Sunder (21 page)

Knowing she would need a damn good lie when she returned, Isabella had concocted a story during the hours it had taken her to walk back to the city. Now that she knew the year, pulling together reasonable-sounding lies was much easier. She hoped God would forgive her, as telling the truth would never be possible.

“He was a Castilian mercenary once in the employ of my father. He meant to ransom me to my husband.”

“But your husband discarded you.”

“I told him thus. He said if my husband would not pay, then surely someone would. I was pretty enough, he said.” She smiled darkly. “Brown skin is not so ugly to Asturian eyes.”

Sigbert reached out and placed his fingertips just to the side of her chin, gently tilting her head away from the spike on the wall so that she was looking into his face.

“You are ugly in no man’s eyes.”

Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks, she looked away quickly. “We should get to the hall before Cædda’s good mood goes away. Can you help me walk?” Isabella was not as successful at smothering her shy smile as she would have hoped.

At that, Sigbert rolled his eyes and shook his head. “No. I don’t think walking up a steep incline is in your interest.”

Slender though she was, Isabella had never been a petite woman. But Sigbert lifted her with the ease and grace a mother might have with an infant. As he carried her up the hill toward the Great Hall, his arms firmly under her legs and back, Isabella let her head drop onto his shoulder and breathed an exhausted sigh of relief. She was home. She was safe. And everything was going to be just fine.

16

“I hope you don’t think you’re safe now.” Saoirse frowned at Isabella as she wrapped another strip of wet cotton around her ankle. “The first thing Lady Annis said upon waking was to inquire if you were dead yet.”

The two were sitting on the floor in their room. Isabella had one foot balanced in Saoirse’s lap and the other splayed to the side so as not to impede Saoirse’s movement. Just having the cool bandage around the swollen ankle did wonders to ease the pain.

“She can’t have me killed now. Cædda would never allow it.”

“You oughtn’t be so certain. Annis has a habit of getting what she wants, and Cædda is so guilty for what happened he’s especially eager to please her.” Saoirse paused to pull the last strip tightly around Isabella’s ankle. “He won’t even let me in to see him,” she mumbled.

The silence hung in the air as Saoirse tied off the heavy make-shift bandage on Isabella’s ankle. When she and Sigbert arrived at the Great Hall, Saoirse had been standing outside looking sad and lonely. At first, Isabella assumed she was disappointed at being kept from the festivities to attend her injured roommate, but now she realized that Saoirse had been forbidden from entering.

“Will you tell me everything that happened when you come to bed?” Saoirse asked anxiously. “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know the story.”

“Of course.” Isabella smiled warmly, but then realized Saoirse was gently sliding her hand along Isabella’s shin, a look of confusion forming on her young face.
Uh oh.

“Why do you not have hair on your legs?” she asked.

Like every other girl she knew, Isabella had all of her body hair lasered off. It had been a gift from Stefania for her Quinceañera. Given that everyone covered every part of their body here, Isabella had never given any thought to how her lack of hair might be perceived.

“Castilians just don’t have very much hair,” she lied. “The men have only a little, and women have none at all.”

“Not even on your flower?” Saoirse’s eyes brightened with excitement and curiosity. “Let me see!”

Before she could utter even a mortified profanity, Isabella’s skirt was thrown back onto her torso as Saoirse leaned forward on all fours to take a closer look.

The door to the room flew open, freezing both of them in startled horror. A shadowy outline of a man stood in the doorway, and Isabella heard a cough of surprise.

“Selwyn!” Saoirse leapt to her feet, furious at the breach of privacy. “How dare you enter without knocking!”

“Sorry to intrude,” Selwyn chuckled, not missing a beat. “But our dear Deorca is expected in the hall. Garrick was about to come collect her, but I came instead.” His eyes danced with laughter as they shifted to Isabella. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Paralyzed with embarrassment, Isabella’s face burned as she stared up at Selwyn, her skirt still bunched up around her hips. Of all the wretched timing! But Selwyn was clearly amused and remained the only occupant in the room not frozen in humiliation, so he stepped fully into the room and held his hand out to Isabella, shaking his head with a smile.

“Come along, you silly girl,” he said with a wink.

Quite sure her face was purple now, Isabella had no choice but to take Selwyn’s hand and let him help her up. The bandage stabilized her enough to stand on her own, but she had to maintain a grip on Selwyn’s arm as she limped out of the room and out into the night, with Saoirse guiltily watching them go.

Once out of Saoirse’s earshot, Selwyn laughed out loud and switched to English. “Does poor Thorstein know you don’t drive stick? You should have said...”

Despite being thoroughly put out at being so publicly displayed in front of two different people, Isabella felt her mouth curve up into a smile. “You shut your nasty mouth,
Daniel
. She saw I didn’t have leg hair and before I knew it her face was under my skirt. I knew the Celts had different standards of modesty, but that was outrageous.” Her embarrassment was tempered by both the knowledge that Selwyn would never be aroused by anything she had to offer, as well as the relief it had not been Garrick to burst through the door.
What a nightmare that would have been
.

Her face finally cooling, she allowed herself a broad smile as she walked beside him along the outer wall of the Great Hall. The noise inside was deafening, even though the entrance was still at least 100 feet away. The entire town had been revived by the rumor of the slave who defeated the Dane spy, and they would all want to talk to her—to tell her what they were doing when they heard the news, how they knew she would be back, and who knows what else. It was certainly going to be a long night.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Selwyn said quietly under his breath, jerking his head to the left.

Following his gesture, Isabella saw Thorstein walking slowly up the hill a few feet away. Even in the dark, she could see that he moved with an air of sadness.

“Did something happen to him while I was away?” she whispered.

“Not that I know of,” Selwyn whispered back. “Of everyone in town, I figured he would be most happy to see you come back alive. Don’t take too long talking to him.”

After taking a moment to ensure Isabella was supporting her own weight, Selwyn quickened his pace, leaving her alone as she moved on her intercept course to Thorstein. She could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye, but he did not look directly at her or call out. Finally they came to a stop on a more level part of the hill, in view of the Great Hall entrance, the din carrying through the doorway.

“I’m back,” she said pathetically.

Now Thorstein raised his eyes to look at her. There was so much sadness in his face. Or was it worry?

“What’s wrong?” she reached out to gently grasp his shoulder. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

Before Isabella could wonder if her friend would forgive her for fleeing, he threw his arms around her, hugging her with all his might.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he whispered in her ear.

The kind sentiment was lost in the sudden invasion of her body space and the disquiet of feeling his breath on her ear. His body was pressed too tightly against hers, his arms wrapped too tightly.

“Thorstein, stop,” she said as gently as she could, quelling her confused panic. She squirmed out of his embrace. “What are you—”

“I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”

Her breath caught painfully in her chest as Isabella absorbed the sudden revelation. It was not as though she had forgotten he was only seventeen—there was no masking the youth of his face. But he so frequently acted older that his sudden reversion to childish impulsivity left Isabella shocked into silence. Unable to speak, she studied his sweet face, which was guileless and full of emotion, his eyes so blue against the tears in his eyes.
Like Etienne’s eyes.

Like a kick to the stomach, the memory of that day in the car hit her, the image of Etienne’s face superimposing itself over Thorstein’s. The expression on their faces was the same—her husband, as he told her to end her relationship with Guillermo, and her friend, as he confessed his love to her. Shameful tears squeezed her throat and she had to look away from him, had to shake the memory of Etienne’s face from her mind.

She saw it now. She understood. Isabella saw what she had mistaken for frustration on Etienne’s face was actually heart-rending fear of rejection. Etienne had wanted her all to himself and he’d been afraid of losing her. And now so was Thorstein.

“I know that you don’t love me, not yet,” he said desperately. “But I know that once we marry and build a life together, you will grow to love me.”

Marry?
Blinking away her tears, not wanting him to think that he was the source of her sadness, Isabella looked for her voice.

“But Thorstein, you and I…” she tried.

“I’m not a slave anymore. I’m a free man now, and I know Cædda will free you too. I’ll be given a parcel of land to work. I can build a house for us. I’ll be a good husband.”

There was hope in eyes. She saw it clear as day, and it broke her heart.

“I know that you will be a good husband, Thorstein, and your wife will be very lucky to have you. But I’m old. I’m ten years older than you.” Desperate not to inflict any pain on him, Isabella spoke in the soft tones one might use with a child, to the point it was a strain on her throat.

Instead of soothing him, her words—and the motherly tone she used—sparked a flash of indignation in his eyes. She was patronizing him and he knew it.

“I don’t care! I love you and I know you will be a good wife.”

If only that were true my friend
. “I can’t have children,” she said more forcefully.

He had so quickly brushed away her other protestations, but this one stilled him. His face contorted in a look that was familiar to her—he thought she was lying.

“How can you be so sure?” He took a slightest of steps backwards.

“Because I paid a wise woman to make sure that I couldn’t.”

Isabella had lied to Etienne that day—when she said she had been sterilized because she didn’t want
his
children. It was a cruel lie. A doctor had performed the surgery to sterilize her long before she had gotten married, before she had even met Etienne. She never wanted children. Not ever.

Thorstein was staring at her in horrified shock.  “Deorca, that is a terrible sin. Why would you do that?”

The accusation in his eyes caused a flare of anger to shoot through her heart.
Maybe your mother wished she could have gotten some birth control as she lay dying in labor with you.

“It is one of many sins,” she said grimly, wrestling the fury back into its cage. “I am no good for you Thorstein. You said that I did not love you, but I do. I love you as my brother and—”

He snorted with disgust and jerked his head away from her, most certainly trying to hide his tears.

“You’re lying! You lie about everything, Deorca! And still I forgave you and loved you. What is so repulsive about me?” He yelled into the night, his Latin mixing with Saxon as his voice rose an octave.

Flicking her eyes up to the hall, Isabella saw a lone figure standing apart from the revelry, leaning against the entryway. They had an audience, and if she did not end this spectacle soon, she had every confidence that audience would grow.

“You’re right, Thorstein.” She took two pitiful steps toward, holding her hands out in a gesture that begged for calm. “I have lied to you about my past, about how I got here. And because I do love you, you must know that there are some things that I can
never
tell you. You deserve a wife who will tell you her every thought. A wife who will give you more children than you know what to do with.” Isabella felt sobs choking her as Thorstein turned around to look at her once more, his face crestfallen and streaked with tears. Of all the people who ever walked the earth, he was the very last she wanted to hurt.

“You are better than I have ever been or will ever be, Thorstein. Please don’t…” Her sentence trailed off as Thorstein turned his back once again and ran from her as fast as he could.

She forced her tears down as his outline faded into the dark. Shame gripped her throat, fighting her attempts to subdue her sobs, but she could still feel the watchful eyes of the figure in the doorway. The noise from the Great Hall grew louder, then fell again, beckoning her away from the long dissolved out line of Thorstein and his accusations. She turned slowly toward the long building, praying the man standing in the doorway was not Garrick.

Her rubbery ankle barely supported her weight as she limped up the hill, and it only took a few steps to see that the witness to Thorstein’s outburst was Cædda; it took only a few more to see that he looked amused. She owed him her life—twice now—but as Isabella looked at his smirk, all she wanted to do was slap him.
Oh, this is funny to you?

“So glad you could join us, My Lady.”

“Has the chiurgeon seen to Master Wyrtgeorn yet?” Isabella gave Cædda a sycophantic smile as she hobbled to a stop in front of him.

“Yes. Hilde is with him also. We will know more of his health tomorrow.”

Isabella nodded curtly and tried to move past him into the hall, but Cædda put his arm across the doorway, sending a fresh waft of ale into her nose.

“It’s just as well you said no. I would never have allowed it.” He wasn’t smirking so much now, but he still looked infuriatingly amused. “He’s far too good for you,” he said, his face darkening.

“I always said the same of Saoirse.” The words were out before Isabella even realized she was thinking them.

All amusement left Cædda’s face, and Isabella knew she had made a terrible mistake.

“It suits my needs to allow the lie that you are a hero to circulate, but both of us know you were
not
taken against your will.” As the dangerous growl of his voice rolled over her, it occurred to Isabella that she had never actually seen Cædda angry before.

Abandoning all intentions of entering the Great Hall to join in the revelry, Cædda clenched his hand around Isabella’s arm and jerked her away from the doorway, the men seated nearest the doorway looking on in confusion. Taking no notice of her pain, he dragged her quickly along the outside of the Hall towards the kitchen, breathing so hard it almost sounded like a stallion’s snort.