Page 4 of Her Noble Groom

Thomasse clutched her satchel, watching in horror as her father began his descent.

The flimsy ladder swayed with every step, his movements slow and deliberate.

He carefully stepped into the boat as it pitched and twisted in the waves.

“Drop your satchel,” he called, his words barely discernable above the roar of the wind and waves.

She released it, holding her breath as it tumbled over and over and bounced off the rim of the boat. Her father leaned out and snatched it before the waves carried it away.

A lump formed in her throat as she stared down the side. It was so far down. She had no choice but to hike up her skirt and climb over the rail. Her face burned when two of the seamen stepped forward to assist her while the others watched.

She gripped the rail and cautiously lowered one foot, feeling for the first rung.

Each downward step challenged her fortitude and strength as her cloak and skirt whipped wildly in the wind.

She clung tighter to the ropes, fearful of losing her grip.

Halfway down, her foot caught in her skirt.

The fabric tore, and she felt herself slip.

Her father quickly ascended the ladder and grabbed her foot, placing it firmly on the next rung.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, assisting her the rest of the way down the ladder, and settled her onto the seat in the boat.

Grabbing the oars, he began to row. Thomasse gripped the edges of the boat, heart in her throat as the waves crashed against the sides, sloshing water into the hull. Progress was slow as he battled the choppy waters, and a growing puddle formed in the bottom of the boat.

After what seemed like hours, the breaking waves slammed the boat into the rocks near the shore. “I cannot take us any further. You must wade the rest of the way in. I will push the boat out and paddle farther north where the shore is sandy and I can pull it from the water.”

The boat tilted precariously when she dipped a foot in. She gasped and drew it back from the icy cold water, the spray from the crashing waves stinging her face. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the satchel and stepped into the breakers.

With the oar, her father pushed the boat away from the rocks and rowed northward along the shoreline.

Her wet skirt clung to her legs. She took a step forward but stumbled backward as the waves receded.

Fighting the pull of the undertow, she lost her balance and her grip on the satchel as she was dragged under.

The waves tumbled her about until she could not tell which way was up or down. Her lungs burned; she needed air.

Her skirt and cloak twisted around her body so tightly she could move neither arms nor legs.

She wriggled like a fish, hoping to get her head above water.

Miraculously, someone or something lifted her from the water and set her on her feet.

She coughed and sucked in several breaths.

Another wave tugged at her skirt, and she tottered.

The same strong arms scooped her up, carried her to shore, and set her on the sand.

“Thank you,” Thomasse croaked as she pushed aside the hair plastered across her face and rubbed the water from her eyes. Her mouth tasted of salt. A short distance away, her father was dragging the boat ashore. She twisted around to see her rescuer.

Before her stood a man in his early twenties, wringing water from his gray tunic. His damp, shoulder-length hair hung limply about his face. Beautiful amber eyes, the color of warm honey, studied her face.

He said something, but his words were unintelligible.

An awkward silence hung between them. She was not fit to be seen, and sand was irritating her skin in unmentionable places. She scrambled backward, teeth chattering, “Who—Who are you?”

“Name is James,” he replied, removing his coif.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death of cold,” he said.

The import of his words took a few moments to register. “My satchel,” she exclaimed, glancing out at the water just in time to see it bob on the waves and disappear beneath the surface. “Now what? I have no dry clothes to change into. ”

The corner of his mouth ticked. “None of them would have been dry.” He whistled, and a roan mare trotted over. He opened the saddlebag and withdrew a grey, woolen blanket. “Let me wrap this around you.”

Thomasse fumbled with the clasp of her cloak.

“Let me help.” He made quick work of it. Gentle hands pushed the cloak from her shoulders and draped the blanket around her.

“There is a cottage nearby. I shall take you there.”

Thomasse shook her head. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but I must wait for my father. He will know what to do.”

“I shall accompany you. He may need my help. I doubt he is familiar with Jersey.”

“What is Jersey?” she asked.

“’Tis an isle off the coast of Normandy,” he replied, grabbing the roan’s reins and leading the horse as they walked toward her father.

Her body shivered uncontrollably. “So we have not made it to the Continent?”

“It is but a few miles more, although it would take some time to row there in a cockboat.”

She furrowed her brow. “The first thing you said—I could not understand it. Do people here speak a different tongue?”

He smiled. “Most of the isle folk speak Jèrriais. What is your name? And how have you come to wash up on our shores?”

“I am Mistress Thomasse. My father and I were sailing from England to the Continent when the captain put us off the ship in the middle of the Channel.”

“How fortunate I was riding by,” James said. As they neared her father, James lifted his hand to the side of his mouth and called out, “Would you like some help?”

Her father’s head jerked up and he stared at James. She thought she saw a flicker of recognition, but it quickly vanished. “I can handle this myself.”

When they reached him, Thomasse said, “Father, this is James. He rescued me from the water.”

It was several moments before her father spoke, as he appeared to be composing himself. Perhaps he too felt the awkwardness of making a new acquaintance in his wet state. “I am obliged to you. ”

James pointed at a tiny house nestled between the hills. “With your permission, I would like to take your daughter to that cottage so she can get warm before a chill sets in.”

Her father looked at her, then back at James. “A wise decision, as it will take some time to drag the boat over there.”

James mounted the roan and lifted Thomasse into the saddle. He wrapped an arm about her waist and nudged the horse forward. She tensed. A proper maiden would object, but the warmth of his body took the edge off the chill.

This was different, she told herself. This was about survival. Besides, she sensed a gentleness about him that chased away her fear. She snuggled deeper into his arms.

The mare trotted across the sand until they reached the modest cottage. James dismounted, reached up, and caught her around the waist as he helped her down. She met his gaze, his eyes full of kindness and concern. A shyness crept over her, and she stepped back.

He strode toward the cottage. She smoothed her hair back from her face and followed him inside.

The cottage consisted of a single room, furnished with a decrepit plank table surrounded by four mismatched chairs, and a rickety sideboard cluttered with earthen vessels, wooden trenchers, and utensils.

Beneath her feet, dry, dusty rushes crumbled.

Outside, the wind whistled. James stepped to the lone window and closed the shutters.

Her eyes followed him as he moved about the cottage. He gathered a few logs from the stack near the door before searching for a flint.

“Who owns this place?” Thomasse asked.

“A fisher lived here, but he passed some years ago.”

She glanced around. A fishing net covered in cobwebs hung on the wall near the door, and a couple of filthy bed mats rested in the far corner. “How far to the nearest inn?”

“About a half hour’s walk.”

Her mood darkened. There would be no hot bath, no warm meal, or even a comfortable bed tonight.

With the fire started, he headed for the door. “I will return with some dry clothes and victuals from the manor house. ”

“Thank you.”

James inclined his head and slipped outside.

Thomasse pulled out a chair and ran a finger through the thick layer of dust on the back.

No one could have lived here for years. Too tired to care about the dirt, she sat down, shrugged off the blanket, and removed her wet boots and stockings.

She struggled with the sodden laces of her cotehardie and let it slip to the floor.

She draped it across the back of a chair to dry and drew it over to the fire.

Wearing only a thin kirtle, she stretched her hands to the fire, soaking in the warmth, hoping her father would arrive soon.