by Nancy Butler
She stood up and swung her dripping oar to the right side, trolling it back and forth to bring the boat closer to the shoreline. The trees that edged the water were coming closer, and Diana held her breath as the boat scraped over a submerged root. She was almost there….
The low-hanging limb was obscured by leaves, and Diana didn’t see the danger until the branch collided sharply with the side of her head. With an inarticulate cry, she dropped her oar and reeled back. As she tumbled over the side, the boat immediately shifted away, and was thrust once again into the main current.
Diana plunged under the chill water, instantly dragged down by her sodden skirts. Now only half conscious, she groped for something to hold on to, trying to raise her head above the chopping waves. The hungry current was carrying her away from land, so she kicked out her feet with the last of her strength. Miraculously, her fingers grasped something solid. It was towing her now, through the water. In her disordered state she began to struggle, thinking it was the river again drawing her away from safety.
“No-o-o!” She cried out in protest and received a mouthful of river water for her trouble. Sputtering and flailing, she continued to resist.
“Shhhh!” The tugging would not let up.
“No!” she sobbed raggedly, still struggling against that firm hold.
But then the sloping riverbank rose up to meet her. She felt herself being carried forward until she came to rest on a hillock of swamp grass. Her head thudded to the ground, and as her consciousness gave way to the pounding blackness, she could have sworn she heard someone laughing softly.
* * *
“No!” she cried over and over in a thready, whimpering voice.
It wasn’t fair. Everyone else at the ball was properly dressed, but somehow she had left home wearing only her chemise. Her hair was unconfined and it billowed down over her shoulders, partially obscuring a golden chain hung with large gold coins. A broad-chested man with curling blond locks jeered at her the instant she entered the ballroom and soon everyone had joined in. Their cruel laughter echoed in her ears.
She fled then, down the front steps and into the street. But disembodied hands caught at her, pulling her back, back to the scene of her humiliation. Eager fingers tugged repeatedly at the necklace of coins about her neck, choking her, cutting off her air.
“I cannot go back,” she moaned, writhing against her pillow. “I will not go back!”
“Shhhh.” The soothing noise came from far away.
“Don’t make me go back!” she pleaded hoarsely, before the cool cloth at her brow eased her distress.
* * *
Diana was hot and sticky all over. I must be feverish, she thought, remembering the time she’d been ill with the measles. With a great deal of concentration, she was able to open her eyes. Not that she could see anything. The room before her swam sickeningly in double and triple images. And her head pounded as though a hundred blacksmiths were plying their noisy trade inside her skull.
Someone was moving in the room. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out a form or figure. The shadow moved closer, and a low voice said, “I see you have decided to remain among the living.” It was a man’s voice, low-pitched and curiously soothing.
She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Easy now. I’ve brought you some broth to drink.” The man sat at the edge of her bed, levered her up from her pillow, and raised a porcelain mug to her mouth.
“No,” she croaked, fretfully moving her head to one side. “It hurts too much.” Even the tiniest motion made her stomach knot with nausea.
“But you must,” the voice insisted. “I’ve put something in it to ease your pain.”
“Are you a doctor, then?” She was squinting up at him trying to see what he looked like. To see exactly who went with that wonderful voice.
“Ah, no. But I’ve had some experience with stubborn creatures who will not eat.”
“I’m not a stubborn creature,” she grumbled.
“Then don’t behave like one.” There was a firmness to the man’s tone that she recognized, in spite of her hazy grip on reality.
“Oh, very well,” she said sullenly. “But I warn you, it’s likely to come right back up again.”
She clutched the mug, her fingers clasped over the man’s as he guided it to her mouth. His hands were warm. Or maybe that was just because of the broth. She swallowed several mouthfuls, and then fell back onto her pillow. When the man stood up, she realized he was enormously tall. Probably a giant. A giant river god who had plucked her from a watery grave. One with an exceedingly nice voice.
* * *
The man came again later in the night, carrying a shuttered lantern, which he set down on the floor. Crouching in the shadows a few feet from her bed, he busied himself with some task. She couldn’t move her aching head enough to see what it was that so preoccupied him.
“Are you the one who laughed at me?” she whispered. That laughter was the last thing she could remember of her ordeal.
“Mmm,” he answered. “You looked like a half-drowned water witch. But it was mostly from relief that I laughed. I thought I’d lost you there at one point. You put up a rather good fight—in fact I’ve never seen anyone battle so fiercely to keep from being rescued. You’re not a suicide by any chance?”
“I don’t think so,” she said weakly.
“Don’t you remember how you came to be in the river?”
Of course I remember, she wanted to snap. But then she also remembered her fiancé kissing another woman. And her own feeling of mortification when he had discussed her so coldly. Once her rescuer knew who she was and alerted the authorities, Helen and a whole entourage of servants would come and whisk her back home. Back to the arms of the avaricious Sir Beveril.
“Maybe you can’t remember just yet,” he said musingly. “You took a nasty crack on the head. You’re probably still a bit concussed.”
“I can remember nothing,” she said softly. “Except being in the water. It’s…all so…fuzzy.”
Yes, Diana thought, a convenient loss of memory would buy her some time. Until she could think of foolproof argument to convince her sister and James that she could never marry Beveril. She suspected the fact that he had openly belittled her to his mistress might not carry much weight with them.
The man rose, and then settled himself on the side of her bed. His hand brushed over her forehead, whisking back a few stray curls. “You don’t feel feverish any longer; that’s a blessing. Swallow enough river water and you’re likely to end up with an inflammation of the lungs.”
“Will I die, do you think?” she asked, wishing he would keep his hand there, upon her throbbing head.
“Not unless you drag yourself back to the river. Some suicides just keep on trying.”
She was nearly too weary to respond to his sarcasm. “Next time”—she yawned—”poison.”
“Hmm? Then I’d better go lock up the hemlock.”
She grinned at him in the semidarkness and said, “Socrates?”
“Oh, have you remembered your name, then?” She didn’t miss the wry tone of his voice.
“No, not my name,” she said wistfully. “Perhaps it will return in the morning.”
After he’d picked up his lantern and gone from the room, Diana swore she heard tiny, high-pitched voices whispering in her head. Maybe the man was mistaken…maybe she was still feverish.
Chapter 2
When Diana awoke again it was daylight. Her vision had cleared up and the pain in her head was now merely a dull throb. She boosted herself up into a sitting position. As the coverlet fell away, she saw that over her chemise she now wore a man’s blue dressing gown. Her ball gown seemed to have disappeared.
Leaning back on her narrow cot, she took stock of her surroundings. Packing crates were piled everywhere, along with barrels and sacks of feed. There was an uncurtained window on the rudely plastered wall opposite her cot, through which she could see a bit of green
treetop and a scrap of blue sky. It was not a promising setting; she might well be in some farmer’s storage room.
But then she recalled the island where she had come ashore. Perhaps the man had been poaching on the island when he found her and had carried her back to his farm. Except that from what she remembered of their brief encounter, the man had not sounded anything like a farmer. And there had been something else about his voice, the hint of a foreign accent, as though he had learned English late in his youth, and had retained a touch of his mother tongue. But as to what that tongue might be, she hadn’t a clue.
She forced her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. It was a good thing there was a pile of crates nearby—she had to grab on to them the instant she straightened up. Diana sighed in frustration. If standing upright was beyond her, walking was clearly out of the question.
She stood there for several minutes, waiting for the room to stop spinning. And waiting for the bizarre noise in her ears to cease. The peep-peep-peep-ing that went on and on. Then the weak, tentative pecking started on her fingers, where they clutched the top crate. She whisked her hand away instantly and fell backward onto the bed. The peep-peeps grew even louder.
“Good Lord,” she muttered when she saw the source of the sound. The top crate was full of downy, pale gray chicks. And the one below it, as well.
Had the man put her in his barn? Had she spent the night sleeping with livestock?
There was the sound of whistling from beyond the room, then the door swung open and the enormously tall river god came in, carrying a tray.
“Had a good sleep?” he asked. She nodded, and he continued in a brisk voice, “Nothing like two days’ rest to fix a broken head.”
“Two days?” she moaned. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s Monday afternoon. I heard you stirring, and thought it might be time to feed you again.”
Monday afternoon! Oh, no! She put one hand over her face. Helen would be distraught.
“Have you remembered anything yet? Your name? Where you live? Why you were taking a swim in the middle of the night?” He set up a tray of food in her lap as he spoke.
“Nothing.” She shook her head slowly.
What could she tell him? Once he knew her name, he would certainly return her to her family, and that was out of the question. She had only a vague recollection of the horrid dreams that had plagued her as she slept, but she felt positively ill at the thought of marrying Sir Beveril. Yet she needed to get some word to her sister—not her location certainly, but some reassurance that she hadn’t met with foul play.
“One name does come to mind,” she said haltingly. “Wilfred Bailey.” She cocked her head and added musingly, “I have a notion he may be a lawyer.” Bailey was James Mortimer’s solicitor in London. If she got a message to him, she was certain he would relay it to her sister.
The man had crossed his arms over his chest. “And do you recall where this Bailey can be found?”
With his hand in everyone’s pocket, Diana was tempted to reply. “In London, in Bishopsgate,” she said aloud. “Perhaps I can write to Mr. Bailey, describing my person. He might be able to identify me.”
Her host still looked dubious. Diana gave him a wide-eyed shrug of apology. “It’s the only solution I can think of at the moment.”
“I’ll bring you some writing paper after you’ve eaten.” He ran his knuckles along his chin. “But it’s very odd—I’ve seen people with head wounds who got their memory back in fits and starts. But I’ve never met anyone who remembered the name and address of a lawyer, and yet didn’t have a clue to their own identity.”
“Yes,” she said with a small frown. “It’s most perplexing.”
Diana tucked into the stew he had brought her, washing it down with a mug of cool cider. While she ate, he tended to the chicks, engrossed in his task as he lifted them, one by one, from the crate and fed them from a glass pipette. She took the opportunity to examine him while his attention was diverted.
All she had recalled after their first encounter was his melodious voice and unusual height. Now she noted that he was quite lean, though broad shouldered, and that his hair was an unusual shade of auburn. A dark, burnished red, the color of Indian mahogany, it fell in thick waves to the collar of his shirt. He was clearly not a man of fashion. Not that the style didn’t suit him. As did the deep green buckskin coat he wore and the high leather gaiters. He looked more like a woodsman than any farmer she’d ever seen.
His face was in profile as he fussed over his birds. Diana thought the long, arched nose was a bit too prominent to be called handsome, though it nicely balanced his square, jutting chin. There were hollows beneath his cheekbones and his eyes were deepset. She could not make out their color, though.
“Are you a poultry farmer?” she asked as he closed the door of the top crate and moved down to the lower one. He swung around and gave her a look of thinly veiled distemper.
Hazel. His eyes were hazel—a rich swirl of green and golden brown. Flashing now in irritation.
“Great gods, ma’am! Do these look like chickens to you?”
Well, he was certainly on his high ropes. For a farmer. “I have little acquaintance with birds,” she huffed. Now sheep, on the other hand, she knew. There wasn’t a Yorkshirewoman born who couldn’t tell a merino from a Cheviot with her eyes closed.
“These are cygnets,” he said with deliberate slowness, as if to a lackwit.
“Cig-whats?”
The man rolled his eyes. “Baby swans.”
“That’s not what I’m eating, is it?” She eyed her stew with mock alarm. Then she saw the way he was cradling the downy creature—with great tenderness. Best not to rib him. “May I hold one?”
“They’re not pets,” he warned. “They’ll be going back to the wild as soon as they’re fit.”
“Never mind,” she said lightly, hiding her disappointment.
“Oh, here,” he said, relenting. “But try not to handle her too much.”
“Oh, it’s a girl swan. A cygness, then?” Her eyes danced up at him as he set the small bundle on her lap. It hunkered down immediately, shaking its tiny tail as it burrowed into the coverlet with ungainly charm.
“She’s very sweet. Where is her mother?”
The man’s lean cheeks drew in even further. “Dead. I’ve three broods here, all orphaned. The parents work as a team, you see, and when one of them is killed, the other sometimes abandons the nest. This lot were orphaned by poachers.” He spat out the word. “There are gentlemen who will pay a hefty price for a swan to grace their dinner table.”
“I was only jesting…about the stew,” she said softly.
“I know. You just touched on a sore spot, that’s all.” As he spoke, the man rubbed at the side of his face fretfully. “I am paid to look after these creatures. I patrol this whole stretch of river by myself and I can’t be everywhere. Someone is taking the mature swans and leaving the cygnets to die.”
Diana stroked her fingers along the downy back. The baby swan tucked in her short neck and made a soft cooing noise. “Poor little mite.”
“You should have seen them when I brought them here last week. Nearly done in, they were. They’ve perked up considerably—tomorrow I intend to start them swimming. There’s a pond on the island.” His mouth drew up on one side. “Well, several now, actually, after all the rain.”
“Oh, are we still on the island?”
He nodded. “I live here. It makes my job much easier, being in the thick of things, as it were.”
“What is it called?”
He gazed down at the cygnet in her lap and shook his head. “I don’t hold with naming wild creatures.”
“No,” she said, looking up at him with a grin. “I meant the island. Does it have a name?”
He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Here—” He scooped the cygnet from her lap and replaced it in the crate. “You’d better rest now. When I return from my patrol, we’ll see to writing that
letter to Mr. Bailey.”
Diana watched as he picked up her tray and went from the room. She had asked him everything but his own name. Maybe, like the island, he didn’t have a name. Just “Tall River God.”
Lud, she must still be addled. Or back in the fantasy world she had been obliged to put behind her in Bothys. She had soon realized when she went to live with Helen that her youthful dreams would never come to pass. Young ladies who were forced to wed for political reasons had no business holding onto their dreams. But nameless women who were fished out of the Thames could dream anything their hearts desired.
When she slept at last, Diana dreamed of a golden-eyed man with beech-leaf hair, who carried her from island to island with one stride of his impossibly long legs.
* * *
Romulus was glad the river was finally going down. He’d lost too many birds to the cresting water. The grebes who made their nests along the shore, and the peevish, territorial coots, were all endangered by encroaching floods. Even though the swans were his chief charges, he also kept watch over the other water birds: the tall gray herons, the small, hunched night herons, and the pipers that fed in the shallows. He freed them from poachers’ snares, kept the village children away from nesting sites, and prevented the local population of cats and dogs from having them for dinner. Natural predators he allowed. He was not there, after all, to see nature confounded. He only wanted to see it respected.
The people in Treypenny thought he was addled—a grown man wasting his time with birds. He only went to the nearby village when Niall was away traveling with his people. Otherwise the Gypsy boy brought supplies to the island once a week. Everything Romulus and his orphaned swans could require.
But now he had a new chick to look after, and he was not happy about that fact. The balance of life always altered whenever something new was added to the equation. This woman—well, she was really more of a girl—had intruded on his solitude and he resented that intrusion.
The solitude was the best part of his job. He was wary of most people. His tolerance for foolishness was low and his temper was particularly short. He had been scrappy as a youth and had turned downright curmudgeonly as an adult. It was only after a stint in the army that he had learned to curb his temper. But then he’d gone through a hellish ordeal that had curbed a great deal more of his nature.
