Chapter Nine
For Giselle, the rest of the day was a blur of riding and aching bones and a relentless sun blazing down on her head. They rode for hours, along a track hugging the coastline on one side and weaving in and out of forest on the other. It took the brunt of the sea breezes gusting in, bringing with it the foul tang of seaweed, rotting in the summer sun. Giselle wiped sweat from the back of her neck as she gasped in awe at the vast expanse of sunlit water. Out here, away from walls and villages and people, the world seemed a vast, empty place, and she a small, weak thing of no significance.
The Scot was quiet, for the most part, and she was thankful for it, as every time he turned to look at her with that intense gaze from those soulful, dark eyes, she felt nervous and tongue-tied. For many miles, his face had taken on a sombre look, as if deep in thought. She wondered what troubled him.
Giselle squinted out to sea. In the distance, through gaps in the trees, she spotted a lone sail, bobbing about on the choppy water close to shore - a fisherman bringing in his catch? There was a broad stretch of sand between her and the boat. As far as she could tell, they were still in England, and that fisherman was her countryman. Here, the rocky bank leading down to the sand was not too steep, but the track rose upwards, towards cliffs, not too far ahead.
The Scot had drawn some distance ahead of her. She glanced at his back and hesitated. What was she to do, follow meekly along with this man to Scotland, like a lamb to the slaughter? There was no ransom coming, and eventually, this man would realise it, and then what? He would be angry, she would be punished or killed, or worse - sold off, so he could be rid of her.
Young and sheltered though she was, Giselle had heard that women were often traded like animals, or sold into marriage, well, they called it marriage, but it was more a form of slavery. Agnes’ words came back to her. ‘Find a man and cling to him,’ she had said. What a ridiculous notion that was. She had no idea how to beguile a man, or even talk to one. Hadn’t Edric held her in contempt for her lack of fortune, even though he had called her pretty? If she had any feminine wiles, she certainly had no idea how to use them on this Scot, who made her heart thump every time he looked in her direction. She was not up to the task of seducing him, and she knew it.
Giselle glanced desperately out to sea again. The boat was coming in to shore, the sail gathered, and it was cresting the waves and about to scrape up the shingle at the sand’s edge. This might be her only chance.
Giselle swallowed hard and slipped down off her horse, which carried on plodding after the Scot’s. She hurriedly pushed through a tangle of bushes and over the edge of the bank, lifting her dress and picking her way down the rocks. Halfway down, she heard a loud curse from above, and scurried faster. Giselle looked out to sea and the boat was ashore now, its owner staring at her in alarm.
In her haste, she did not look where she was going, her foot rolled on a loose rock and suddenly, she was on her backside, sliding and falling, scraping against stones and loose pebbles. Giselle tried to hold onto tussocks of grass, but they slipped from her grasp, and she rolled all the way down the bank, until she landed in a flurry of skirts onto hard, wet sand. The breath was almost knocked out of her, but she did not falter. Dragging herself to her feet, Giselle ran as fast as her shaking legs could carry her, towards the surf and freedom.
Rocks clattered behind her. He was coming.
She was halfway across the sand. A pounding noise, getting closer. How could he be so fast? He must have ridden down that bank, oh God, he was going to catch her. She daren’t turn around. Almost there.
Giselle’s lungs were screaming by the time she reached the man and ran up to him, into the surf. Waves lashed against her feet with bone-numbing cold, filling her shoes.
‘Help me, please,’ she gasped. The pounding was getting louder over the sound of the water and the wind.
The man looked at her in horror, and Giselle’s heart fell. He was old and weathered, far too frail to fight the Scot, and he backed away from her, up against his boat, shaking his head.
‘You must help me, please,’ she gasped, but his gaze went over her head, and she turned, to see the Scot thunder up on his horse and wrench it to a halt, right in front of her, making the big beast rear up. She staggered backwards, and a moment later, he leapt off and rushed at her, with a face like thunder.
‘No, no,’ she screamed as Lyall grabbed her arm in an iron grip. Giselle tried to pull away, but he was too strong. His fingers hurt where they dug in, and he jerked her against his chest, his forearm around her body, pinning her to him.’
The fisherman stared at them in horror.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you, my friend,’ said the Scot, in a cold and chilling voice, as he slid his knife out of its scabbard.
‘I don’t want no trouble,’ gibbered the man.
‘Good, then go, turn your boat back out to sea, and you’ll come to no harm.’
‘Please, help me,’ screamed Giselle. ‘This Scot is holding me prisoner. I am English, please.’ But the man was hopeless, and in no time at all, and without one word to her, he had launched his boat and was rowing like hell, back out to sea and safety.
Giselle squirmed and twisted, consumed with anger and frustration, but the Scot held her tightly until the boat was some distance off.
‘Calm down, and I will let you go, Giselle,’ he said quietly.
She went quiet in his arms, but the moment he let go of her, she whirled around and slapped him in the face as hard as she could. He did not seem to feel it. Instead, he grabbed both her wrists.
‘Never do that again, you little fool. As escape attempts go, that has to be the worst plan I ever saw. What the hell did you think you were going to do, get that feeble, old man to row you all the way back to England?’
‘I want to go home. Let go of me, you pig.’
‘Promise you won’t clout me again if I do,’ he said, with a hint of laughter in his voice, which just made Giselle angrier.
Lyall slowly released his grip on her wrists and she took a step away from him. A wave hit the back of her legs with a thump, and almost took her off her feet, making her stagger ungracefully sideways. Giselle was soaked up to her thighs, livid and about to burst into tears.
‘We’d best get back and look for your horse,’ he said cheerfully, smirking at her predicament.
Giselle could only glower at him as he retrieved his horse and flung himself onto its back. Lyall rode over and held out his hand. In a fearful pout, she looked helplessly out to sea at the boat, bobbing away, and then she turned and took hold of it. He hoisted her up in front of him, with his body pressed close.