The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

She shivered a little longer. Her skin was cold and damp, and although it appeared as if she had wrung out her long hair and twisted it loosely into one long rope, it was still sticky with saltwater. Slowly, as his heat enveloped her, Rose’s body began to relax. Instead of holding herself stiff and aloof, she snuggled closer in against him, her breasts squashed up against his chest. When he lifted his thigh over hers, drawing her in even further, she groaned softly.

Maybe he wasn’t so tired after all, Gunnar thought, as he felt himself become half aroused. But there was no urgency. It was a good feeling, a comfortable feeling, and he didn’t need to do anything about it. Oddly, there wa

s comfort in simply lying with her in his arms.

Gunnar lay watching the dawn break through the low doorway of the shelter, watching the rising sun cast long shadows over the Mere. In front of them was more of the same—water and islands, stretching on and on. But there was also something else, something well worth seeing. A boat, a small narrow craft, lay half hidden in the reeds on this side of the island. At least from now on they would not have to get their feet wet.

Gunnar smiled with satisfaction as he closed his eyes at last.

Chapter 17

Daylight brought birds. A great cloud of them wheeled up over the Mere, crying out raucously. They splashed and dived into the glistening water, hunting out their first meal of the day. Fish jumped or darted silver in the dark water, and the insects fluttered and buzzed, intent on making the most of their short, busy lives.

There was such abundance here—Rose had not expected it to be like this. Looking from her keep window she had seen the mystery of the Mere at night, the flat stretches of mud and water channels during the day. Her people caught fish and eels at its edges and made salt by evaporating away the water in shallow troughs. But here, in the midst of it all, Rose experienced a sense of wonder.

Gunnar had left her to dress in her still-damp clothing, and when she had finished she went in search of him. He was standing in the reeds with a boat. It was narrow and made of timber, and he seemed to be inspecting it for any rotten patches or holes. Sensing her presence, he glanced up at her with a grin.

Like a boy who has surprised even himself with his cleverness.

Rose felt her stomach lodge in her shoes. Desperately she tried not to stare as his wrinkled, salt-stained clothing clung to his muscular body. His copper hair was stiff and tangled into ringlets from his swim in the pool, and golden stubble softened the strong line of his jaw. Only moments before she had been lying in his arms, completely enclosed within his hard strength, soaking in his body heat to the marrow of her bones.

Her feelings confused her.

And frightened her.

When he had killed Ivo, she had hated him, although she was tied to him by their escape. And then—and she still wasn’t certain of the truth of this—he had told her Ivo’s death was a trick, and he was not Fitzmorton’s man after all, but Radulf’s man. He was a spy for Lord Radulf, and his reward for rooting out Arno’s plot was Somerford itself. Her lands, her manor, her people.

She should hate him for that.

Why couldn’t it be that simple?

The boat must have been in good order. Gunnar was holding out his hand toward her. “Come, lady. We must go now. Miles is probably fast closing in.”

Miles de Vessey was the demon that was driving them farther into the Mere, and farther away from her home. If she should hate anyone, then it was Miles de Vessey.

Rose gave Gunnar her hand. He helped her over the tangle of reeds and into the narrow boat. Then, when she was settled, hands clinging to the sides, he climbed in himself. The boat was very small, and their combined weight made it low in the water. Gunnar had no oar, but he used his sword, using the broad blade to propel them across the next wide stretch of water.

The waterways of the Mere were interconnecting. Small channels ran through reed beds and more solid looking marsh, and they followed these, sometimes needing to backtrack, on and on toward the farther islands. Rose grew used to the ever present screech and squabble of birds, and the creatures themselves seemed hardly to notice them, apart from dodging cannily out of their path. As their boat slid along, a mother duck paddled furiously away from them, its half-grown ducklings following in an erratic line.

Rose smiled in delight at the picture they made, and before she remembered, had glanced at Gunnar to share her pleasure.

He was watching her.

Her smile faded and she turned back hastily to her previous occupation of staring straight ahead and trying not to notice the movement of the muscles in his arms as he piloted the boat, or the way he narrowed his blue eyes against the brilliance of the day. He truly looked the part of a Viking now. One of those raiders who sailed over the seas intent on carnage, Rose told herself angrily. A thief and a murderer and a liar, that was Gunnar Olafson.

Then why did her heart feel sore in her breast? Why did she long for things to go back to what they had been before, when he held her in his arms? When he looked at her with heat and longing in his face?

Before she learned the truth. Whatever that was!

“See over there?”

Rose looked up. He was pointing to a larger island; it appeared green, almost lush. There were even trees growing in a copse at one end, and wisps of dirty mist rose from the middle. Or was that smoke? Rose sat up straighter. Smoke meant people, a village. Smoke meant food, and Rose realized suddenly that she was very, very hungry.

“I think there are buildings.” Gunnar spoke her thoughts aloud. “We need food and shelter, Rose.”

“Merefolk?” Her voice was uneasy, and she clutched the sides of their fragile craft and ignored the rumbling in her stomach. “But will they harm us?”

“I’ll protect you.”