Come the Morning (9 page)

“You must pay attention now. I'm not a thief!” She turned her hand over, producing the silver coin she'd intended to leave as payment. “But I've need of transportation south, and am quite willing to pay with this good money. It seems you've been traveling long yourself, but perhaps your master would not know if you traveled a bit longer. If you'll take me, you will have the money and your boat, and I can pay even more for your services.”

“Can you now?”

He reached out, and it took all her courage to remain dead still as he pushed her hood fully back, studying her face in the moonlight.

She thrust his hand away, but her hood had already fallen, and he could clearly see her face while she could still see almost nothing of his.

She felt a great resentment rising within her. He hadn't been thrown to the mud. His cloak remained in good condition—the hood pulled low over his forehead.

“Don't touch me,” she warned him.

“I didn't touch you. Merely your garment.”

“Don't do so again. I warn you, men could well die for less.”

“Really?” He was casually intrigued, and it seemed that he had all the time in the world.

She did not.

Her patience began to wane. “You must take heed with your every liberty. I do give you fair warning that I am a lady of this land, and if you serve me well, you will prosper, and if you cause me harm, you will die.”

He lifted a hand suddenly, indicating the boat. Relieved that he at last seemed to understand her position and situation—and his possible gain from it—she quickly collected her fallen knife from the ground and scampered in. She then crawled to the aft of the small vessel, leaving him the center-seat plank so that he could row the boat with the oars in the locks there.

He pushed the boat from the shore and stepped into it as it shot from the bank. With balance and ease he came forward into the center of the small vessel, took a position in the center seat, and picked up the oars. One swift surge with the oars on his part and they were all but flying across the water.

She would move far more quickly with him rowing than she could have possibly prayed to move on her own power.

But though she wanted to feel relief, she remained disturbed. She felt him watching her beneath the shadow of his hood. They were out upon the water when he spoke to her again, his voice rich, deep, husky—and menacing.

“A lady, eh?”

“Row, and mind your business,” she said.

“A lady, alone, in the night. When there might well be cutthroats and thieves about, rapists, plunderers, ravagers—simple opportunists?”

Was he threatening her?
Yes, fool, most apparently!
she warned herself.

“As you know, I carry a dagger on me, a gift from a Viking friend. It is sharper than any sword you can imagine, and the Viking taught me to use it quite well.”

“Aye, so I saw.”

“You took me by surprise; it will not happen again. If you've any intent to harm me, you should truly rethink your designs,” she informed him. She was careful to keep her voice firm and level despite the fear rising within her.

He didn't respond to her warning, but continued to ponder her situation. “A lady at night, alone on the river, demanding services—and threatening those she commands to serve her. There can be but one explanation to such a situation, so it appears to me. Tell me, my lady, just whom do you seek so desperately to escape?” he demanded.

“I should give you an answer to such a question—so you can demand a ransom?” Mellyora inquired. “I've nothing to tell you. Row. I'll pay you in silver coins, in gold.”

“So you've told me. But I have you now, at my mercy, one might say.”

Mellyora stared at him, determined not to show a flicker of fear. “I swear,” she said quietly, “alive and in one piece, I can make you far richer than you could make yourself by causing harm to me. Touch me, harm me in any way, and if I do not cut your heart out here and now, you will, I promise, die a tortured death. You will writhe in pure agony—pierced, bludgeoned, bloodied, and burned—before your body is hacked to pieces and fed to the crows.”

“You are both imperious and bloodthirsty,” he replied.

“You wretched bastard! How dare you sit there and criticize me—”

“You're quite certain of your power. Which makes me think that you are running from none other than the king himself.” He leaned forward. “Why?”

Mellyora gritted down hard on her teeth, trying to control both her temper and the trembling that had seized her. Aye, she carried a knife in a sheath at her ankle. And aye, she'd been schooled well in the use of weapons.

But training and fact were two different situations, as she was now discovering. When he'd pinned her on the riverbank, she hadn't had a prayer of reaching her knife. And if he truly threatened her now, what would happen? Could she draw her knife out and injure him severely enough to keep him from slaying her in return?

Part of winning in battle was knowing when to fight, when to feint, when, even, to negotiate.

“What is this to you?” she asked, not wanting to risk a physical battle. “I can pay you very well—there's no need to ask for any ransom. You'll receive money, and there's the end of it. What more do you need to know?”

Beneath the encompassing wool of his cloak, she thought that his great shoulders shrugged. “Whimsy, I suppose. I'm curious, quite intrigued. And I do well enough, you see. I am not in great need of your money.”

She sighed. “Then let this be inspiration for helping me quietly now to reach my destination. I could, truthfully, have you arrested and possibly hanged or otherwise executed for accosting me as you did on the riverbank.”

“How strange. It seems to me you want nothing to do with the law of the land.”

She exhaled with a great deal of exasperation. He was demanding a story. She'd give him the truth. “Fine, if you want a story, entertainment, then you shall have it. I am Scottish. Well, perhaps my father wasn't exactly a native, but my mother's people have been here so long that they are part and parcel of the land. I am, as you've suggested, a ward of the king. My father died recently and unexpectedly and King David has determined that he must give me and my land to a horrid, wretched, despicable, pockmarked, miserable Norman-bastard of a friend and supporter. I have determined that I will not be so given.”

“Ah …” he murmured. Had she received sympathy from him at last? “I see.”

“So you do understand, and you'll help me, and I'll make you richer than you are, even if money isn't a tremendous concern to you.”

“I'm still confused.”

“Why?”

“Just where is it that you're trying to go?”

“Downriver.”

“Why?”

“I've kin there.”

“There's nothing but a Viking encampment downriver.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You're kin to Daro the Viking?”

“He's my uncle.”

“Are you also kin to Bjorn Hallsteader?” he asked sharply.

“No,” she said, surprised at his tone, but nonetheless pleased that, for once, he didn't know what he was talking about at all. “Hallsteaders hail from Denmark; my father was the son of a Norwegian jarl.”

“Danes, Swedes, and Norse have been known to fight together.”

“Aye, and Vikings have fought for the king.”

“Still, you intend to pit the Vikings against the king?”

“No! And how dare you assume that my Viking kin would take arms against the king? I simply intend to remove myself so that I may be in a better position to explain my feelings and situation to the king.”

“If you intend to cause bloodshed and insurrection, you had best be able to explain yourself.”

“I do not intend bloodshed, or insurrection! My father was a Viking who loved Scotland, and the concept of a united Scotland, more than you can imagine. And good God, but you are presumptuous! What is any of this to you?”

“Oh … nothing,” he murmured. His attention was suddenly directed to the right oar. He seemed to be struggling with it, twisting it around in the oarlock.

“What are you doing?” Mellyora demanded. “Don't play with it so, you must be careful—you're ripping the oar out of the lock—”

Even as she spoke, the oar slipped from the lock, and into the water.

“Och!” he gasped. “M'lady, would you look at that!”

“What have you done?” she asked with incredulous dismay. Was the man dangerous—or simply an impossible clod?

“The oar,” he said sadly.

“Yes! The oar—”

“It fell right through the hole.”

“Of course, you fool! You wrenched the oar free from the oarlock! That is what happens if you take an oar from the lock and don't hold it—”

“Dear Lord!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“What?”

“There went the other one.”

“My God, but you can't be such a fool. How can you sit there tormenting me with a million questions while you haven't the sense to hold on to the oars—”

“My dear lady, I'm so sorry, but you mustn't worry,” he said cheerfully, and suddenly he was standing.

“Now what are you doing?” she asked incredulously, staring up at him.

“I said not to worry—”

“Don't worry!” she repeated, staring at him in disbelief. “Please, God, I don't mean to be cruel, but you're a clumsy oaf and you've created pure disaster for me—”

“I'll swim back to the shore and acquire more oars.”

“That takes time!”

“Rest assured, lady, I'll be back for you—and your gold of course. Don't be distressed. I promise—I vow to you—that I will take you exactly where you should be once I return.”

“How could you have done this to me? I am desperate, and time is so important. How could you? You should be horsewhipped, beaten—”

“Tortured? Burned at the stake, perhaps? Broken on a wheel?”

“Perhaps no less!” Mellyora said in rising dismay. In all her life, she'd never treated a servant with anything but kindness. All men were unique, she had been taught. In the eyes of God, the simplest man deserved the greatest sympathy.

But God had never seen fit to inflict her with such a wretched fool before. He had done so now. Now, when she was in the gravest peril. And this man wasn't just a wretched, clumsy, oaf, he was an insolent one as well, taunting her as he made a mockery of her getaway.

“Broken on a wheel, but left alive to burn at the stake!” she muttered angrily.

“M'lady, I will come back,” he said. She realized that he was about to dive into the water when he doffed his cloak and cast it upon the seat where he had been sitting.

She saw his face at last.

His eyes were searing and powerful. She found herself staring at him, as he looked back at her.

In a moment of surprised silence, she studied him. His hair was rich and thick, shoulder-length, dark auburn. His features were handsomely, strongly formed. His jaw was quite square, his cheekbones were high and broad, giving him a rugged and commanding appearance. His eyes, which had so caught her attention, were deep blue in color, almost cobalt, large and set beneath well-defined, arching brows.

He was young, she realized, yet somehow hardened for his years. He was exceptionally striking, powerfully masculine. There was something imposing and indomitable about his appearance that unnerved her. His eyes touched upon hers with a raw, chilling determination.

“Wait—” she began on a whispered breath.

“Nay, lady, wait for me. You'll just drift for a bit—downriver, the way you wanted to go. Lie still and take care, and I will be back.”

“No, wait—” she cried.

But he had dived into the river, leaving her in the boat. Oarless, and stuck on the water.

Barely moving at all.

Damn him!

Once he had entered the water, she shivered, then shook off the unease he had caused her and concentrated again on the seriousness of her predicament. He hadn't understood the complexities of her problem at all. She couldn't just drift. She had to reach the Viking encampment quickly—before the king discovered she was gone, and sent men after her.

Far away, he broke the surface of the water.

“Wait—!” she tried crying again.

But he dived into the depths of the river once again, and when he broke the surface this time, he came up far from the boat, swimming hard with long clean strokes. He couldn't possibly hear her.

And the distance they had come! Far from either riverbank.

Farther still from where she longed to be.

She swore. “What kind of an idiot loses both oars?”

The river was muddy, dark, and deep here. The oars were gone, beyond all hope. Unless they were to surface and float …

She looked about, searching the surface of the water. No. Fate was not smiling her way. The oars were not reappearing.

She sat in the boat, watching the moon in the night sky. She wasn't moving at all, the current should be taking her at least at some decent pace!

Mellyora clenched her hands into fists in her lap. Oh, God, if only her father had lived! Or if only the king had taken heed of her words. She raged against the fact that no one seemed willing to listen to wisdom and logic—not when it came from a woman.

She had really thought David might at least have given her pleas some thought. He was a good king, a strong man who had made great strides in making Scotland a unified and more powerful country. She didn't want to betray him, argue with him, or hurt him in any way.

She simply had no choice. This was her life. Kings liked to play with lives of others by the hundreds. It was part of what they did, of what they were.

Yet independence was part of what she was, and what she yearned to have. She told herself again that she didn't want to defy the king; she simply wanted to be in a better position to compromise with him.