Page 96 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

The waves repeated their lulling rhythm. The wind sighed over her dark burrow. She fell into a state that wasn’t quite sleep, yet wasn’t true waking either. Drifting in a kind of dream, she found the unexpected events of the last few weeks—the revolution in her existence—floating through her mind. She’d been the target of sly malice and curious whispers, lost her last parent, eloped, been shot, swum for her life. She put one hand to her wounded arm with its damp bandage. The catalog seemed fantastical. Yet it had all happened, like a trip through a labyrinth where one couldn’t see what came next on the twisting path.

She’d also found more happiness with Roger than she’d ever known before. No one in her family, not even her grandmother, who genuinely loved her, had made her feel so cherished. All the tender moments she and Roger had spent together passed through her memory. She was so fortunate, blessed as she had never thought to be. The difficulties were as nothing to this gift. Despite her current predicament, a pulse of joy ran through her, a heady mixture of pleasure and gratitude.

But she hadn’t told Roger how much she loved him! She’d meant to, but somehow she’d never come to the point of speaking the words. If she didn’t see him again…but she would see him! She’d escaped the sea. She would reach home. Tomorrow. And when she did, she would let him know how much he meant to her. Every day, from now on. Because disaster could descend at any moment and make that forever impossible. On this firm resolve, Fenella sank into restless sleep.

Light came with a splash of cold water, dripping through the nest of seaweed that now admitted thin rays of sunshine. Fenella lifted her head and saw that the tide was rising, and her refuge was losing inches with each incoming wave. She sat up, pushing off the seaweed. It left brown slimy trails over her shoulders and arms. Her bandage looked filthy.

A larger wave broke, running along the sand toward her knees. Fenella pushed herself up and stood. It was time to go. The rest had helped. Yes, she was still cold, and very thirsty. Her muscles were stiff from her efforts yesterday, and she had painful bruises from the attack. But she was alive and ready to go on.

She turned in a circle on her sandbar, evaluating her position now that she could see the landscape. The tide had carried her away from the Lindisfarne priory, and her sideways swim had taken her around a higher spit of sand, so that she couldn’t see the holy isle from this low vantage point. The closest bit of shoreline was south, judging by the sunrise, a promontory thrusting out into the channel. The tip didn’t seem so very far away. She could see ripples that promised strong currents, however.

She didn’t want to go back into the sea, Fenella acknowledged. Perhaps ever. She longed to sit here and wait for someone to come for her. Surely they were searching. She was confident that Roger was searching. If a boat appeared, she could wave them down. If only she could light a signal fire. But there was nothing to burn and not much time before the sandbar was engulfed. Which would put her in the water anyway. “Spineless and shivering,” she said aloud, and was surprised by the croak her voice had become. She couldn’t wait for rescue.

Still, she had to lash herself to enter the waves. Their touch on her feet made her shudder. At least the tide would carry her in the right direction this time, toward shore.

Fenella waded into the sea. The water reached her knees, her hips, her chest. She began to swim.

The tide did pull at her, but the journey was easier in the light. She could see her goal ahead, growing closer with each stroke. She swam harder. Her lungs began to pump and her pulse to pound. Slowly, painfully slowly, the spit of land neared.

The water grew shallower. The effort lessened. Fenella found purchase for her feet near the end of the promontory and started to stand up. A morass of sand sucked at her, eager to pull her down. She flopped forward and floated, propelling herself along the bottom with fingers and toes until the water grew too shallow. She tried rising again. This time the sand was firm. She hurried on and at last reached dry ground, sinking to her hands and knees and breathing hard.

Shivers brought her to her feet again. She wasn’t done yet. The narrow peninsula was empty of all but scrub. She had to find her way to help.

She walked along the crest, dipped down to cross a small channel running with water up to her ankles, and finally reached the mainland proper. She could see grain fields ahead. There would be people about surely. She hoped to come upon them soon because she was freezing in the early-morning chill. She pulled at her shift, clinging damply to her body. Not the way she would wish to meet countrymen, but she had no choice.

* * *

Roger rowed because he felt just slightly better when he was doing something, rather than sitting and scanning the empty sea and shore as their small boats crisscrossed the waters around Lindisfarne. He could feel the opinion mounting among the searchers—that Fenella couldn’t be alive now, that the strong currents must have overwhelmed her, that the cold water would have leached her life away. And the moment he stopped moving, he might have to accept that. So he wouldn’t stop, because he refused to give up hope. There was still a chance. Until the tide returned her body, he would go on. He realized that the other oarsmen in his boat had eased off.

“There’s nowhere else to look, my lord,” said the vessel’s owner. “We’ve been all over.”

“Down the coast,” said Roger. He looked out to sea. “Farther out.”

“We can’t take boats this size far into open water,” the man replied. “And out there—”

Roger knew the end of this sentence, and he didn’t want to hear it. Why were they talking? They should be rowing.

Movement caught in the corner of his eye, and he turned eagerly. But it was a line of dark clouds boiling up in the east, promising a squall. He glanced at the faces of the local men who had turned out to help. They looked sympathetic, pitying, but not sanguine. None of them believed they would find Fenella alive. Their eyes showed their fearful respect for the riptides and sadness for the losses any village of fishermen endured.

The owner of the boat was frowning at the approaching weather.

Roger couldn’t endanger them, no matter how much he needed them to keep searching. “Very well.” He would pace the shoreline from which she’d disappeared, he decided as they turned back toward the island. No, he would keep one boat, purchase it if necessary, and row out on his own. He would find her!

A choking despair loomed, telling him what he would find. He fought it off.

Another boat came closer. Macklin sat in the bow wrapped in a wool cloak. When they’d come alongside, he reached out and put a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “I think we must go in,” he said. “There’s a storm on the way. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t leave her out there, struggling in the water.” Roger choked on that unbearable picture, which was still better than the alternative—that all struggles were done.

A shout from one of the other boats drew their attention. A rower there leaned out and pulled a bundle from the water.

A stomach-clenching mixture of fear and hope shot through Roger. He grabbed his oar and nearly overset the boat with the strength of his shove.

They’d found the tunic Fenella had been wearing for the pageant. Roger recognized the pin fastening the neck. He snatched it from the man who’d retrieved it and held it to his chest despite the water that ran over his clothes. His mind felt perfectly blank. For a few minutes he didn’t even notice that the boat was moving again.

Then he looked up. The chop of the waves was increasing. Clouds flowed across the sky. Macklin was directing the whole party toward shore. Roger wanted to argue, to convince them to turn back, but words had deserted him, perhaps forevermore.

They had to lift him from the boat. A man on either side escorted him to the waiting horses, and Macklin persuaded him to mount.

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