Page 95 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“Maid Marian,” said Roger. He didn’t care that all of them turned to stare at him. “I begged Fenella not to come tonight. But she wouldn’t listen.” He ran to the water and waded in, scanning the darkening sea, looking for any sign of swimmers.

Footsteps splashed behind him. “Which way does the current run?” asked Macklin.

“Out,” said Roger, straining, examining every wave crest, every irregularity in the surface. “Like a millrace at this point in the tide. To open water, and Denmark, eventually.” He saw nothing. Despair threatened to engulf him.

“Not directly,” said the older man. “We saw that when the boys came up here. There are crosscurrents and rips.” He turned toward shore, calling, “Fetch boats.”

In a short time, a flotilla of volunteers had rowed out to search for Fenella, pulling against the draw of the sea.

Sometime later, there were shouts from one of the little vessels, indicating that they’d found a body. Roger plunged into shock and terror as he helped propel his boat over to it. But when they reached it, he discovered that the sodden bundle they’d pulled from the water wasn’t Fenella. Relief warred with horror and astonishment as he gaped at the pale face and recognized Arabella’s mother.

The boat holding her moved toward shore. His own began to follow. “What are you doing?” Roger demanded. “We have to keep searching.”

“It’s grown too dark, my lord,” said the boat’s owner. “We can’t see properly. Might miss something. We’ll wait and head back out at first light.”

“Lend me the boat,” said Roger. “I’ll keep going.”

But when they reached the island, all the mariners held the same opinion. It was no use going on in the dark. No one said that by this time the cold water would have sapped a swimmer’s strength and most likely pulled her down. They didn’t have to. Roger knew it. He’d lived his life by the North Sea. These waters were unforgiving.

They carried Mrs. Crenshaw up to the tent and laid her body on a rug. Roger, his mother, and Macklin joined the others standing over her. “What was she doing here?” said Roger’s mother.

“Can she have been the archer?” asked Macklin. “Maid Marian?” His tone was dubious. The soaked middle-aged woman before them didn’t look adventurous.

“Yes.” Desolation dragged at every word Roger spoke. “She was a keen archer as a girl. Arabella mentioned it once. I’d forgotten. Her mother wanted her to learn, but she didn’t care to.” He ought to have remembered. He ought to have suspected. But how could he have imagined Mrs. Crenshaw would do such a thing? She must have gone mad.

“But,” began his mother. “Why?”

“She blamed me for Arabella’s death,” Roger said leadenly. “And I…like a damned fool, I blamed Fenella. This was revenge. On her. On me. I’ve done this.”

“No, you have not,” said Macklin. He pointed at the dead woman. “She did it, and no one else.”

“She promoted your marriage,” said Roger’s mother. “Arranged it even, you told me.”

It was true. Roger’s guilt lifted just slightly. He would not have married Arabella, and she would not have died, perhaps, if Mrs. Crenshaw hadn’t pushed the match. She had much to answer for, wherever she might be now. Then this momentary feeling of respite collapsed. Fenella was gone. Just when he’d found her after so many years, he’d lost her again. And he hadn’t told her he loved her. That cut so deeply that he nearly bent double with regret. He’d meant to. He’d tried to. But his wretched tongue had betrayed him yet again, and so she’d never heard him tell her how very much he cared. If he could be given the chance—Roger prayed for a chance—he would say it every day, every hour for the rest of his life.

They went out to a murmuring, firelit island. Groups of people stood or sat exchanging wild stories about what had happened when they had no actual idea. What was he going to do? Roger wondered. How was he going to live now?

He wanted to snatch up a claymore and rage against an enemy, wild and invincible as a berserker. But there was no one to fight. And so little grounds for hope.

Nineteen

Weakened by what seemed like an eternity of paddling and the cold water, which leached strength from her body moment by moment, Fenella struggled on against the terrible power of the sea. The tide constantly fought her lateral course across the direction of the current. It wanted to carry her out into the depths. She was just another fleck in the vast flood moving away from shore and then back again, hour by hour.

But finally, finally, the pull seemed to lessen a little. She swam on and gradually confirmed the feeling. She’d broken out of the main rush of the current. It no longer gripped her so strongly. She could go a bit faster.

But night had fallen by this time, with low clouds, and she couldn’t see very well in the dark. She moved on by feel, praying not to stray back into the tidal reach. A sound caught her attention. Was that waves breaking? She turned toward it, daring to hope.

A few minutes later, one of Fenella’s feet brushed solid ground. Hardly daring to hope, she felt about with her toes. Yes, the sea bottom was shelving upward! She lurched upright and pushed forward—staggering, tripping, floundering, crawling finally—and at last dragged herself out of the water. She dug her fingers into packed wet sand, profoundly grateful, and collapsed onto it.

For a while she simply panted. It was an unutterable luxury to lie still, not to have to fight for her life, not to crane her neck to stay above water and catch a full breath. She could ask for nothing more.

Slowly, she revived a little. Her breath slowed. She pushed up and sat on the sand. Judging by the sound of lapping waves and dim outlines in the night, she decided that she’d reached an islet, hardly more than a sandbar. She couldn’t see the real shore. She needed more light for that, to decide how she might truly escape the sea. This place was a temporary refuge in the ebbing tide. At high tide, it might not even exist.

Fenella shivered. She was freezing in her soaked shift. Her wounded arm hurt, as did her head where Mrs. Crenshaw had hit her, and her throat where she’d choked her. She almost laughed. A regular litany of pains. The relief of being out of the sea made her giddy. She’d survived. But she had to do something more now, or she would perish of cold.

Shifting to hands and knees, Fenella crawled slowly around the perimeter of her refuge. She came across no bushes or trees, no rocks, just wet sand, confirming her opinion that this speck of land was covered at high tide. It offered no shelter from the wind that was chilling her skin and making her shudder.

But at the far end of the bar she did find a sizable pile of seaweed, coughed up by the waves. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she muttered as she yanked the bundle of fronds away from the water toward the center of the islet. There she scraped a shallow depression in the sand, pushed some of the seaweed into it, curled up on top, and arranged the rest over her. The fronds were cold and slimy, but they did cut the wind. Fenella pulled her knees up to her chest and nestled her icy hands in the space between. Slowly, she grew a little warmer as the heat of her body filled her bizarre cocoon. This wasn’t comfort by any means, but it did mean survival. She rubbed her hands together to encourage circulation.

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