Considerate as ever, he gripped her arm to steady her against the boat’s shifting. The vessel did not find its center again with her leaning to the side, but it stabilized enough he could have released her.
Staring into his face level with hers where he stood in water lapping at his lower thighs, Vilda recalled being here with him before—or nearly so. That night he had been on the shore and she had not been alone in the boat. Among the surviving rebels had been one dead before Hereward could get him aboard. And she had hated this chevalier for that. No longer.
“I am remembering when first we met, Guy Torquay.”
A corner of his mouth rose. “As am I, lady who wore mud on her face then just as now.”
She smiled sadly. “Strange something can so greatly change without affecting true change in one’s life.” Seeing his brow gather, she explained, “You are not the foe you were then, and yet standing one side whilst I stand the other, never can you be my friend or…”
As if to discourage feelings for him, he released her arm. But rather than leave her to begin rowing amid rain that was becoming more than drizzle, he said, “Or?”
Impulse made her release the rail, a check on impulse gave her pause. Then knowing more she would regret not doing this than the shame of revealing how much she wanted him, she set hands on either side of his face.
“Or more,” she whispered, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
He did not return the kiss, and she knew it was not because of the urgency of getting her out on the water. He felt some attraction, but not enough to repeat the mistake of a passionate embrace in the absence of true passion.
She drew back. However, dread of what would be on his face fled when she saw what she had done, and it nearly made her laugh. “Oh, my my me, Sir Guy. That is a kiss you will not forget, though not as intended.”
He drew fingers across his smudged nose and beneath his lips, raised his eyebrows. “Now I wear mud as well.”
“Aye, and you look a…” She trailed off, unable to say what was in no way true.
“A Norman pig,” he said.
As she had named him that night. “Nay, you do not look that, though I have no doubt I do, albeit of the Saxon variety.”
His gaze became weightier, then he murmured, “Never,” and pulled her to him and closed his mouth over hers.
Her gasp drew his breath into her, but rather than return him to his senses, it seemed to render him more senseless. Though he had to know this should not be happening just as he had said of that first intimacy, he gathered her nearer and deepened the kiss as if concurring theirs was a painful farewell.
Knowing they had no time for this and fearing he would regret whatever lusts of the body made a substitute of her, she told herself to push him away. But it was the whispering of some small hope she listened to—that which suggested he felt more attraction than he ought. Thus, as she would not have believed herself capable of doing, she kissed him back fiercely and well. At least, it felt that way, and he did not dissuade her. Not immediately…
Wanting to believe the need to evade the enemy made him pull back, though she did not hear nor see the approach of any, she peered at him through raindrops. Then this time with forced lightness, she said, “How is it kissing this sturdy Saxon widow once was not enough for you, Guy?”
Was his silence born of regret? It was too dim to delve an expression that might confirm it, but she was fairly certain it was that. Though not unexpected, it hurt.
Vilda drew a shuddering breath and on the exhale said, “Should that kiss not have happened as well?”
She startled when he raised a hand, shivered when he set it on her jaw. “I think it had to happen, Vilda. As good a parting as possible, hmm?”
For each to remember the other by? Was that what he was saying? If so, did their farewell pain him half as much as it did her?
He lowered his hand. “Now to oars, Lady.”
“To oars,” she said softly and swung her joined legs over the forward bench and settled on the center one. As she turned hands around oars that had been drawn in, Guy began pushing the vessel. With a sharp sucking sound, the bow came free of mud, then he was guiding the boat over and between the reeds toward open water.
When the river was at the height of his chest, he said, “Go upriver as far as you can get from Ely.”
Which she had not promised to do. “Upriver,” she said and silently added, only as far as it takes to find a landing place where I can remain out of sight until Hereward returns to the isle.
He gave one last push. “Fare thee well, Vilda.”
“And you,” she said and began plying the oars. Once more moving backward and away from him, she watched him gain the shore, turn west, and go from sight.
“Oh, my heart,” she whispered, “Forgive me for not protecting you better. Rest now. We shall talk on the morrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Royal Manor at Brampton
Huntingdon, England
Victory twice denied. That was ill enough, but to have suffered greater losses during the second assault despite better planning and more powerful weaponry was a humiliating blow.
Of the score of men gathered in the royal manor’s hall, all of whom bore marks of the debacle from which they had retreated more than a dozen hours past, not one could be surprised William was taking the defeat poorly. But since he had heeded the advice of the warrior who had managed to remain upright when he stumbled against the dais minutes earlier, the king had no one to
