Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  Giselle groaned. “What are you doing? Please hurry.”

  Luc sighed. “I’m trying to understand what happened here. It might be important.”

  “Well, maybe you could try and understand it later,” Giselle said, scowling. “We need to get this poor soul back to his cottage.”

  Luc’s patience faltered. He cast her an equally scathing look. “Methinks the salt water has soured your tongue, my lady. ’Tis a most unpleasant affliction. I pray it is only temporary.”

  His return shot appeared to hit the mark. Giselle’s face fell and color flooded her cheeks. Luc set the staff down and returned to the man’s side.

  “All right, old man,” he murmured to the silent figure, “let’s get you home.”

  He pulled the covers away and bent the man’s legs at the knees. Then he grabbed the man’s arms, pulled him up to a near standing position, and hoisted him over his shoulder. Nostrils flaring, Luc released a breath and shifted the weight, balancing himself squarely before moving forward. The man was no bag of feathers.

  Minstrel pawed the sand and gave a low whinny as his master approached.

  “Kneel,” Luc commanded, his voice stern. The horse shook his head and backed up a step. “I said kneel, Minstrel,” he repeated, sterner yet. The stallion hesitated a moment more, and then bent his great head and knelt.

  With a relieved huff, Luc settled the man, belly down, across Minstrel’s back.

  “Up,” he murmured to the horse, and the stallion obeyed. “That’s it. Good lad.”

  Then he ducked under the horse’s neck and went around the other side, intent on adjusting the man’s position. A glimmer of gold on the man’s finger drew his eye. Curious, Luc lifted the hand and his breath caught.

  “Jésu,” he muttered, eyeing the ring of small, black stones encircling the roughly etched star. There could be no mistaking the unique design. The strange jewel was identical to the one he had lost.

  Is he a cohort of MacRoth’s? A relative, perhaps? A noble in that case, which would explain some of the items at the house. But why is he living alone on this—?

  “Do you need help?” Giselle’s contrite voice drifted into his ear, startling him. She looked at the man’s hand. “It’s an unusual design, isn’t it? I get the impression it’s a signet ring, of sorts.”

  Luc opened his mouth, ready to tell her the ring matched the one he’d lost. Something stopped him, if only for that moment. A need, perhaps, to keep Giselle from additional heartache. The man may well be a relative. Her grandfather, even.

  “Unusual, yes.”

  “The poor man. I’m so glad we found him. He wouldn’t have lasted out here much longer. Shall I fetch the blankets?” She had hope in her voice. Hope for a stranger. He’d tell her about the ring later.

  Luc cleared his throat and released the man’s hand. “Aye. He’ll benefit from Minstrel’s heat, but we should cover him anyway. You’ll have to walk back, my lady. I have to ride to keep Minstrel settled and our friend in place.”

  Luc sent up another prayer for the man’s life, this one with a somewhat selfish motive. He wanted the poor fellow to live, of course, but he also wanted answers – answers the man undoubtedly possessed.

  Chapter 11

  The single candle flame, burning on the table beneath the window, did little to combat the surrounding darkness. Still, the man’s white hair and pale skin made him easy enough to see. Giselle sat on an overturned bucket by his bed, watching him.

  They had removed his foul-smelling clothes, washed his soiled body with warm water, and dressed him in a clean, dry shirt. And they had cleaned the man’s wound. His matted curls had concealed the harsh truth, masked the vicious nature of it. His skull had plainly been damaged. Giselle had seen Luc’s expression, heard his lungs fill with a harsh breath as he probed the injury with gentle fingers.

  “Is it very bad?” she’d asked, receiving silence as an answer. Sickened to her core, she didn’t bother to repeat the question. Grim-faced, Luc had taken a knife to one of the man’s clean shirts and made several bandages. Then, under guidance, Giselle had taken more of the same fabric, dipped a folded corner in water, and squeezed the drips into the man’s parched mouth.

  “’Tis a simple way to alleviate thirst when a man is unable to swallow,” Luc explained.

  After that, Giselle prayed for the man’s recovery and had done so many times since. Yet, despite her heartfelt pleas to a greater power, there had been no sign of improvement. She longed for his eyelashes to flicker again. Or for his lips to move and form a word. She wondered what he’d tried to say to her on the beach earlier that day. At that time, she’d stopped him, told him to save his strength. Although she’d meant well, regret now soured her stomach. The stifled words might well have been the unfortunate man’s last. She had stolen his chance to say them.

  Death, it seemed, kept charging in and out of Giselle’s life.

  She shuddered beneath a stifling cloud of grief. She had borne it since her mother’s passing, although the promise of a new life with her father had helped to lighten some of her burden. It had been a brief reprieve.

  The past few horror-filled days had attracted a fresh swarm of oppressive shadows, like flies to rotting meat. She loathed to admit defeat, but wearied of doing battle with her spirit. Despite the company of her brooding, guardian knight, Giselle felt increasingly alone and abandoned. And she was afraid to speak of her anguish to a man she hardly knew, to open her burdened heart and share its contents.

  “Giselle.” That same man’s voice roused her from her thoughts. “He’s in God’s hands now. Leave him. Come and rest.”

  Since the bed was now occupied, Giselle would have to sleep on the floor that night. Earlier, Luc had raided the small shed, stealing some of the hay bundles to make sleeping pallets for them. This unavoidable development troubled her, since she’d be sleeping that much closer to Luc. Boundaries of propriety aside, Giselle didn’t like the way her body responded to him. The way he made her feel.

  Therein lay another battle.

  Her tired mind drifted back to that morning, when she’d been seated astride Minstrel’s broad back with her arms wrapped around Luc’s body. Despite the sad reason for the exercise, the intimacy of it had stirred something within her. A new and unknown excitement. On a different and less somber day, she might have implored Luc to kick his heels, urging the stallion to go faster, to give wings to his great hooves. She imagined the power of the horse beneath her matched perfectly with the solid strength of the knight in her arms. The silly daydream had given her some respite from her sadness. At least for a short while.

  Perhaps sensing her increasingly dark mood, Luc had been subdued since returning from the beach. More than once, however, she’d felt his gaze on her, aware of his scrutiny. She wondered what steered his thoughts, but didn’t have the courage to ask. Possessed of a natural insight, Giselle found Luc de Warenne’s well-guarded façade unsettling. He had many sides, it seemed. At that moment, he was looking at her with obvious concern.

  He’d snapped at her earlier. True, she had badgered him, but she’d been afraid for the injured man. Worried that he’d die right there on the beach without seeing his home again. A home invaded by strangers, who had eaten his food and worn his clothes. Their occupation of his house, while excusable, had developed a bitter flavor.

  Tears rose up demanding release, but she didn’t want Luc to see them.

  “I have to go outside.” She struggled to her feet without looking at Luc, although, once again, she felt his scrutiny.

  “Leave the door open,” he said.

  “There’s no need.” Unwilling to meet his gaze, she at least managed a smile. “I’m no longer afraid.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Darkness awaited Giselle across the threshold. She stepped into it and closed the door behind her. She could tell the mist had dissipated. A canopy of broken clouds stretched across the night sky, veiling a crescent moon’s telltale glow that cast the
island in a feeble light. Squinting into the gloom, Giselle wandered to the right, past the goat pen – her approach drawing a soft bleat from Bella – and out toward the cliffs. She halted several strides from the dizzying drop and gulped in a lungful of salt air. Below, waves crashed against the rocks, their savage roar elevating her sense of… loneliness? No, she did not feel lonely. She simply felt alone.

  Isolated.

  She hugged herself and looked toward the far horizon. He was over there, somewhere. The man who had sired her, yet knew nothing of her existence. And the ring proving her heritage now lay at the bottom of the sea. If she ever did find a way to his door, would she be welcomed? Acknowledged as his blood? Despite her mother’s assurances, Hamish MacRoth might decide to reject her. Or perhaps see her simply as a duty. A reluctant responsibility. Much as Luc did.

  Self-pity pulled her into its downward spiral as she continued to discount her worth to the world. Her mother had gone. Her father was unaware of her existence. She was a bastard. Born of love, her mother said. Born of shame, said everyone else.

  Curse her foolish heart. Why did she have to care so much? Caring about things served only to make life more difficult. Caring about people made it almost…

  “Impossible,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “God, please. Help me.”

  The shadows of grief closed in. Overcome, Giselle sat back on her heels, buried her face in her hands and surrendered to silent tears.

  A few moments later she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “No.” She shrugged it away, embarrassed by her weakness. “Please leave me alone. I’ll be all right.”

  She heard a sigh. Then an arm slid around her, lifted her, and pulled her into a warm, strong embrace. Luc pressed his cheek to her hair and held her. She surrendered to his strength and stole from it. For once, she welcomed his silence. It spoke of an insight she hadn’t realized he possessed.

  Sobs subsiding, she relaxed into Luc’s chest and breathed in the heady aroma of his masculinity.

  “Forgive me,” she muttered. “You must think me foolish.”

  “I think nothing of the sort.” His cheek moved against her hair. “Nor is there anything to forgive.”

  “I just… I felt overwhelmed.”

  “You don’t need to explain. I saw it coming.”

  She sniffed and blinked up at him. “You did?”

  “Aye.” Frowning, he wiped a callused thumb through the tears on her cheek. “Those stoic shoulders of yours were bound to sag eventually.”

  “Stoic?” If felt natural to settle her head against his broad chest again. “I’m hardly that, I think.”

  Luc drew a slow breath and moved his hand down her spine to the small of her back. “Do not belittle your spirit, my lady. ’Tis an admirable entity. I have rarely seen its like.” Gruffness of a tender sort edged his voice, as if his words had been issued from a dry throat. His embrace tightened. A gentle pressure. Comforting. Nay, more than that. Giselle could not describe the sensation but, at that precise moment, she would not have swapped places with anyone under Heaven.

  A heartbeat later, Luc stepped back and Giselle scrubbed the remaining tears from her cheeks.

  Damn you and the way you make me feel.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said, lifting her chin. “I regret my weakness. ’Tis true I’m fatigued and became overwhelmed for a moment. I didn’t mean to drag you away from the hearth.”

  The night masked Luc’s expression, although his stifled sigh was clear enough. “We all have our limits, my lady. Nor did you drag me away from anything. Your distress this eve was obvious. You were gone overly long and I became concerned. Come. Let me take you back.”

  She might have expected Luc to offer his arm, a muscular crutch to guide her safely through the darkness. To her surprise, he took hold of her hand. It was a more intimate gesture, she thought. One that offered more than safety. You’re not alone, it said.

  Willing her heart to stop its treacherous gallop, Giselle allowed Luc to lead her along the dark path. Ahead, the pale walls of the cottage loomed out of the night.

  “I should not have left the man’s side,” Giselle said, voicing a sudden thought. “I should be there in case he awakens.”

  Luc gave a soft grunt, a dubious sound that seemed to argue against the man ever doing such a thing. He opened the cottage door and stood aside, allowing Giselle to enter. Fearful, she approached the bed and looked down at the unconscious man, seeing the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She released her own breath, which had been locked in her lungs.

  “Thank God, he still lives.” Her throat tightened as she turned to Luc. “I don’t want him to die.”

  “Neither do I.” He closed the door. “But you saw the wound. The gravity of it.”

  “But when I first found him on the shore, I didn’t realize…” She shook her head. “I wish I had known then.”

  “It would have made no difference. Stop torturing yourself.” Luc gestured to the pallets on the floor. “Come and sit by the fire. You’re shivering.”

  As if in response, Giselle’s teeth chattered. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how cold she felt. She did as bid, smiling her thanks to Luc when he settled a blanket around her shoulders.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, daring to meet his gaze as he sat across from her. “My conscience is burdened, for I fear I have done something terrible.”

  “Is that so?” A touch of amusement flared in his eyes. “What is this terrible thing you have done?”

  She swallowed. “This morning, when I was on the beach with him, he tried to speak.”

  At that, Luc’s spine straightened. “Did he manage to say anything?”

  “No, because I stopped him. I told him to save his strength. But now I wonder if I should have heard him, whether I’d have understood him or not. Let him speak the words that might have been his last. What if he was trying to pray? Or confess?”

  Luc appeared to ponder for a moment. “As I said, you didn’t know the extent of his injury at that time. Your actions were intended to protect, not harm. Any remorse, then, is unwarranted. Besides, a man does not need a voice to pray, nor to be repentant. If that was his intent, your action would have made no difference.”

  “Perhaps.” Giselle shook her head. “But I still feel guilty. I just wish he would wake up. I want him to know that he’s back in his home, where he belongs. Not dying on a lonely beach.”

  “The man lives on an island, Giselle, so he obviously values his solitude. I’m sure he understood that his death, when it came, would be met in isolation.” Luc’s expression softened. “Even if he does awaken, he may be unable to speak with any coherence. His skull is damaged, which means his faculties may well be compromised. We’ve done what we can for him. Prayer is all that remains.”

  “Then I shall continue to pray.” She sighed and fiddled with a loose thread on her blanket. “And there’s something else I am compelled to speak of.”

  He gave a soft chuckle. “Another confession?”

  “More of an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “Um…for badgering you.”

  His brows rose. “Badgering me?”

  “On the beach this morning.”

  “Ah.” Luc’s placid gaze shifted to the fire. “I didn’t disagree with your sense of urgency, but were you not curious about what made the man stumble?”

  “I confess I didn’t give it much thought. I simply assumed he slipped on the pebbles. You believe otherwise?”

  “I do.”

  Giselle frowned. “Then please enlighten me.”

  He gave a humorless smile. “I believe it was Minstrel.”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure I do, either, but this is what I suspect happened. Our friend over there was on the beach when Minstrel came ashore. For whatever reason, he attacked the horse with his staff, hence Minstrel’s wound. I have to assume the horse either cha
rged him or reared up in defense, which caused the man to fall backwards and hit his head.”

  “But that makes no sense. Why on earth would he attack Minstrel?” An imagined scenario played out in Giselle’s head. “Might the horse have threatened him first, do you think?”

  Luc grimaced. “He’s a stallion, so not without some aggression, but he’s not ill natured. Far from it. He’s a well-mannered, disciplined horse. Besides, he must have been utterly exhausted when he first came ashore, so I find it hard to believe he’d have attacked anyone without cause.”

  “Hmm.” Giselle pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “The man had gone down there hoping to find survivors from a shipwreck. If I put myself in his stead, a great, black horse emerging from the waves is the last thing I’d have expected to see. Maybe Minstrel’s appearance simply frightened him.”

  “Put that way, yes. I can see why he might have attacked,” Luc said. “There’s yet another mystery, too, needing an explanation.”

  Giselle raised a questioning brow. “Which is?”

  “The light we saw,” Luc said. “I still don’t know how he created it.”

  A jolt of realization widened Giselle’s eyes. “The stones! By all things holy, with all that happened this afternoon, I forgot to ask about your outing this morning.”

  “Aye, well, there’s little to tell.” He fidgeted as his gaze moved away from hers. “It’s an unusual place, one that gives away no secrets. I saw no sign of fire. No ashes. Nothing, in fact.”

  An impression came to her, clear and unhesitating. Without thinking, she voiced it. “What are you hiding from me?”

  A brief expression of shock flitted across Luc’s face as his gaze snapped back to hers. “You’re challenging my word?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I mean, no, not all of it. But there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What makes you think that?”

  She cocked her head. “Am I wrong? If so, I shall beg forgiveness and apologize yet again.”