Amberly

By Mary Elizabeth Hall

MARY WEAVES MAGIC WITH WORDS. ROMANTIC, FUNNY, BIGGER-THAN-LIFE CHARACTERS TAKE YOU ON A WHIRLWIND JOURNEY TO A PERFECT ENDING.
Dianne Price, Author of Seahedge, Shadowtide, and Proud Captive / In a world that might have been /

Snatched by coldblooded enemies as a declaration of war, Eleanor Williamston finds herself caught in a deadly snaremiles from home and lost in the wilderness. Her heart is drawn to the handsome palace guardsman who rescues her, but is torn when he challenges her political idealsand then reveals something hes kept hidden that will make her choice even more difficult.

Marsten longs for a God-fearing wife, but cannot marry the lady he desires. The sassy young schoolteacher he rescues catches his eye, but he fears shell turn out to be like the beautiful women whove broken his trust in the past.

Journey with them through the spectacular but treacherous Aspian Mountains while they evade enemy pursuit and wrestle through the challenges of wilderness and budding love, only to run headlong into Ellies anti-royalist familyand a whole new onslaught of foes.


AN UNFORGETTABLE JOURNEYTHE CHARACTERS COME ALIVE IN A RIVETING STORY WOVEN WITH RICHLY CRAFTED LANGUAGE.
Michael K. Brown, Atlanta Writers Club

VERY ENJOYABLE TO READ!
Jane Simerman, American Christian Fiction Writers

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449753702

Mary Elizabeth Hall

Mary Elizabeth Hall holds degrees from Cornell and Syracuse universities and has a professional background in human services and program management. She educates her daughters at home in sunny South Carolina. They love to read and write enchanting stories. Mary’s short story, “Healer,” was recently released in Fables for Japan.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 Mary Elizabeth Hall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5370-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5371-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-5372-6 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909374

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1-[phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Male cover model: Photographer – Carlos Hernandez / Image Source

All scripture quotations and references are the author’s own paraphrases from a variety of leading translations.

Author photo by Kelli Naisang – www.naisang.com

Map by Mary Elizabeth Hall

WestBow Press rev. date: 8/27/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

Night Screams

Morning

Weapons of War

A Lesson in Defense

Beastly Adventures

Venom

Rumbles of Hunger

Out of the Frying Pan…

Unexpected Company

Ascent

Revelations

Choices

Over the Edge

Eventide

A Cry in the Wilderness

A Grim Discovery

An Unusual Wedding

Lost and Found

Don’t Shoot!

Willow Grove

A Memorable Meal

Battle Plan

Training

Attacks and Restraints

Entreaty

Petals on the Wind

Cracks of Thunder

An Uphill Battle

Stop!

Aftermath

Letting Go

A Brother’s Ordeal

Treatment

The Sleep-Death

The Morning After

Reprimands

Discussions

Reproof

A Snare

Confrontation

Celebration

Epilogue

To my husband, Matthew, who believes in me.

Je t’aime siempre y para siempre, Mo Grá.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are many people I’d like to thank for helping me put this story together. First, my parents, who taught me how to read and write, and who read me hours and hours of delightful stories. Daddy, the gairy fodmothers are for you. To Mom, who passed away in 2002, I miss you. To my brothers, thanks for showing me how great brothers can be.

For my husband Matt and our daughters, Karen, Kristen, and Megan, my appreciation for your patience and wonderful creative contributions can’t be measured. You’ve all graciously helped out in all sorts of ways while I’ve put many hours into this project, and I treasure the laughs we’ve shared. And big thanks to Kristen for being my in-house horse expert. Yes, dinner’s in the oven. And no, I don’t think I forgot to pick anyone up from lessons (wait—where’s Karen? Oh! At college. Right. Whew…).

I’d like to give special thanks to my enormously helpful complete-book critiquers (who have also become dear friends) at American Christian Fiction Writers. I’ll list you in alpha order: Kathryn Bain, Dawn Crandall, June Foster, Kathleen Freeman, Voni Harris, Fay Lamb, Dianne Price (I love our blethers), Ginger Solomon, Jane Simerman, Lynn Squire, Beth Szabo, Susan Tuttle, Rachel Wisdom, and of course, Andrew Winch—The Master, who helped me refine my fight scenes to higher levels of accurate brutality. And in the Atlanta Writers’ Club fiction loop, the same goes to Mike Brown, Derek Koehl, and Jen Simon. Me wouldna rite goodly without all yous guys.

To my precious friends who help and encourage me, thank you. Liz Griffith, I don’t think this book would have come to be if you hadn’t begged me for more after the first chapter. Thanks to Vickie Litchfield & Ellie Zaccone for watching Megan so I could write, and for encouragement from the Carnahans, Rebecca Davis, Judie Eastin, Wendy Jansen, Jo Rae Johnson, my cousin Beth Hermes, Roxi Mansueto, Julie Rawlings, Apryl Snyder (my fashion consultant), Hortense Tatsianda, Rita Williamson, and my sweet friend Ann Minard (who said this story needs some good food—the beef simmered in wine is for you).

Thanks also to my twin friends, Carice Eastin and Candace Johnson, and Erin Drago and Meredith Johnson, for sharing with me your fabulous stories of twin-tuition.

To my pastors—Jim Britt and Matt Rawlings—at Sovereign Grace Church, I can’t begin to tell you how much you’ve taught me, both about walking in the light of Christ’s love and about properly butterflying venison backstrap. By God’s grace, I’m standing my post. And to the members of our church family who show me daily how our Lord transforms lives, my very special thanks.

But above all, I’m grateful to my Heavenly Father for all of His work in my life. I pray that these stories He gives me will inspire people to love and serve Him better.

Mary Elizabeth Hall

In a world that might have been,

at a time similar to the Eighteenth Century…

1

Night Screams

The Lord is my Rock, and my Stronghold, and my Deliverer.

– 2 Samuel 22:2

Heron’s Cove, on the island nation of Bretalia

Marsten sat up, drenched with sweat. Something was wrong. Was it just his dream? He slammed the dirt with his fists. Would he never stop thinking—and dreaming—about his brother’s bride? Mirien was not his!

She was so lovely, so exquisitely… No!

Heart pounding, Marsten peered through the darkness. Was that the distant whinny of a horse? And—a muffled scream? He flung back his cloak.

Drawing his dagger, he sprang from the thicket where he’d hidden to sleep. The full moon lit the forest around him, and pine trees formed bizarre shadows over moss and dirt. A gust of wind stirred his hair while he crouched, poised to fight.

He peered around and listened. At first there was only the rustle of leaves. Then… yes. Another smothered scream. A woman’s voice.

He grabbed his sword, bow, and quiver, and dashed off like a wolfhound after its prey.

Buzzing insects drowned out his breathing while he raced through underbrush. Firelight ahead—it was the Norlanders’ encampment near the shore. The band of raiders from Dayenmark. He’d come across the enemy earlier in the evening and spied on them for a time before taking cover for the night.

They’d killed a patrol guard—Marsten had found his body on the shore—and now, like usual, they’d snatched a woman for sport from one of the towns. He clenched his fists in outrage. More victims. Would their raiding never end?

He dodged branches and leapt over gnarled roots.

The woman’s muffled shrieks sharpened to panicked screams.

Marsten quickened his pace toward the firelight. Lord God, let me help her before it’s too late.

He caught himself before sliding down a steep grade and dropped to his stomach to survey the activity below.

On the side nearest him, two sentries stood guard outside a ring of tents surrounding a fire. About thirty yards apart, the men faced outward, toward the forest. Both hulking warriors ignored the screams.

Marsten crept down the hill between stands of holly bushes. As he drew closer, gasping sounds of a struggle joined the shrieking. He moved forward.

A sentry turned his head.

Marsten froze. If only he’d brought a pistol!

The noises came from the tent of their stelri—the chieftain’s deputy of this band. His tent was always the largest.

A breeze rustled leaves over the hillside. Both guards turned away.

Marsten sprang forward. He reached the back of the tent, out of their sight. Then he yanked up a wooden stake, eased up the heavy waxed linen, and slipped inside.

A young woman squirmed on the ground, her arms tied behind her back. She kicked furiously at the massive, heavily bearded stelri.

The stelri cursed and tried to snatch her thrashing feet.

Aided by the yellow light of an oil lamp, Marsten crept toward the man’s back.

The stelri snarled and grabbed one slender ankle, then the other.

The woman screamed and twisted a bare foot from the brute’s grasp. She planted it squarely on his face and gave him a hearty shove.

A string of Dayenish obscenities filled the tent while the Norlander stumbled backward.

Marsten swung his left elbow around the man’s neck from behind, squeezed to silence him, and thrust his curved dagger deep into his back.

The gasping Norlander sank to his knees.

Marsten yanked the weapon out and watched the stelri crumple to the ground. "You will threaten my people no more," he growled through clenched teeth.

He signaled to the woman to keep quiet. Then, resisting the urge to knife his victim again, he bent down and wiped his blade on the Norlander’s coarse shirt. Needing to locate the rest of his enemies, he sprang to the front of the tent and peered through a small opening in the flap.

Four warriors huddled near the blazing fire, hurling insults at two others who worked to tie a horse to a tree. They must have stolen it to carry off their captive. The steed snorted and stomped at the cursing men.

Why were these warriors encamped here and not scouting? Were they awaiting the arrival of a larger band? They had no other horses, and there was no sizeable town nearby for them to raid.

Marsten turned toward the woman and whispered, Are you all right, miss?

Aye. Who are you? She struggled against her bonds.

An Éirenish brogue. From the south-county, then. Marsten stepped behind her and used his dagger to slice through the twine binding her wrists. My name is Marsten. I’m a royal guardsman, and I swear I will not harm you. The twisted fibers fell from her arms.

He helped her to her feet, and his gaze swept from her head to her toes.

Her beauty, lit by the dim light of the oil lamp, stilled his breath. Dark, silky hair fell over slender shoulders. Eyes of deepest emerald beneath the sweep of black lashes reflected the dancing flame. She looked up at him with—appreciation? Or something more?

Eyes off the lady. Marsten knelt and yanked the leather dagger belt from the lifeless stelri. He handed it to the woman. Put this on.

She nodded and slung it around her waist. He gave her his cloak. She flung it about her shoulders while he led her to the back of the tent.

He lifted the fabric and peered out at the shuffling sentry to his right, then waited for a rustling breeze. When the leaves whispered in the wind, Marsten grasped her hand and they darted between the tall holly bushes. They made their way partway up the slope and took cover behind brush. Listening for movement, he put up his hand to keep her quiet.

She turned toward him, and the bright moon lit her features. High, smooth cheekbones framed brilliant eyes, a slim nose, and soft, rounded lips. The way she held her neck conveyed a sense of regal confidence which Marsten suspected was born of characteristic Éirenish stubbornness. The curves of her figure, even wrapped in his bulky cloak, captivated him.

He couldn’t imagine where these raiders had found such a stunning specimen of Caeltic loveliness around these parts. He was thankful God had allowed him to intervene, before—

What is your name? he whispered.

Eleanor Will— She stopped.

I’m going back to fight, Miss Will. Remain here, and hide yourself well. If I don’t return, my camp is about two hundred yards north. He pointed up the hill. My pack contains items you’ll need to hike out of here. Carry it to the Palace at Crestmere, three days up the coast. He studied her with care. Do you understand what I’m telling you?

Yes. It was almost a whimper. She cleared her throat. Yes, sir, she said more calmly.

He regarded her with care. She was young, but not a child.

Are you a praying woman, Miss Will?

I am.

His eyes pleaded with hers. Then pray for me.

Eyes wide, she reached toward him. Sir, must you… can’t we just—?

No, milady. If I don’t stop them here, we won’t get far. Norlanders are excellent hunters, and they’ll be after us. He pulled his longbow from behind his head.

You’re goin’ to—to shoot at unarmed men?

I certainly am. These warriors have invaded our shore. They’ve killed a lookout and abducted a citizen, and I will cut them off here if I can. He turned toward the tent then glanced back at her. Miss Will?

Yes?

He looked at the rough, rocky ground beneath her bare toes. Be careful of your feet.

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Eleanor took a shaky breath and hugged the soft cloak around her shoulders. If that barmy fool was going back to fight, she’d better get as far away as she could ere he got himself slaughtered. She turned and crawled up the hill. A guardsman, he’d said, though he wore no insignia or anything military. But he certainly knew how to kill.

Keeping to areas filled with undergrowth, she made her way up the hillside. She yanked brambles from her hair and cloak and stepped over tangled roots. Lord, keep him safe. I don’t know who he is, but he rescued me from those horrid men.

He was a fool indeed, but a mighty fine-looking one. Tall, with dark hair and a lean, muscular build. And eyes that seemed to pierce her soul.

She whirled around at the twang of his bow letting fly from inside the tent. She scrambled to hide under a bush then turned to watch between the tents while arrows rained down on the Norlanders around the fire. First one went down, then another and another. Not a man among them leapt up in alarm until after the third one fell.

The handsome stranger was a fast and accurate archer.

With cries of panic, four remaining warriors sprang to their feet. Brandishing swords and daggers, they turned wildly about, shouting in Dayenish. Two met with the sharp end of an arrow before the other two bellowed in outrage and charged the tent. Four sentries joined them. One man, then another, fell in their tracks.

Eleanor put her hands to her face. Dear Lord, get him out of there!

Something rustled at the bottom of the hill. A Norlander crept behind the tent. One of the sentries, with a thick bush of hair and tremendous shoulders. Her pulse raced inside her ears. If she didn’t do something, he would surely assail the guardsman fighting inside the tent.

Heart thumping, she made her way back down the hillside. Her right foot slid on the sandy dirt. She gasped—then clapped a hand to her mouth.

The Norlander stopped crawling and glanced around.

She held her breath and choked back a sob. The clashing sound of metal on metal filled the air. Marsten’s furious cries sounded from inside the tent.

Fool he might be, but she’d go to the devil in a handbasket before she’d let her rescuer die and do nothing at all to help.

She would stop this sneaking barbarian or die trying.

Eleanor swallowed hard and reached for her dagger. The crouched Norlander lifted the fabric of the tent. Her heart rate sped up. It was now or—

She raised the dagger above her head, leapt out from the bushes, and hurled herself upon his back. She shut her eyes and plunged the weapon down, striking flesh, then bone. She yanked it out.

The man lurched and gasped.

She grasped his tunic, tensed her muscles, and drove the dagger once again into his neck.

He dropped to the ground, the blade lodged at the base of his skull.

Eleanor slid off his back and retreated into the underbrush. Her body trembled while she fought to quiet her breath. Was he… ?

The man lay motionless on the ground.

He was!

Horrified at what her hands had done, she wiped them madly on her cotton shift. Then she crawled further into the bushes and tugged the cloak around her. She remained silent, her heart hammering while she tried to collect her wits.

Away. She had to get away.

With ragged breaths, she scrambled back up the hillside. The guardsman couldn’t possibly be victorious against so many. She had to save herself. Swiping at tears of fury, she continued to climb. North, he’d said. Could she find her way in the dark?

The sounds of battle still echoed around the hills. She looked back just as Marsten emerged from the front of the tent with three Norlanders right behind him.

He was alive!

Oh, dear Lord. She clasped trembling hands before her face. Please, please protect him.

She crawled under a bush and peered back to watch while he fought savagely against the two who were now still standing.

The third lay unmoving on the ground.

Marsten side-kicked the stouter man in the ribs then dove sideways and rolled, narrowly avoiding a swinging sword from the other. He sprang back to his feet, deflected a second sword thrust with a clash from his own, and delivered yet another boot to the first man’s chest.

Eleanor’s breath halted as she watched her rescuer fight. Lord, give him victory!

The swordsman leapt onto Marsten’s back.

The guardsman elbowed him in the stomach.

The man doubled over.

Marsten slammed him to the ground and snatched his weapon away.

A roar of foreign curses filled the air.

Marsten thrust the blade through the swordsman’s chest.

The stout man—now the only one left—regained his footing and dashed toward the horse.

Marsten dropped both swords, pulled his longbow over his head, and set off in pursuit. He released a rapid torrent of arrows on the run, but all missed their fast-moving target.

The Norlander swung himself onto the horse’s back and sliced the twine that restrained the steed.

The horse bolted into the darkness.

Still shooting, Marsten followed them into the shadows. Then, grumbling, he returned to the camp. The horseman must have evaded his arrows.

Marsten retrieved his sword from the ground. He moved from man to man, examining each one and collecting his arrows. He grabbed a flaming brand from the fire and looked all around the camp as if hunting for something. Then he briefly disappeared from Eleanor’s sight before emerging around the back side of the tent.

When Marsten reached the body of the man she’d attacked, he stumbled over the man’s legs. He pulled himself up and, with a snarling grunt, plunged his long blade into the man’s back.

Eleanor shuddered. This guardsman wasn’t taking any chances.

Eleven. He knelt down and yanked her dagger from the man’s neck. He cleaned it on the man’s tunic, studied the weapon, and slid it into his belt. Breathing heavily, he wiped and sheathed his sword. Then he held up his torch and glanced around. Miss Will?

Should she go to him?

Barefoot and alone in the wilderness, did she have any choice?

I’m here. Her voice was faint while she worked her way back down the hill.

Marsten scrambled up the slope to meet her. Dropping the flaming brand in the dirt, he caught her by the arms just as she stumbled into his.

I’m a little… wobbly. Her voice was shaky. Egad, so was the rest of her. She tried to hide her trembling hands by clasping them together.

You’d better sit down. The guardsman eased her to the dusty ground.

Are they all… ?

Yes. Excepting one. He headed toward Branbury Pass.

Are you certain?

I am. I watched them earlier this evening, trying to determine why they’re just sitting here. There was no ship in the cove as far as I could see. He wiped his forehead. There were ten men when I spied on them. I assume the eleventh arrived with you.

Eleanor nodded. Then her throat clenched and her eyes filled with tears. The terror of the night spent itself while her weeping turned into sobs. Why did this happen to me? How will I ever get home?

The guardsman pulled her against his chest. He stroked her hair and trembling face. There now, he said. They cannot harm you anymore.

She wiped her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. His damp shirt against her cheek hinted of a spiced fragrance, mingled with his own sharp scent. She closed her eyes for a moment and relaxed.

Are you all right, milady? His rich voice rumbled deep within his chest.

Aye, sir.

After she calmed herself, he sat her up and climbed to his feet. Stay here. It was a command. His face looked tired, but determined.

Where are you going?

To retrieve a few things.

He strode down the hillside, rustled through a few tents, and returned a short while later, arms laden and carrying a second bow.

Put these on. They’re the smallest I could find. He dropped a pair of boots at her feet. She frowned, but pulled them on and tied their thick leather lacings.

Marsten handed Eleanor the Norlander dagger. You’ve earned not only the privilege but the right to carry this.

She hesitated, then took it with trembling hands and sheathed it.

He knelt and looked at her with a tender gaze, and his quiet words echoed off the hillside. We’ll get you home, Miss Will.

2

Morning

I will sing of Your might! I will sing aloud of Your enduring love

in the morning. For You have been to me a stronghold,

and a sanctuary in the time of my distress.

– Psalm 59:16

The warm morning air held the promise of another humid summer day. A mist lay over scattered sea pines, stretching down rocky slopes to the water. Seabirds called to one another from outcroppings, and a flock of herring gulls whirled and keened through the golden pink sky to announce the approaching dawn. Fluttering down in clusters, the gulls gathered on the shore to greet the fiery sun. The surf splashed against rocky shelves, leaving strings of seaweed strewn along the edge like ribbons after a banquet.

Thirty yards up sloping rock from the water, in a cave under an outcropping, Eleanor grimaced and blinked at the sun. She tried to roll over, and groaned. There wasn’t an inch of her that didn’t ache. Why did her bed feel like… granite?

She tried to sit up. Her head knocked against the overhanging rock. She grunted and winced while she rubbed the spot. Her wrists were bruised where the twine had bound her. A shudder swept over her as she recalled the events of the previous night.

Eleanor was indeed lying on cold rock, wrapped in a silk and woolen cloak over a torn shift, many miles from her soft, quilted bed. Groaning again, she peered out through morning mists. The little cave where she was huddled faced toward the shore, over a series of rocky ledges flanked on either side by sparse maritime pine forest.

To her right, the dancing water of the Silverleaf raced in swirls toward the sea, from a small waterfall that splashed somewhere around the rocky slope.

Her gaze was drawn to the clearing below, and fell upon her rescuer.

He knelt upon the ground. His hair was dark and thick, chin-length and wavy, and he sported several days’ growth of beard. The early morning shadows framed by misty sunlight hid his features, but she recalled from the night before that he was attractive.

He’d told her his name. What was it? Ah, yes. Marsten. A royal guardsman from Crestmere Palace. A royal guardsman—hah! Wouldn’t her father be in a quandary about that? The daughter of anti-royalist Freedom Falcon leader and mayor of Amberly, Jon Williamston, rescued by a guardsman of kings!

She’d best not reveal to the guardsman who her father was. At least, not yet.

After Marsten’s daring rescue, he had escorted her by moonlight, first to his camp to retrieve his things, then to this place, where he’d insisted on building a fire and using a flaming torch to purge the overhang of spiders and other vermin so she could sleep in relative comfort. A courteous one this guardsman was, and no mistake. There wasn’t anything her Da could fuss about on that count.

Oh, Da and Mam. Did they even know yet that she was gone? Lord, comfort them.

Now the warrior bent over a large rock in an attitude of fervent prayer, his forehead pressed against his upturned hands, with a small Scripture book and a pair of half-spectacles lying before him on the rock.

Hmm, Eleanor mumbled. A man of faith as well as war? A deep yawn overtook her while she stretched her arms. Then, burrowing down into the soft, silk-lined cloak, she slipped back into a warm, sound sleep.

Eleanor stirred again, aroused by the enticing aroma of… simmering fish? She looked out and saw Marsten moving a small pan over an open fire. The fog had lifted, and she had her first sight of him in bright daylight.

He was now wearing a tan shirt. His hair was damp, and she was a little disappointed to see he was cleanly shaven. His smoothly muscled face was graced with classic Sascan features—firm, high cheeks, straight nose, dark eyes shadowed beneath long, arched brows, and a narrow mouth with a hint of fullness in the middle of his lips.

He looked dimly familiar. She’d been to Crestmere, but couldn’t recall any particularly eye-catching guardsmen. Goodness, but wasn’t he a handsome one indeed!

She gave a little sigh. Fine-looking, aye, but a royalist. And a palace royalist at that. No doubt loyal down to his stalwart Sascan bones.

He interrupted her musings with a glance in her direction. His eyes under thick black lashes were a bright, piercing blue.

Good morning to you, milady. He rose to his feet and bowed toward her. His accent was pure Crestmere.

Good mornin’, sir. Have you any idea what time it might be? She rubbed her eyes.

Marsten pulled a small pocket-watch from his britches pocket. Half-past six.

She stifled a grunt. Thank you. S’cuse me, if you please. In urgent need of a moment alone, she wrapped herself in the cloak, crawled out of the overhang and dashed to the right, where the waterfall splashed.

Before you go, I have some things for you.

She stopped.

He pointed with his dagger. A shirt and britches, along with some linen items. I’ve also left you a cake of soap.

She tilted her head. Are you suggestin’ I need a bath?

He responded with a grunt of amusement.

And do you expect me to disrobe and bathe behind a little wall of rock? She gave him a narrow-eyed stare.

I swore I wouldn’t harm you, milady. If I meant to break that promise, would I not have done so before now? He knelt on one knee before the fire and picked up his pan. Besides, you’ll find I take cooking rather seriously.

Nay, this guardsman wouldn’t threaten her privacy. Her face flushed at the desire to distract him from his cooking, which swept unbidden through her mind. She bit her lip and stepped over to gather up the pile.

The soap, she noticed, was scented with with honey, cloves, and other spices. She closed her eyes and breathed in the pleasant fragrance. While the lodgings might not be of the highest quality, at least the guardsman traveled with fine toiletries.

I’ll remain here, he added. Call me if there’s anything out of the ordinary.

Out of the ordin’ry? she muttered. What could possibly be out of the ordin’ry about bathing beneath a waterfall?

Well, for a start, you might wish to take a few leaves of that with you. He pointed to a plant with long, wide leaves spiraling up from its base. Mullein.

She blinked at it. To treat an ear-ache?

No. Clearly amused, he examined the trout fillets with his dagger.

Oh. Comprehension dawned. Thank you.

So much for fine toiletries. Mullein couldn’t be much worse than wool or hemp for personal cleansing, though. She plucked several of the downy leaves.

Milady?

Yes?

Be careful of your feet.

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A short while later, Marsten heard a yelp. He dropped the pan, drew his sword, and dashed toward the embankment.

Milady! he called over the sound of rushing water. What is it? He saw nothing unusual in the woods nearby. He listened. Nothing but the splashing waterfall.

I’m sorry, she answered from behind the rocky wall. It’s… cold!

What did she expect, jugs of water heated by servants? Marsten folded his arms. I have a strong suspicion you’re going to be trouble.

A laugh. You’ve no idea!

He couldn’t help but chuckle. She had grumbled about the bulky Norlander boots the entire way to this place the night before, and he had scolded her for it. She was indeed a bold one, and clearly accustomed to comfort. Well, she’d better become unaccustomed, and fast.

I’m beginning to wonder if you were truly abducted, he chided again, or just given away.

"Oh! Brúid!" Cold water splashed him from over the embankment.

Did she just call him a beast in the Geillic?

Well, there’s appreciation. Amused again, Marsten wiped water from his head and chest and returned to the fire.

The little Éirenish sprite clearly had strength of spirit. And by heaven, she certainly was a beauty. He rubbed his chin. Might the Lord be answering his prayers?

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Eleanor huffed as she plucked raspberries from thorny bushes near the stream. Given away indeed! She yanked the sagging Norlander dagger belt more tightly around her hips and stomped back around the outcropping.

The guardsman had given her a white cotton lawn shirt, quite loose, wide at the neck and cut low, along with lightweight brushed linen britches she’d tied tightly about her waist. Her hair was dripping wet. She swung it over her shoulders.

She clomped toward him with as much offended dignity as she could muster, but the huge Norlander boots flopped about on her feet. She clucked her tongue at them. One nearly fell off, and she burst into a giggle.

Marsten, on one knee before the fire, glanced up at her and drew a quick breath.

Eleanor clutched her drooping neckline and plopped the raspberries down on a rock. Then she turned in a circle to display her outfit. Well, sir guardsman, what think you? She couldn’t hold in a ripple of laughter. Would I not have been every royal knight’s dream of a squire in the glorious fighting days of old?

He set the cooking pan down and rose. Indeed, lady, he muttered. But not for carrying his armor. He rummaged through his leather pack and tossed a blue velvet waistcoat at her.

In the heat of summer the guardsman intended for her to wear a bulky men’s velvet vest? Honestly, sir. She picked up the handsome garment and dropped her shoulders. In this warmth, surely you don’t truly expect…

His arms folded across his chest. I certainly do.

Eleanor eyed him with suspicion. Was he in earnest, or was this about who would direct things on this journey? She was only a little spit of a thing. Her mother had despaired she might never attract the attention of a good man, and she couldn’t imagine she was truly causing this soldier difficulty.

Marsten returned her stare and pointed to the waistcoat.

Was it possible nature had finally begun to work her magic on little Ellie Williamston? A tiny thrill ran through her. Very well, guardsman, she replied with as superior an air as she could produce. I’ll agree to wear this if you’ll wear one as well.

A slight grin touched the corner of his mouth. Fair enough. He dug through the pack and pulled out a similar garment of black.

She donned the blue vest over the baggy shirt and looped slender gold braids around brass buttons. Thankfully the velvet was a fine, lightweight weave. Looking down, she bit her lip and suppressed an urge to pretend she was smoking a cheroot. It’s still a bit low, she muttered. You’re not going to fling a cravat at me next, are you?

Regrettably, I packed neither neckwear nor proper women’s attire. He finished his own buttons then knelt before the fire and picked up his pan.

A small, crested ring sat on his little finger. Eleanor peered at it for a moment while he cooked. No doubt a seal from the Society of Surly Swordsmen. "So why is a royal guardsman scouting about with finely woven shirts and