Two men walked past. One was carrying a short but heavy-looking block of wood. He was blond and dressed in a fine linen shirt with a finely worked leather sleeveless tunic—much too fine for a servant. She caught a bare glimpse of the other man, noting his dark hair.
Evangeline left her hiding place and followed them from a distance. Ahead, she heard them talking, gradually realizing they were speaking with a third man. As she drew closer, she saw that the third man was Westley.
Suddenly the blond man raised the block of wood and struck Westley in the head, then pushed him off the bank into the river.
Frozen, unable to breathe, Evangeline watched as the two strange men ran in the other direction.
Westley.
She ran as fast as she could, stumbling over her skirt before jerking it up to her knees.
She scrambled down the side of the bank. He was lying facedown in the water a little farther downstream, his body caught on a tree whose roots extended into the river.
Evangeline jumped into the river feet first, water splashing on her face. The water pushed her skirt up to her waist, but she had to get to Westley. He would surely drown. O God, help me! Please, please.
Walking through the chest-high water was slow, no matter how hard she pushed her legs to move faster. Her eyes were locked on Westley’s body. Every moment his face was under water brought him closer to death.
She finally reached him, grabbed him under his arm, and used her other hand to pull his head up.
He was heavier than she imagined. Using all her strength, she put his arm around her shoulders and held his head out of the water. His eyes were closed, his face pale. A trickle of blood ran down his temple. Was he . . . ?
No. He could not be. She would not believe it.
Stumbling toward the bank, nearly going under herself, she managed to prop his head and shoulders against the side of the steep bank. Her arms under his, climbing up the bank, she pulled as hard as she could. He did not budge. His lower half was still under water.
“Help! Someone, please!” She had to get him out of the water and breathing again. He had to live. Whatever happened to her, she had to save Westley.
She wedged her body underneath his and pushed. She only managed to move him an inch.
“Help! Westley is hurt!” She brushed the trickle of blood away from his closed eye as a sob shook her.
A voice called, indistinguishable in the distance.
“Help! Someone help!” Evangeline screamed.
“Who is that?” the voice called, getting closer.
“Westley is hurt! Please help me!”
Finally, Sabina’s face appeared above her.
“Eva!” Her mouth fell open. “You spoke. Is that Westley?”
“Yes, help me, please. He’s nearly drowned.”
“Maybe I should go get help.”
“Just help me drag him to the top of the bank.”
Sabina eased herself halfway down the bank. She took one of his arms and Evangeline took the other, and together they managed to pull him to the top as Evangeline dug her toes into the muddy bank and climbed out beside him.
Instinctively Evangeline turned him onto his stomach, holding one shoulder up so his face was not in the dirt, and pounded on his back.
Suddenly he vomited. Thank You, God, he is alive!
Sabina screamed. Evangeline kept hold of his shoulder so he was lying on his side and slightly forward.
“I’ll get help!” Sabina ran away down the path.
He stopped heaving and lay still. She studied his face. He was pale, but perhaps not as pale as when she first pulled him out of the river. She wished she had a dry cloth to wipe the blood from his temple and the side of his face.
The bandages he had put on her hands were dripping water. She yanked them off and threw them on the ground.
He groaned, then started coughing. Again, he lay still.
“Westley? Are you all right? Please don’t die. You are the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
His eyelids eased up, as though it hurt to open them. He gazed at her for a moment, a dazed look in his eyes. Then his eyes closed again.
“He’s unconscious. But he’s alive,” she assured herself. “He’ll wake up again.”
Was he breathing? She laid her cheek over his nose and mouth. She waited, then felt the slight brush of air against her cheek.
The leather bag he often carried with him lay on the ground nearby. Evangeline ran to it and found nothing more helpful than a dry cloth. She carried it back to him.
Gently, she wiped at the blood. She brushed his hair back until she saw the source—a cut at his hairline. She pressed the cloth against the spot while staring down into his face, his perfect features and masculine chin and jaw. But if he never woke up, the heart and mind were what would be missed the most. How could Glynval ever be the same without him?
Who did this to him? Who would want to hurt such a kind and gentle young man?
She heard voices in the distance. Then Sabina’s rose above the rest. “He’s over here.”
Several men appeared, with Sabina leading them. When they saw her kneeling beside Westley on the ground, they ran past Sabina and nudged Evangeline out of the way. They pelted her with questions.
“What happened?”
“Is he alive?”
“Is he breathing?”
Evangeline nodded.