The Bride Hunt (12 page)

Belle fell asleep, so Isabel laid her down beside Tillie, then went to make her own bed nearby. There was very little free space in the cottage, with the bed and table taking up much of the room. Roger lay near the fire, and the bucket was in the center.

She emptied the contents of the bucket and replaced it, then took a fur blanket and lay down upon the floor. There was no space to lie near Roger, so she made a place for herself, aware that Anvrai would have no choice but to sleep beside her. She fell into an uneasy sleep, afraid that he would prop himself up in a distant corner just to avoid lying next to her.

Anvrai’s senses were full of Isabel. She’d rolled toward him for warmth or comfort…he did not know which, but he relished those
few moments when he could hold her in his arms without consequence.

She’d tucked her head under his chin, and her breath warmed his throat. Her breasts pressed against his chest and his cock grew as it nestled against the warm cleft between her legs. He groaned with arousal, and she shifted, pressing even closer.

’Twas hell.

But he slid one arm ’round her waist and pulled her even closer. The urge to plunge himself into her was great, but he had to content himself with much less. There would be no more kisses, no passionate fondling. Their interlude earlier had been an aberration.

Isabel’s young man lay upon the floor on the other side of the bucket, and had there been room to lie beside
him
, she would certainly have done so.

Regaining his good judgment, Anvrai took his arm from Isabel’s body. He inched away from her, but she moved with him, seeking the heat of his body. Surely that was the only attraction.

Somehow, he managed to sleep, but he awoke several times through the night as Tillie’s bairn whimpered and demanded her mother’s attention. Neither Isabel nor Roger stirred. Anvrai went back to sleep each time, and ’twas nearly dawn before he awoke for the day.

He found his arm resting across Isabel’s waist while she slept with her back curled into his belly. He pressed his nose to the soft spot between her neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply before pushing himself to his feet. Quietly, he stepped over her and let himself out of the cottage.

’Twas cool outside, but at least it was not raining. They would be able to resume their walk and put some distance between themselves and Scotland.

He started for the privy, but stopped in his tracks. They could not leave the Norman girl. Isabel would never allow it.

But Tillie would certainly not be able to walk so soon, at least not the miles Anvrai had hoped to cover. He glanced at the sky, dark but for the earliest signs of dawn to the east. ’Twas past harvesting time and would soon be winter. The weather would only worsen as the days and weeks progressed.

He looked back at the cottage and sighed. If they delayed their journey much longer, ’twould be best to stay there in the cottage. They would be cramped, but the building would provide adequate shelter from the weather. And if they were careful, there would be food enough to last until spring.

But Anvrai had no wish to delay his return to England. Nor could he keep his sanity if he had to spend months in the close confines of the cottage with Isabel and her chosen spouse.

He picked up wood for the fire and returned to the cottage, where Tillie and Isabel had begun to stir. Isabel took the bairn, giving Tillie a chance to go outside. Anvrai kicked Roger’s foot to awaken him.

The boy grimaced. “Watch yourself,” he growled.

Anvrai laughed caustically. “Get up, Sir Roger. You’re going to earn your keep today.”

“W
hat do you mean?”

Anvrai took his snares and gave Roger several nudges toward the door. “We have work to do before we break our fast.”

He felt Isabel’s gaze upon him but ignored it as well as Roger’s protests and headed out toward the woods. The boy looked pathetic in the hermit’s oversized fur tunic and his own torn hose. Anvrai almost took pity and allowed him to remain inside with the women.

Almost.

“We’ll set snares this morning so we’ll have fresh meat tonight.”

“What? We’re staying here?”

Roger’s question decided it. They would not
leave without Tillie. Nor would they wait until she was capable of walking. “When we’re through here, we’ll find what we need to build a sturdy litter to carry Tillie and her bairn.”

Roger stopped in his tracks. “I am no carpenter.”

Nor was he a hunter or a fighter. He’d done very little to help in their efforts to survive. Isabel had done significantly more: from the killing of the Scottish chieftain and the fire that followed; knowing they had to escape by boat; rowing when Anvrai had become exhausted…Even the tunic he wore was due to her skills. She was not the brainless beauty he’d originally thought, yet Roger was the man she’d chosen for her husband. It made no sense.

“Watch for bird nests. You can collect whatever eggs you find.”

“I’m not—”

“A survivor?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to eat?”

“Of course.”

“There is no one here to serve you,” Anvrai said. “If you want to eat, you must work for it.”

As Isabel had done. With blistered hands and a bruised body, she had toiled to do her part—and Roger’s. ’Twas time for the boy to start
pulling his own weight instead of relying upon Isabel and everyone else to take care of him.

“We should leave the girl and her bairn.”

Anvrai did not respond to Roger’s idiocy, but set the first snare.

“She has been here a year…She has food…”

“Your father would not leave her.”

“My father? What do you know of my father?”

“I fought beside him at Hastings. And again at Romney. He is an honorable man.”

“He would wish for my timely return. Waiting until we can travel with the girl—”

“Feel free to go on ahead,” Anvrai said. “I’m sure Lady Isabel will prefer to wait here until we can bring the maid and her child.”

Roger muttered unintelligibly and picked up eggs from a nest he found in the deep grass. Anvrai knew the boy would not choose to leave on his own. He was foolish but not stupid.

“When I take Isabel to Pirou, I will have a garrison of knights to protect the estate,” he said. “I will not risk another attack like the one at Kettwyck.”

“’Tis much safer in the southern provinces, Roger.”

“I am aware of that.” His tone was petulant. “But I won’t risk my wife’s safety, even in the south.”

Anvrai asked the question he had come to dread. “Have you asked Lady Isabel to be your wife?”

Roger shook his head. “No. But her father himself gave me his blessing on the night of the fete. We will marry as soon as we return to Kettwyck.”

They headed back toward the cottage. “What if her family perished in the attack?”

“All the more reason to marry her and take her away.”

Anvrai did not like to admit that was a good point, one he had not considered before. He did not want to take Isabel to Kettwyck before he learned the fate of her parents and sister. Much better to take her to Belmere and await news there, but Roger might assert his rights as her bridegroom…as her guardian.

The sound of nearby voices on the footpath stopped him in his tracks.

“Go back to the cottage,” Anvrai said quietly. “Circle ’round, away from the path. Put out the fire and protect the women if necessary.”

Roger grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

“Be still and listen.”

Roger’s eyes widened when he finally heard the approaching voices.

“There are men traveling the path,” Anvrai
said. “I’m going to see to it they do not come to the cottage.”

“How?”

“Just go!” He spoke urgently, as the interlopers came nearer.

With stealth, he hurried to the beaten trail, which came precariously close to Tillie’s cottage. The best plan was to watch the men undetected to see where they were headed. ’Twould not do to confront a group of Scots if their plans did not include stopping to visit Cormac.

There were only six of them, but too many for Anvrai to battle alone. Even if Roger were capable of wielding the ax at the cottage, Anvrai knew the boy could not battle three—or even two—of the Scots if they approached.

The men stayed on their southerly course without diverting toward the cottage. If they knew Cormac’s house was there, it seemed they had no intention of stopping. Anvrai followed them, keeping himself hidden within the trees, his mind occupied with plans to protect Isabel. He’d failed her once, but he would not allow her to be taken again.

Anvrai remained hidden and watched as the Scots stopped on the path and shared a meal. He hoped they did not know of the cottage’s existence or notice the smell of smoke from the chimney. But if they headed toward Isabel and
the others, he would have little trouble striking down two or three of them before they got close to her. If Roger could deal with at least one, then Anvrai would deal with however many were left.

Still, he preferred to avoid a confrontation altogether. He kept plenty of space between himself and the Scots. They laughed among themselves, and when one of them stood and pointed in the direction of the cottage, Anvrai put his hand on the hilt of his sword and prepared to move. They laughed again, but came to their feet and continued on their southward path without another glance toward the cottage.

Anvrai followed them a few more miles until they came to a break in the path, where they divided into two groups. Three of the men took the southern route, and the others continued west.

Only then did Anvrai relax.

Moving swiftly, he headed back to the cottage. They were safe for the time being but too vulnerable in the cottage. ’Twas too close to the path. They needed to leave.

’Twas past noon by the time he returned. He found Tillie sitting in a chair by the fire, feeding her bairn, though she’d modestly covered her breast and Belle’s face with a light cloth. Roger sat idly by, but at least he’d fetched the ax from the shed, and it lay close beside him.

“Where is Lady Isabel?”

“In the shed,” Tillie replied. “I put Cormac’s things in there when he died…She went out to see what’s there.”

Someone had baked the loaves of bread he’d prepared the night before. Famished, Anvrai tore himself a piece and walked toward the open door of the shed. He heard Isabel inside, singing a quiet tune.

“Oh! You startled me!” she cried when she turned and saw him.

“My apologies.” The place was filthy and liable to have nesting vermin within.

“Look what I found.” She picked up her lantern and moved to the back of the building.

The floor was covered with a thick layer of straw and assorted pieces of wood and tools. The parts of a broken-down cart littered the small structure, but it looked salvageable. Anvrai was going to clean out the mess, which would give him a place to work on it…

Isabel turned to him, holding up a pair of peasant’s trews, then she showed him a rough woolen tunic. There were also mittens and a heavy cloak. “I thought mayhap they would fit you,” she said. “They’re most certainly too large for Roger, but I can see now they will not do for you, either. Your shoulders are so broad, and your legs…”

She gathered the items to her breast and looked away, clearly discomfited by her own words, and Anvrai allowed himself a moment’s pleasure to think she’d admired his form.

“These will be useful at least for Tillie,” he said, taking the cloak from her. “’Twill soon grow colder—”

“You surely mean for her to go with us when we go.”

“Of course.”

“But she cannot walk so many miles.”

“She will ride in this.” He took a few steps to the place where the cart stood, half on its side. He removed debris from its bed.

“’Tis broken.”

“It can be fixed.”

Isabel tipped her head to one side. “Is there anything you cannot do, Sir Anvrai?”

Aye. He could not make himself comely for her. He could not acquire an estate to make himself a worthy spouse. He could not forget his inability to keep her—or any woman—safe. “As soon as I repair this wheel, we will leave. We are too vulnerable here.”

Isabel nodded, then looked away from him, her demeanor suddenly retiring and uncharacteristically shy. “I…made something for you.”

He raised one brow. She’d made the tunic he
wore, as well as last night’s disastrous biscuits, but she had never appeared shy before.

She picked up a round of dark leather attached to a length of leather twine. But the second he saw it, she took it away and threw it upon a high shelf. “Never mind. I should not have—”

Curious, Anvrai reached ’round her, intending to take the object from the shelf, but Isabel shifted slightly so that a few measly inches separated her back from his chest. He placed his left hand upon the shelf near her waist and breathed in the scent of her hair. He let his hand drift to her abdomen and pulled her back against him, shuddering when her buttocks made contact.

He was hard and ready for her, and when she moved her bottom, her cleft cradling him intimately, he groaned and pulled back. ’Twas not for him to lay her in the soft straw and share the sensual pleasures his body demanded. Gently bred convent ladies were not wont to give their innocence to randy knights, and she would surely regret such an impropriety.

“Show me what you made.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, but he knew what was best. They needed space between them. He needed something to occupy his
thoughts besides the insistent urges of his body.

He took up the small bundle from the shelf and held it up. “An eye patch?”

No wonder she’d seemed shy before. ’Twas more likely embarrassment, for no one ever spoke of his ruined eye or the rest of his scars. No one acknowledged how repulsive they found him. Until now.

“’Twas presumptuous of me, Sir Anvrai. I should never—”

“My scars are a testament to my family’s demise. A fate I should have shared.” He stepped back, surprised he’d spoken the words aloud.

“Your family? What happened to you, Anvrai? To them?” She lifted her hand to touch him, but drew it back when he turned away from her.

“Raiders attacked my father’s house. They burned what they could not carry and killed all who tried to impede them. I was left with one eye and the rest of these scars.”

“And your family?”

“Ever the storyteller, are you, my lady?” He crumpled the patch in his hand. “Mayhap someday you can regale an audience with details of my—”

“No! I—”

“At first, I hid,” he said, turning ’round to pierce her with an angry glare, but he knew his anger was not justified. Isabel had not meant to insult him or to pry. He did not understand why she wanted to know his history, but he told her of the incident that had robbed him of his family and his birthright. “They came to my parents’ chamber, where my father had gone looking for us…my mother, my sister, and me. The Norsemen speared him and took everything of value before torching the manor.”

He could still smell the acrid smoke as his father’s house burned ’round him.

“Pray, do not continue speaking of it.”

Isabel touched his arm, but Anvrai did not stop. If she found his face so terrible, she would learn the reason why he did not cover it.

“I tried to pull my father to safety, away from the fire, but he knew he would not survive his wound. He bid me to find my mother and Beatrice, to hide with them in a secret cellar below the house, where neither the fire nor the raiders would find us.

“They would have remained safe where they were, but I insisted they go to the cellar as my father instructed. The raiders caught us then. They held Beatrice and me, forced us to watch them rape and kill my mother.”

Anvrai gazed down at Isabel as he spoke.
Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes glistened with moisture. Did she not understand ’twas pointless to weep?

Anvrai had never spoken so much about that day to anyone, and immediately he regretted telling Isabel of it. He did not want her pity, but her understanding. He wanted her to know why he left his ugly scars naked for all to see, why he would not pledge to keep anyone safe.

“We tried to turn away from the horror, begging them to spare her life, to spare
us
from having to watch. But they held us fast, taunted us. Finally, they obliged our wish. One of them speared Beatrice through her eye, killing her.

“The one who had taken me…he had only a short dagger, and he was not so thorough. I survived the wound.”

“How old were you?” One tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away absently. He was relieved that she did not succumb to a fit of useless weeping.

“’Twas my eighth year.”

She looked at him unflinchingly, with no revulsion in her eyes, but an expression he could not read. “You were…I only…” She swallowed, her delicate throat moving thickly. “I apologize. As I said…’twas presumptuous of me.”

Isabel was mortified. She should have known Anvrai had a reason for leaving his scars exposed. The cruelty he’d survived surely gave him the right to present his face any way he chose. She muttered another apology and left him, swallowing the tears that threatened to fall. ’Twas clear he did not appreciate her sympathy and would abhor any tears on his behalf. Clearly, he felt it a just penance to go through life with his disfigurement for all to see.

Isabel’s tears fell only when she was well away from the cottage. How could a child of eight years be held responsible for protecting his entire family? A whole garrison of knights had failed to protect Kettwyck from Scottish raiders. ’Twas not fair for Anvrai’s father to have charged his son with the task of saving his mother and sister.

Too shaken by Anvrai’s story to return to the cottage, Isabel walked to the brook and began to pace. Anvrai was the most heroic man she’d ever known. He was a fierce warrior, but it was his smallest deeds that garnered her admiration…his tending of the wound in her foot, his gentle handling of Tillie, his tolerance of Roger’s petty behavior. These were the things that—