The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  ’Twas an unreasonable hope, and Isabel could not think of them at that moment. All she knew was that she had to get away. The thought of being touched by that foul-mouthed barbarian made her feel ill.

  Running as fast as possible with her hands bound at her back, Isabel hardly heard the shouts behind her. She reached the end of the cottage and kept moving toward the hills, where sheep grazed peacefully in the gloaming. She did not care where she went, as long as she could get away from the village…away from the fate that awaited her there.

  A sudden, sharp pain stabbed through the arch of Isabel’s foot, and she pitched headlong into the rough turf. She struggled to rise, but could not push herself up. She rolled to her side and tried to get to her feet, but rough hands grabbed her and yanked her up.

  One of the men tossed her over his shoulder, and Isabel cried out in agony. The position crushed the air out of her lungs and pulled painfully at her arms. Someone struck her, and she pressed her lips together to keep from calling out again. There was no one to help her, and nothing she could do to help herself.

  They carried her directly into the chieftain’s cottage and dropped her upon a pallet of furs near the fire. While the men spoke in excited tones to the chieftain, Isabel managed to get onto her knees, hastily surveying her surroundings.

  The place was well lit with tallow candles, the odor of which permeated the large room. Remnants of a greasy meal lay upon a table in one corner, and beside the discarded bones lay a short knife.

  Isabel turned her eyes away from the blade and tipped her head down, allowing her hair to drape down the sides of her face. Mayhap the chieftain would forget he’d left his knife there if she did not call attention to it with her gaze. ’Twas within reach if only she could manage to distract him enough to take it.

  First, she would have to get him to cut the ropes that bound her hands together. Did he wear a knife upon his belt? She ventured a glance toward him and saw that he did. There was also a long sword, which he removed as he closed the door behind the village men.

  When they were alone, he turned and spoke to her.

  Isabel swallowed thickly. She struggled to her feet and turned, showing him her wrists and arms. “Free my hands,” she said. Her voice did not sound nearly as strong as she would have liked, nor did she think he understood her words, but he could surely see what she meant.

  When he started to walk toward her, Isabel tried not to quiver in fear. He was easily twice her size, and when he loosened his belt and let his leggings drop to the floor, she clamped her lips tightly together to keep herself from crying out.

  He displayed his male essence as though proud of the damnable thing—the cock between his legs that would put a brutal end to her virginity.

  She took a shuddering breath and averted her eyes. She had to remain composed if she was going to outmaneuver him and get her hands on that knife.

  She moistened her lower lip and saw that the action inflamed him. The cock grew even larger, though that hardly seemed possible. “I-I’ll cooperate with you,” she said, as though he could understand, as if she were not quaking in fear and revulsion. If she did not fight him, mayhap he would cut her loose. She could only hope he would lower his guard long enough for her to grab that knife.

  Isabel’s legs quivered as he approached. He slid his knife from his belt, and she held her breath as he took hold of the cords that bound her wrists and sliced through them.

  Her hands dropped painfully to her sides. “Thank you.” She smiled tremulously, forcing herself to turn and face him. Isabel was no seductress, but she was going to have to imitate the flirting she’d seen at Kettwyck. Between maids and grooms, ladies and knights…Isabel had witnessed many of their rituals, their courting behavior. Yet she had not known exactly what lay concealed within the grooms’ braies, nor had she realized they could wield the thing like a weapon.

  She backed up slightly, veering toward the table. Dark-Eyes followed her. He spoke again, but Isabel concentrated on what she had to do. She lifted one hand and touched his forehead, then smoothed back his hair as though caressing him. She forced herself not to recoil from the coarse, filthy texture of his unruly mane, but to follow through with her plan.

  She had to entice him, to make him forget everything but what he wanted from her.

  She let her hand drop to the neckline of her torn chemise and took hold of the single, ragged cord that held it in place. One more step, and she would reach the edge of the table. “I hope we don’t have to take this too much farther,” she whispered as she groped for the knife with her free hand.

  Slowly, she loosened the drawstring, but before the bodice fell free, Dark-Eyes pounced.

  ’Twas almost fully dark. Ignoring the pain in his side and the hammering at the back of his head, Anvrai sat up and pulled out the last stake that held him down. With both hands and legs loose, he should be able to take on his Scots guards without too much difficulty.

  Only one of them came at him.

  The man drew a sword and struck, but Anvrai rolled aside and rose to his knees, swinging the chain that was still attached to his manacles. It hit the sword, knocking the weapon out of the guard’s hand. Without wasting a moment, Anvrai stood and rammed the man in his midsection, knocking him down.

  Before the guard could come to his feet, Anvrai lifted him by his tunic and struck him, holding the heavy chain in his fist. The Scot could not defend himself against Anvrai’s blow and fell heavily to the ground.

  With his head pounding almost unbearably, Anvrai managed to stand in the middle of the pen and turn his gaze toward the village. There was some commotion taking place, which was likely the reason only one guard had been left to watch over him and Roger.

  Roger lay unconscious—or perhaps asleep, with his hands tied to a fence post. Anvrai walked over and nudged him with his foot. When the young man did not react, he crouched down and sliced through the leather bindings that held him to the post. The sudden sound of screams in the village brought him to his feet again.

  ’Twas Isabel.

  Ignoring the pain in his head and the dizziness that came with it, Anvrai left Roger and vaulted over the fence, still carrying the sword. The path was dark, but a few scattered torches lit the village, and Anvrai headed toward them, using the trees and brush for cover. He moved quickly, and when he reached the first hut, the acrid smell of smoke burned his throat. ’Twas a good deal more than what he would expect from a fire pit.

  One of the buildings was afire.

  Anvrai hurried toward the center of the burgh, staying close to the buildings and any other structure he could use for cover. ’Twas not difficult to stay out of sight amid the confusion. A large building near the center of the village was in flames. Men and women ran toward the site, carrying buckets, tossing water upon the fire.

  Anvrai narrowed his one good eye and searched the scene, looking for Isabel. If she were trapped inside that cottage…

  One of the shutters near the rear of the building flew open and a plume of white smoke billowed from the window. A moment later, Anvrai saw a face. Isabel’s face.

  She was coughing, choking for air as she tossed a large bundle of animal skins to the ground, then threw her legs over the edge. Anvrai caught her before her feet hit the ground.

  “Sir Anvrai!” she cried in surprise. “You are—”

  “We’ll talk later,” he interjected. “Are you all right?” She looked pale, shaken. Staring at him, her eyes were wide and uncertain, but she nodded. Her thin chemise was torn and stained, and there was a dark bruise on her cheek. Her lower lip was discolored and swollen. The urge to go back into that cottage and pummel whoever had hurt her consumed him. He hoped the man inside was incapacitated and would burn there, before burning in hell.

  Anvrai gritted his teeth and turned Isabel toward the path he’d taken to get there. The notion of running away grated on him, but they had to go back, quickly, while the distraction of the fire worked to their advantage. Once they got Roger,
’twould be no easy task to find a place to hide. “Come then. We’ll have to hurry.”

  “Wait.” Isabel bent to pick up the items that had fallen from the skins. Handing him a knife and a cook pot, she took the rest herself.

  “Leave all this,” he said. The knife might be useful, but the pot and all the rest would just slow them in their flight.

  “W—we’ll need it.”

  Anvrai did not take the time to argue but started moving. He might be responsible for her, but if she did not make haste, he would not answer for her safety.

  Lady Isabel limped noticeably but made no complaint as they ran to the place where Roger still lay upon the ground. They entered the enclosure through a wooden gate, and Isabel hurried to the young man, falling on her knees beside him. “Is he…Is he alive?”

  “Aye, last I saw.”

  She placed her hands upon Roger’s shoulders and shook him slightly. “Roger!” she cried in a quiet, urgent voice. “Roger, we must go!”

  There was still only one guard in the enclosure, and he lay unconscious from the blow Anvrai had struck a short while before. They didn’t have much time. The man would soon come to consciousness and raise the alarm. As it was, the fire seemed to be spreading, which might extend their opportunity for escape as the villagers worked to contain the flames.

  A weak moan from Roger’s direction drew Anvrai’s attention. He lowered himself to one knee beside the young knight, pulled him up by the arms, and tossed him over his shoulder. Wincing with the pain in his side, Anvrai decided ’twas too minor an ache to signify a broken rib. But the wound in his shoulder burned like the brimstone of hell.

  “You cannot carry him!”

  “Aye. I can.”

  “But your ribs! I saw the way they beat you!”

  “I am well enough, Lady Isabel.” Surprised that she would fret over him, Anvrai quickly realized her concern was for Roger. She was afraid he would drop the boy.

  Anvrai led the way out of the enclosure, and when he would have headed straight for the hills, Isabel stopped him with one hand upon his arm. “We must go to the boats,” she said.

  “What boats? Where?”

  “This way.” She pointed in a direction opposite the village. “They brought us across a wide lake in a boat last night. It’s the way we should go to get back.”

  Low hills obscured Anvrai’s view of the lake Isabel spoke of, but he now knew he’d not been entirely mistaken about the voyage on a ship. Getting on the water was a much better plan than running into the hills. They should be able to put miles between themselves and the village before the Scots realized they were gone.

  And the most fortuitous part was that it would not be necessary to carry Sir Roger for any great distance. The young man could continue to sleep in peace in the hull of a boat.

  Anvrai followed Isabel’s shadowy form since she seemed to know the way. And because the sway of her body beckoned him.

  Even with an injured foot, she moved with an alluring feminine grace. Anvrai thanked God for the rapidly fading light, making it nearly impossible to see the fullness of her breasts or the curve of her hip. And he prayed that it did not rain. Moisture would render her chemise transparent.

  “Can you pilot a boat, Sir Anvrai?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Roger groaned and started to stir, but Anvrai held on to him and kept moving. He focused his full attention on following Isabel and keeping his balance with Roger’s weight upon his shoulder. She moved quickly in spite of a pronounced limp. Anvrai did not know what had happened inside the cottage, or how she’d escaped, but he could not ask her at present. Mayhap he would never ask…’twas not his concern.

  His task was to get them away from their captors.

  The lake came into view in the gloaming, and Anvrai could hear the gentle lapping of the water. Isabel turned, and spoke quietly. “There is a pier, with several fishing boats moored to it. None of the boats are very large…I—I’m not sure which one we should take.”

  Anvrai knew little of boats. ’Twould be a challenge to steal one of these and get it out on the water in the dark. But he intended to manage somehow. “We’ll take the one farthest out.” That way, they would not need to navigate around the others and would be out in the open water much sooner.

  They stepped onto a long wooden quay where several currachs were tied. A number of the boats were small, and Anvrai hoped they would find one near the end that would hold the three of them and be navigable as well.

  He walked to the edge of the quay and lowered Roger to the ground. “Now would be the time, boy,” he said, tapping him on the face. “Come ’round. You’ve got to climb into the boat.”

  Roger took a deep breath and groaned, then looked up at them. “Isabel?”

  “We’ve got to hurry, Roger,” she said. “They’ll soon be after us.”

  Anvrai helped Roger to a sitting position.

  “What happened? How did we get here?”

  “Questions later,” Anvrai said. “Can you climb into that currach?”

  “My head…” Unsteadily, Roger got to his feet. Anvrai and Isabel supported him on each side and managed to get him into the boat. Isabel followed, then Anvrai. After cutting the mooring line with the sword he’d taken, Anvrai pushed away from the quay. The oars lay on the bottom of the currach, and he picked them up, sat down, and started rowing out toward the middle of the lake.

  “That way is south,” Isabel said, pointing to the far shore.

  Anvrai steered them in the right direction as Isabel leaned over Roger. The small currach started to tip with her movements. “Be still, Isabel. We’ll capsize.”

  ’Twould be sheer luck if they did not overturn. The currach had been made for no more than three or four men, and there were nets and other fishing equipment in the bottom. The small craft rode low in the water.

  “But Roger is hurt,” she said, lowering herself behind Anvrai.

  He felt her breath upon his back, warm and vibrant. “Just sit still and answer my questions.”

  A deep silence fell, and though questions hovered in his mind, suddenly Anvrai did not want to know what had happened to Isabel. He did not want to hear of any of the hurt or abuse she’d suffered. She was not his mother or sister, nor was she his wife. She would have to bear her troubles alone, for he was no woman’s guardian.

  The paddles moved in the water as smoke from the burning village billowed across the lake. Anvrai heard Isabel take a shuddering breath, then he felt her warm body press against his as she collapsed against him.

  “I killed him,” she said. “The headman. I gutted him, with his own knife.”

  Chapter 4

  Isabel hoped she did not smell as bad as Sir Anvrai. Trembling, she pushed away from his broad back and turned to look at the smoke and flames engulfing the village. “I did not mean to wreak havoc on that village,” she murmured.

  She had killed a man.

  By all the saints, she had not been tutored in the rough ways of men or been given the knowledge she needed to protect herself against the lowest of them. Surely her father had intended to protect her from any mishap, yet he’d failed. ’Twas even possible he’d lost his life in the attack upon Kettwyck.

  She could not think of such horrors. ’Twould take all her efforts just to survive the coming night.

  “He fell,” she said softly to herself, as if seeking some new explanation for what had happened. “After I stabbed him, the chieftain staggered back and fell. He knocked over a lamp, and it caught fire…”

  Sir Anvrai continued rowing, as if he had not heard. ’Twas just as well, for she was not talking to the hulking knight, a man who could not possibly understand her need to speak of the atrocities of the night. Nor did Isabel herself really understand all that had happened. Her thoughts were oddly scattered, and there was blood on her hands.

  She reached over the side of the currach and scrubbed them, though she suspected ’twould take several washings before she felt clean. Dry
ing them on one of the leather skins that lay at her feet, she could not help but think of what she’d stolen from the man she’d killed.

  The man she’d killed.

  She had stood as if paralyzed, staring at him, at the terrible wound she’d inflicted upon him and the blood that welled from the deep gash in his belly while flames engulfed his house.

  “Did I do that to him?” Her voice was just a whisper as she gathered the edges of her chemise together. The chieftain had ripped away the ties, and the garment gaped indecently. Her fine kirtle had been stolen from her some days ago, and she’d been forced to travel all the way to this Scottish clime clad only in a thin, chainsil chemise. It had once been a lovely undergarment but had been thoroughly spoiled…filthy and torn, ’twas hardly the modest garb she’d worn at the abbey.

  Isabel trembled with the cold as well as with dread. By the grace of God, they would escape. She prayed for deliverance but could hardly hope for a reprieve. Anvrai was injured and in too poor a condition to row them to safety. Roger lay groaning in the hull of the currach, clearly unable to aid in their efforts to escape, and ’twas too dark a night to navigate accurately. ’Twould be a miracle if they survived the crossing to the other side of the lake.

  “Sir Anvrai…Can you see the far shore?”

  He hesitated before answering, and his voice was gruff when he spoke. “No, Lady Isabel, I can see naught.”

  The deep darkness was unsettling, likely even more so for a man who was half-blind. “How can there be no moon tonight or any stars in the sky?”

  “The clouds are thick. ’Tis likely we’ll be soaked before long.”

  “Are they coming after us?” Isabel turned again to peer into the darkness behind them, but she could barely see the shadowy hills where the village lay.

  “They would light their way.”

  “Oh. Of course.” No one would be so foolish as to try to cross this broad lake in the dark. Pursuers would be obvious. But there were no lights and no sounds other than their own voices and the lapping of the water ’round the currach.