Page 68 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
After a quiet inquiry as to the whereabouts of his grave, she turned her head away, seemingly unaware of his reply.
Didn’t she care?
As the day wore on, she’d remained unresponsive, even when her maid tended to her. She neither spoke nor cried. Not wishing to waste resources, he instructed Wulfstan to return to his duties.
But now—not even her maid knew where she’d gone. Only after searching in her herb store, pausing momentarily to look at the table where she’d administered to his leg and saved his life, did he curse his lack of understanding. She had gone to her father.
Though unmarked, the site of the grave would be distinguishable for several days. The freshly dug earth, punctuated by footprints which would soon be claimed by ground to become part of the forest floor once more.
As he approached the grave, a soft voice confirmed his suspicions. His wife knelt in the dirt. Though she spoke softly, her voice always seemed to penetrate his heart and soul, as if an invisible thread bound them together—a bond stronger than the vows of husband and wife, or a lord and his king.
She had fashioned a crude marker and was praying for her father. She spoke of him being a victim of treachery. Unobserved, her words carried the honesty of a woman speaking of her beliefs—speaking the truth.
“Oh, Papa, forgive me! You sought to protect me from him, and paid for it with your life. I’ve lost my beloved brother and now my Papa—I am all alone!”
Her words incited his jealousy of her brother, but the sorrow in her voice almost broke his heart. She placed something on the grave, then stood. Harald drew back, concealed behind a tree. But instead of returning to the hall, she went deeper into the forest, following the stream toward the waterfall. The rain had swelled the water, which plunged into the pool, sending a spray of water over the path. The ground was slippery underfoot, and it gave way beneath him. He almost lost his balance, and a jolt of pain shot through his injured leg.
Above the rush of the water, a cry rang out, followed by agonizing sobs as she yielded to her grief. She lifted her head to the sky and howled, screaming at the Almighty for the role He had played in ridding the world of the best of men.
Harald’s discomfort at the violence of her emotions did not prevent him from watching, skulking in the shadows while she bared her soul.
She crouched down and dipped her hands into the water at the edge of the pool. From his vantage point he could see how filthy they were—she must have used her bare hands to dig the hole for the marker for her father’s grave.
Her foot gave way in the mud, and she lost her balance. Soundlessly she slipped into the water, the dark, green mass engulfing her slender form, the ripple lost among the boiling turmoil beneath the waterfall.
She surfaced, then, after fighting for the briefest of moments, she surrendered and disappeared under the surface. Though he waited, she did not emerge again.
He could not let her di—his heart whispered that he couldn’t live without her.
He dived head first into the water, his body shuddering at the shock of the cold. He couldn’t see far in the pool—the swirling beneath the waterfall drove the silt at the bottom into a dark, churning vortex.
A flash of white came into view below him. A hand. He grasped it and pulled her from the depths. She offered no resistance, but made no attempt to hold on to him. Why did she not struggle? Did she value her life so little?
Or, perhapshevalued her too little.
His feet found a purchase, and he dragged her limp form out of the water. Her body lay still, her chest unmoving. She was not breathing.
“Eloise,” he whispered, placing his palm against her cheek. Her skin was cold, her blue lips a stark contrast to the pallor of her face. A bubble of despair swelled in his chest, constricting his breath—a visceral reaction to the thought of losing her.
What had caused such a reaction? Why did the notion of losing her bring forth such a feeling of emptiness? Had she claimed a piece of his heart?
He brushed her sodden hair out of her eyes and let out a groan—a deep sound of loss originating from the core of his soul. He pulled her into his arms and held her body against his chest.
“Eloise!” His howl of anguish dissipated into the air, engulfed by the rush of the waterfall.
From the moment his marriage was arranged he’d resolved to hate her. When he saw her in the garden the morning after their wedding, his body had lusted after her. Had he now grown to care for her—to love her?
Aye.
He bowed his head and buried his face in her wet hair.
Her body twitched in his arms—a small motion at first, followed by a violent spasm. A cough erupted from her chest, sending forth a spurt of water. She choked again, raising her hands involuntarily to grasp his arms.
“Wife?”
She had opened her mouth, wheezing as the air rushed into her lungs.
She was alive! He lifted her in his arms and scrambled to his feet, picking his way past the waterfall until he reached the level ground of the forest where, ignoring the sharp pains in his leg, he broke into a run.
