Perhaps longer, she amended when moonlight poured over her again. Had she not been moved by discomfort and impatience, she would have known to await better cover.
Swallowing a sob, she turned back. And nearly lost her muddy footing when she saw a figure on the shore facing her with the moon at his back. He wore no mail, its bulk and glitter absent, but her heart leapt at the possibility it was Guy, though she ought to pin her hope on it being Hereward. But it was the chevalier, she discovered the moment she drew the dagger from beneath her belt.
“Vilda,” he called low.
Suddenly aware of drying mud on her face that made her look more what his people called a filthy Saxon, she raised a hand to wipe it away, and in the next instant jerked her arm to her side. Normans made this necessary, and they—not she—should be ashamed of dirt used as concealing paint.
“Come out of the water,” Guy said so entreatingly she would have taken a step forward had not a voice within reminded he was Le Bâtard’s man, his fealty owed another ahead of any consideration for her.
Continuing to grip the hilt, she clasped her arms over her chest and said past chattering teeth, “I will not be his captive again.”
“Agreed. Now come ashore, and I will aid you.”
Though she believed him, she feared her witless feelings enough to shake her head. “I can do this on my own.”
Surely realizing the longer he exposed himself the greater the danger, he dropped to his haunches. “As Sir Roul warned, most of the Normans went west, but—”
“Sir Roul? You spoke with him?”
“As much as possible ere he passed. He trusted me enough to reveal which direction you went. Now so you not be captured again, whether by my own or the resistance who may think you a traitor, you must trust me to finish what Sir Roul could not.”
Trust—as thrice asked of her this night and twice of benefit in keeping her alive and out of the enemy’s grasp. Dare she chance it once more with this man who, more than most, gave her cause to trust?
“Vilda, there are warriors of both sides here. Though most of the Normans who search for a safe passage west move inland, several times it was necessary to conceal myself when they and their pursuers passed near the shore and cloud cover was thin. Lest my armor reveal me, I shed it. If you are found, the bindings that slow you will hand you up to them. Let me help you.”
She wanted that, especially now the hidden causeway was no longer an option since he would follow her and revelation of that crossing could endanger those on Ely. Though it was possible if she struck out now she could swim this expanse despite the chain, it seemed more likely she would succumb to exhaustion.
“Come to me,” Guy said with command that caused her to startle. “Now, else I will come in after you.”
He would, and the chain he warned would be her undoing would serve him.
“Your word,” she said. “No matter who comes against you, you will not yield me to your king.”
He touched his sword hilt. “To the best of my ability, I shall defend you. This I vow.”
She nodded, and as she pushed through reed-thick water that dragged at her skirts and the mantle about her waist, once more clouds stole the moonlight.
Guy was there when she slid the dagger beneath her belt and pressed hands to the slippery grass to raise herself from the water, and it was he who did the lifting, gripping her waist and pulling her upright.
Perhaps it was his hesitation to release her that made her do what she did. Perhaps she did it because it was what she needed. Regardless, she slid her arms around him and leaned in.
He tensed, and she thought he would set her away. But he drew her closer and, when she began sobbing, pressed her head beneath his chin as if he did not mind being muddied. “I am sorry for all you have suffered, Vilda.”
To hear those words and be held thus made her cry harder, and as she turned her face into his chest to muffle her misery, he eased her to sitting—doubtless, lest moonlight come out again.
Finding herself seated not on the ground but atop his thighs, his deep voice hushing her and muscled body warming hers, she gripped handfuls of his tunic and curled into him as if he were hers to hold to in a storm.
Pitiful, Vilda, he is not for you to love, she silently rebuked, then caught her breath over what she named these feelings. It was wrong to love him. Guy was a good man, and that was all he could be to her. If ever he thought to make a life with one other than Elan, it would not be this Saxon. Enemy wedding enemy was for others. And happily…
Was Vitalis truly happy with his Norman wife who surely sought to tame the Saxon of him? If so, likely it was because Nicola was lively and beautiful, all knowing the sting of arranged marriages was alleviated by pretty and handsome countenances, fine figures, and youth.
That was the consolation to the widower to whom Vilda had been married only a few hours. Though she was no beauty, she could be pretty. Though she was no petite thing easily swept into a man’s arms, she carried little excess weight. Though she had not been in the first bloom of maidenhood, she had been maiden enough to bear him an heir. These things had pleased her betrothed who mostly had integrity and—before the invasion—considerable income to recommend him. As he seemed the best match she could make, without argument she had accepted her life would be spent with one to whom she was in no way attracted unlike—
Her thoughts were torn from her when Guy’s hand
