Come the Morning (14 page)

“Cowards such as yourself do not scare me,” she said.

“What a pity. I was about to let you up!”

“Oh!” she cried in sheer frustration. “Please, I'm afraid, I'm very afraid—please let me up.”

He leaned closer to her. “You're not afraid, and you should be. You think that your birth and the king's distant hand can protect you. Well, it can't. You're with me, and I won't let you up, and you don't know what I'm going to do. You are a ward of the king. Basically, m'lady, he owns you. You, and your person, and you have risked both, and, therefore, you're guilty of treason.”

“No! I've done nothing but—”

“Arrive in the midst of a situation where you are naked and freezing on a riverbank with a stranger ten times more powerful than you are.”

She fell silent, staring at him. If he was really so dedicated to the king, he wouldn't touch her. And she could prove that strength lay in many areas within the human mind.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, then looked up at him with a tremulous shudder. “Please! You've made me very afraid, and I'm so cold … aye, I was wrong. If you've come to take me back to David, do so,
please
. I will beg his pardon, I … I'm so cold.”

Again, she closed her eyes, shivering violently. She hadn't lied in some respects, she was certain that her lips were blue, and she was very afraid, pinned, unable to escape.

“Why don't I believe you?” he murmured, and her eyes flew open and met his.

“I don't know,” she grated. “I'm telling you the truth.”

He shook his head. “You are a liar. A wretched, petty liar, but we'll change that.”

Despite his words, he came to his feet. She started to scramble away, fully aware he meant to help her up.

She lifted a hand to him, pleading, “No, don't … don't touch me. I'm getting up, I'm coming along.”

She stood, awkward, and so cold that her teeth were chattering as she hugged her arms around herself, feeling more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. He had stripped down for his swim, but he still wore a knit wool shirt, and that he pulled over his head. When she shied away from him then, he let out an impatient oath, jerking her close so that he could slip the wet shirt on her. It was better than nothing. She didn't move then, but stood before him with her head down, now shaking violently.

“Come.”

He caught her hand and started walking along the embankment to the boat. She stumbled after him, not meaning to protest at that moment, but so cold that she could barely move. Once again he swore, pausing to sweep her up into his arms. She clung to him to keep from falling, uneasily aware of his physical power. His naked arms, chest, and upper abdomen were defined with muscle. With dismay she thought that he was no one's servant hoping to become a knight; he was already a warrior, a knight, one of the king's men who had trained with the very heavy weapons and armor of war.

He stepped into the boat, set her down, and shoved off from the embankment. He pointed to her cloak and tunic, left behind when she had first decided to leave the little vessel—a lifetime ago, so it seemed.

“Get dressed.”

She reached for her things, starting to slip the tunic on top of his shirt.

“M'lady, I'll take my shirt back, if you don't mind.”

“But I do mind—”

“Why should you? I've already seen all that you have to offer.”

“I wouldn't want to commit more treason.”

He smiled at that. “But I do want my shirt.”

She stared at him, feeling a ridiculous surge of anger inside her once again. He liked to bait her. Fine. He was the king's man. And her “noble bounty” was something he mocked.

“As you wish,” she told him, and she pulled off his shirt.

She tossed the garment toward him. He caught it; they stared at one another. The cool breeze caught her naked flesh, but she took her time, pretending she had lost her tunic again with the pile of clothing in the boat, and searching through her clothing. When she found her tunic, she pretended to have difficulty with the garment before slipping it over her head. As she did so, she started, frightened, afraid she had taken her taunt too far, for he was right next to her, nearly touching her, reaching for her cloak.

He practically threw it on top of her head.

Then he sat again, staring at her. She returned the glare.

He reached for his shirt. As he did so, the oar started to slip from the boat.

“The oar!” she cried.

He fumbled for it. Too late. It was gone.

He swore.

“Oh, my God, not again! You really are a fool—”

“One more word and I will strangle you!” he promised. “You needn't worry this time!”

He tossed his shirt down and slipped over the rim of the boat, back into the water. He was going for the oar, she saw.

Then she realized that the second oar was still in the lock. She hastily changed her position, trying to maneuver the small vessel with the one oar. It wouldn't move at first, but then she jerked the oar from the lock. She spun herself in a circle, but then she managed to slip the oar in and out of the water, changing sides, and set the little boat out on a straight line across the water.

She dipped the oar to the left, and couldn't lift it. She struggled with it, then gasped. He had reached the boat. He tossed the lost oar aboard. Desperate, she tried to strike him with the oar she was using. He ducked. He rose on the other side of the boat, and she spun around in time to catch him on the shoulder. Then she realized that she had begun a brutal fight, and that if she didn't win …

She struck out hard, and wild, very afraid. Then she saw she was beating the water. He was gone.

She sat back, shaking. Tears stung her eyes, horror filled her. She forced herself to breathe deeply, and she tried to tell herself that she hadn't just murdered a man, and if she had, it had been in self-defense, she didn't know just what he had intended for her.

Still, she felt a wave of wretched misery engulfing her.
Whom
had she killed? He'd been young, a king's man. A knight. A man loyal to the king. Perhaps he'd encountered dozens of the king's enemies, and returned triumphant, and she had murdered him in cold blood upon the river in the midst of a beautiful fall day …

She looked up at the sun, figuring it was well past midday. Early afternoon, now? Her stomach growled suddenly, and she was horrified that she had murdered a man, and felt hunger at the same time. She had to stop sitting there, stunned and appalled by what she had done. She had to move. She had to reach the Viking camp. In just another few hours, it would be dark again.

Shaking, she tried to pull herself together.

Then she screamed again, for
he
was back. He wasn't dead, and she was indeed in grave danger. With a sudden impetus, he came shooting out of the river like a water demon, hiking himself over the edge of the boat with swift force. She thought he meant to kill her when he wrenched away from her the oar she had wielded. She cast her arms over her head and ducked, awaiting his deadly blow.

She began a swift, silent prayer, the Hail Mary, waiting, waiting …

The words of the prayer faded from her thoughts as nothing happened. She lifted her head at last.

He wasn't looking at her. He was seated in the middle of the boat, adjusting both oars again. She dared to breathe. She should have kept her quiet. But she was shaking, and she couldn't quite manage to do so.

“You're alive.”

“No thanks to you.”

“I didn't mean—”

“To kill me? Aye, I think you did.”

“But you haven't—”

“Killed you? No, my lady, I have not.”

“I see,” she said. “You wouldn't want to return me to King David dead or bruised.”

She could see him gritting his teeth together as he shook his head in wonderment. “Well, m'lady MacAdin, you're right. I don't want you dead, maimed, or bruised. You do know something about fighting, and I grant you this, you're very brave, or incredibly stupid.”

“I almost killed you,” she reminded him.

“Nay, lady, you did not.”

“You were gone a very long time—”

“I watched, my lady.”

“Just as you disappeared last night—”

“Again, I watched, my lady.”

“All that time?”

“Nay, not all that time. But much of it. You barely made it last night. You were too tired for the swim. And too cold to go on.”

“You watched me …”

“Aye, that I did. Shivering in that little hut, taking to the water again—”

“Why, you bastard—”

“Careful, I might think that you're not fond of me, lady.”

“I pray you'll die on the spot!”

“My lady, with your ways, you are far more likely to die.”

She fell silent for a moment, then told him softly, “I just want to be free.”

He stared at her in return. “Don't we all?” he queried after a moment. He rowed with his words, rowed hard. They were soon back to the shore where they had first begun their journey in the little boat the previous night.

Taking no chances, he lifted her from the vessel as they beached. He set her upon the shore, and watching her, whistled. She was startled as the huge horse she had seen grazing the night before slowly trotted down to them from the trees by the roadside above the embankment. She assessed the animal. It was a warhorse. Huge, well tended, a scar here and there. An animal in its prime, but one which had seen action. Wide-set eyes, broad shoulders, sturdy haunches. Powerful limbs. It could carry the weight of a man in armor and still race into the fray with good speed.

The horse nuzzled the man, and she found herself studying her far too familiar stranger with greater unease. Who was he? “Ah, Mercury, you are a good fellow!” he told the animal.

“Would Mercury happen to have a bit of bread in his saddlebags?” she asked, surprised herself that she managed to do so.

He probably wouldn't share food with her if he carried any with him. She had tried to kill him.

But he shrugged. “Maybe,” he told her, and he flipped up the leather flap on a saddlebag. Inside, wrapped in a small linen square, was not just bread, but cheese and a portion of dried meat. He offered her all the food, and she was surprised. He watched her balance the lot of it, then indicated a dry spot beneath a sapling oak. She walked to the oak and sat, biting into the bread with hunger and feeling, despite her wretched position, a sense of fulfillment and pleasure as the food began to take away the hunger pangs that had assailed her.

She stared out on the water, eating. In a few minutes, she was filled, but she pretended her hunger still, taking tiny bites of food as she watched him. He didn't sit by her, but waited, eyes broodingly upon the river.

“You came back, and just watched me all night?” she inquired.

“If you wanted to sleep in a small mud hovel rather than the warmth of the king's hospitality, I felt it wasn't proper to disturb you.”

“Ah, well, you've disturbed me now.”

He shrugged. “The morning was nearly gone when you made your move, my lady. Wearily, so it seemed, at that. I didn't want to bring you back drowned.”

“How kind.”

“Darkness is falling again.”

“The mud hut is actually quite comfortable.”

“What a liar. You are accustomed to warmth and comfort—and the men in your life tripping over themselves to see to your comfort.”

“You don't believe in such courtesy.”

“I don't believe in anyone walking over me.” He hunched down beside her, and she was startled again by both the classic handsomeness of his features and the hardness within them. He seemed a rock. She felt a slight chill, seeing the way muscle rippled with his every breath, and remembering how she had tried to kill him. She needed to be thankful for her sex, she thought; he surely would have killed a man in return, no quarter given. Yet, did it matter? He was young, powerful, and striking, a warrior from a noble house. She had underestimated him last night. He meant to turn her in to the king. She still meant to escape.

Fall … nearly winter. The light did not stay long. Here, beneath the sapling oak, a breeze stirring, the coming twilight was suddenly beautiful. The air played upon the water, and it rippled. A fresh, cool scent seemed to stroke her cheeks. She was warm in her cloak, filled with his food. She felt renewed. Her strength was revived, along with her faith in herself. If only someone would come along. Help. What story could she come up with to tell an unwary passerby? There were fishermen out on the water. They'd be coming in soon, with darkness so quickly looming before them …

“Don't even think about it, my lady.”

“About what?”

“Seeking help from me through a fisherman. I'd have to kill him, and his death would be upon your hands.”

She flushed, wishing he could not so easily read her mind. She stood then, dusting bread crumbs from her hands. He stood at her side, pointing toward his horse.

“M'lady, shall we.”

She hesitated. When she had feared immediate rape or death, the prospect of returning to Stirling had been a good one. Now, she knew she was facing nothing but the king's fury. Just how angry would he be? How far would he go with her to prove his power?

“Now, my lady!” he said, his tone taking on a harsh quality.

She swallowed, shaking her head, wondering if he'd realize now that her obstinance was more fear than defiance. “I … can't. I'm not going anywhere with you,” she murmured. “If we could just—”

“No, we couldn't just,” he said quietly.

She stared at him, assessing him once again. She held very still. She was dressed, but still damp, and the breeze sweeping by her was cool, but good. She felt strong again. They were near the castle, too near the castle. Her chances were slipping away. She had to reason with him, or outwit him. Reasoning might be hard now, since she
had
tried to split his head open with the oar, and she had drawn her knife on him, twice. She'd not retrieved it the last time. She shivered as she stood there, realizing his height allowed him to tower over her. He was, she thought again, a man to make her very nervous. In the prime of life, still young, but a man fully formed, a warrior trained. Powerful, striking, yet so chillingly so, for his sculpted features were set in lines so harsh and impassive that she felt tremors begin sweeping through her, touching her with a strange sense of both panic and warmth.