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Gunnar took the other set of oars and started working with Valdemar. They'd have words, and saving Deirdre was enough to cross out the betrayal, but Gunnar's pride still hurt from the loss, and he knew that Valdemar didn't think their rivalry was over, either.
They'd been on a collision course the entire time, and it was only when the English took them that they were forced to put it aside. Just long enough to get free. They couldn't fight it out on the little boat, so they would have to row.
Gunnar let himself settle into the rhythm of the movement and let his mind be still. He could never tell Deirdre, never in a thousand lifetimes, how close they had come to dying.
She could think what she wanted to think, but he couldn't let her realize that he thought they had come to the point where he was just putting off the inevitable. That little comfort would have to be enough for her.
And he could never let Valdemar know, either. Every one of them knew what had happened, but Gunnar wouldn't talk about it. Not ever.
The sun was beginning to peak over the sky when they hit land. Gunnar was surprised how quickly the time had gone. It felt as if it had only been a few minutes, but it must have been hours. His muscles and joints ached with the strain of rowing. It was as if he'd fallen asleep rowing and his body had just kept moving.
The land seemed to jerk Deirdre awake, as well. She crawled out of the boat and laid on her back, looking up at the sky and feeling the stony beach on her back. Gunnar stood and stepped off, unsure whether or not Valdemar would follow.
Perhaps he planned to go up the coast somewhere. His entire reasoning for taking it, they'd never questioned. Nor, Gunnar thought, would he ask now. But Valdemar followed them onto land, the only one of the three with dry clothes.
The sun, even low as it was, provided a comforting warmth that helped revitalize Gunnar.
"It looks like you're going to live," Valdemar offered.
"It looks like we will," Gunnar agreed. How long they would be able to go without someone recognizing one of them, he wouldn't wager on.
"We never settled our little disagreement." He'd been thinking the same as Gunnar, that it would come to a fight. Who was Gunnar to deny him?
Both of them worked out the tightness in their muscles for a moment. Gunnar held out a hand, his eyes on the sword hanging at Valdemar's belt. He wouldn't dare, would he?
Valdemar took it. He would at least show that much respect. Then he stepped back, pulled the belt loose, and dropped it. So it was to be a fair fight after all.
The duel began properly—Gunnar and his rival grasped each other 'round the waist. Whoever would be able to throw the other, in the old ways, would be the winner. But Gunnar knew that wouldn't be the end of the fight. He had the size disadvantage by several inches and a score of pounds, but he wasn't about to let that ruin him.
He dropped his hips and pulled, feeling Valdemar get light on his feet. It was close, but not close enough. Gunnar replayed the events of the entire journey in his mind as Valdemar started to get traction, as Gunnar felt his weight leaving his feet.
He'd been pushed, prodded, and he knew that Valdemar had played a role in his injury. The timing was too close. How he had known what to do, Gunnar couldn't begin to say. Then the idea flashed into his mind. Only one person had known what to do.
White-hot anger streaked through his mind and he pulled his hand free of Valdemar's waist, pulled it back, and stuffed it in the bigger man's face. They went down in a pile, and Gunnar used the advantage to continue raining blows down.
He felt the blood coming, felt Valdemar's attempts to fight back. The pain of the blows just drove him to hit harder. He took Valdemar by his collar and dragged him into the water. Used his weight to push the man's head down, and sat on him to hold him down.
The only thing that pulled him back to reality was the realization that Deirdre was pulling on him with all her might. He stood up, Valdemar jerking upright and sputtering the air out.
"He saved our lives," she said softly. And as much as Gunnar didn't want to admit it, that was the truth. He looked at her, the anger still hot.
She had tried to kill him.
Forty
Gunnar hadn't spoken to her since they'd left. He'd just started stalking off. It had taken a while to get him headed in remotely the right direction of the cottage, since he seemed to be more than ready to ignore her the whole way.
She wasn't sure what had set him off, the way he was. What could have happened in the midst of that fight? What had made him so angry? She couldn't understand the words that were said, but it wasn't hard to figure what was happening. They were just in the midst of a duel, of some kind.
Some strange, mannish grappling… thing. But then Gunnar had just decided to kill Valdemar all of a sudden. She'd pulled him off, and he'd looked at Deirdre like it would be her next. Then, as quick as you like, he was stalking off into the mainland, and wouldn't explain a bit of it.
She knew what she was afraid he had figured. But he couldn't have. After all this time… unless Valdemar had told him, but then he'd waited a good long time to react to the news. Why would he figure it out now? No, the very idea was absurd. Of course he hadn't figured out her role in his injuries.
And if he had, then he would realize that all she'd really done was try to give him what he wanted. He would realize it, right? She swallowed. He couldn't just—
She already knew well enough that he could. He didn't tell her when he stopped to make camp for the night. Didn't seem to be listening when she told him that she had money to buy food the next day, even if it was still a bit damp.
The first sign that he'd been reacting to anything in the outside world at all was when he diverted south, taking them through a town. Even then, he didn't stop to look at anything. Just came through, his eyes darting left and right, daring someone to challenge him.
