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The next morning they had done little more than make their way through the surf and head out into the open sea when the fog overtook them. The thick mist obscured the horizon as well as the coastline, sealing them in a blanket of gray, shutting them off from all contact with the physical world as surely as if they had been wrapped in a giant cocoon. Mylan slackened their pace until they were barely moving, taking them close enough to the shore to hear the waves breaking upon the rocks. It was a difficult task, requiring the utmost precision, for should they venture too close the Surf Falcon would be dashed to bits upon the jagged rocks, and if he held their course at too great a distance they would miss the curve of the coastline and find themselves far out at sea.
Hafvilla would be the word for their situation then: lost at sea. He was not overly concerned with that dire possibility, as he had always had good luck using a solarstein. The sunstone was a dull gray until the invisible rays of the sun were focused upon it, then it glowed a bright blue, making navigation as simple a matter under an overcast sky as it was on a cloudless day.
They were all tired; worn out from the strain of maintaining their course, but finding a good spot for the night was nearly impossible without the benefit of sight to assess the shoreline. They had made such little progress Mylan hesitated to stop, hoping for a clear night in which they could make up for lost time, but the fog became increasingly dense, until they were all drenched to the skin. He had depended upon his skill at listening to the force of the sea as it met the land to judge where a safe harbor might lie. He took the Falcon in close, and two men swam ashore, searching for signs of a settlement they did not wish to disturb, but finding none they shouted for the others to drop anchor and come ashore.
Mylan stayed near the fire that night, not wanting to stray from its warmth after having spent such a cold and fruitless day. The men belonged to his brothers’ crew rather than his own, but he knew them well enough now to sense their mood, and the chill of their apprehension was a tangible force, despite the comforting warmth of the fire.
“If this is the worst day you have ever spent on board the Surf Falcon, you are fortunate men indeed,” he told them. Then, with the most vivid description he could summon to mind, he proceeded to relate a spellbinding tale of a fearful storm he had encountered off the coast of Iceland in his own ship, the Raven. The tempest had raged for more than two torturous days, the wave
s cresting at heights above their mast, and only by furious bailing had they managed to remain afloat.
The fascinated men listened with mouths agape. Knowing by his very presence among them that Mylan had survived the horrid ordeal, they wanted to hear every agonizing detail of how he had succeeded in escaping so harsh a fate as had nearly overtaken him. By the time he finished his story, a day or two of fog seemed so minor a hazard that they yawned lazily and went to sleep without the slightest fear their captain would not see them safely home, regardless of how uncooperative the weather.
Mylan closed his eyes too, an amused smile curving his lips as he recalled the storm, which had been anything but entertaining when he had been caught in its midst. It was a memorable adventure, however, when seen in retrospect. With a stab of guilt he recalled that Celiese had once asked him to recount some of his adventures and he had refused her request as a ridiculous one to grant on his wedding night. She had never inquired about his past again, and he was saddened to think how many opportunities he had missed to relate stories of his life and travels to her.
Andrick had chided him for not courting Celiese, but surely no man need court his own wife! As he lay there in the darkness he could see her face so clearly in his mind, her delicate features filled with concern on their wedding night as she had cautioned him they were strangers who had to be patient with each other, that misunderstandings were inevitable between them. Rolling over on his side to get more comfortable and to shut out her tantalizing image, he finally understood her advice had been sound.
Unfortunately their second wedding night had ended no better than their first. “Misunderstandings,” he murmured. That was an understatement of gigantic proportions. Frowning unhappily, he fell into a troubled sleep, his whole body aching not only with fatigue, but with wanting her.
When they found the fog had not lifted the next morning, the men awakened reluctantly. Mylan had gotten up first, added wood to the fire, building the gleaming coals to a cheery blaze, but he was no happier than they with the challenge the weather continued to present. While the fog was no worse, its very presence had such an ominous quality it took considerable courage to face another day of sailing when their sense of sight would be useless. Far from being discouraged, however, Mylan was merely resigned to their continuing difficulties, and with a few well-placed slaps had his crew up and ready to begin the day as if it were going to be a most splendid one.
Thinking the fog might be hugging the coastline, Mylan set their course for the open seas. But it was soon clear that if the dense mist had an outer boundary, he could not find it. Returning to skirt the shoreline, they made no better progress than they had the previous day, and by late afternoon they had all grown weary with the effort. With extra rations of ale, the crew’s mood improved somewhat, but Mylan felt as though he were battling an enemy who could neither be seen nor heard, and, frustrated by his own inability to proceed with his customary swiftness, he strode off down the beach, trying to walk off the nervous tension that would never permit him to sleep.
Once alone he admitted to himself that he had been completely unsuccessful in keeping thoughts of Celiese out of his mind that day. Her delightful presence seemed to swirl about him with the persistence of the mist, until it seemed she had created the fog herself simply to torment him.
“Lady Celiese d’Loganville,” he whispered softly, and, letting his thoughts come freely without restraint, he began to wonder what their life would have been had he never discovered her true identity. Would the sweetness she had shown him upon their first meeting have continued? She had told him that was her true selfâ??the one in which he had believed for all too few hours before Raktor and his sons had plunged his life into chaos.
What if that dear creature were the wife he should have had? Would she ever have told him who she really was, or asked for his help in returning home? Somehow he thought not, for when she had first told him of her past, her home and family had seemed lost to her, gone forever, and she had had no hope of returning to the land of her birth.
It was much later, only after he had sent her away, that she began to dream of her homeland, and with Hagen’s encouragement had sought a way to return to it. He scuffed his toe in the sand, finally digging a hole with vicious kicks as he acknowledged that he had seen from the behavior of André and the others she was exactly who she had claimed to be. Indeed, Robert’s fear of her influence confirmed her bloodline, as well.
Certain he had discovered an important truth, Mylan walked slowly along the damp sand, remembering her every gesture, each nuance of expression he had seen and loved. It still hurt to remember that she had heard him shout to Andrick that he did not love her, for that had been his pride not his heart speaking, and yet it was a cruelty she had endured without comment.
He saw it all then, with a clarity that astonished him. Celiese was, most significantly, a young woman who had in the worst of circumstances been forced to learn how to survive on her own. A dear and pampered child, she had seen the home she loved put to the torch, while all around her the bodies of those she adored lay in bloody heaps. As if that horror were not enough to endure, she had been kidnapped, and taken to a new land, and yet she had lost neither her sense of her own identity nor her pride. Time and again he had blamed the very pride that made her so magnificent a creature for their problems, but it was suddenly plain to him that it was her very determination to live her life to the fullest that he admired most. She had accepted him as he was; knowing little of his past, she had wanted to share his future, not as the slave he had made of her, but as the equal she demanded and had every right to be. Appalled by the enormity of his countless errors, he knew without question that by leaving her, he had thrown away whatever happiness the fates had planned for them to share. All he deserved was to sail on forever surrounded by an impenetrable fog, for truly even when the skies were clear he saw nothing. As he turned to walk back to his camp, he saw no way to right the many wrongs he had done his beautiful bride, none at all, but he hid his depression from his crew just as he had hidden his love from Celiese. He was too proud a man to show any sign of emotion in front of them, but the price he had paid for that pride had not been worth the pain.
Celiese waited anxiously in the small parlor of the Convent of Saint Valery, uncertain what her mother’s reaction would be to her second visit. The fire upon the, hearth was most welcome, but while it provided an outer warmth, her heart still held an unshakable chill. When, after a long wait, her mother appeared, she rose to meet her, her smile wavering as she greeted her. “It is good of you to see me again, Mama. I am sorry I had no way to tell you I was coming.”
“You are alone this time?” Marie asked suspiciously. In her long gray habit she appeared to float across the distance separating them, but her green eyes were cold, devoid of any welcoming sparkle.
“If you are referring to my husband, he has left me, so I am quite alone,” she explained calmly, none of her intense sorrow evident in either her tone of voice or her expression.
Intrigued, Marie came closer. “You have come to join us then, as I asked you to?”
“No, it is impossible, for Mylan has become a Christian, and we were married again. I doubt that this order or any other would accept a woman whose husband is still living.” At least she had never heard of such a thing.
Frowning, Marie took a place upon the bench opposite the fire and patted the cushion beside her. When Celiese sat down, she laced her fingers in hers. “If the man has deserted you, perhaps an annulment can be arranged.”
“No, I’ll not ask for one.” Making every effort to gain her mother’s understanding once again, Celiese asked only that she might be permitted to stay at the convent for a brief visit. “I need time to collect my thoughts, for so much has happened since we last spoke that I have had great difficulty placing it all in its proper perspective. I will work at whatever chores you wish to assign me; all I ask is that I be given some time each day to be alone with my own thoughts.”
Marie was puzzled by her daughter’s subdued mood. “Our door is open to those who wish to seek God, Celiese, not to women searching for an easy escape from a life they find too difficult to live. The challenges presented here are far greater than any you will ever confront in the outside world.”
“You are speaking of understanding the mysteries that lie hidden within the human heart?” Celiese asked softly.
“Why, yes, that is one way to state our quest,” Marie replied with surprise.
Celiese responded with an enchanting smile. “That is precisely why I have come.”
*
