“Godenere will send some of his people to find the searching Normans. They will make up some tale about seeing us, and in the process let them know where we are hiding. When they come, we will be waiting for them. We will spring the trap and the victory will be ours.”
“We will spring the trap?” she retorted, so close to him now that her breath stirred his hair. “I would very much like to fight Miles, but I cannot even lift your sword!”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear you could wither them with one look, lady. But it will not be necessary. Godenere is willing to send a group of his men to fight with us.”
“Godenere is willing to do this? For us?”
“You promised to bring them peace and security when you regain Somerford. They will never get that if Fitzmorton takes your manor.”
That was true enough.
The idea had merit, but to deliberately set themselves up as bait in a snare…? Rose sat silent, steadying her jumping nerves.
You have been through worse. And if it means we can be free of this present threat, then it must be considered worth the attempt.
“When must we go?”
Gunnar knelt beside her, not touching her, but so close she could feel his warmth. It was comforting, like the sun shining on a cold day. ’Twas a pity that soon he would be gone, and she would be alone once more.
“We must go soon.”
Rose nodded. Suddenly she did not want to meet his eyes. The words came out of nowhere. “You said you were my man.”
“Aye. ’Tis the truth, whether you believe it or not. I have pledged myself to obey you, Rose.”
“I don’t want—”
“I will win Somerford back for you. I swear this.” Suddenly he bowed his head before her. “I swear it. I make it my vow, lady. Please believe me.”
Reluctantly, Rose placed one shaking hand on his bowed head. His hair was as soft beneath her fingers as she had feared. There were hot tears on her cheeks, but she didn’t remember crying them. She wanted to believe him so much, so very much. She longed to give herself over to him, to let everything go—like a taut rope cut free. But she could not. She had held herself apart for too long.
“Gunnar, please…I do not want you to do this. I am not your lady. I cannot be your lady. Ever.”
“‘Ever’ is a long time, Rose.”
He looked at her through the fall of his copper hair, his blue eyes blazing. Surely he meant what he said, in this moment she almost believed him despite all she feared to the contrary.
And yet one part of her, stubborn and afraid, whispered caution.
“Aye,” she said at last. “It is.”
The Mere glowed in the dusk, mirroring the pink and orange and azure of the sky. Birds flew dark above and dragonflies glided low. The water shone, the reeds were fringes of black, and the boats slipped like ghosts through the secret channels and wider ponds.
There were four boats, twelve young men, who had come with them to help them hide from Fitzmorton and, if it came to it, to fight. Shaggy-haired, bearded, and reserved, they moved their craft with a certainty that came of having lived their entire lives in the Mere.
Twilight was turning to darkness, and biting insects came out to feed on them. Rose pulled her cloak up over her head, covering her flesh as best she could. As she turned to see what lay ahead, she realized they were drawing closer to solid land. A knoll rose abruptly from the flat levels, towering above them.
Burrow Mump.
The place of her dreams.
Surely they could not be going there? And yet the boats moved relentlessly onward, closer and closer to that dark shape. The paddles so quiet, with only the softest splash. The air about them was warm, thick, the light was magical, and there before her lay the place of her dreams.
Was this a dream? Rose was no longer sure.
Suddenly the reeds seemed to stir around her, as if brushed by an unseen hand. She shivered.
“Rose?” It was Gunnar’s voice.