“Hello,” he greeted her.
Panic widened her eyes, and she took a step closer to the edge. Anselm raised his hands, showing he carried no weapons. “I won’t harm you. My name is Sir Anselm Fitzwater.”
The confusion on her face reminded him that she could not speak his language. He couldn’t speak a word of the Irish tongue either.
Her hand moved protectively to her stomach, and she took another step. Anselm wanted to curse. At this distance, he couldn’t stop her from walking off the edge. If she killed herself, he had no doubt Ruarc would incite a war between both sides. King Patrick had given rigid orders to maintain the peace. But there was only a fragile chance of success.
He took a gamble and sat down, picking a strand of grass and twirling it. “You can’t understand me, I know, but I would be grateful if you’d come away from the edge.”
She paled and sent another frightened glance toward the water.
Anselm kept talking, a soft stream of conversation that moved from one topic to the next. While he spoke, he studied her. Beneath the dirt and her disheveled appearance, Sosanna was a strikingly attractive woman. With high sculpted cheekbones and lips the color of ripening summer cherries, he tried to envision her former beauty.
The advancing pregnancy swelling against her blue gown provided an explanation for her actions. And yet, he didn’t believe her tribe would cast her out for it.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but she seemed to be less afraid of him, so long as he kept his distance. He beckoned for her to come back with him, and she shook her head.
“Ruarc,” he reminded her, holding up his wrists as if bound. At the mention of her brother, she whitened. With a glance at the cliffs, sadness touched her countenance.
“Come.” He strode towards the grove of trees and led his horse out. “Do you want to ride?” He tried to make his meaning clear with gestures, but Sosanna shook her head.
“As you like.” Anselm waited until she started walking. He led the horse by the reins, whistling slightly. Slowly and reluctantly, she followed him, keeping a large distance between them.
He only breathed easier when she was far from the cliff. There was something vulnerable about the woman, and though he suspected what had been done to her, he did not want to believe his men were responsible. They were too well-trained, too disciplined.
He glanced behind him to see where she was. Sosanna had stopped walking. In her eyes he saw terror. He followed her gaze and saw a small group of his men training.
One of the cavalry soldiers spurred his horse towards him. Though the man only wanted to speak with him, Anselm raised his hands to stop him.
It was too late. Sosanna whirled around and began running. Anselm cursed and took off after her. He mounted and urged his gelding faster. Almost there.
Seconds later, she stood at the cliff’s edge. Her eyes wild with fear, she leaped off.
Christ’s blood. Anselm charged his horse forward, halting at the edge. Her blue gown billowed out in the water. He didn’t stop to think but threw off his helm and dove into the icy sea. The water hit him with the force of a stone. Thank God he hadn’t worn chain mail armor. The weight would have dragged him under.
Anselm swam toward Sosanna, reaching for her prone body. He didn’t even know if she was alive. She did not respond when he touched her. Was she breathing? He fought to swim to shore, while keeping her above water.
When they reached land, he staggered across the sand, laying her body upon it.
“Breathe,” he pleaded, rubbing her cheeks. He didn’t know how to save her. And sweet Christ, she was so pale. Beneath his breath he murmured a prayer.
God answered him, for a moment later, she coughed up the water, her frail body shaking with the effort.
He held her hair back, stroking it while she inhaled gulps of air. And when she stopped, he held her close. It felt as though he had been the one to nearly drown.
She closed her eyes, and he picked her up. If he took her back to Laochre, Ruarc would find out. The young hothead’s temper would undo any peace between the two sides. He had to help Sosanna, but not at such a cost.
Anselm scanned the area and saw small boat beached out of the tide’s reach. Then he knew exactly where to bring her.
Chapter Nine
Isabel’sarmmusclesached,but she set another stone atop the wall. For half a day she’d worked at replacing the exterior of the ruined palisade. Though the walls were made of wood, there was enough limestone upon the island to build three donjons. And she was tired of living in someone else’s cottage when she had her own shelter, ruined though it was.
Sadly, her wall was only two hands high.
The work helped take her mind off of Patrick. She longed to pound his skull with one of the rocks, for he still refused to see her as a wife and not a Norman. What more did she have to do?
Around her, she saw the faces of the islanders watching her. No one spoke, but they watched her labor, taking turns to stare at her while performing their own chores. She felt like a traveling minstrel, offering entertainment.
