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.
It seemed that she sat forever, weighing her problems. She realized that she was afraid, that she didn’t know what David would do if he believed that she had really betrayed him.
Once she was free, she could prove her loyalty.
Where was the fool who had lost the oars and gone to shore for more? Was he in the act of betraying her? He’d been gone so long now.
Did she dare sit here any longer?
No. Staying here, vulnerable, in the center of the river wouldn’t do at all.
She stood, calculating the distance to the shore, then dropped her cloak and cast off her shoes and hose. The night was cool, the water would be cold. No matter, she had to risk it. She stripped down to the linen shift beneath her blue gown, hesitated a moment longer, then gritted her teeth tightly. She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer. She could manage the distance, and the cold.
Determined, she dived into the water.
The cold engulfed her.
Waryk touched bottom, and walked through the last few feet of water to the embankment. There, he sank to the ground for a moment, lying back to breathe deeply, shake his head—and laugh. So he looked like some rich man’s servant, did he? Well, he was somewhat battle-stained and road-weary. Still, just who was she?
An heiress. The proud, blond beauty who had danced before the fire and told her tale about St. Columba. He realized that he had never asked Sir Harry just who the heiress was. And now, David was about to give her to a brutal old Norman knight, or so she believed. She might be right. Who was the king wedding her to? He did reward those who served him, and many who served him were of Norman descent.
The night was incredibly calm. The lady, whoever she might be, could sit and fume on the water for hours.
He might have been a bit more understanding, he chided himself, sobering. Having spent time, if brief, with Eleanoraafter the skirmishing, he should have had a greater sympathy for a lass with an aversion to an arranged marriage—especially to a man she would consider an invading monster.
But arranged marriages were the way of the world for young noblewomen, and she should have learned that fact from a very young age. Not to mention the small matter of his own loyalty. He was the king’s man—and in her present course of action, she was the king’s enemy.
The Norse were her kind, so perhaps she didn’t realize that the Vikings were dangerous no matter how many alliances and treaties were made. They were a proud, fierce people, and fond of ruling in their own way. The king ruled a united Scotland, but David was aware that he was never really safe on his throne, that they lived in violent times. Maintaining his united Scotland was always a battle.
Still …
He felt a moment’s pity for the girl out in the boat. She was young, he thought, and he had known from the moment he seized her that she was of noble birth—and in a dangerous position. She had been lovely, despite her temper and determination. Exceptional, in truth, regally tall, young, and beautiful, tender, ripe—magic. He had thought so, listening to her tale, watching her dance. She was a prize, certainly, and David was a king to recognize any asset he might control—and he was in debt to many of the Norman knights who had ridden with him and helped put down the small insurrections against him when he had first ridden north to take the crown of Scotland. Waryk could well imagine the girl’s aversion to becoming the wife of an old decrepit Norman—a man perhaps two or three times her age whom she would still consider a foreigner.