The shadowy figure moved closer to him and asked, “Can you swim?”
He knew her then. Recognized the inflection of the whisper.Hulda.She did not mean to haul him up and kill him, but—
“Go,” she whispered. “Go now while Garik and I are on watch. You will have to slip over the side.” She asked again, “Can you swim?”
“Aye.” Could he? The shore was a long way off and his arms were numb. “I can. But mistress”—he reached out and touched her arm—“why—”
“They will kill you.” She seemed to feel it explanation enough. Perhaps it was.
She dragged him up. She was strong, and he could feel her determination.
“My sword—” he began. It meant much to him, and he wanted it back.
She shook her head violently. “Nei. Go. Now.” Yet her hands continued to clutch at him, and when he would have stepped away to the rail, prepared to leave with nothing but his life, she leaned up—and kissed him.
Quick and hard and fierce was that kiss, so fleeting that, as she towed him to the rail, he almost thought his blasted mind had imagined it.
For why would she kiss him? Why let him go, for all that?
Soundlessly, he slid into the water and began to swim.
Chapter Eighteen
Afortunate thingindeed for Quarrie that the rain had ended and the sea had calmed. Else he never would have been able to swim so far in deep swells.
As it was, the ocean stretched out flat before him all the way to the shore, which made no more than a distant line in the dark. He did his best to move silently, for sound would carry on such a still night. Hulda’s man, Garik, must be in on the escape, but if the wrong member of the crew—say, Ivor—stirred and rose, they could well come after him in their small boat. Club him down right here in the water.
Hulda.Why had she done what she had? For the life of him, Quarrie could not say. He was battered, the recipient of kicks and blows, and his body hurt when he pressed it into motion. But the desire to live made a wondrous elixir, and he kept on, floating from time to time to rest and gain strength. A cold wind snickered across the water and he shivered uncontrollably. But at least, come morn, those bastards back in the longboat would not be cutting out his heart.
At the very end, when the shore drew so near he could make out separate details of the settlement, his strength flagged at last and he did not think he would make land. A stout guard had been set, as might be expected of a settlement that believed a fleet of six enemy boats hung offshore. Someone spotted him and, not knowing who he was, called up half the guard to watch him nearly drown.
It was Borald who waded out to him and, seeing the truth, called other men to help. They dragged him in, too weak to stand, and watched as he coughed up seawater onto the shingle.
“Master Quarrie! By God, we thought ye lost.”
“As did I,” he managed to croak, and sat back on his heels to breathe.
A circle of men—hismen, thank God—surrounded him. Others looked out to sea.
“Did ye escape?” Borald asked. “Shall we expect them to be comin’ after ye?”
They might well try. Quarrie was not sure what would happen now. To him, or to Hulda.
Hulda. Her lips on his, fierce as a brand, claiming him. Seeking, searching, giving. He’d never known aught to match it.
“Help me up,” he bade his men.
They did, with eager hands.
“By heaven, they did work ye over,” Borald said, appalled.
“And no mistake,” someone else muttered.
“How did ye get awa’?”
“Did they beat ye and cast ye into the sea?”
“They meant to kill me come morn and toss my corpse in the foam. The woman who commands them released me instead.”
