Page 17 of Come the Morning

He came closer; he was already almost upon her. His strides were long, fluid, and swift, and he gained on her position so quickly she hadn’t a prayer of getting away on the river.

She watched him coming, trying to remain calm, to think, to calculate—quickly!—and yet the sure menace of his graceful speed sent panic searing through her. She could manage a sword in her own defense, but she had fled without a sword.

So much for thinking.

She had a small knife at her calf, but he was probably well armed …

She couldn’t get away swiftly enough in the boat. She could only hope to escape on foot. She turned to run.

Yet even as she did so, she was caught. She gasped as she was enwrapped in large, steel-like arms. Her feet were swept off the ground as she tried to escape, and she was brought crashing downward to the soft river embankment.

She landed hard, inhaling desperately for air.

She tried to rise, and could not. He was there, ready to pounce on top of her. She slipped her hand down to her calf, reaching for her knife. Her fingers grasped it and she wriggled desperately, turning to her back. She managed to bring her arm up, and aim for a place between the man’s ribs.

Before her blow could fall, her wrist was captured. Long, ruthless fingers sent a searing pain into her wrist. Against her will, she dropped the knife.

She couldn’t breathe, for the towering stranger with the steel muscles had straddled her form.

“Now!” he thundered, his voice husky and deep. “Now, thief! Where do you think you’d be going with that boat? Answer, and answer quickly, or I’ll slit your throat!”

CHAPTER4

She had to fight the waves of fear cascading over her, despite the fact that the wretch was atop her in the pale, wavering moonlight. She could not think clearly if she allowed fear to rule her.

She saw him now far more clearly than she wanted—his form, not his face, for annoyingly, his face was hidden by the shadow of his hood. He was heavily, tautly muscled beneath his encompassing cloak.

The garment gave her pause, and sent her mind spinning once again. The cloak was wool fashioned in a complex Scottish style, with the strands so tightly knit together to render the garment nearly completely waterproof. Each strand was colored with vegetable dyes to create a pattern that would signify a certain part of the country or a people. Talented weavers were creating thetartansmore and more often these days, remembering the exact shades and number of dyed strands by marking them upon a stick, so that the coloring could be repeated again and again. The style of clothing belonged to Scotland, and not to the Normans who had been invited to settle lands at the king’s request. If the garment was any indication of the man, he wasn’t a Norman usurper.

Did it matter what his nationality if he slit her throat and her life bled away, here in the mud? Slit her throat, with what? Was he armed? Aye, she thought, he would have a knife sheathed at his calf, just as she had carried. A sword? He wasn’t wearing a scabbard now, or was he? Where had he come from? There was a small hut of stone and mud on the riverbank, and a horse grazed nearby. Was it his boat, or had he come by way of the huge warhorse with the battle accouterments, looming in the shadows?

Would he kill her? What was he doing here, alone, on the embankment? She started to shake; then she was furious with herself. Death was one thing. Dying without a fight was completely another.

“Get off me!” she commanded.

The ox! He ignored her. And she would, she assured herself, prevail.

The man was, she determined, the servant of some greater lord. A fine example of good Scottish breeding; his height was commanding; his body form and muscle structure were formidable. He would serve nicely as a knight—he could surely be trained to possess an incredibly powerful sword arm. Indeed, he was certainly strong enough—all but breaking her into bits now as he straddled atop her.

“Are you daft or deaf? Get off!” she repeated, with confident authority.

Still, he didn’t move. She felt him staring down at her curiously, his face still masked by his hood.

“So a lass would steal a boat,” he said simply.

She could see his torso and legs. Beneath his cloak he wore simple woolen hose, a linen shirt and another overshirt or tunic of like design as his cloak. His clothing was not of poor quality, but it was muddied as if he had worked or traveled long and hardin it. Perhaps he could be made to travel just a bit longer, and a bit harder.

“I’m notstealinganything, good fellow,” she said, wincing inwardly as she heard a slight waver in her voice. “I warn you, get off me now!”

To her relief, he listened at last. He stood, catching her hand, dragging her to her feet before him. He remained very close, and though she was tall for a woman, he was much taller, and his nearness made her more uneasy. She was alone on a riverbank with a strange man who might well be dangerous, and who may not realize he challenged a ward of the king—and had already had the audacity to wrestle her to the mud.

She had no choice but to hold her ground firmly; one of the first lessons she had learned in life from her warrior father was that you must never let a potential enemy know that you’re afraid.

“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.