Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  Chapter 7

  “Giselle, can you hear me?” Luc squeezed her hand again “Try to stay awake.”

  Pale and flawless, her face looked as if it had been carved from the whitest marble. Her hair had come unbound, its thick strands spread around her like a cape. Compassion and regret knotted in Luc’s gut. The girl had tried so hard to befriend him, to draw him into conversation as they’d travelled through the French countryside. He’d dispersed her efforts in his practiced arrogant fashion, refusing to partake in meaningless chatter with a frivolous girl.

  In truth, though, there was nothing frivolous about Giselle de Courtenay. He had been physically drawn to females of greater beauty, but Giselle impressed him as few other women ever had. Being raised in seclusion had apparently done her little harm. She was obviously intelligent, with a forthright manner and an infectious enthusiasm for life. She also possessed, he suspected, the makings of a fine temper and a vocabulary capable of making a whore blush.

  He had believed… nay, he had hoped he could save her. To come this far only to die in such a wild, godless place seemed senseless. The promise of a profitable estate was no longer his prime motivation in keeping Giselle de Courtenay from harm. With all his heart, he wanted her to live. She was too young and too vital to die.

  That said, the absolute unfairness of his own fate sat like a lump of mud in his throat. After so many years of striving, he’d at last been offered a chance to see his hopes and prayers come to fruition. The chance to partake of his good fortune, however, now seemed unlikely. Despite his continued attempt to kick at the waves, Luc felt his own life ebbing away with every sluggish heartbeat. He squeezed Giselle’s hand again and reached for his faith.

  God, please. Help us.

  “Did you hear me, mistress? For once, do as you’re told and open your eyes.” Giselle’s sallow face showed no sign of response. Her eyelids, feathered with an abundance of dark lashes, remained closed in apparent serenity. A death mask. Luc felt a sharp jolt of dread as he pushed two fingertips into a spot beneath her jaw, searching for a pulse.

  Oh, nay. Come on, lady.

  Desperate, he probed deeper, cursing the lack of feeling in his fingers. There. A pulse, as light as the heartbeat of a sparrow, fluttered beneath his touch. A feeble spark of life, but one that ignited fresh hope within him. His salt-seared voice took power from it.

  “Giselle, by the Devil’s hairy balls, open your eyes!”

  A corner of her bloodless lips twitched. “Open yours, Sir Knight,” she murmured. “’Tis you who does not see.”

  Cold had undoubtedly contaminated her mind, but Luc moaned in relief at the sound of her voice.

  At that moment, a large wave hurtled out of the dark, its white-crested peak bearing down on them like the jaws of a great fish. Luc cursed and kicked, his wasted limbs barely finding enough strength to push them upwards. As they rode the swell, something to the side caught his eye. With a weary grunt, Luc kicked again, turning the raft, praying his eyes had not deceived him. He held his breath.

  Not so far distant, a dark silhouette rose up from the waves. An island! No small pile of rocks either, but a sizable chunk of land. From its highest point – a rounded hill at one end – a column of translucent silver light stretched up to the clouds. Luc doubted his eyes and rubbed them with numb fingers. The vision remained. He had never seen such a thing. What was its source? Hell’s teeth, did it matter? It was land, and the light was a beacon of hope.

  Luc’s sluggish blood surged. From somewhere beyond his mortal bounds, he found the strength to kick for the shore. “Land, my lady.” Again, he squeezed her hand. “Giselle, we’re saved. Can you hear me? We’re saved.”

  Giselle’s lips twitched again and her hand moved beneath his.

  “Thank Christ,” he muttered and kicked harder.

  As the shore drew near, Luc became aware of another danger. Ahead, a deadly barrage of rocks rose up like blackened teeth, vicious and impassable. Waves rushed past in relentless succession, pushing the raft toward the menace. At the absolute end of his strength, Luc fought to steer the makeshift vessel sideways. He needed to find a harbor, a safe place to land. His neck ached from craning and his eyes burned with salt. At last he spotted a small crescent of sand at the foot of a cliff. The approach to it was still perilous, a narrow passage between more jagged rocks. But the small beach beckoned, offering sanctuary. Above him, the strange light still flowed skyward, its source a mystery.

  As the water shallowed it grew warmer, but the surf became more violent. It rolled over them without mercy, threatening to choke them or worse, separate them from the raft and each other. Exhausted, Luc struggled to steer while keeping hold of his unconscious charge. As if to mock his effort, a large wave tore into them and pulled them apart.

  “Nay!” Luc spat out a mouthful of sea water and grabbed Giselle’s arm, letting his feet drop as he did so. They touched ground, an unexpected result that shocked his exhausted brain. It took him a moment to understand what had happened. He choked on a groan of utter relief and pulled Giselle to him, lifting her up and out of the water, which was barely waist deep.

  The light around him seemed to sputter and he looked up to see the beacon dissipating like smoke in a breeze. The strange phenomenon distracted him for a moment. Then he turned his attention back to the limp woman in his arms, aware of her heated breath, shallow and weak, against his throat. He needed to get her ashore. They both needed warmth.

  As Luc staggered onto the beach, Giselle’s body, free of the water, became a dead weight in his weary arms. Muscles searing with pain, he stumbled to a sheltered spot behind a rocky outcrop, dropped to his knees, and placed Giselle on the soft sand.

  Shivering, he unbuckled his sword and peeled off his wet tunic. Then, with numb fingers, he unlaced Giselle’s robe and peeled it from her clammy skin. Setting modesty and gentleness aside, he rubbed her entire body with brisk strokes, flesh to flesh as well as through her thin, cotton shift. Though violent shivers rattled his frame, Luc persevered till his limbs ached beyond endurance and exhaustion overwhelmed him.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he muttered at last. “I can do no more.” Still shivering, he settled at her side and wrapped her in his arms. As his mind teetered on the cusp of consciousness, a final single thought formed. It pushed Luc’s hand to his hip, where a small, leather pouch had previously rested, secure against his flesh.

  The pouch, and the ring within, had gone.

  *

  The rowdy clamor of seabirds invaded Luc’s scattered dreams. That, and the rhythmic tumble of waves on the shore. He grimaced as a pang of thirst thickened his throat. His tongue felt like wool. And… God’s teeth. Was his head in some kind of vise? He tried to open his eyes, but his lashes seemed to be fused together. As consciousness returned, recollection came with it.

  Giselle!

  Dread knotted in his gut. He forced his eyes open and squinted into daylight. Sunlight poured down, offering a sorry semblance of warmth. Teeth gritted, Luc pushed himself onto an elbow and scrutinized the pale, silent form resting beside him. Did she still live? Aye, for her chest rose and fell, albeit in a feeble manner.

  “Thank God,” he murmured, rubbing the cool flesh of her arm. “My lady, can you hear me?”

  She didn’t respond. Wincing at the stiffness in his limbs, he knelt at her side and stroked some damp strands of hair from her face – a face void of color, except for the pale pink of her lips and bluish crescents beneath her eyes. What damage, he wondered, had the vicious night done? Once again, he set about massaging her limbs, the salt and sand on her flesh rough beneath his hands.

  In the bold light of day, with naught but a thin cotton shift shielding the girl’s modesty, Luc could not help but observe Giselle’s features. She possessed a simple beauty, one drawn with a natural stroke of God’s hand. To look at her might not render a man witless but, perhaps, gather his interest in a gentler and more sincere fashion. Her body, sweetly curved, was slender but not s
light. Beneath his busy hands, her limbs felt firm and strong. Her long hair, tangled and crusted with sand and salt, was a soft brown, threaded with glints of rich copper. Salt glistened on the thick, dark lashes that fanned her cheeks. Her eyes? Luc frowned. He had never taken note of their color. Brown, he assumed, like her hair. He resisted the insolent temptation to lift an eyelid.

  A sudden pang of guilt tied a knot beneath his ribs and he castigated himself. Christ, what am I doing? Now was not the time to reflect on Giselle’s God-given attributes or lack thereof. The girl was completely vulnerable. At his mercy. She needed his help and protection. She would have it, too, if it was not already too late. She was his responsibility. He had, after all, sworn an oath.

  Yet, he could not deny a heartfelt need to hear her voice, stemming from a desire that went beyond the execution of his duty. He also wanted to learn the color of her eyes… when they opened of their own accord. A foolish whim. Was he daft?

  “My lady.” Ministrations complete, he leaned over and stroked her hair. “Can you hear me?”

  The thickness in his throat roughened his voice. He needed to find fresh water and shelter. Ironic, he mused, that fire had caused their predicament, yet had now become a desirable, if not essential, element. Cursing his continued weakness, he staggered to his feet, rubbed salt from his eyes, and looked about.

  Above him, seabirds ducked and dived, their ceaseless cacophony muffling the steady roar of the waves that tumbled ashore. The small beach appeared to be surrounded by jagged, gray cliffs, softened here and there by grassy ledges. Left and right, rocky outcrops jutted from the sand, but appeared to be navigable. The cliff face presented more of an obstacle. It also presented the mystery of what lay above and beyond it.

  Something indefinable, perhaps instinctual, stirred deep within Luc. The place had a wild feel to it, an impression of loneliness. Isolation.

  Yet the island had to be inhabited. The strange light gave proof of that. But, if it had meant to serve as a beacon, it seemed odd that the island’s inhabitants had not come looking for survivors.

  Luc reached for his sword belt and fastened it about his hips. The action served to remind him of the ring. He felt for the pouch again, wondering if, perhaps, he’d dreamt its disappearance or been mistaken. But no. The small purse and its precious contents had gone.

  Perhaps it had tumbled from his pocket as he’d come ashore. Hoping beyond hope, gaze sweeping the ground, Luc wandered back to the waves. It was a futile exercise. Only his footprints lay in the sand, testimony to a miraculous survival.

  He turned and wandered back to Giselle’s still form, crouching at her side as he checked her pulse once again. Still weak, but steady.

  The loss of the ring paled in comparison to what might have been lost.

  In an effort to get a bearing, Luc stood and looked seaward. Its majestic contours easily visible, the outline of Scotland stretched along the horizon. Close, yet impossibly far. Judging by the distant coastline and the position of the sun, Luc calculated he was facing northwest.

  He wondered if anyone on the mainland had seen the burning ship or noticed the strange column of light on the island. Perhaps rescue boats had already been launched, although he saw no sign of any such vessels on the water. Then again, Giselle’s arrival had not been anticipated. No one at the Scottish port, as far as Luc knew, was expecting a ship from Boulogne. So, unless someone on shore actually saw the fire, it seemed unlikely anyone would be looking for her. At least, not for a good measure of time.

  A noise at his feet drew his attention.

  Dark honey. Giselle’s eyes were the color of dark honey. And looking straight at him.

  “Is this Heaven?” she whispered.

  A rush of relief flooded the space beneath Luc’s ribs as he squatted at Giselle’s side. “No, I don’t think so.” He touched her cheek. “How do you feel?”

  A small frown creased her brow. “Thirsty.” She tried to swallow. “My tongue feels like…”

  “Wool?”

  “I was going to say sand. But wool is more accurate. Where are we?” She grimaced and tried to lift herself. Luc slid an arm beneath her shoulders.

  “Easy now,” he said, supporting her. “You had a rather unpleasant night.”

  Pain of a sort beyond physical clouded her eyes. “Oh, poor Anna,” she said, “and all those other lost souls. May they rest in peace.”

  Luc hardened his jaw. Survival, in the aftermath of so much death, came at a price. That they still lived while others had died could neither be justified nor reasoned. Grief and guilt cast merciless shadows. He answered her previous question. “We’re on an island, it seems.”

  Her eyes closed briefly. “I owe you my life, Sir Luc.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing owing, my lady.”

  She reached out to him, the hiss through her teeth proclaimed her discomfort as he pulled her to her feet.

  “Stiff,” she said, clutching his hands, “and a little dizzy. Forgive me. I just need a moment.”

  He resisted an urge to put his arm around her. “Take your time.”

  She glanced about. “An island, you said?”

  “Aye.” He gestured seaward. “The mainland is visible. At least, it is today.”

  She blinked and peered past him. “A long way off, though. Does anyone live here I wonder?”

  “Someone does.” Luc squinted skyward. “We need to find a way up these cliffs.”

  “How do you know?”

  “That someone lives here? The light.”

  “The light,” she repeated, frowning.

  “Aye. You saw it first. You thought it was—”

  She gasped. “It was real?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Unless we both imagined it.”

  “But it looked so strange. What could create such a light?”

  “I don’t know, but whatever it was, it saved our lives.” He looked past her, along the beach. “The slope seems less severe over there. Maybe there’s a path to the top of these cliffs. Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” She released his hands and looked down at herself, eyes widening. “My robe?”

  “Here.” Luc bent and retrieved it from the ground. “Forgive me. I had to remove it to warm you properly.”

  “I understand.” Cheeks flushed, she took it, cringing at its dampness. “Ugh. Actually, I think I’ll stay as I am for now.”

  Luc retrieved his still-damp tunic from the sand and shook it. “As will I. Are you sure you can walk?”

  She linked an arm through his. “I’m merely stiff, Sir Luc. Not crippled.”

  He bit back a smile. Giselle de Courtenay possessed both spine and spirit. Her mere presence at his side, despite their worrying predicament, stirred something within him. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he sought to explain away. Any other feelings, beyond those of duty and commitment, surely stemmed from hardships shared and overcome. They had beaten the odds. Looked death in the eye and endured. It had been an intense and profound experience, no doubt responsible for the few frayed edges of his emotions.

  He still had a duty to perform. A mission to complete. An estate to claim. For now, he had to focus on their current situation. He needed to find water, shelter, and food. And, after that, a way off the island. Composure gathered, Luc guided Giselle along the small beach until they came to the rocky outcrop.

  “Look there.” Luc pointed to where a narrow path had been carved into the slope, either by beast or man. “It seems passable enough, I think.”

  Giselle’s hand tightened on his arm. “It doesn’t look too steep,” she murmured, though apprehension edged her voice.

  Luc gave her a critical glance. “I’ll help you, but if you prefer, we can rest awhile before making the attempt.”

  She shook her head. “My thirst alone will drive me up that slope. I only pray there’s a well at the top. Or better yet, an inn. With a hot bath and a fine feather bed.”

  His mouth twitched. “A nice thought, but
I doubt we’ll be that fortunate.”

  Another test of strength followed as they edged their way up the path, its gentle incline a fine challenge for exhausted limbs. At the top, Giselle parted with a groan and dropped to her knees on the grass. “Forgive me,” she said, panting, “I just need a moment.”

  “There’s no rush. Catch your breath,” Luc said, glancing around. The path, he noticed, continued up and over a grassy knoll. It gave the impression of a vantage point and he wondered at the view it offered. “I want to see what’s over that hill. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

  Giselle didn’t answer. She appeared lost in thought as she looked back across the sea.

  “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “I wonder if he survived,” she murmured, at the end of a sigh.

  “Who?”

  “Minstrel.”

  The mention of the stallion’s name tied a knot in Luc’s gut. The same question had lurked in the shadows of his mind since he’d seen the animal swimming off into the darkness. “I don’t know. I hope so. He’s a strong horse.” Yet doubt clouded his hope. Horses could swim, but they were not designed to do so with any great proficiency.

  She turned and brushed a questioning gaze over him. “Do you still have the ring?”

  “I regret I do not.” A sigh escaped him. “I had it when I left the ship, but no longer.”

  “’Tis of no great consequence, I think. Of all the issues before us, that of a lost ring seems trivial.” She echoed his sigh and reached for him, eyes bright with tears. “I’d rather not be left alone, Sir Luc. My thoughts frighten me.”

  “I understand.” He pulled her upright and held her, feeling the tremble of her body against his. “The images are still raw. Come with me, then. Let’s see what’s over this rise.”

  They strode to the top.

  “Oh, but it’s beautiful!” Giselle said, her eyes wide as she stepped forward.

  Luc silently agreed.

  Unbroken by fence or hedgerow, grassland, golden fescue, and purple heather covered much of the substantial plateau that stretched out left and right. Not an entirely open landscape, the surface undulated with small crests and valleys. Luc turned and looked to the south, where the land sloped down and narrowed to a sharp, rocky point that sliced into the waves.