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“Lady Rose, you will retain Somerford Manor. I believe you were an innocent victim of this plot. Somerford is yours, you are my vassal still, but you must swear to me that you will never again fear to ask for my help.”
She shook her head, overwhelmed by what he was saying. “But…Gunnar? I thought…”
“Gunnar Olafson has relinquished any rights he had to your manor. He has given them back to you. He tells me he made you a vow, lady. You were fortunate in your choice of mercenary, were you not?”
He was watching her closely, as if he sought something in her face. Rose managed a nod.
“Aye, my lord,” she whispered, “I was most fortunate.”
He smiled. “If you need help again, you will know where to seek it, won’t you? I would not be adverse to you looking to Gunnar Olafson if you were ever in…need. I spoke just now of a compromise. I meant to suggest a partnership between the two of you, a joint ruling of Somerford Manor. Maybe, at some other time, we can speak of it again, hmm?”
The look he gave her was almost wicked. And then he had dismissed her, calling out for his horse, and turning to shout his goodbyes with a smile.
“I leave you enough men to protect Somerford from your father’s greedy gaze, lady! Now I must go home. Lily awaits.”
“My lord. Of course, my lord…”
Rose stared after him, wondering what it all meant. Had he meant to give her hope where Gunnar was concerned, or was he threatening her? A partnership could mean many things. She never knew with Radulf, and she was too weary now to make sense of it. There was only one thought in her head, and it drove all others before it.
I want him back. Please, oh please, I want him back…
Is it really too late?
Her heart ached, but as she turned to her people
the familiar mask slipped over her face. The lady of the manor. And her voice lifted, cool and authoritative.
“Listen to me, my people! We are safe from Lord Fitzmorton and his plot, but it is not just Lord Radulf and Captain Olafson who have saved us. I want to tell you of the merefolk and what their bravery has meant to us in these grave times…”
The dream slipped over her like a well-worn cloak.
Rose was alone on the Mere, Burrow Mump at her shoulder like a familiar black shadow. She was already running, knowing what would come, and they were behind her. The horde of men, roaring across the Levels, their passing flattening the reeds like a giant hand and making the water slap and hiss.
She screamed and made no sound.
Ahead of her lay Somerford Keep, a pale candle flickering in the window. The dark stones looked solid and safe, and yet Rose knew very well she could never reach it in time. She glanced behind her and the warriors were close. Their savage faces were set, their eyes fixed on her. She searched them, but saw no one she recognized.
Where was he? Why was he not there, riding before them?
Rose almost gave up then, and sank to her knees and awaited her fate.
But then she saw him.
He was coming toward her, but he was riding from the direction of Somerford Keep! The gray horse pounded across the Mere, tail and mane streaming. His copper hair was dulled by the moonlight, tangling in the roaring wind that came with the horde from Burrow Mump. He drew his sword and held it aloft, and then he swung it down, and it seemed as if it cleaved the very air in two.
Behind her, Rose heard the ghostly warriors give a terrible shriek.
The world shimmered and splintered about her, light flashing as though there were a great storm. Rose covered her head with her arms, expecting any moment to be swallowed into blackness. When she dared to look up again, there was only silence.
The warriors were gone, back to their cavern in the Mump.
Only he was there, her own warrior. Gunnar Olafson upon his gray horse, smiling down at her. When he stretched out his hand, she took it, and he lifted her onto the saddle before him.
“I am taking you home,” he said.
“Lady?”
His breath was warm on her cheek; the familiar feel of his body was pressed to hers. Rose blinked and opened her eyes, and it did not seem strange at all that Gunnar should be there in her bed. He had brought her home, hadn’t he?
