Protected by the Knight's Proposal
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Meriel Fuller
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17
Chapter One
Rain swept in a misty sheet across the wooded valley. The veil of moisture darkened the spreading branches of the bare oaks, then dropped to the dead, crinkled leaves, yellow and russet, cast upon the soaked grass like tiny sparkling diamonds. And in the distance were the muffled sounds of horses, their pace deliberate and determined, advancing.
Lady Cecily of Okeforde jerked back from the window, heart thumping heavily. Panic slithered through her slender frame, an uncomfortable, rippling sensation. Nausea rose in her gullet. Not again. She had hoped the dreadful weather, this hard, icy rain, would have deterred Simon of Doccombe today, but, nay, he had come again. The man’s persistence was on the verge of defeating her. If only he would stay away from the castle until the baby was born! She wondered if he knew the truth, if someone, a servant or a household knight, had whispered something. What if she and her mother and sister were found out and hanged for their deception?
Her slim hand fluttered up, drifting across her forehead, the rosy blush of her cheek, an unconscious, hesitant gesture. A tendril of ash-brown hair, smooth and curling, had escaped the confines of her white linen wimple; she tucked it back beneath the cloth. Turning from the window, Cecily jammed the slender curve of her hip against the low stone ledge, as if for support.
‘He’s back.’ Her light green eyes dulled, glassy with trepidation. She glanced at her mother, perched on the wooden stool by the four-poster bed.
Marion glared coolly at her daughter; her pinched features shimmered with loathing. ‘The guards will deal with them if they come to the gate again,’ she said harshly. Disapproval crinkled the vertical lines around her mouth. ‘They’ve managed to keep them away up to now.’ Her eyes jerked away, her narrow shoulder hunched towards Cecily, a barrier.
In the bed lay her younger daughter, Isabella. Marion leaned across the bedcovers, fussing over her, sponging her forehead with a wrung-out cloth. Droplets of water rolled from Isabella’s fevered skin, wetting the linen pillowcase, but she slept on, her breathing harsh and laboured. Marion stroked her daughter’s hot cheek, squeezing her upper arm in a gesture of courage, of support. Her fingertips rustled against Isabella’s linen nightgown, damp with sweat. ‘This babe will come today, or this night, at least. And then our future will be secure. This child, my grandson, will inherit this castle, the whole estate. And there’s not a damn thing that man can do about it.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Anxiety edged Cecily’s tone. ‘Do you not think that Lord Simon has his suspicions? Why else would he return to this castle, day after day, if not to try and catch us out?’ She stepped over to the bed, the train of her over-gown slipping behind her, emerald silk velvet against the polished elm floorboards. Sitting back on the fur coverlet, she hugged the carved wooden bedpost, facing her mother.
Marion shrugged. Her golden circlet, jammed tightly down over her wimple, winked in the light of the single candle by the bed. ‘If he does, then you’ve only yourself to blame, Cecily.’ Her eyes fell pointedly to Cecily’s rounded stomach, the feather pillow beneath her gown falsely swelling out the voluminous woollen folds. ‘You’ll have made a mistake somewhere along the way, or spoken out of turn to someone.’ Marion jerked her chin in the air, her green eyes, identical to Cecily’s, blazing up at her.
‘I have been careful, Mother.’ Cecily acknowledged the glittering hatred in her mother’s expression. How could she hold on to so much resentment for so long? Her brother, Raymond, had been dead nigh on ten years now and yet...her mother refused to let her forget what she had done. The damage she had wrought on the family. For when her father had died, there had been no son to inherit and their home had passed to her father’s brother. He and his new French wife had thrown her mother and sister out, and with Cecily newly married to Peter of Okeforde, they had come west to live with her. Was she to spend her whole life making amends?
‘I sincerely hope that you have.’ A hollow anger coloured her mother’s voice.
Cecily pushed down at the lump of fabric pushing out the green silk velvet. ‘I hate all this lying.’ Her dark eyelashes flicked upwards, regarding her mother closely. ‘It’s not right.’
‘It’s not right that you didn’t produce an heir with your dear departed husband,’ her mother snapped back. ‘God in Heaven, what your father and I had to do to persuade that man to even marry you! Life isn’t fair, Cecily. This is the least you can do after...’
Cecily raised her hand, guilt flooding over her, a widening sorrow that lodged beneath her ribs. She shook her head sharply, chewing on her bottom lip. ‘Nay, Mother, please don’t say it. I know what I did.’
‘And remember, Cecily, I will tell you where William is after you have done this.’ A scathing look crossed Marion’s face, her lips curling superciliously. ‘We will both have what we want in the end.’
William. The familiar name fell from Marion’s lips as if it were dirt. The boy who had been her friend. She might even have married him if her mother had not spirited him away and ordered her to marry Peter of Okeforde instead. One day he had been there, at her family home, his quick smile lighting up her dreary days, and the next, he had been gone. And her mother would not tell her where.
‘Keep up the charade, Cecily, for a few more days yet. And make no mistakes.’
‘What do you think?’ Simon, Lord of Doccombe, nudged his horse beneath a denser copse of trees seeking shelter from the relentless needling rain. He hunched down into his thick cloak. Bringing their own horses beneath the trees, his household knights gathered in a circle around him. The horses’ hot breath emerged from their nostrils as clouds of steam, hazing the damp, chill air.
Squeezing his knees against his horse’s flank, Lachlan of Drummuir steered the animal round the leafless birch saplings. The trunks gleamed bright white, shining out from the gloom. Twiggy branches waved up into the iron-grey skies, a dark latticed fretwork. He grinned at his friend, a wide smile softening the rugged set of his jawline. ‘I think I should have stayed snug in your great hall, with my feet stretched out towards the fire.’ He laughed, running his gauntleted hands along the bridle, lifting the leather reins to turn his mare alongside his friend’s stallion.
A pained look crossed Simon’s sharp, angular features. ‘Forgive me, Lachlan. I should have thought.’ He touched his forehead in consternation. ‘Are you sure you’re well enough to ride? You’re only just out of your sick bed.’ He searched Lachlan’s vivid features for any lingering signs of illness.
‘Christ, Simon, if I had to spend another day, let alone another moment, in that bed, I would have likely killed your physician!’ Lachlan stuck one hand through his flame-coloured hair, darkened to a deep copper by the rain, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing me back from France, for tending to me, but, rest assured, I am well on the way to recovery.’
‘But how does the wound feel, now you’re in the saddle?’ Simon asked.
‘Not bad.’ Not good, either, if truth be told. The long line of cat-gut stitches pulled continually across his right thigh, but he wasn’t about to tell Simon. He wanted to leave sooner rather than later, however painful the ride north might be.
‘You want to go home, I know,’ Simon pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. ‘You haven’t seen your family in years.’
Family. The word reverberated around Lachlan’s skull. He hadn’t seen what was left of his family for a long time. He had his uncle, his father’s brother, and his wife, and their children. His cousins. His uncle had travelled north, to Scotland, to fetch him after that awful day and had brought him up as his own from the age of eight. They were his only kin now, after what had happened to his parents and sister. They were all dead.
Lachlan hitched forward in the saddle, wincing slightly as the stitches stretched across his healing skin. ‘They would be pleased to see me, I’m sure. And I will see them, as I travel north. But I need to go back to Scotland.’
‘You would avenge your family’s deaths?’
‘And take back what is rightfully mine—the castle and estates at Drummuir? Yes, I would.’
‘Even after all this time?’
‘I have the King’s blessing to take my home back from those cursed Macdonalds. Whatever it takes.’
Simon gathered his reins together in one gloved fist. His horse sidled gently beneath him. ‘How similar our situations are, Lachlan. You want your castle back and so do I.’ He glanced up at the towering rain-soaked walls, the vast, iron-riveted door at the top of the castle mound. ‘But I have no wish to hold you up with what is happening here, Lachlan. Please...you must go if you want.’
‘I wouldn’t be able to ride the distance,’ Lachlan admitted. ‘Not even to my uncle’s castle. My leg is too painful. So you have me for a couple of days more, if you think I can help you.’
‘You can. You can help me find a way into that castle. That’s all I ask of you.’
‘It’s the least I can do, after what you have done for me.’ Lachlan flicked his attention to his friend. ‘Bringing me back from France; looking after me.’ Irritation streaked through him. He had been injured in a local skirmish, catching the swipe of a sword blade across his leg. Not a large battle, but a group of untrained mercenaries who had decided to attack a village. He had been sloppy, inattentive, possibly believing that they would win with a few brief strokes of their blades. Christ, he hadn’t even been wearing chainmail!
‘It has been a pleasure having your company, despite your injury.’ Simon shook his head. ‘And listening to your advice. I’m at my wits’ end. My petitions to the King have fallen on deaf ears. He is more interested in fighting the French than listening to my woes, so he will not help me. And yet he has decreed that other young widows be married again and has taken their estates back to be given to the rightful heirs.’ He wiped the rain from his face with the back of his leather glove. ‘It is so unfair, for they were scarce married! That castle, all that land...’ he swept his hand along the valley towards the pasture fields, a patchwork quilt across the lower slopes ‘...she inherited on his death.’
‘How long were they married?’ Lachlan raised his eyes to the castle, perched on an outcrop of rock on one side of the wooded valley. Beyond, almost invisible in the grey veil of mist, were the shifting outlines of the moor, a vast open plateau of undulating peat bogs and fast-flowing streams.
‘Three months! They were hardly together. Peter left Okeforde to join the King’s campaign in Brittany shortly after they were married. But she made sure she was carrying his child, clever girl!’
‘Was he injured in France?’
‘Aye, it was a bad head wound. He never really regained consciousness.’ The saddle leather creaked as Simon leaned forward, his narrow lips turning down at the corners. ‘She tended to him, of course, but I’m not sure she grieved overly when he was gone. If it wasn’t for this baby she is carrying, I am sure the King would have found time to listen to me.’
‘Because the baby is Peter of Okeforde’s child and will inherit everything.’
Simon grinned, raising his sparse eyebrows. ‘But only if the baby is a boy. So I have a chance of regaining what is rightfully mine.’
‘Have you seen her at all?’
‘Only at my brother’s burial. And that months ago. Her guards turn me away at the gates, me, Simon of Doccombe, who grew up in this very place! She pays them well for their loyalty, with coin that should be mine!’ His voice rose with an edge of desperation. ‘I am not going to let her get away with this! And if the King won’t help, then I will sort it out myself. But they won’t let me in. Every guard in that place knows my face.’
‘But they don’t know mine,’ replied Lachlan, a slow smile spreading across his generous mouth.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ replied Simon.
‘Isabella! Can you hear me?’ Worried, Cecily twisted around, clambering to her knees beside her sister. The mattress dipped beneath her slight weight. Leaning over in the semi-darkness, she seized Isabella’s shoulders, giving her a little shake. ‘Isabella,’ she demanded, ‘please, talk to me! Look at me!’
It was nearly dawn. Already the faint grey fingers of light stretched into the chamber, lightening the deep red velvet curtains around the bed, the elm floorboards, darkly polished. Outside, the rain continued to pound down, driven against the thin window glass on a howling wind, rippling down in swirling spirals. As the chapel bell had tolled midnight her mother had fallen asleep on the low truckle bed by the fire; a peaceful hush had descended on the chamber. The firelight had flickered in the small iron grate, bathing the roughly plastered walls in a pink-orange glow. With a sigh of relief, Cecily had removed the hated feather pillow bump from around her middle, crawling on to the bed next to her sister.
But something had woken her up.
Was it the increasing light from the window, or a change in Isabella’s breathing? Cecily couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that her sister was staring blankly at her through the gloom, her eyes darting wildly, unfocused. Her skin was clammy, shining with a sickly unnatural light. Straggling out across the pillow, her blonde hair, unfastened, was dark with sweat, like strands of seaweed netted upon white sand.
A faint hiss, sibilant and lisping, emerged from Isabella’s cracked lips. A whisper. Cecily leaned closer, catching the sour scent of her sister’s breath. Was the baby coming? Yet her sister did not appear to be struggling in labour. Cecily had little knowledge of such things, other than it involved much pain and a lot of screaming, yet her sister lay on the bed calmly, despite her frenzied look.
‘My waters...’ Isabella stuttered out. ‘I’m...all wet.’
The tension in Cecily’s body eased. ‘I think that’s supposed to happen,’ she said, smiling. She pushed back a damp tendril of hair from her sister’s cheek.
‘I want to get up, Cecily. I want to move around. Will you help me?’ Isabella’s fingers knotted themselves around Cecily’s forearm; her knuckles white and rigid.
‘Of course.’ Jumping down back off the bed, Cecily swept the bed furs aside, the linen sheet.
Her eyes widened with horror.
Blood pooled beneath her sister’s thighs, soaking into the sheet, the mattress beneath. Her nightgown spread out in soggy folds. In the dim, cocooning light of the bedchamber, the patch of blood appeared as a huge black stain across the bed, shocking, terrifying.
Cecily clamped down hard on the scream that rose in her gullet. ‘Mother,’ she said, a steely urgent thread entering her voice. ‘Mother, wake up! I think the baby is coming!’
‘Please, can you help me?’ Isabella repeated. ‘I want to get up.’ She reached for Cecily’s hand, grabbed it. Her fingers were cold. As she hitched up the bed slowly, rolling from side to side, Cecily turned, intending to swoop around and shield Isabella from the horrific sight between her legs. But before she had time, Isabella glanced down and saw. She began to scream, and scream.
‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ Her mother reached the bed, wrapping her wimple around her chin, her hair, clamping her circlet down quickly to secure the cloth. ‘Christ in Heaven, Cecily, why did you not wake me? Fetch the midwife...now!’
‘Are you insane, Mother?’ Cecily narrowed her eyes towards Marion. ‘I cannot go out, even with the bump attached to me! I am supposed to be in labour!’
Her mother stared at her, green eyes hazing, frantic. ‘Then I will go and find Martha, and send her,’ she gabbled out, grabbing her shawl from the end of the bed. ‘She is the only servant who knows where the midwife lives.’ The door clicked behind her.
Running to the oak coffer beneath the window, Cecily threw open the lid. The thick wooden planks banged heavily against the plastered wall. She bent over, riffling hurriedly through the stack, tearing out a heap of linen sheets. Bundling them up against her slim stomach, Cecily raced back over to the bed, throwing back Isabella’s sheets, trying not to wince at the devastating pool of blood widening out across the bottom sheet between Isabella’s legs.
Her sister was sobbing now, gentle hiccoughs that heaved her juddering chest. Cecily touched her shoulder softly. ‘Listen to me, Isabella. I am going to lift your legs and stop the bleeding. Do you hear me? Mother is sending someone for the midwife and she will be here very soon.’ Tucking the pile of sheets carefully around and beneath Isabella’s legs, she managed to raise her sister’s legs up, hoping to staunch the flow of blood.
Isabella reached out one shaking hand, her fingers snaking around Cecily’s wrist. ‘I am so sorry, Cecily,’ she whispered. ‘I was a stupid, foolish girl. I should never have...’ Her hand drifted up to her pale forehead before she dropped it again. ‘I should never have fallen in love...’ Her voice faded away, and her eyelashes fluttered down.
‘No! No...wake up!’ Cecily shook her sister’s shoulder, her fingers rough. ‘Talk to me!’ Grimacing, Isabella opened her eyes. ‘Good girl.’ Cecily smoothed the back of her hand over Isabella’s heated cheek. ‘Now listen to me. You have done nothing wrong. You were going to marry Guillame.’
A single tear rolled down Isabella’s cheek. ‘Yes, I was. But I should not have lain with him before we were lawfully married. And now...now he’s dead and will never see his child.’
But at least our mother is happy, thought Cecily. The baby is the key to us staying here, at the castle. The baby, if it is a boy, will secure our future.
She jerked her gaze towards Isabella. ‘You mustn’t think like that, Isabella. The child will always be a reminder of the love you had with Guillame.’
The door slammed back on its hinges. Marion stood in the doorway, panting, her gaunt features flushed with colour. ‘I cannot find that foolish Martha anywhere. I think she must have gone to the village to see her family!’ She strode forward, arms stretched out towards Cecily, fingers kneading frantically at the air. ‘Only Martha knows where the midwife lives and I cannot run as fast as you. You must go...and now!’ She cast an anxious look towards Isabella, lying, pale as wax, against the pillow. ‘It’s so early, there’s no one about yet. If you see anyone, just hide until they have gone! Make sure you aren’t seen!’ Bundling a cloak into Cecily’s arms, she shoved her towards the door. ‘We cannot deal with this...this bleeding alone! You have to run, Cecily, run as fast as you can and fetch the midwife. Greta’s the only one who knows the truth. I have bought her silence; she will not betray us.’
Seizing the cloak, Cecily swept it around her narrow shoulders, her fingers fumbling to do up the vertical row of tiny wooden buttons. Her mother pushed her from the chamber and out into the darkness of the stairwell. With one hand against the gritty stone wall of the spiral staircase, Cecily stepped lightly down as quickly as she dared, slipping out quietly into the cobbled bailey.
To her relief, the courtyard was deserted.
Rain slapped across her face, cold needles against her fire-warmed cheeks. The howling wind snared the hem of her cloak, snapping the fabric out behind her. Cecily shivered, gripping her cloak closely about her as she hurried across the bailey. In her haste to help her sister, she had forgotten to change her slippers for sturdier footwear; as she headed towards the main gate she might as well have been wearing no shoes at all. The supple kid leather gave her no protection against the lumpy cobbles of the yard, nor the puddle after puddle through which she sloshed. No wonder no one was about yet. The weather was horrendous.
Large iron bolts secured the main wooden gates, but cut into the high, iron-riveted planks was a much smaller, narrower door which was easy to open. Darting her gaze around the bailey, she twisted the wrought-iron handle and stepped outside. Doubt slipped away, replaced with a new-found purpose and energy; her sister was in danger and she must fetch help. That was all that mattered at this moment. The rippling gathers of her cloak covered her belly enough to maintain her deception.
Wind snared the generous hem of her gown, whipping the voluminous fabric around her stocking-covered legs. Down below, in the river valley, the tree tops swung about, branches clashing. Leaves tossed in the air as she crossed the bridge over the moat and hurried down the hillside, fast-paced, nimble, through the treacherous mud.
In this horrible weather, the safest route to the village was by way of a stony, well-marked track. But following the high, tree-lined bank around the pasture would take too long. A quicker way was to cut through the woods and cross the river by the stepping stones. Cecily bit her lip. The river would be higher now, because of the rain, but would it be impassable? Probably not. She could wade across. Her feet were wet already; it was only a matter of time before she was completely soaked.
She hurried towards the woods, long grass clinging to her hem. A line of mud crept steadily up her gown, soiling the silk. Cecily didn’t notice; all she cared about now was finding help for Isabella. By the time she had reached the woodland, she was running, lungs burning with exertion. The trees swung violently in the wind, branches clacking menacingly together, the last leaves shaken down by the storm whirling down before her. Branches cracked and fell, but she kept her head low, praying none would land on her. This track would lead her to the stepping stones and she followed it, feet sinking into the thick golden leaves, confident of her path.
Lachlan thumped his pillow one more time, driving his fist deep into the feather-filled sack, then rolled the whole thing into a tight little ball, to try and change the angle of his head when he lay flat again. He stretched out on his front, then twisted on to his side. No better. Irritated, he sat up, his strong fingers kneading the sore skin around his wound, the puckered line of stitches. Sleep evaded him. His whole body, his nerves and muscles, fizzed with energy. He was fed up of lying around in Simon’s manor house, the enforced recuperation like chains holding him against a wall. He wanted to be up and out, fit enough to ride long distances, to go back to Scotland. To fight for what was rightfully his.
He threw back the bed furs, limped over to the window and peered out through the gaps in the shutters. The wind howled, an eerie noise whipping across the wooden slats. The rain coursed down, continuous horizontal lines. Over to the east, the first glimmers of a grey dawn lightened the dull horizon. He was missing the battles, the fighting, that was it. That was the cause of all this restlessness. Bereaved and lonely, beset with guilt, it was his uncle who had suggested that he become a knight and he had thrown himself into the profession with a desperate need. He had fully believed that throwing himself into the furore of battles for lords and kings would have been enough. Enough to drown out the memories of the past and make them fade away.
All those battles and yet the memories continued to grip him, the vivid images rampaging through his head as if it were yesterday. The terror of the past stalked his dreams, prowled through his daylight hours until he had reached a point where he could no longer bear them. He believed now that the only way to rid himself of them was to return to Scotland and confront his enemies. If it wasn’t for this dammed leg wound, he would be there by now.
His clothes lay in an untidy heap on an oak coffer at the foot of the bed. He had worn his shirt to sleep in and now pulled on the rest of his clothes: linen drawers, woollen braies and a sleeved surcoat that fell to mid-thigh. Lachlan picked up his sword; the semi-precious stones glinting in the hilt, then placed it back on the coffer. He was only going for a walk; he had no need of a weapon. Flinging his cloak around his broad shoulders and sticking his feet into leather boots, he left the chamber.
Hitching his right leg slightly as he walked, he strode across the inner bailey, the wind driving hard against him. He breathed in the swirling, volatile air, loving the energy, the power of the breeze that drove away the thick, stultifying feeling in his brain. Simon’s home, as befitted the inheritance of a younger son, was a large manor house, a fortified building with ramparts around the roof where guards could be positioned in case of any threat. The house lay a couple of miles to the east of Simon’s childhood home of Okeforde, the castle that he was so desperate to regain, separated by a woodland.
Raindrops spattered against his cheeks as Lachlan walked into the woods. Beneath the whirling tree canopy, the air was quieter, the wind filtered, slowed by the ancient trees. The muscles in his leg were sore, but bearable; the pain was not becoming worse with walking. For the first time in a sennight, he could feel his strength returning, the familiar power of his body. The sky had lightened significantly in the time he had been walking; he could now discern the individual tree trunks, the criss-cross of branches against the pale grey backdrop of the sky above and the wooded landscape, sloping down in soft folds from the castle to the river in full spate after a night of rain. In front of him, the raging white froth was visible through the trees.
A movement caught his eye. A ghost, flitting through the woods up ahead? Nay, it was a girl, petite and slim, dressed in a dark green gown, barely discernible through the mass of trees. She moved with purpose, strides swift and determined, moving along the path at an impressive pace, despite her diminutive figure. Where was she going, at this early hour? The river, by the looks of it. Intrigued, curious as to her direction, Lachlan watched her progress from a distance, propping his shoulder against a tree trunk. His injured leg burned and throbbed.
At last, Cecily broke out from the churning shadows of the trees and on to the bank of the river that flowed down the valley towards the village.
And stopped.
The river that she knew so well, the river that wove around tumbled sets of huge moss-covered stones, that flowed gently through calm pools before picking up the pace once more, had changed beyond all recognition. Now, a great surging current of white water spewed and frothed upwards over barely visible stones, a gigantic torrent surging down the hillside with a terrible force.
Nausea washed over her, sickness coupled with panic. Her mind scrabbled for solutions, but found none. She had no wish to turn back, to retrace her steps and go the long way round. She thought of the blood on the mattress, her sister’s screams, her own feeble attempts to staunch the bleeding. No. She must cross this river. She would do it. Otherwise Isabella would die and it would all be her fault. Again.
Cecily scanned the heaving rush of water, searching for the stepping stones beneath the sliding green flow, the huge plates of flattened rock that normally provided an easy route to the other side. There was no rope or wooden rail to guide her, but she knew where they should be and, yes, if she looked carefully, she could just spot them through the sluicing water, those great flat surfaces, her route to the village and to the midwife beyond. Her sister’s salvation.
Cecily picked up a sturdy branch that would support her. Then she sat down on the wet bank and slid her feet into the water. Warning voices clamoured in her head; she shoved them back, resolute. Determined. The river gripped her calves, the water cold, pummelling her skin. Her gown and cloak floated up to the surface, swirling impossibly around her. Biting her lip, she dug the branch firmly out into the raging flow and lurched forward. Despite the icy water around her legs, sweat trickled down from her armpits, but her foot had found the first large flat stepping stone. Thank God. She took another step forward, using the same method, then another. The agitation in her belly, the fluttering nerves, settled a little. She had found the crossing beneath the water.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
The man’s voice seared through her. Shocked, her head whipped around to the source of the sound, her toes curling beneath the surging current, teetering. Scrabbling for balance, she wavered.
A man stood on the bank. A man she had never seen before, a stranger. Her heart plummeted. Burly-framed; huge. Through the slanting net of rain, his hair was startling: bright red-gold like the kernel of a flame. A dark blue surcoat stretched across his chest, emphasising his shoulders, bulky, muscular curves. Clad in calf-length leather boots and buff-coloured braies, his legs were long, planted astride in the long, wet grass.
He tipped his head to one side, his piercing gaze narrowing upon her, curious, incisive. Fierce. And although he stood some distance away, Cecily realised immediately what kind of character he was. A man who would never stop asking questions. A man who would not be fobbed off with lies and half-truths. A man she had no wish to meet.
‘Stay there!’ he called out. ‘I will help you!’ He stepped forward. Towards her.
‘No!’ Cecily yelled above the roar of the water. ‘Go back! I don’t need your help!’ Christ in Heaven, what was this man doing, wandering about so early in the morning? She could not be recognised, not by anyone, not even a stranger. She needed to reach the other side, to set some distance between them, quickly. She took a hurried, unplanned step forward.
Into the deep, churning water.
