As he continued to swim upon his back, willing the hand that held her atop his chest to feel even the faintest of a heartbeat, he realized the storm was gone. No prevailing mist. Not a cloud in the clearest of night skies. Only a full moon and bright stars accompanied the cool, crisp air.

His men waited just beyond the shoreline and formed a tight circle as he straddled her body. He heard their swords drawn in unison, their pledges made to this woman, their oaths sworn as he ripped her shirt in two and tossed aside her satchel that had come loose as well.

Stunned by the vision beneath him, enraged by the prophecy’s sadistic twist, he pressed his ear to her chest, praying she had life. And “pray to no one” Greylen prayed as never before. He embraced God with an open heart; he even vowed to attend Father Michael’s next Mass.

He suspected that this woman was waiting for just that as the sweet sound of a faint heartbeat whispered in his ear. Then in true overlord fashion, he demanded she take his breath.

Breaths and then strokes as he laid her on her side, harsh upward strokes to remove the water from her lungs.

Breathe, breathe…for the sake of God, breathe! Did she not understand an order?

A good show indeed.

He could’ve collected a fortune for it, had it been of the theatrical kind. She took his blasted breath all right. And scared him witless in the process, gasping and coughing so violently ’twas painful to watch.

She’d be punished for that.

’Twasn’t enough that he had to look at perfection and fight to keep it within his realm. ’Twasn’t enough that he had to move his hands over her entire slender frame, cut and bruised but otherwise sound. ’Twasn’t enough that he had to watch her violent shakes until he could at last pick her up and wrap her in his warmth. This woman scared him close to death.

’Twas those thoughts that consumed him as he and his men rode back to the keep. He could not live in such fear—with such fear. Yet ’twas that very fear, his need to protect and keep safe, which kept him at pace with Gavin, whom he ordered to ride ahead.

The doors to the keep opened as they took the stairs, and for the first time in hours Greylen breathed a sigh of relief. Home. Lady Madelyn. Isabelle. Anna. Safety. Detachment.

’Twas with this last sentiment that he allowed himself to step back. To distance himself. ’Twas but a farce, this detachment.

Every muscle in his body clenched as he watched his mother and Anna try to remove this woman’s clothing. He finally saw to the task himself, ripping the strange garments from her body. Feeling every involuntary grimace and bruise as if it were his own, feeling each of her lacerations as they were cleaned, and in the case of some, tended with needle and thread before being covered.