but that mattered. “What is it?”
    “I am going to take the lead.”
    Frustrated at her wash of emotions, she smothered the upsetting thoughts, the kernels of feeling that made a person weak. She backed against the cool rock. Well she knew the choice in war, the risks taken, as had the knights.
    The rebel edged past her, the hewn muscles of his body brushing her arm.
    Warmth swept her.
    She gasped, moved aside.
    He reached over, caught her. “Do not fear me.”
    At his soft burr, another burst of warmth swept through her. No, not warmth, awareness. Heart pounding, she froze, stunned. When he’d jumped into the clearing to rescue her, of all the descriptions she’d received, none had prepared her for the impact of the man.
    Emma quelled her nerves. Did she not thrive on the tasks others feared? Did she not rush forward when others would retreat? She held not the weakness of caring, or believing that anything but her own decisions guided her life. Too many years had passed since she’d entertained the notion of believing in others.
    Or given a damn.
    Warm flesh slid over her hand. She tried to ignore the strength in Sir Patrik’s fingers as they curled around her palm. He believed he aided her. With her hatred of closed-in places, in this he did. But no more.
    “Come.” He tugged her forward.
    “The grass is flattened over here,” a distant voice called with anger.
    Hooves rumbled above.
    “They will catch us!” she whispered.
    “Nay.”
    “How can you be so sure? Our footprints on the grass will be seen and followed.”
    Ahead of her, Sir Patrik halted. “Wait.” He released her hand. Stone grated. With a grunt, the scrape of stone again fractured the silence.
    “What are you doing?”
    “A tunnel lies beyond. When they find our entry, we must be within and the entry secured.”
    A rebel hideout? A detail she would pass on. “How long is it?” She allowed nervousness to ride her voice, needing him to