The Bride Hunt (9 page)

Isabel glanced at Roger, sleeping peacefully, and wondered if she would find her own rest so easily. She moved closer to Anvrai.

“How is your foot?”

“Oh. ’Tis…. I think you should look at it.” She trusted his skill and gentle touch. The wound was nearly healed, but another application of his germander poultice would not be amiss.

Anvrai left his place to gather what he needed to complete the task. Isabel watched uneasily as he disappeared into the darkness, even though there was no good reason to be afraid. She believed him when he said there were no people or wolves about.

Isabel shivered and pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders. There was a chilly edge to the air, and she knew ’twould grow much colder as the night wore on.

Anvrai returned and positioned himself on the ground where Isabel could extend her leg and place her foot in his lap. He took her foot in hand, untying the fur boot. Carefully, he unwrapped the bandage and looked at the cut in the sole. “’Tis healing well.”

“But it’s sore.”

“The cut?”

“No…the muscles.”

He nodded. “From walking today.” He cradled her foot in his rough hands and pressed his thumbs against the sides, then the sole. “You did well.”

Isabel put her elbows on the ground behind her and leaned back on them, closing her eyes with the pleasure Anvrai elicited with his words, his touch. He rubbed the muscles of her foot, and Isabel moved slightly, giving him access to her ankle.

He unwrapped the fur from her other foot and began to rub it, then slid his hands higher, massaging both legs at once. Isabel opened her eyes and looked at his face, but she did not withdraw, even though his touch was wholly improper. Her feet should not be lodged in Sir
Anvrai’s lap, nor should she allow him to caress her so intimately. His touch made her tingle…her breasts tightened, and her womb contracted pleasantly. ’Twas a most unusual sensation, but she could not make herself pull away.

“Should I expect my husband to perform this service after I am wed, Sir Anvrai?”

The rhythm of his touch did not change, but he raised his head and met her gaze. “I would not know, my lady,” he said. “The duties of a husband are foreign to me.”

His voice was quiet, as though it came from a great distance, and Isabel realized the subject was not a welcome one.

“How did you learn so much of the healing arts?” she asked, moving to a safer topic.

“At the house where I fostered,” he replied, “the lady was a gardener and provided medicine for the manor and village. She taught me.”

He must have been quite young then, for later, when he’d grown, he’d have begun his knight’s training. She wondered if he’d been as fierce a child as he was a man and decided not. He had too gentle a touch always to have been a fearsome warrior.

“Does your liege lord utilize your skills at Belmere?”

“Aye. Some.”

The heat of his hands spread up her legs to her loins and beyond. Her bones turned to liquid, and she craved something more.

“Mayhap you can teach Roger to do this,” she said.

Anvrai stopped his ministrations abruptly. He placed the poultice on the cut, wrapped her foot, and stood. “You won’t need another poultice after this, my lady. The wound is nearly healed.”

Confused by Anvrai’s abrupt withdrawal, Isabel wrapped her feet in the fur boots and tied them in place. “Thank you, Sir Anvrai,” she said. She came to her feet and stood facing him. “And for earlier today…when you carried me down the slope. I would never have made it alone.”

“’Twas naught. We had to get started while the sun was high.” He handed her the shawl she’d made for him and walked to the opposite side of the fire. “Take this. You’ll need it more than I.”

I
t did not take long for Anvrai to retrieve the game birds from his snares. He discovered a few nests while on his early walk through the woods and collected the eggs within. They would make a quick meal before resuming their southward trek, allowing them to save the cooked fowl for eating at midday.

As they sat together breaking their fast, Anvrai was anxious to be on their way, to have other matters to occupy his mind besides the moments of the night before when he’d held Isabel’s delicate feet in his hands. He’d erred in sliding his hands up the calves of her legs, in rubbing her skin and muscles. Though she’d
given him free access to her legs and the smooth silk of her skin, she couldn’t have any idea of the effect her sensual reaction had had on him.

He’d wanted to kneel before her, slip her legs over his shoulders, and show her true pleasure. He would kiss her gently at first, tasting every inch of her body as she trembled with arousal. And when she looked at him, ’twould not be with revulsion. Her golden eyes would flash with desire.

“What do you suppose happened to Kathryn…my sister?”

With Isabel’s words, Anvrai’s mind snapped back to the present. And reality. The intimacies he’d imagined were for others, certainly not for a man whose scars and disfigurements proved how inadequate a protector he would be. He could make no promises to any woman. ’Twas better to stay one step removed.

“She was…probably taken,” Roger said.

Isabel’s head snapped up. “Did you see her?” Dark shadows circled her eyes, and Anvrai knew she had not slept well. She seldom spoke of the night they’d been taken captive, and not at all about her family. But there were times in the days since their escape when she’d sat staring out at nothing, with her shoulders slumped and sadness in her eyes. Anvrai did not doubt
that the fate of her family preyed on her mind. He knew the feeling well.

Roger shrugged. “They were taking as many women as they could carry.”

“I dreamed of her last night,” Isabel said. “That the Scottish chieftain took us both—”

“You never said how you escaped him, Isabel,” said Roger.

“’Tis not important.” She gathered her limbs close to her body, hugging her legs as she pulled them tight against her chest.

“How did you know what to do? You are no warrior, my lady.”

Anvrai had wondered the same thing. He could not imagine how one small, gently bred woman had managed to kill the Scot. Still, he appreciated the courage she’d displayed in doing so, then keeping her wits when the fire broke out.

“I know naught of battle, or of killing,” she said quietly. “I could do little more than imagine what would happen, as though I were telling a tale of my plight.”

Roger frowned. “You mean, you thought of our captivity as one of your stories?”

“Aye. If I’d been telling such a tale, my hero would have come for me. But you were injured.”

“Isabel, I would have come for you.” Roger
took her hands in his and spoke earnestly. “But I was tied down. Beaten. Incapacitated.”

Anvrai could have spit. On the best of days, Roger wouldn’t have been able to help Isabel. But
she
thought of that raw lad as her hero. He started to gather their bowls and pack them into the satchel.

Isabel gazed into her hero’s dark eyes. “I knew I would have to act in my own stead, so I…I did.”

“I don’t understand.” A frown marred Roger’s boyish face. “What did you do? Why did they let us leave?”

Anvrai stood and tossed water on the fire. “She killed the chieftain and set the village on fire,” he said gruffly. “It’s past time to go.”

He slung the two dead partridges over his shoulder and walked toward the path, so angry he could have left the two of them to find their own way to England. Let Roger—the hero—try to provide their food and lead them south.

The two lovers followed Anvrai at some distance, and he let his temper cool. Of course he had not figured as a character in Isabel’s tale of her abduction. Though she seemed to appreciate the service he gave, Anvrai knew she would never feel more than gratitude. And he knew better than to care.

He plodded through the woods, hardly aware of his surroundings when the sound of voices ahead brought him up short. A party of Scotsmen appeared on the path, raggedly attired, but heavily armed with broadswords and axes. Fortunately, they did not see him in the woods.

Anvrai turned to Roger and Isabel, blocking their way. Raising a finger to his lips, he pointed to the road with his other hand. In the silence, they heard the Scotsmen talking loudly among themselves.

Anvrai made a quick gesture, indicating that his companions should go and hide behind a nearby tree while he stepped behind a massive oak where he placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and watched the Scots. Isabel suddenly slid into the small space between him and the tree.

“Will they see us?” she whispered breathlessly.

Anvrai could not have been more surprised at her arrival. He slid his hand over her mouth and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Hush.”

He let his hand drop to her waist and held her close. She did not feel cold, so it must have been fear that made her tremble, and Anvrai wondered what a hero of her tale would do now.

Isabel could hardly breathe. Sir Anvrai had a sword, but Roger was unarmed. The big knight would never be able to protect them if the Scots discovered their presence.

Anvrai slid his hand ’round her waist and pulled her back against his chest. He spoke quietly in her ear, but she hardly heard his words. “They will pass us.” His voice, soft and deep, resonated through her.

She turned to look at Roger, so slender and handsome, and imagined they were
his
arms ’round her. She should have stayed with him and taken comfort in his protection, yet she’d gone to Anvrai, without even thinking about it.

Isabel held her breath as the Scots advanced and walked past. She breathed again and leaned into the heat of Anvrai’s body, allowing him to warm the chill from her bones. His chest was a solid wall against her back, his legs bracketing her own, keeping her steady, supporting her against falling.

His hand felt surprisingly gentle, yet reassuringly firm, just as it had the night before. His touch had heated her blood, made her dizzy. The intimate interlude was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. ’Twas as if he’d caressed every private place of her body.

Those disturbing sensations commenced once again, starting at her waist, where she felt
the pressure of Anvrai’s hand. She imagined him sliding it up to her breast and caressing her there. When her nipples tightened at the mere thought of his touch, Isabel pushed away from him. She placed one hand upon her chest as if she could slow her racing heart.

Without a backward glance, she returned to Roger’s side and took his arm. The Scots were gone, and as Sir Anvrai had said earlier, ’twas time they were on their way.

“Wait,” Anvrai said.

She and Roger stopped, but Isabel could not meet his gaze. Her face heated, and she was afraid that if he looked into her eyes, he would know what she’d been thinking.

Her thoughts were so inappropriate. She’d chosen Roger for his gentle ways, yet it was Anvrai’s unrefined masculine power that drew her. ’Twas
Anvrai
whose actions were heroic.

“We’ll travel south, but avoid the footpath and stay within the woods.”

“The ground is far too rough. Isabel’s foot is not healed—”

“’Tis fine, Roger. Sir Anvrai is right. I do not wish to encounter any more Scots who might be traveling on the path.” Her voice was steady, and there was no outward sign of the turmoil she felt within.

She managed to follow Anvrai, though she
found it distracting to have his long, powerful legs and muscular back in her line of vision. She did not want to think about his hard physique or how the sight of his body inflamed her when he was without his clothes.

Surely ’twas worry and uneasiness that caused all these strange feelings. She thanked heaven for Roger’s presence. The young knight brought sanity to their insane situation, civility to this barbarous predicament.

She turned to him and felt instantly reassured. “Tell me of your mother and sisters,” she said.

The sky grew heavy with clouds, and Anvrai watched for some kind of shelter where they could pass the night. The air was cooling, and he did not relish the thought of trying to keep Lady Isabel and her swain warm and dry until morning.

When she began to favor her injured foot, he knew they could not continue much longer. She had yet to complain of any discomfort, but Anvrai knew he could count on Roger to tell him Isabel was suffering.

She looked better that day. The swelling in her lip had gone down, and the bruise on her cheek had faded almost entirely. But the blisters on her hands were still raw. Roger was little
help to her with his frequent complaints, nor did he think to offer his arm to assist her across the uneven floor of the forest.

“It looks like rain,” Roger said.

“’Twould not surprise me,” Anvrai replied.

“Is there…do you have a plan for shelter?”

“No. Do you?” ’Twas a curt response, but Anvrai’s patience with Roger grew thinner with every passing hour. He had no desire to be responsible for him or for Isabel, but he had no choice.

“We’ll keep moving as long as we can.”

A piercing scream split the air. They all stopped as Anvrai drew his sword.

“It sounded like a woman,” Isabel whispered.

Anvrai agreed. “Stay behind me.”

With caution, he walked toward the sound until they arrived at a decrepit cottage in a small clearing at the edge of the woods. Some distance behind the cottage were a privy and a small shed, and he noted a narrow brook burbling nearby. On the other side of the brook was a field, only half-harvested.

“Stay here,” Anvrai said. He approached the cottage quietly, but heard naught from within. Using the tip of his sword, he pushed the door open.

’Twas dark inside, but he could see a body lying on a bed in a far corner. A young girl.

“
Gesu
.” He muttered the word under his breath. She was alive, but breathing heavily, whimpering occasionally. She seemed not to notice Anvrai in the doorway as she tossed off a heavy woolen blanket, exposing a belly that was hugely pregnant.

There seemed to be no one else around, no one to help the girl deliver her infant. Anvrai put his hands upon his hips and sighed. He’d dealt with every imaginable wound during the course of battle, but childbirth was the only malady that made his stomach heave. He had a clear memory of his mother’s screams of agony in labor…

Anvrai cleared his head of such thoughts and turned to Isabel and Roger, waiting under the boughs of a large tree. He beckoned them to come, then spoke in gentle tones to the girl in the bed, even though he knew she would not understand him.

She cried out in surprise. “Norman!” she rasped. “You are Nor—”

She suddenly grabbed her belly and drew her legs up, crying out in pain. Anvrai put down his sword and looked to Isabel to deal with the woman.

Isabel came up beside him. “
Mon Dieu
, she’s just a child!”

“Aye. And she’s Norman.”

“Do you understand me?” Isabel asked the girl.

She took hold of Isabel’s hand and pressed it to her tear-stained face. “Help me! Please!”

Anvrai dropped the satchel and set the two partridges on the floor by the hearth. He went for the door, pushing past Roger, eager to escape the confines of the small cottage.

Isabel caught his arm. “What should I do?”

“I am no midwife, my lady.”

“But you know something of childbirth, do you not?”

“Very little,” he replied, with a shudder.