The Bride Hunt (5 page)

Isabel had no time to think about their predicament or what Sir Anvrai would do. She pushed and shoved the oar through the water to keep them from crashing into the rocks as they approached the narrow projection of land. The boat wobbled dangerously as Anvrai raised himself and reached out to take hold of a sharp projection of rock, and the force of the rocking knocked the oar out of her hands. “
Sweet Gesu!
” she cried.

The boat slammed into the promontory and pitched toward the land. “Jump for it and pull in the currach!”

Isabel eyed the shore. Anvrai asked the impossible. She couldn’t possibly make it.

“You can do it, Isabel!” The wind and rain tore at his tunic and whipped his flaxen hair across his face.

“’Tis too far!” And there was no gradual increment of land. The water off the ledge was deep.

The boat jerked suddenly, swinging closer to the land. Isabel stood abruptly and jumped, then quickly reached out for the currach. Anvrai extended the remaining oar to her, and she managed to take hold of it.

“Pull!”

“I am!”

A moment later, the side of the boat hit the rocky ridge of land, and Isabel used both hands to grab hold of it. “Hang on to it!” he shouted over the wind. “I’ll get Roger.”

Ignoring the pain in her hands, Isabel braced herself against a low shrub and watched Anvrai lift Roger from the currach, talking to him, cajoling him to help himself until they were free of the currach.

“Don’t let go of the boat!” Anvrai and Roger collapsed onto the ground, but Anvrai did not rest. With inhuman strength, he took Isabel’s place and hauled the front of the boat out of the water. Then he levered the back of it onto the ledge. When it was safely on land, he dragged
Roger as far inland as they could go, mayhap ten paces, to the rocky wall.

There was a small sheltered area, under an earthen ledge, beside a sturdy pine tree. It protected them from the worst of the wind and rain, and Isabel collapsed there, shivering beside Roger, and watched as Anvrai pulled the currach all the way up to them. He positioned it on its side in front of the shallow enclosure, then slipped in beside Isabel.

“Your hands are bleeding.”

They were too cold for her to notice the pain anymore, but Anvrai took them between his own hands, raised them to his mouth, and blew his warm breath upon them. Isabel was too exhausted and cold to feel repulsed by the touch of this scarred and barbaric man. She concentrated her attention on the top of his head, away from the ugly scars that marred his visage.

“Roger is ill.”

“Aye,” Sir Anvrai replied.

“Is there anything we can do for him?”

“Not here. We must rest and wait out the storm.”

“Then what shall we do?”

“We’ll get back in the currach and continue on.”

“We cannot.”

Anvrai stopped working on her hands and frowned at her. “Why not?”

“Because the river flows west,” she said. “It has carried us miles out of our way.”

’T
was nearly noon when Anvrai awakened. The rain had stopped, and the sky was beginning to clear. Isabel continued to sleep, and Roger was likely not merely asleep, but unconscious. The bruise on his head boded ill for him, if that was what had caused his vomiting. Anvrai had some skill at healing, and he knew a blow to the head could cause death many hours after the fact. But there was naught to be done for the lad. Anvrai had no herbs or potions. He could not even keep them warm. If the boy died, Isabel would have to find herself another husband.

The lady’s hair had dried, though ’twas a tangled mass of dark curls. She was much
cleaner than when he’d discovered her climbing from the chieftain’s hut.

He wondered what had really happened inside that cottage. Surely the lady had not killed the man as she thought. No Norman woman, especially not one as gently bred as Lady Isabel, could have overcome the dark-bearded chieftain and killed him with his own knife. There had to be another explanation.

Isabel lay on her side with her head pillowed upon one arm, her hands tucked together under her chin. The skin of her wrists was scraped raw, her fingernails were cracked and torn, and there was dried blood on them. She looked childlike in sleep but for her womanly form, barely concealed by the thin, damp fabric of her chemise. Her cheeks were hollow, and bruises covered much of her body. Anvrai turned away abruptly, before he could begin to feel any pity for her. He could not afford pity; nor could he invest anything more than getting all of them out of their predicament.

He knew from experience the situation was likely to get worse. They had to move if they were going to find food, and they had to do so soon. He’d been near-starved ever since his capture, and his strength was quickly ebbing.

Anvrai walked to the water’s edge and searched the shoreline for signs of a better
landing place. ’Twould be preferable to go eastward, but even if he could row against the current, the forbidding cliffs in that direction prevented their landing. The escarpment continued west, but it curved slightly, so Anvrai had a clear view of what lay in that direction.

“Can you see anything useful?”

Anvrai turned at the sound of Isabel’s voice. All remnants of lust should have been beaten out of him, but when he looked at her, he felt its punch. She held her bodice together modestly, but the thin gown was damp and clung to the feminine curves of her body. The small cuts and bruises on her face and arms made her appear soft and defenseless, infuriating him.

He was angry for all that had happened since that night at Kettwyck, for his own inability to protect the lady—and all the others who had been killed or captured. He was furious with Lord Kettwyck for gathering so many Normans together before his fortress was complete, making them all vulnerable to attack, and reminding him that it was all too easy to fail to protect those who needed it most—the women and children.

“There is naught to the east,” he said in response to Isabel’s question. “Only this high escarpment as far as I can see.”

Isabel stepped to the edge of the water. The
wind blew the hem of her chemise well above her ankles, and Anvrai turned away. She knew not how enticing she appeared, how difficult she made it for him not to care. Anvrai refused to be sucked into the morass of need, of dependency. He was a master of detachment, never allowing his emotions to rule. ’Twas too painful.

“The water is moving fast,” Isabel said.

“Aye. If we keep close to the shore and let the current carry us there—”

“’Tis the wrong way,” Isabel protested. “We must go east and south.”

Anvrai crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture he wished she would imitate. Then he wouldn’t be so tempted to ogle her breasts, full and high, with dusky nipples that peaked in the cool air. He pointed to a green area on the shore to the west. “We’ll ride the current to that cove. From there, we’ll be able to walk inland and find a path that leads south, and east.”

“How do you know—”

“I don’t. But it’s our only option.”

He went back to the currach and pulled it away from the nook where Roger still lay insensible. Kneeling beside the young man, he pushed back his hair and looked at the lump on the side of his forehead. ’Twas the size of a chicken’s egg, colored purple and green.

Anvrai lifted the lad’s eyelids and saw that naught was amiss inside…Since his eyeballs looked all right, ’twas possible he would survive the injury to his head if he did not succumb to any other complication.

He left Roger and dragged the boat to the water’s edge. Righting it, he went back for Roger, concentrating on the tasks at hand. This was his forte—fighting battles, dealing with the practical aspects of survival. There was no point in worrying about Roger, or Isabel’s small injuries. She was well enough to stand, able to walk, able to row, and they were going to need all their combined strength and resources if they were to survive.

They should have put the leather skins out to dry. As it was, they lay in a sodden heap at the water’s edge. At least Anvrai still had the sword he’d taken from the guard. It could easily have been lost during the night’s storm and their mad rowing, just as they’d lost the second oar. That loss was frustrating, but in all fairness, ’twas not Isabel’s fault. The boat had slammed into the rocks and knocked it out of her hands. There was naught she could have done.

Anvrai lowered Roger into the boat and finally turned to Isabel. “Climb in. I’ll push the boat onto the water…”

Her nakedness struck him once again,
though she seemed to have no idea how she looked in her torn chemise. Her full attention was upon Roger.

Anvrai pulled his tunic over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on. It will keep you…warm.” And covered. She had no awareness of the stirring sight she made, tempting him to want what he could never have.

Of course it had been too much to ask that Sir Anvrai would not notice her attire—or its lack. Isabel felt her face heat with color and her nipples tighten with embarrassment as she accepted the knight’s tunic and drew it over her head.

She opened her mouth to thank him, but shut it quickly, hoping her shock at the sight of him did not offend him.

She had never seen so much male flesh. Certainly no workmen or priests had ever gone unclothed at the abbey, and even if they had, there were none whose physical structure would have been as powerful as Sir Anvrai’s. ’Twas an impressive sight.

His braies rode low upon his hips, and his abdomen rippled with dense muscles, the sight of which made Isabel’s own muscles tighten in awe.

The hair upon his head was so light it was
nearly white, yet the hair on his chest, and that which trailed beneath his braies, was darker. She wondered if his male part was as—

No, she did
not
wonder. Her eyes shot up to his chest again, then to his face, which was half-covered with a beard that had grown thick and full since their captivity. Much of his scarred face was covered by it.

Isabel looked away. The sudden warmth that surged through her body was surely due to the added heat of his tunic when she pulled it on. She rolled the sleeves up past her wrists, ignoring the blisters on her hands and the odd sensation that the chieftain’s slick blood was still upon them. “What will we do now?”

“I’m going to push the currach into the water,” he said. “I’ll hold it while you climb in, then I’ll get in after you.”

The boat was heavier and more cumbersome than it looked, and Isabel wondered how Sir Anvrai had managed to pull it out of the water himself when they’d landed. She knelt on the rocky ground and helped him push it, and he eventually succeeding in lowering it into the river.

They followed the process he’d outlined, though it was a struggle to hold on to the rocky ledge long enough for Anvrai to climb into the boat. Finally, it was done, and he took his posi
tion in the center of the currach. Roger lay ahead of him, and Isabel stayed behind, unable to take her eyes from the ripple of muscles in Anvrai’s back as he rowed and the hideous gash in his shoulder.

She could not imagine how he managed to move his arm with such a wound, yet he maneuvered the boat, keeping it out of the rough waters, close to the shore. Their journey was difficult, and Anvrai was often forced to use the oar to push them away from jutting rocks that impeded their path. He strained to keep them out of the river’s swift current, guiding them slowly downriver toward the bit of jutting land they’d seen earlier.

Roger remained unconscious, a grave worry for Isabel.

“Sir Anvrai, will Roger…” She swallowed. “I—I’m afraid for him. Will he—”

“Die?”

“Hush! What if he can hear you?”

“If he can hear me, then he knows his condition is dire.”

With her worst fears confirmed, Isabel gaped up at the high escarpment. Even if they could actually land the boat, Roger would not be able to travel by foot, especially not up to that high cliff. Once he regained consciousness, he would
need time to recover. Then they could look for a level path that led south. ’Twas imperative to make their way clear of Scottish lands. Then they could travel east.

But what if Roger died?

In truth, any of them could die. The currach could be caught up in the current and dashed upon the rocks. Roger would never be able to save himself, and Isabel was a poor swimmer at best. No doubt Sir Anvrai could swim, but could he save her and himself as well?

With one oar, he steered the boat, though Isabel did not know where he got the strength to keep them on course. She looked down at her hands. Even if she hadn’t dropped the oar, she would not be able to wield one, helping him row. Blisters, bloody and raw, covered her palms and fingers. And the bones of her hands ached as if they’d been trampled by an oxcart.

Surely she did not lead so pampered a life that this small amount of work should have such a devastating effect. They’d all been required to work at the abbey, in the kitchen and gardens…Yet none of them had been required to kill a man. She dipped her hands in the cold water and rubbed away the sensation of blood that remained from her confrontation with the chieftain. Horrified once again by
what she’d done, she closed her hands into fists and looked ahead, toward their destination.

The sight of the cove was much clearer. It looked like a ledge of land, littered with sparse pine trees, and the ground was dark with moss. A massive gray cliff towered over the ledge where they would land, and Isabel fought a wave of queasiness at the sight of such a high cliff and almost despaired of finding a path that led south, away from the river. She knew she would never be able to climb to that high precipice.

“What will we do once we reach the cove?” she asked, hoping he would not tell her they must climb.

“I won’t know until we get there.”

“I intend to stay with Roger.”

Anvrai made no answer to her statement, nor did the rhythm of his rowing change. ’Twas as if he had not heard her though she knew he must have. She wondered if he would go off without her and Roger as soon as they reached the land, for surely Roger would be unable to travel.

Isabel peered past Anvrai to look at the young knight, lying inert in the front of the boat. His posture of repose called to mind a sleeping child, one with no cares in the world, while his parents toiled to keep him safe.

’Twas an unfair comparison. Roger was gravely injured, and Isabel’s throat tightened painfully when she thought of the young man’s fate. ’Twas in God’s hands, and all Isabel could do was pray for His mercy.

Sir Anvrai carefully guided the boat near the rough coastline, but the turbulence increased, and the river became much more difficult to navigate. Anvrai’s muscles strained with every stroke of the oar, and Isabel worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep them away from danger. She was powerless to help.

“There is a waterfall up ahead!” he shouted above the sounds of wind and crashing water.

Fighting against the current that would pull them over the waterfall, Isabel was certain Anvrai must be near the limits of his strength. He struggled to keep the currach outside the force of the river, but it was becoming more difficult the closer they got to the falls.

The currach brushed against the rocks in the water as he steered them to the cove. “Isabel! On the left! Push us away!”

The boat teetered as she shifted position, but they stayed afloat, and Anvrai steered them through the rough current into the calmer waters of the cove. He propelled the currach to the rocky ledge and climbed out awkwardly—
hanging on to the oar while Isabel held the opposite end to keep the boat in place. Then he dragged Roger out and helped Isabel climb to dry land. Finally, he used what strength he had left to pull the vessel onto the shore. He collapsed beside it.

He did not speak, nor did Isabel detect any movement other than the rise and fall of his chest with each labored breath. She knelt beside Roger, whose breathing was much quieter, and touched his head. “Roger?”

He stirred slightly, turning to face her, yet his eyes remained closed. She heard a small groan.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

He did not reply. Isabel let her hand drop and rested back on her heels. ’Twas time to see where they’d landed and search for their path of escape.

She pushed up to her feet and took a step, but nearly stumbled with the pain that blazed through the foot she’d injured while running from the chieftain’s men the night before. She leaned against the stout trunk of a tree and looked at it, dismayed at the sight of the reddened flesh surrounding a deep gash in the arch. In her panic and their desperate escape during the night, she’d hardly noticed it. Now it throbbed unmercifully.

Had she been at Kettwyck or the abbey, there
might have been time for pampering. She had no such luxury now. Her chemise was ruined already, so she tore a strip from its bottom edge and wrapped the cloth ’round her foot. She tied it in place, then stood and limped inland.

The ground was littered with sharp rocks and low shrubs, as well as trees that obscured her view of the tall, gray wall of stone that blocked any southward path. She looked to the top of the cliff and saw naught but trees and roots. Closer to the wall were signs of a settlement. A long-cold fire ring and an old boat lay among the low shrubs near the rock face.