The Bride Hunt (11 page)

When he placed a hand upon her breast, Isabel could not breathe. She imagined him standing upon the rocky bank of the river, gloriously naked, powerfully male. Her body contracted against his, making her aware of an acutely sensitive place between her legs. She trembled and sought his heat again, just as he slipped the old tunic from her shoulders and down her arms.

It fell to her waist, leaving her breasts partially exposed through the torn chainsil of her chemise.

Anvrai released her mouth and touched his lips to her neck as his hands cupped her breasts. She held her breath when he kissed her throat and rolled the tips of her breasts into tight, sensitive peaks.

“You are so very beautiful,” he said, just before he took one nipple into his mouth, making her weak with pleasure.

He moved slightly, allowing his hand enough space to slide down her belly and touch her in the crook of her legs, the place that hummed with arousal. She gave a small cry, letting her head fall back and her eyes drift closed as he caressed the small, aching bud between her legs.

’Twas heaven. All at once she felt hot and cold. Her muscles tightened, then turned to powder.

She cupped Anvrai’s face in her hands and pulled him up for her kiss, wishing there was somewhere to go, someplace where they could lie together and satisfy her burgeoning need to make him part of her.

He suddenly grabbed her wrists. Breathing heavily, he pulled away from her, holding her still, holding her away from him. “Isabel,” he rasped. “We…This is no good.” His throat moved heavily as he swallowed. “You do not want to kiss me, nor should you.”

She looked up at him in puzzlement. “What do you—”

“I will not dishonor you this way.”

He released her arms and turned abruptly, stalking away in the rain while Isabel watched, confused, as he disappeared into the mist.

Anvrai had no excuse for his behavior. Isabel had chosen Roger. And just because he’d happened upon her when she was in a vulnerable state was no reason to take advantage. Under normal circumstances, that interlude in the shelter of the eaves would never have happened.

It should have been Roger who comforted her…Roger who kissed her, Roger who laved his tongue over her breast, Roger, whose hand fondled that most intimate feminine flesh.

Anvrai was still aroused and erect, and likely to remain so as long as Isabel was near. The trick would be to stay away, but that was impossible. The small shed with its clutter and leaky roof wasn’t habitable, especially since the light rain had turned into a cold, drenching downpour. ’Twould be madness to stay outside.

He was soaked by the time he returned, and he found Isabel cooking. Tension seemed to shimmer from her body, her movements stiff and awkward as she worked. She did not speak to him when he entered, but continued to stir
the contents of a large clay bowl as Tillie gave instructions from her bed.

“’Twill only be plain biscuits,” the girl said in a shy voice, “but with the meat you brought, ’twill be a hearty meal.”

“Tell me what to do next,” Isabel said.

Roger was awake by then and sat on the three-legged stool with his back against one of the walls. A bucket on the floor near the center of the room collected drops of rain that leaked through a hole in the ceiling. The infant began to wail, and Tillie put her to breast. All in all, ’twas a dismal place.

Anvrai took the birds from the spit over the fire and placed them upon the table. He cut the meat, and Isabel made a point to avoid looking at him while she made the biscuits.

“I’ll take a leg, if you don’t mind,” said Roger.

Anvrai ignored him, offering the first choice to Tillie, since what nourishment she took would be important for the survival of her infant. She looked up at him timidly, but her gaze was without revulsion, as though she hardly noticed his disfigurement. “Th-Thank you, Sir Anvrai,” she said. “For this and…I’m sure I would have died had it not been for your help.”

“’Twas Lady Isab—”

“No. She told me of all you did, and I am grateful. Belle and I are grateful.”

“Belle?”

“Aye.” She looked down at the infant in her arms. “I’ve named her for Lady Isabel.”

“’Tis fitting,” Anvrai said as he started to turn away. But there was no place in the cottage where he could get away…from Tillie’s gratitude and Isabel’s discomfiture. And Roger—not even King William expected the kind of service Roger demanded.

“How did you know what to do?” Tillie asked him. “In my village, men were always barred from childbed.”

“Aye. ’Tis how it’s done,” Anvrai replied.

“Then how did you know—”

“I was present twice as a young boy when my mother gave birth.”

“And you remembered?”

He gave a nod and noted once again how young the girl was. If she’d been taken a year ago, she would barely have reached childbearing age. “What happened to the Scot who took you?” he asked, disgusted with a man who would so abuse a mere child.

“’Twas weeks ago,” she replied, her voice small and childish. Her eyes were a nearly colorless blue and tiny freckles covered her nose
and cheeks. “In the midst of harvesting his fields, we had heavy rain. The roof began to leak—and not just a trickle.” She nodded toward the bucket in the center of the room. “The water poured in. Cormac was up on the roof, repairing it, and he fell. Broke his neck.”

“You’ve been alone ever since?”

“Aye,” she said quietly. “I thought of trying to get home to Haut Whysile, but I don’t know the way. And with my belly growing larger with every day that passed…” She shrugged and pushed back a string of her bright red hair with filthy fingers. She was so frail ’twas a wonder she’d survived.

Anvrai looked up and caught Isabel’s gaze. An arc of awareness passed between them before she averted her eyes. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, and she pressed her mouth into a tight, straight line, but she had never looked more beautiful.

“I thought I would die here,” said Tillie, in an unsteady voice.

Anvrai tried to put Isabel from his mind as he looked down at the girl in the bed. She’d been fortunate to have food, even if it was only flour, beans, and the Scot’s store of vegetables.

He got back to the questions at hand, the answers to which were important to their continued survival. ’Twas best to forget about those
moments under the eaves with Isabel…and the silken feel of her skin under his roughened hands. “Is there a village nearby, or any other farms you know of?”

Her chin began to quiver. “They took so many of us…When we…” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. To Anvrai’s great relief, she turned away, pressing her face into the mattress. He was not one to deal with children’s tears, but he needed to know if they were likely to be visited soon.

“There must be other farms…” Tillie said, sniffing. “Cormac had many friends. The raiders who came into my village…some of them visit from time to time.”

“But you have seen no one since the Scotsman’s death?”

Tillie shook her head. “No one else knows what happened.”

R
oger took one bite of his biscuit and spewed it across the table. “By God, that’s terrible!”

Isabel rose abruptly to her feet. “The presence of flour, water, and salt did not give me the skills to make a perfect biscuit, Sir Roger,” she said, barely reining in her temper. “But if you want biscuits, feel welcome to try your own hand and keep your curses to yourself!”

Acutely aware of Anvrai’s presence at the table, she took her seat again and resumed her meal, taking care not to look at either of the men,
or
the biscuits.

They knew she had no cooking skills. ’Twas too much to expect that she could produce bis
cuits when she had no experience with such tasks.

She had no experience of
men
, either, or she might have understood why Anvrai had called their kiss no good. To Isabel, it had been a rare awakening, a sensual experience like naught she’d ever known. But ever since his return to the cottage, Anvrai had been distant, and Isabel realized all at once that, but for the heavy rain, he would not have returned at all.

Would he have left them and continued on their southward journey without her and Roger? Isabel had no doubt he could survive without any of the tools or supplies they’d brought from the cave. He was a man of many skills, not the least of which was his ability to melt her bones with a kiss.

Isabel felt acutely self-conscious, sharing this small space with Anvrai. He had touched her, had put his mouth on her breast, yet he barely acknowledged her now. She might as well have been the bucket in the center of the room.

“I apologize, Isabel,” Roger said, oblivious to the tension she felt.

She could not speak to him, or she would blurt out her anger and frustration and regret it later. ’Twas not Roger’s fault that she knew naught of cooking or that his touch had no effect upon her.

It made no sense. Roger was gentle and comely. He possessed Pirou, and his family was favored by the king. He was the perfect spouse.

He finished his meal and left the table, wrapped himself in a fur blanket, and returned to the place he’d claimed on the floor, stretching out by the fire. He closed his eyes and seemed to drift to sleep in spite of the fuss Tillie’s bairn was making. Isabel shot him an annoyed glance and cleared his bowl from the table as Anvrai continued to eat. She picked up the plate of biscuits, but Anvrai stayed her hand.

“If you would spare another…”

She could hardly believe it, but
he’d eaten two of her biscuits.

Her heart relented slightly. He’d eaten the wretched things without complaint.

Isabel swallowed a lump in her throat and left the table to go and help Tillie with her bairn, who seemed intent upon exercising her lungs without respite.

“I’ll hold her a while,” she said.

She took Belle and placed her against her shoulder, patting her back as she’d seen nursemaids do with their small charges.

A moment later, Belle let out a belch that seemed much too large for her size. Isabel
laughed, glad to have something to think of besides her own shortcomings and the close confines of the cottage.

The infant soon quieted, but remained awake as Isabel took delight in the small miracle she held in her arms. “Look, Tillie, how she watches the flames in the fire.”

Keeping her back to Anvrai, she could not help but take note of Roger, sleeping as though he had not a care in the world. Unlike Anvrai, he had not shaved his beard every day, yet he was still one of the comeliest young men Isabel had ever met. He was young, closer to her own nineteen years, and Isabel did not doubt he would someday become as formidable a knight as Anvrai. His narrow shoulders would fill out with muscle like Anvrai’s. She was certain his voice would deepen, his beard would thicken. His touch would inflame her.

And one day soon,
he
would not disdain her kiss.

Anvrai should have kept walking when he’d had the chance. He’d done many a march through the night and knew he could find his way south in spite of the autumn storm. He would have made it to English soil within a few short days.

But he could not leave Isabel and Tillie in
Roger’s care. They would surely perish.

He was a fool to care. He’d done his duty by Lady Isabel, and he could leave. They had food and shelter, and all the tools they needed for survival. Anvrai could strike out on his own…before he had to spend another night lying near Isabel.

It had been a mistake to go out to her in the rain, to make love to her as if he had something to offer a highborn lady, as though she had chosen him for her husband.

Naught could have been farther from the truth.

She sat down on the edge of Tillie’s bed, still holding Belle in her arms. Anvrai felt a surge of jealousy he had no right to feel. ’Twould be Roger whom she welcomed to her bed, Roger’s bairns that she held in her arms and suckled at her breast.

Anvrai paced the room, feeling just as imprisoned as when he’d worn the Scots’ shackles. He should go out to the shed and find a corner where the roof did not leak, then clear the space so he could sleep there.

Roger opened his eyes and glared up at him. “You are so restless. Can you not sit or lie down and sleep?”

“Like you, Sir Roger? No. My mind is occupied with plans of leaving this place and es
corting you back to Kettwyck,” he said. “Then I will hie myself to wherever King William engages the Scottish king.”

“Where will you go?”

Anvrai was not sure. Durham seemed a likely destination. Surely someone there would know where the king’s ships and armies had gone. “I’ll make my way east. William will meet King Malcolm on his own turf and force him to end the raids on Northumberland.”

“’Tis an ambitious endeavor.”

“Much less than Hastings.”

“I was too young for Hastings,” Roger said, his words a welcome distraction from the sound of Isabel’s voice, quietly recounting a tale of old for Tillie’s benefit.

Anvrai looked at Roger. “Aye. I’m sure you were.” There were many pages and squires in battle, much younger than Roger’s twelve or fourteen years at the time. Anvrai himself had been merely twenty at Hastings, but he’d carried his weight in battle, earning honors from William. But no property.

“My sire bade me to stay in Rouen during the invasion. He…I was…”

“Otherwise engaged, no doubt,” Anvrai said, keeping his gaze upon Isabel. She patted the bairn, then moved her lips to Belle’s head. Anvrai felt a tightening in his groin as she nuz
zled the child, and he remembered the taste and texture of her lips upon his own. The blisters on her hands were nearly healed, and her torn nails had smoother edges. She’d tied her hair at her nape with a piece of twine, and in spite of the ragged tunic she wore, she looked as elegant and regal as the queen.

He looked down at Roger, swathed like a bairn in his fur blanket. Only a fool could be satisfied with marriage to Roger. And Isabel was no fool.

Anvrai muttered a quiet curse and pushed open the door. A surge of cold, wet air rushed in, eliciting a complaint from Roger. Anvrai closed the door and felt more trapped than before.

When he turned, Tillie was struggling to leave her bed. She’d swung her bare legs over the side, and when she stood, she surely would have stumbled, but for Isabel’s assistance.

“Tillie, please,” Isabel said.

“I must go outside, my lady,” she replied in a hushed voice. “I—”

“Can you not…” Isabel looked ’round. “Is there not some way to…to take care of it inside?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I
must
go outside.”

Anvrai was not surprised by Tillie’s appalled
reaction. He’d witnessed her shyness even as she’d given birth. She would certainly not use a pot inside, any more than Isabel would.

Isabel held Belle in one arm and helped Tillie with the other. They managed to get Tillie’s shoes on, and Isabel pulled a blanket ’round the girl’s shoulders. They stepped over Roger and headed to the door, pushing past Anvrai to go outside, where the rain had subsided to a light drizzle. Isabel stopped suddenly, turned back, and laid the infant in Anvrai’s arms, startling him. “Hold her until we return.”

’Twas only because of his quick reflexes that he did not drop the child.

Isabel’s voice was curt, and she did not look up at him, but covered herself with a blanket, picked up a lantern, and went out with Tillie, leaving the door gaping open.

Anvrai closed it and looked down at the bairn for the first time since her birth, seeing beyond her red, wrinkled skin. Little Belle had two good eyes of blue and a dimple in each cheek, five fingers on each hand, and when she kicked free of the blanket, he counted ten toes.

An odd, unpleasant sensation swelled in his chest, and he wished he’d never come upon this lonely cottage at the edge of the woods. Then he wouldn’t have had reason to think of
all those old sufferings…He never would have found Isabel weeping her heart out at the back of the cottage and lost control of himself with her.

He let out a low growl and placed the infant on the bed. He might be a fool, but he was no nursemaid.

Tillie was not as strong as she thought. Isabel lit the way, helping the girl to the privy, where she took care of her needs. The short trip was a welcome reprieve from Anvrai’s indifference, but Tillie’s sudden cry of dismay alarmed her.

“There is so much blood,” Tillie whimpered. “Will I d-die, Lady Isabel?”

Isabel took a deep breath. “No. Of course not.” Her voice was steady, even if her conviction was not. If only another woman were present, she would not feel so helpless. Mayhap Anvrai would know if there was something to be done about Tillie’s bleeding. He had certainly been knowledgeable about the birthing itself.

“Wait here for me, Tillie. I’ll get some more cloths to stanch the blood.” She left the lantern with Tillie and hurried back to the cottage in the dark. ’Twas not right that the girl should survive hardship, rape, and a year’s captivity, only to die in childbirth. It was by God’s grace alone that Isabel had escaped the same fate.

And what of Kathryn? Had
she
managed to get free of her captors, or had she already been forced to submit? Was she already pregnant with a Scotsman’s child?

Isabel stepped into the cottage and stopped abruptly when she saw Anvrai sitting on the bed, holding Belle while the infant suckled the end of his finger. He looked up at her, and Isabel watched as a crimson blush colored his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “She would not stop squawking. She wants her mother.”

“Tillie is still at the privy. Anvrai…She’s bleeding. I’m afraid she—” Her voice cracked with emotion. She covered her lips with one hand as they began to tremble. “She’s d-dying.”

In tears, Isabel whirled away from him and gathered up the clean cloths at the foot of the bed. “I must go back to her.”

Anvrai touched her shoulder. “Wait here. I’ll carry her back to her bed.” He handed Belle to her and left without further discussion.

Isabel pressed her nose to the infant’s head and took a shaky breath. What if Tillie died? ’Twould mean Belle’s death, too, for there was no way to feed her without Tillie. Her tears fell as she knelt and prayed for Tillie and the bairn in her arms. Not even Anvrai’s healing skills could stop the girl’s bleeding.

In a short while, Anvrai returned to the cot
tage, carrying Tillie. He deposited her in the bed, took her shoes and covered her with the blanket. “Are you in pain?”

“Aye,” Tillie replied in a weak and shaky voice. Isabel approached the bed and stood beside Anvrai.

“You have good color,” Anvrai remarked, frowning. “I’ve never known a soldier who looked so healthy to die of bleeding.”

Isabel looked at Anvrai, his countenance strong, but puzzled. “Mayhap ’tis not unusual to bleed after a birth.”

Roger propped himself up on one elbow and spoke irritably. “Mayhap you could all quiet your voices so that I can sleep.”

Isabel was shocked by Roger’s coldness. None of what had happened to Tillie was her own fault, and Isabel could not see how Roger could fail to understand that. Would he have condemned
her
, too, if the Scottish chieftain had raped her?

With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she felt she knew the answer. Even her own father would disown her, and heaven help her if she bore a Scottish bastard.

Yet she was not so certain of Anvrai’s reaction. He’d been naught but kind to Tillie and helpful with Belle, albeit reluctantly.

Anvrai ignored Roger’s complaint, though
he was clearly anxious to put space between himself and the women. “’Tis likely Lady Isabel is right,” he said to Tillie, and stepped away from the bed.

He went to the opposite side of the room where he rummaged through Tillie’s food stores. Isabel half expected him to start packing food into their satchel in preparation for leaving the following morn, or even to go tonight. He was obviously disgusted with Roger, but whatever he felt for Isabel was hardly enough to hold him.

She watched surreptitiously as he cleaned out the bowl she’d used to make the biscuits and started to prepare something else.

Entranced by the workings of his hands, Isabel rocked Belle in her arms as Tillie fell asleep again.

Anvrai did not look up as he worked, but concentrated on mixing ingredients in the bowl, leaving Isabel free to peruse the features of his face. The scars were primarily centered ’round his empty eye socket and one thick seam that split the side of his jaw.

Isabel had seen men who wore eye patches and wondered why Anvrai did not do so. If his ruined eye were covered, his visage would not be quite so intimidating, so…terrifying.

He dipped his hands into the mixture in the bowl and pulled out a ball of dough. Covering
his hands in flour, he kneaded the dough, pushing and pulling it, then placing it upon a flat board and covering it with the bowl.

He glanced up and caught her watching him. His jaw flexed once before he spoke. “’Tis bread.”

Isabel nodded. She should have expected that he would know how to prepare such a basic food. He’d been naught but competent and resourceful since they’d fled the Scottish village.