Page 110 of The Forest Bride
“Help me!” he cried, choking. She reached out to him, his weight dragging her under—his chain mail and leather hauberk would surely drown them both. As she struggled with one arm to swim forward, holding him with the other, she could feel him pulling her under instead, the churning water engulfing her.
Duncan tossed bowand quiver aside and ran, booted feet sure on the mossy, slippery stones, the familiar steps of boyhood guiding him as he ran around the pool toward the best place to enter the water or be pulled under too by the wicked churning near the falls. Iain was behind him—De Soulis too—and he kept going, tearing off his tunic and hopping to pull off boots as he went. Reaching the shale plates by the water, ready to leap in, he looked for Margaret.
He had seen her fall in, his heart in his throat as she was sucked under and thrown out and pulled down again. As soon as he glimpsed the russet-and-gray blur of her hair and gown, heard her gasping call, he went into the water and toward her with long, powerful strokes. Drawing near, he reached for her, pulled her toward him. But she did not come easily—and he realized Menteith was dragging on her, his weight threatening to take the three of them down.
“Let go,” he ordered. “John! Let go!”
But Menteith was desperate, frightened, drowning. Clinging to the girl, bigger and heavier in armor, he was a danger to all of them as he grappled and splashed.
Margaret struggled to come up again, Duncan holding her up. She hooked her arm around his neck, Menteith clinging. With all his strength, Duncan towed both of them toward the rocky shore.
Then Iain was in the water too, coming toward them, reaching them amid the whirling currents. He caught Menteith and took his bulk, leaning back to propel him toward the shore, allowing Duncan to take Margaret.
Now that he had her, he never wanted to let her go, swimming with the flow of the undercurrent until they reached the shale platform where the water lapped more slowly. There he emerged with water sluicing off of him, to carry her, all slim shaking girl and waterlogged skirts, over the rocks. Dropping to one knee, he set her down on the sandy strip edging the wilderness of bushes and trees. He gasped for breath.
“Iain,” he managed, rising to go back to help.
“Go!” Margaret sat up, coughing.
He ran to the edge of the pool to see Iain going down in the water with Menteith in a frenzy, trying climbing up on him. Duncan stepped into the water, about to leap.
But he was nearly knocked down as De Soulis shoved past him and dove into the pool, wearing only a long shirt and leggings; somehow the man had stripped out of his surcoat and chain mail so that he could help. He was already swimming with long strokes toward Iain and Menteith.
“Help! God help me!” Menteith gulped, as Iain and now Sir William took hold of him and dragged him toward the shore. Together they pulled him out of the water, falling to hands and knees, Menteith lying half in and half out of the water, retching and gasping for breath.
Duncan stood over them, breathing hard, dripping. He reached down to help Iain to his feet, hugged him. As Iain went to Margaret, sitting a few feet away, Duncan extended a hand to De Soulis. He took it and came to his feet, nodding wordless thanks.
They both watched Menteith, who lay on the flat wet rock, breathing hard, pale. Neither man spoke. Then Duncan turned to the other.
“Bring him to his feet,” Duncan said. “I am done with him.”
He turned and walked away as De Soulis bent to help his mentor up.
Reaching Margaret in a few strides, he knelt beside her, lifted a hand to stroke wet russet hair off her brow with soothing hands, cherishing what he had nearly lost and realized he did not want to live without.
She stretched out her hand to touch his face, tracing her fingers over his bristled jaw, brushing back the wet dark hair that clung to his brow.
Seated nearby, Iain shoved back his own hair, and gave a hoarse laugh. “Look at you two,” he said. “That old betrothal is good again, is it?”
“More than good,” Duncan told his brother, lending a hand as Iain stood. “Come, love, can you stand?”
“I think so.” She rose with his help, and he took her wrist in his. “Ow!” she said.
“What is it?”
Sniffling, she flexed her wrist, then pushed at her sopping sleeve to extract something snagged inside. She held it out in the flat of her palm—a silver-framed brooch, a translucent blue stone with an oval opening encrusted with tiny white crystals. The thing glittered, wet and clean and shining in her hand.
“My great-grandfather’s truth stone. I tucked it in my sleeve earlier. I could have lost it in the pool, but it was caught in my sleeve.”
“Now that,” Duncan murmured, “is a bit of a miracle.”
“It is.” She leaned against his chest and he gathered her into his arms, rested his cheek on her wet hair, and held her. Just that, feeling warmth return to her body and his together, feeling her arms around his waist, feeling her recover until she straightened at last and looked up. “Duncan Dhu—can we go home now?”
“Soon. I need to see to this.” He looked toward the water’s edge where De Soulis was clapping Menteith on the back, helping him to his feet. Sir William looked toward them, his gaze fixed on Margaret.
She held up the brooch, which winked in the light. “Thank you,” she said across the stretch of shale.
“Aye,” he said. “I will try to remember.”
