Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  To the north, a wide stretch of emerald grassland gave way to a thick belt of pine. The trees encircled the base of the highest point on the island – a prominent, grass-covered hill. It reminded Luc of the tonsured head of a priest. This particular priest, though, seemed to be wearing a crown atop his bald spot.

  Giselle gasped. “Is that a circle of stones?” She pointed. “Look. Over there. Do you see it? On that distant hill. I’ve heard of such things. They are supposedly very ancient, built by pagans long before the written word.”

  Luc had seen similar circles in France. Strange that such a thing would be found here, on this desolate morsel of earth.

  “Yes, I see it,” he replied. His gaze then swept the surrounding sea, where other islands, small and large, near and far, jutted out of the waves. It was a spectacular vista. But something pulled his gaze back to the ancient stones, jutting from the ground like giant teeth. The column of light had originated atop that hill. Of that he was certain. A slight shiver crawled over his skin.

  “It’s odd.” Giselle fidgeted at his side. “But something about this place feels almost familiar. It’s as if I recognize it, somehow, which is impossible, of course.”

  Luc didn’t answer, although he silently admitted the place possessed a tangible air of mystique.

  “What’s that?” Giselle pointed to a place near the eastern cliffs where a ridge of rock stretched like a scar across the grass. Something could be seen beyond it, a soft rounded shape. “It looks like—”

  “The top of a roof.” Luc shaded his eyes. “A thatched roof.”

  “A house!” Giselle hugged her crumpled robe to her chest and set off across the grass. “Praise God, it’s a house. You were right, Sir Luc. Someone does live here. They can help us. Maybe they have a boat.”

  Luc uttered a soft curse and caught up to her. “And maybe we should approach with caution. We know nothing about them.”

  “I doubt they’d do us harm. We’re no threat.” A slight frown settled on Giselle’s face. “Although I confess I find it puzzling that someone would choose to live here. It’s so isolated.”

  “I had the same thought.” He cast another glance over the island. “I see no other sign of human presence, either.”

  “But the light we saw. They must have had something to do with that.”

  “I agree. Stay close to me and move quietly.”

  It took little time to cover the distance. With a hand signal, Luc bid Giselle wait as he crept to the top of the rocky spur. Senses alert, he looked down at the rear of the house. It was a single-story abode of reasonable size, solidly built into a horseshoe-shaped niche in the hillside. A sheltered spot, Luc noted. One that offered protection from the constant, and undoubtedly merciless, sea breezes. The tightly-thatched roof sat atop a basic rectangle that had been constructed from roughly-hewn, lime-washed stones. The rear wall was solid, built with neither door nor window. At the far end, there appeared to be a small storage shelter attached to the house. The front of the house, Luc had yet to see.

  He heard bleating from somewhere, although he couldn’t see the source. Either sheep or goats, no doubt. Several chickens were visible, though, wandering about, pecking and scratching at the surrounding earth.

  But nothing else stirred. No smoke leached from the smoke-hole in the roof. No aromas of food tempted Luc’s hunger. The house, for now at least, appeared to be empty, although it was obviously inhabited.

  Signs of recent life showed in the neatness of the surroundings. A small, weed-free patch of earth at the western side of the house appeared to have been recently prepared for planting. A hoe, leaning against the wall, appeared to be the tool used to complete the task. The chickens looked plump and content, obviously at home.

  Luc sensed no obvious danger. The dwelling appeared to belong to at least one person of simple needs, and currently absent for some reason. He turned to signal Giselle, waving her forward.

  “I don’t think anyone is home at the moment,” he said, “but the house obviously isn’t abandoned. I suspect whoever lives here will be back soon enough. Come on. Let’s take a look around.”

  “All I want is a drink,” Giselle said. “There has to be some fresh water somewhere.”

  Luc nodded. “Careful. It’s steep here. We’ll circle around this way.”

  She reached for his hand and he gave it, frowning at the sudden leap of his heart as his fingers curled around hers. Confused, he sought to explain his physical reaction. It likely stemmed from an instinctual need to protect this weaker female. Or perhaps it was a basic response prompted by his manly needs. Woman, after all, had been created to tempt man. And Luc had never spent this much time alone with any woman before.

  He stared at her. He’d never felt any discernable attraction to Giselle de Courtenay, not when she’d been presented in all her noble trappings, and surely not now. Clad in a dirty, crumpled shift, hair hanging in a long, tangled mess over her shoulders, she looked like a wild thing. A courageous and passionate wild thing, staring at him with lingering shadows of pain in her eyes. She tugged her hand free.

  He was, he realized, still frowning.

  “Christ,” he muttered, relaxing his brow.

  “I did not mean to discomfort you, Sir Luc.” Giselle raised her chin. “Please don’t misunderstand. I sought only reassurance from your touch. Nothing more. It was an unconscious action and one I shall not repeat. To say you have already proven yourself as my protector would be an understatement.”

  He heard the quiver of emotion in her voice and the warm sensation in his chest shriveled into knot of shame. Curse his insensitivity, especially after all she’d been through. And, by all things holy, who was he to judge her appearance? He looked down at himself and almost laughed. His tunic, still damp, had been slung over one shoulder. His undershirt, also dirty and crumpled, hung over his wrinkled breeches. The leather sheath of his sword had water stains and was crusted with salt. He was, at best, a chaotic presentation for a knight.

  “Forgive me, my lady. I believe you also misunderstood my reaction,” he said. “My mind wandered, is all. If you need reassurance, physical or otherwise, I am at your service.”

  He resisted another urge to frown. God’s teeth, he sounded so…

  “Dutiful, as always,” Giselle said, offering a brief smile. “So, shall we see if we can successfully mount a raid on this cottage? I swear my poor tongue is beginning to crumble.”

  Luc inwardly shrugged off his chagrin. He’d deal with his feelings – or lack thereof – for Giselle de Courtenay later. Right now, he needed to be sure this innocent looking abode held no surprises. He led the way, following the natural sloping curve of the land until they faced the front of the little house.

  The façade was plain and unadorned. A central doorway, topped by an impressive stone lintel, was flanked on either side by a small shuttered window. The door itself, while sturdy, appeared weatherworn, its wood bleached by sun and salt. The shed at the far side had a simple burlap curtain instead of a solid door. By its side, a penned area contained three goats, currently eyeing Luc and Giselle with obvious curiosity.

  Luc cast another glance around, seeing nothing and no one to cause him concern. Yet a slight twinge of unease squirmed in his belly. He felt as though he’d missed something.

  “Oh, thank God and all His saints.” Giselle pushed past him and stumbled toward the front of the shed, where a rudimentary pump jutted from the earth. She worked the handle, muttering to herself until, moments later, a gush of water spewed from the spout and tumbled into the stone trough beneath.

  She dropped to her knees and thrust her mouth into the stream, closing her eyes as she gulped. Luc smiled at Giselle’s obvious relief and went to her side, eager to quench his own vicious thirst.

  “More.” She snatched a breath and wiped an arm across her mouth. “Please, I beg you. A little more.”

  Luc pumped the handle and Giselle again gulped without pause. Much of the water spilled over her chin and
splashed down her chest. The wet fabric of her shift became transparent and clung to her breasts, each tipped by a sweet little nub. It was an innocent display, one not entirely unfamiliar to Luc. After his ministrations on the shore, there was little of Giselle’s body he hadn’t seen.

  So why, he wondered, did the sight of those same curves now stir his desire? He bit down as his groin tightened and gave silent thanks for the length of his shirt.

  “All yours.” Chin dripping, Giselle sat back on her heels and smiled up at him, her clinging shift leaving little to the imagination. “I swear, Sir Luc, you have never tasted anything as sweet.”

  His voice failed him, unlike his arousal. Now needing to quench two thirsts, he pumped the handle and stuck his head into the resulting cascade.

  “I wonder where the owner is.” Giselle, clearly unware of the effect she’d had on Luc, rose to her feet and looked about. She shook out her damp robe and spread it out on the grassy bank. Then she walked up to the door and banged on it. “Hello?” she shouted. “Is anyone home?”

  “Very subtle, my lady.” Luc straightened, wiping drips from his chin. Ardor and thirst cooled, he stepped to her side and tried the latch. It lifted, and the door swung open. “Wait here,” he said, stepping over the threshold. He squinted into the gloomy interior, seeing no sign of movement. Although the place appeared empty, a familiar sense of unease stirred. Instinct, like an intelligible whisper, told him something was amiss, yet he felt no threat. It was an odd and perplexing sensation. He went to the shuttered window, leaned over the table that sat below it, and pulled the shutters open.

  “Is it safe?” Giselle stuck her head around the door. “Oh, but it’s charming! By all things sacred, what does this person do? Look at all this stuff. Is he an alchemist, perhaps? Or maybe he’s a she, and she’s a healer. No, that’s not likely, since there’s no one here to heal. A scribe. Yes, I warrant that’s what he is, judging by all those scrolls and that writing desk beneath the window. He writes and needs this peaceful place to do so. What do you think, Sir Luc?”

  Luc shook his head, failing to see any hint of charm in their surroundings. The scene brought rustic to mind. Primitive, even. Still, some of the Giselle’s enthusiastic observations had merit.

  Like the exterior, the interior walls had also been lime-washed. A narrow, unmade bed occupied the back-left corner. Luc’s gaze rested on it for a moment, his tired mind toying with an anomaly he couldn’t quite place. Unable to reconcile the puzzle, he continued with his survey.

  A large, banded chest stood adjacent to the front door. Beside it were two small barrels and a small stack of peat blocks. Behind him, beneath the now open window, was a table. A fat candle sat atop it, along with some wooden bowls, a few bundles of dried plants, and other utensils. On the western wall stood the writing desk Giselle had mentioned. Atop it sat several books, a few scrolls, and a number of stone jars.

  “Books,” Giselle said, pointing. “Whoever lives here is not without means. Look at this desk. ’Tis a finely made piece. French, I suspect. And this parchment is of good quality. I don’t understand any of the writing, though. It’s neither French nor Latin.”

  Luc approached and peered over Giselle’s shoulder, raising a brow at the parchment stretched out on an escritoire, with words already inked upon it. Words he didn’t understand, written in a language he didn’t recognize. It was obviously a work in progress.

  “An educated man, right enough,” Luc murmured.

  “How very mysterious.” Giselle bent over the parchment. “I wonder who he is. I’d love to know what this says. I must assume it’s the language of the region. Gaelic, I believe Mama said. An ancient tongue, and one not easy to master.”

  Luc gave Giselle a brief, admiring glance. Despite being raised in seclusion, the girl seemed to be well educated and knowledgeable. Many men believed intelligence in a woman to be an undesirable trait. Threatening, perhaps. In contrast, Luc found Giselle’s sharp mind to be refreshing. Stimulating, even. He turned away and continued his scrutiny of the house.

  A fire-pit had been dug into the center of the earthen floor. Overhead, a ribcage of solid rafters supported the thatched roof. A single beam, stretched across the width of the house, supported a chain and blackened pot that hung directly over the fire-pit. Several bunches of dried plants hung from the same beam.

  Luc approached, squatted, and held his hand over the ashes.

  “Still warm,” he said.

  “Someone definitely lives here, then.” Giselle rubbed her arms. “Do you think he’d mind if we stoked up the fire? I swear I can’t remember what it feels like to be warm.”

  “I don’t think he’d mind.” Luc pulled a couple of peat bricks from the pile, settled them into the ash bed, and blew gently till the embers glowed. “It’ll soon take hold. In the meantime…” His gaze flicked to the bed. Frowning, he strode over to it and stared at the exposed mattress. “That’s what’s wrong,” he muttered. “Blankets. There are no blankets on the bed. Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t own any.” Giselle stepped to his side. “Or maybe he took them with him.”

  “Maybe,” Luc replied, unanswered questions wandering through his mind. He glanced at Giselle, noting her pale face and the persistent shadows beneath her eyes. “Perhaps you should lie down for a while. You need to rest.”

  She gave him a wan smile. “And you don’t? You must be exhausted.”

  He shook his head. “I’d rather wait till our mysterious resident returns.”

  “But this place seems so benign.” Giselle sat on the bed and glanced around. “I can’t imagine its owner to be any kind of threat.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, but I’d like to be certain. Lie back and rest, my lady.”

  She did so, shivering as she curled into a ball. “Maybe there’s a blanket in that chest.”

  Luc followed her gaze. Made from dark-grained oak and banded with blackened iron, the chest had also been finely crafted. He went to it and lifted the lid. “Clothes,” he muttered as he bent and pulled out a thick, woolen cloak. “But this will serve for now. What the…?”

  The breath caught in his throat as he wrapped his fingers around a sword hilt jutting out from beneath the pile of clothes. He pulled the unsheathed blade free and swung it in a slow arc. A tingle of pleasure flared deep in his core.

  “An aged and skillfully forged piece,” he said, twirling it in his hand. “A fine weapon. There are many things here that do not make sense. ’Tis beyond strange.”

  The lack of response made Luc turn to look at his charge, who had already drifted into sleep. He replaced the sword and closed the chest. Then he went to Giselle and tucked the cloak around her. Despite their uncertain plight, he acknowledged the good fortune that came with it. At least Giselle was safe. They had shelter and water, and, no doubt, there’d be food hereabouts. There had to be a boat somewhere, too. No reason, then, to worry about the future. The loss of the ring might pose a problem, but was surely a surmountable hurdle. Luc would complete his mission and claim his reward. For the moment, though, he could do no more. Stifling a yawn, he settled himself on the floor beside the fire.

  Chapter 8

  Giselle awoke with a start, the remnants of an unsettling dream fading from her mind. With consciousness came disorientation and panic. Where am I? She held her breath and blinked into semi-darkness, seeing unfamiliar shapes outlined by the glow of a fire.

  Recollection swamped her in a violent rush.

  She’d awoken from an imagined nightmare to find herself living in the real aftermath of another. Images and sounds played in her head; flames, smoke, the cries of drowning men. The subsequent, terrible silence. And the hollow agony of loss.

  Anna.

  Grief twisted beneath her ribs, tightening into a solid knot. Guilt, too, writhed within. She curled into a ball, all at once aware of the softness of wool against her skin. Her guardian knight had obviously found a blanket from somewhere. Where was he?
Had she slept all day? She must have, since the night had obviously arrived. And what of the occupant of the house? Had he returned? She would have heard him, surely.

  She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, recognizing Luc’s recumbent form stretched out on the floor by the hearth. Her heart gave a strange little leap at the sight of him. Hardly surprising, she thought. The man had, after all, saved her life, and in a heroic fashion.

  She realized she was merely an obligation to him, the burden of an oath sworn to her uncle. The knight’s gallant actions had been performed in the name of duty and honor, nothing more. She thought about him removing her robe on the shore. She’d been utterly vulnerable, unaware of his actions as he’d warmed her body with his. A flush of heat rose up in her cheeks.

  She rubbed her eyes, swept away her wandering thoughts, and acknowledged the hollow ache of hunger in her belly. That, and a pressing need to relieve herself.

  Wincing at her stiff muscles, she kicked off her cover and rose from the bed. Did her reluctant guardian sleep, she wondered? She tiptoed over and peered down at his face, his sculpted features appearing almost devilish in the glow of the fire. The shadow of his unshaven jaw added to his somewhat ruthless appearance, as did the fading bruise on his lip.

  He lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest suggestive of sleep. His linen shirt gaped open at the throat, exposing a sparse triangle of dark hair. He’d kicked off his shoes and removed his breeches. The braies he wore ended below the knees, leaving his calves exposed. Still in its scabbard, his sword rested within easy reach at his side. His large, solid physique paid tribute to years of intense physical training. Giselle knew his strength. She had felt it. Taken comfort from it. Her life, she acknowledged again, had been saved by it. Yet so many other lives had been lost. Grief sneaked back into her heart and tears pricked the back of her eyes.