The Bride Hunt (13 page)

A sound in the distance caught Isabel’s attention, and she stopped in her tracks. Boisterous
male voices were coming from the direction of the path.

In haste, she returned to the clearing just as Anvrai came out of the cottage. He appeared relieved to see her, but his irate expression quickly returned.

“Men are coming this way—” she started to say, but it was clear the others had already heard the voices.

“’Tis Cormac’s friends,” Tillie cried.

“How many?” Anvrai demanded.

Her face paled and she took Anvrai’s arm. “I know of three…Please!
Please
don’t let them hurt me!”

Anvrai’s expression was resolute. As much as he’d disliked being caught up in the birth of Tillie’s bairn, the Scots would have to go through him to get to her. Isabel felt a surge of confidence in his attitude.

“They are likely some of the men I followed earlier.”

Tillie’s eyes darkened with fear. “They carry axes and swords. They’ll be d-drinking skins of ale…laughing…but c-cruel.”

Anvrai placed his hands upon Tillie’s shoulders. “Can you stand here until they arrive?” His voice was hushed, urgent.

“Here in the yard? No! Please do not make me!”

“I’ll keep you safe, Tillie,” he said. “I need you to do this. The Scots must think naught is amiss when they come into the clearing, and you are the key to convincing them.”

He looked at Isabel. “Take the bairn and go into the cottage, Isabel. Stay there and stay quiet. Roger, go with Isabel, but prepare yourself to come out with the ax as soon as you hear me make the first strike with my sword. We’ll take them by surprise.”

He turned back to the young girl, who stood quaking in fear. “Tillie, look at me,” he said. “Do you trust me to keep you safe?”

She swallowed, then nodded.

“Good. Because the success of the plan hinges upon you.”

T
illie looked up at Anvrai.

“Stand here as if naught is amiss,” he said. “When I come out and surprise them, I want you to run.”

Isabel felt as if her legs were incapable of movement. Anvrai planned to face all three Scots alone! Madness! “Anvrai!” she cried, shifting Belle in her arms. “You cannot possibly do this alone!”

“No, Roger is going to help me. Go! Now!”

Anvrai had made his plan so quickly that Isabel’s head spun. He sent her into the house with the bairn to keep them both safe while he used Tillie to lure the Scots into the yard. And Tillie was to run away as soon as the battle began.

The plan could not possibly succeed!

Isabel looked ’round the cottage for something to use as a weapon, finding naught but the furniture. Mayhap a chair or the three-legged stool would be useful if she had need to protect herself and Belle.

“
Gesu
,” muttered Roger. He stood at the door, waiting for the signal to go outside, looking vastly uncomfortable with the ax in hand.

All at once, it seemed, the Scots came into the clearing and called out to Tillie. Then there was a shout of surprise and a loud clang of metal. Isabel flung open the door and saw Anvrai engaged in a fight against two burly men. A third lay dead upon the ground, and Tillie was nowhere to be seen.

“Go, Roger!” she cried with quiet urgency as she lay Belle upon the bed. “Go before they catch sight of you!” She pushed him out the door, then picked up the wooden stool and followed him outside.

“Isabel, go back!” shouted Anvrai.

One of the Scots took note of her and Roger coming out of the cottage, and turned to engage Roger in battle. Roger used the unwieldy ax, but ’twas clear the man with the sword had the advantage. Roger fought valiantly until he tripped over the Scot who lay dead and fell down hard. Terrified that the fall would mean Roger’s
death, Isabel raised the stool and crashed it over the Scot’s back just as Anvrai finished off the other man.

Isabel’s action weakened Roger’s opponent sufficiently to give the young knight the opening he needed, but he wavered too long and the Scot was able to jab once again, slicing a gash in Roger’s arm. Isabel screamed, and Anvrai acted swiftly, impaling the man before he could do any more damage. The Scot fell in a pool of blood and expended his last gurgling breath.

’Twas utterly and completely silent in the yard. No breeze disturbed a branch, nor did any bird cheep nearby. But there was an unearthly chill in the air. Isabel felt sickened by the death and destruction in the yard, but she could not tear her gaze from the three dead Scots. She felt weak-kneed when she looked at the three bodies, hardly noticing when Anvrai extended his hand to Roger and pulled him to his feet. Roger carefully covered the wound in his arm and complained bitterly of the Scot’s lucky blow.

Anvrai turned to Isabel, shoving his sword through his belt. “Are you demented, woman?” he demanded. “You should have stayed inside with the bairn. What could you possibly have been thinking!”

“I—”

“One stroke of the sword and ’twould have been
your
body lying here. Mayhap Roger’s, too!” He jabbed his fingers through his hair and stepped away.

Shaken by his angry shouting, Isabel could barely think. “I only—”

“Say no more.” Anvrai turned and pierced her with a hard, cold stare. “But heed my instructions next time. Only one of us has experience in battle, and you would do well to remember it.”

Isabel swallowed. “Tillie,” she said quietly. “Where’s Tillie?”

“I did not take notice of her flight,” Anvrai said, turning to walk toward the shed. “But she cannot have gone far.”

’Twas no great surprise that Anvrai had not seen the girl run away, considering that he’d faced the three Scots in the yard alone. Surely
she
was not the only one present lacking good sense. The danger to Anvrai had far exceeded anything Isabel had faced. Yet he’d risked death to protect them.

Isabel left Roger and went toward the cottage in search of Tillie, in awe of Anvrai’s skill with his sword, and also a little afraid of him. There was no reason for him to be angry with her. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed
she
was the one who’d disabled the Scot, giving him the opportunity to slay the man. In another second,
Roger would have swung the ax and killed the man. It had not been necessary for Anvrai to interfere.

Piqued with him, she was momentarily distracted by Belle’s cry and went inside to pick up the bairn, holding her against her breast, quieting her, settling her own nerves. Anvrai’s wrath gave her an understanding of the practical reasons for keeping his ruined eye uncovered. Not only would his opponents tend to underestimate the fighting ability of a man who was half-blind, but his fierce visage would surely put any attacker off stride.

It had put
her
off stride.

He was a formidable warrior. Isabel could barely believe the same hands that had wielded his lethal broadsword were the ones that had held Tillie’s precious bairn so gently; the man who’d censured her so severely had kissed her so tenderly. She let out a shaky breath just as Roger came through the door. He peeled away his tunic and looked at his wound. “Anvrai found her. He wants you.”

“Is she all right?”

Roger shrugged and sat down at the table. Isabel left the cottage, carrying Belle. Taking pains to avoid the dead Scots in the yard, Isabel went to the shed but found no one inside.

“Tillie?” she called.

Anvrai found Tillie some distance from the clearing, hiding at the base of a tall pine with low, sweeping branches. Her face was without color, and her whole body trembled. Her eyes stared ahead, unseeing.

“Here!” he called when he heard Isabel’s voice. The rage of battle and his fear for Isabel’s life still weighed heavily upon him. Having to deal with a fragile female was more challenging than facing three bloodthirsty Scots. What he really wanted was to find Roger and wring his neck. The boy had blundered badly, nearly getting himself killed and putting all of them at risk. He doubted Isabel realized it.

She called out again, and he answered her. “She’s here in the woods.”

The girl looked so small and terrified, Anvrai wondered if Isabel would be able to coax her out.

Isabel arrived and pushed aside one of the low boughs that served to conceal Tillie. Holding Belle with care, she lowered herself to the soft, damp pine needles and spoke quietly, ignoring Anvrai, focusing all her attention on the girl. “Tillie, ’tis Isabel. And Belle.”

Tillie gave only a small reaction, a pitiful whimper. Isabel looked up at Anvrai with uncertainty in her eyes. She was unnerved, too,
mayhap as much from his burst of temper as the battle itself.

“The Scots are gone. D-dead, Tillie. Sir Anvrai killed them.”

The girl took a deep, shuddering breath and turned her eyes in Isabel’s direction.

“They cannot harm you, sweetling. They’re gone. Come.”

Her tone was warm and kind, her words carefully weighed to lure Tillie out. Anvrai clenched his teeth. He shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. He had never before shouted at a woman, but her actions had shaken him to the core. ’Twas God’s grace, or sheer luck that had given him success. Isabel’s death was unthinkable.

Tillie wrapped her arms ’round herself and shuddered. “They…They’re dead?”

“Aye.”

“Those men…They came twice before…They…they hurt me…” Her face crumpled like a wilted leaf, and she let out a painful sob.

Anvrai felt helpless, a sensation he did not enjoy. If he could kill the Scots a second time, he would do it for Tillie’s sake.

But there was no more he could do. He rose to his feet and returned to the yard, leaving Isabel with Tillie. She was much better suited to dealing with the girl’s tears.

’Twas no surprise Roger hadn’t moved the
dead men, and for once, the boy’s inaction caused no grief. The bodies should remain undisturbed until Tillie saw them with her own eyes. ’Twas the best reassurance he could think of.

Their departure from the cottage had become even more urgent. When the Scotsmen failed to return to their place of origin, they would be missed. Anvrai did not know if anyone would be sent to find them, but he would not risk another encounter at the cottage. He was going to get the cart repaired and leave at dawn.

“Roger!”

Smoke drifted up from the chimney, and the cottage door was tightly closed against the dead men in the yard. The wooden stool lay broken in pieces, a reminder of Isabel’s brush with death. She’d risked her life to save Roger. Anvrai’s anger surged again at the thought of it.

The Scot could easily have turned and seen her. The man wouldn’t have thought twice before spearing her with his sword.

Anvrai went into the cottage and found Isabel’s young knight sitting at the table with his tunic off. He held a cloth against the cut in his arm. “It’s still bleeding,” he said.

Anvrai shook his head in disgust. He’d known others like Roger, men who could think no farther than their own troubles, yet Isabel
had risked all for him. She must care deeply for the young man in spite of…

He cleared his throat. “There is work to be done. Put on your clothes and come outside.”

Roger looked up at Anvrai blankly.

“While I get the cart ready to travel, you’re going to dig a hole deep enough to bury the Scots.”

Roger took the cloth from the wound in his arm and showed the gaping cut to Anvrai. “I doubt I’ll be able to do any digging.”

“You can have Lady Isabel stitch your cut later. Bind it now and get the Scots buried in a grave far out of sight.”

Unwilling to argue, Anvrai left the cottage and encountered Isabel carrying Belle and walking with Tillie through the yard. She glanced up at him, but he kept moving. He might apologize for his harsh words, but he had meant every one of them. And if he spoke to her just then, he was likely to shake her and demand to know if her love for Roger was worth risking her life.

Anvrai found a shovel inside the shed and propped it on an outside wall for Roger to find. He hoped the boy would come to him to complain of his task. Anvrai was still angry enough to lay the worthless knave on his arse.

With brute strength, he tipped the cart off its
broken corner and pulled it outside, into the clearing to make a better assessment of what needed to be done. He would like to have thrown the damnable thing off a cliff to assuage his anger, but ’twould not be practical.

Besides, there was no cliff nearby.

Work was what he needed in order to put Isabel and Roger from his mind. They could have each other with his blessing. The incompetent knight and his fair maiden. The pampered nobleman’s son and the willful lady. The immature bridegroom and his brash, brave, beautiful bride.

Anvrai muttered a curse and returned to the shed for the tools he needed. Upon the ground lay the patch Isabel had made for his eye. He reached down and picked it up, regretting telling her of his past. He could have said merely that he preferred not to wear it and told her nothing more. Yet he’d spoken to her of the events that had destroyed his family, a tale he’d told no one else.

He placed the leather patch over his eye and held it in place. It felt no different. He was still half-blind, still the son who had failed his father. He tied the thin straps that held the patch over his eye, unwilling to offend Isabel’s tender sensibilities. He would spare her further exposure to his scarred eye socket.

He gathered the tools he needed, then dragged the broken wheel from the shed. ’Twas going to be a piece of work, making the cart usable, and work was exactly what he needed.

Tillie’s trembling continued at least an hour, and Isabel could understand why. Cormac and the other Scots had used her badly. ’Twas a wonder she tolerated Anvrai’s touch and Roger’s presence. Fortunately, both men were away from the cottage when she returned with the girl. They walked ’round the bodies in the yard, and though Tillie kept her eyes averted from the grotesque scene, Isabel knew she’d taken notice. She seemed to breathe easier, though she was still dazed. Belle began to cry, and Isabel pushed open the cottage door.

“Tillie, you must feed Belle.” She handed the wailing infant to the girl, but Isabel had to guide her to the chair and open Tillie’s bodice to give the infant access to her breast. “Hold her, dearling. Put your arms thus.”

Isabel folded a blanket and put it under the bairn to support her until Tillie overcame her shock and slid her arms ’round her daughter. There was no doubt the girl had relaxed somewhat after seeing the dead Scots, but the attack hardly seemed real to Isabel. She could not imagine how Tillie must feel.

The maid needed a distraction, something else to think of. Isabel thought of making up another tale to take Tillie’s mind from the dead men, but the fresh loaves of bread caught her attention. They would have to leave soon, and ’twould be good to have food ready to pack for the journey.

“Will you help me, Tillie? Tell me how to make bread?” She took a bowl from the shelf and placed it on the table. “First, the bowl. Now, flour.” There were several sacks of grain, and Isabel chose the one containing barley flour. “How much, Tillie? How much?”

Tillie looked up at her. “Do you see that mug on the shelf?” she asked. “Fill it twice.”

Elated by her success in getting Tillie to talk, Isabel followed the girl’s instructions and prepared the dough in much the same way as Anvrai had done it the night before. She’d watched him carefully, telling herself it was because she wanted to see how to make the next loaf. But in truth, ’twas because she could not take her eyes from the sight of his strong hands kneading the dough.

Those hands were so different from Roger’s. Long-fingered and blunt-tipped, they were as capable of protecting them as they were of providing food. Everything about him was what
she most feared in men. He was big and brash, rough, and even crude at times. Compared to Roger, Anvrai was barbaric.

She’d been so certain ’twould be better to choose a husband whose differences from her were minimal. A man like Roger. He danced well. He spoke nicely and understood protocol.