Lady Isabel took her part of the loaf and returned to Sir Roger’s side. Having a bit of food changed everything. Anvrai felt better than he had all day and decided to go and explore while there was still daylight. ’Twas a better pastime than watching Isabel fawn over her fallen knight.
“See if Roger will awaken enough to take sips of water,” he said, before stepping out of the cave.
Judging by the condition of the boat and the home the hermit had made for himself inside the cave, the man must have lived on this edge of land for some time. Years, perhaps. Anvrai assumed there would be a path to the top of the escarpment, but he found none. There was no way up, and the ledge ended abruptly some distance from the cave, where the river cascaded down a steep ravine. ’Twas there that the river formed a waterfall.
Puzzled, Anvrai returned to the cave, determined to understand how the hermit had survived in this location. Isabel was ministering to Roger, speaking softly to him, lifting the young man’s head, placing a cup of water to his lips.
Neither the sight of her soft hands smoothing Roger’s hair nor the sound of her quiet voice should have inflamed his blood as it did. He picked up a torch and walked to the farthest reaches of the cave, before he followed the primitive impulses demanding that he lay her on her back, spread her open, and plunge into her.
If he did such a thing, he would be no better than the Scots who’d abducted her, no more honorable than the barbarians who’d raped and killed his mother and sister.
Putting her from his mind, he saw that the stone abode was larger than he’d first thought, with two chambers that were almost invisible because of their low ceilings. Anvrai knelt and held the torch at the first of the openings and saw that it served to hold a cache of tools and supplies.
The next opening was a passageway, and Anvrai crawled into it. Once inside, he was able to stand, but only if he bent at the waist. He walked about twenty paces to the end, and discovered a large rock jammed into what appeared to be an aperture.
Anvrai put the torch behind him and lowered his uninjured shoulder to the rock. He shoved, putting the strength of his legs behind it, and pushed the rock out of place.
Though Isabel was finally warm enough with the fire Sir Anvrai had set, she felt closed in and apprehensive inside the cave. She knew naught of tending the ill, for it had not been one of her functions at the abbey.
“Swallow a bit more, Roger,” she said, tipping the bowl to the knight’s lips. ’Twas hard to believe this was the same young man who’d seemed such a fine choice for her spouse. His lips were dry and cracked, and he smelled every bit as bad as Sir Anvrai. His wispy beard grew thicker ’round his mouth and thin on his cheeks, but it was quite matted and filthy.
She had to go back to the abbey. After this ordeal, surely her father would allow her to forgo marriage and return to Rouen to take her vows. Her place could not possibly be in the world, with men and their brutal ways.
Roger sputtered and choked, but roused himself enough to swallow some of the water. Certainly, if he continued to drink, he would need to relieve himself, and Isabel had no intention of dealing with any of that. Her decision to stay with Roger at any cost was wavering, and she hoped Sir Anvrai would remain with her until Roger was able to travel.
Why had her father insisted that she and Kathryn come to him at Kettwyck? Had he not known how dangerous it was? Her thoughts dwelled upon her sister and parents, and what might have become of them in the raid. Had her parents survived the attack? Had Kathryn been taken, too?
Kathryn had been ecstatic to leave the abbey. She was anxious to wed and had spoken frequently of her yearnings for more out of life, for a husband’s love, for motherhood.
“There is a way out.”
Sir Anvrai’s words startled Isabel and distracted her from her despairing ruminations. She swallowed back the tears that burned her throat. “How? Where?”
Her gaze moved between the two men. She did not know which one most threatened her peace of mind. Anvrai’s powerful torso remained bare, and though he seemed impervious to the cold, she wished he would take the fur pelt he held and cover his brawny shoulders. Surely ’twas not too much to ask.
“I’ll show you.”
Resigned to following the half-naked knight, she left her place near the fire and hobbled after him. First he showed her a cache of filthy fur pelts like the one he held.
“Some of this will be useful.”
Isabel doubted it until Anvrai pushed the furs aside and she saw various tools lying alongside a knife and bowl.
“These are snares,” he said, taking out several long loops of leather.
His hands were large and strong, and the sight of them sent a shiver of longing up Isabel’s spine. He was a brute of a man, but she found herself wondering how ’twould feel to be touched by those big hands, to be caressed by one so potent, and she could not help but compare him to poor Roger, who lay at the opposite end of the cave, sorely wounded.
’Twas puzzling. Anvrai’s injuries should have been incapacitating, yet he did not succumb. He’d strained beyond all expectations to get them away from the Scottish village, taking care of her as well as Roger, in his own gruff way.
“I can set the snares and catch a hare or two. Mayhap a partridge.”
His voice rumbled through her in a way Roger’s never had, and Isabel felt a surge of heat that seemed to melt her bones.
Feeling weak-kneed with odd sensations coursing through her, Isabel gave Anvrai a dubious nod and followed him to a tunnel carved into the rock. She had to duck as she entered, but went along behind him, following the flickering torchlight until she came to the daylight at the end and stepped out beside Anvrai.
The cliff might be broad, but that was no help. Isabel’s stomach dropped to her toes and she felt dizzy. She backed up against the wall of the cave and closed her eyes against the sight of the narrow valley far below her. Shivering, Isabel hugged herself as the wind penetrated her inadequate attire and nausea roiled in her belly.
She opened her eyes a crack and knew she would never be able to make her way down to that dale even if she had shoes and clothes to keep her warm. She’d always had trouble with heights, even looking out of high windows.
And Roger…How long before he would be able to stand, walk, climb?
Anvrai took her by surprise when he walked to the edge. Stricken with alarm by his move, she turned to go back into the tunnel, but he stopped her. “Come and look.”
She shook her head. “I cannot.”
“’Tis not as high as it seems.”
“High enough, Sir Knight.” The fearful quivering of her voice vexed her, but she would not look over the precipice. ’Twould only make the fluttering in her stomach worse.
Anvrai made a rude sound, stepped down, and quickly dropped out of sight.
Anvrai lowered himself to the path and let the wind cool his heated blood. Isabel had looked powerfully female, quavering at the prospect of scaling this cliff, and it made him want to pick her up and carry her safely to the dale.
’Twas absurd. The path was perfectly safe and the distance to the dale not far. Yet he’d known men who could not abide the view down from great heights—archers who could not man a parapet because of the dizziness such a height caused. There was no doubt in Anvrai’s mind that Isabel suffered the same malady.
He looked at the snares he held in one hand and the large fur pelt in the other. Kneeling, he laid out the pelt and sliced a gash in the center of it. He slipped it over his head, then wrapped a length of twine ’round his waist to keep the rough tunic in place.
There were many useful goods and supplies in the cave, but the most important thing—food—was missing. Anvrai intended to remedy that lack immediately. He followed the path to the dale and set his snares in a grove of trees. Next, he wandered toward an acre that had once been cultivated—most likely by the hermit—and picked some germander and sage that grew wild nearby. In the field were a few cabbages and onions that would so
on go to rot. There was also a pheasant’s nest containing three eggs. Anvrai took the eggs and gathered the vegetables into the front of his fur “tunic” and returned to the cave, where Isabel lay sleeping near Roger.
The bandage ’round her foot caught his attention. It covered a nasty gash that could easily become a crippling injury.
Anvrai had learned many hard lessons on the battlefield, the most important of which was that wounds did not always kill immediately. They often festered and putrefied, causing an agonizing death days or even weeks after the injury.
He laid his collection of goods on the floor beside the fire. He was not going to let Isabel’s wound kill her.
’Twas a simple matter to grind the germander leaves and roots into a dry powder. He added heated water to it, then went to Isabel, sitting beside her feet. Anvrai touched her, but she did not stir, and he knew she had drifted into the sleep of one exhausted beyond her limit.
Her hands were a blistered mess. Clearly unaccustomed to such labor as rowing a boat or wielding any other heavy tool, the work had been too much for her. If only he had a crock of his healing salve, he’d be able to smooth some of it over her hands and wrists, easing the raw aches he knew she must feel.
He looked at the blisters, running his thumb over each one, as if his touch alone could give relief to the pain caused by her injuries.
He tucked her hands under her chin and lifted her foot onto his lap, then unwrapped the cloth binding and washed out the wound. She would certainly have recoiled from his touch had she been awake, and Anvrai succumbed to the pointless wish that his face were not so repulsive to every young maid he met. Long ago, he’d forgone all hope of enjoying the touch of a comely young wife. He would sire no children, leave no riches nor wealthy estate.
He was a landless knight, a man who lived by his talent with his sword, an occupation that had become abhorrent to him. What woman, comely or plain, would take a husband who refused to do the king’s bidding and therefore possessed naught?
He made a low growl at such pointless musings and tended the cut in Isabel’s foot. ’Twas deep enough to need sewing, but since the hermit seemed to possess only one thick needle made of bone, Anvrai decided to put a poultice on the wound instead, then bind it tightly. With care, the cut would heal.
In the meantime, Lady Isabel would not be able to walk very far—certainly not down the path he’d discovered as he’d walked the woods and fields, setting snares and looking for food. They were trapped there together, at least for a few days. Anvrai covered Isabel with one of the hermit’s pelts and moved to the far side of the cave. The weariness temporarily assuaged by the bread he’d eaten returned, and Anvrai felt every bruised muscle and bone in his body. He eased himself to the floor and lay down to sleep.
Chapter 7
Isabel felt warm and secure in her soft bower lined with rose petals and fur. She heard the early sounds of dawn and felt the heat of the French sun upon her face. A man’s voice, deep and resonant, sent a frisson of expectation through her, a feeling unlike any she’d ever experienced before. She glanced his way and warmed at the sight of his powerful body, his strong muscles.
She could not see his face, but she knew he was her beloved, the one whose touch would give her such pleasure—
“Do you want some food?”
Suddenly confused by the rough male voice, Isabel opened her eyes and looked up at Sir Anvrai’s terrible countenance. She recoiled instantly, and he leaned back, putting space between them.
“’Tis dawn, my lady,” he said coldly. “And there are eggs to eat.”
Isabel sat up, regretfully leaving the peace and contentment of her dream. She was hungry, and her stomach growled when Anvrai handed her a bowl of cooked eggs. “Thank you.”
His reply was hardly more than a grunt. Isabel took a bite of the hot food and decided that though the man was uncivilized, at least he knew how to cook.
Anvrai moved away as Isabel finished her meal. He spoke quietly to Sir Roger, and Roger replied.
“He’s awake!”
“Aye,” said Anvrai.
“Isabel?” Roger croaked. “Are you all right?”
She put down her bowl and hastened to his side, taking his hand and placing it upon her cheek. “Me? I’m fine! I was so worried about you!”
His eyes drifted closed. Anvrai returned and handed her a cup of water. “He’s feverish. See if you can get him to drink.”
Anvrai was right. Roger’s skin was hot. Isabel helped him drink half the water, and when he would take no more, she helped him lower his head upon a soft pelt she found nearby and covered him with one of the skins she’d stolen from the chieftain’s hut. Anvrai must have brought them inside, for they were dry and folded in a neat pile near the place where she’d slept.
Anvrai sat beside the fire, where he was cutting a fur pelt with the hermit’s knife. He cut it into two squares, then sliced two long, narrow strips of leather.
“What are you doing?” Isabel asked.
“Making you some shoes.” He came to her then, crouching beside her. “Give me your foot.”
She extended her leg, and he wrapped her foot in the fur, tying it in place with the leather strip. He started on her other foot and Isabel experienced the oddest, most disturbing feelings, akin to the agitation she’d felt during her dream.
“I can finish,” she said, pulling her foot away from his competent hands. She did not need Anvrai’s assistance for such a simple task. Nor could she deal with the onslaught of sensations caused by his touch
Regretting her curt tone, she thanked him for his efforts on her behalf, then stood and walked to the end of the cave and back. He had done a great deal for her—and for Roger—and did not deserve her discourtesy.
Fortunately, he seemed not to notice her rudeness, picking up the larger cooking pot and going outside with it. Isabel sat down beside Roger, smoothed back his hair, and considered her future with him.
Isabel knew how to run a large household. She’d learned such matters during her years at the abbey, though at the time, she hadn’t realized that she was being prepared for the duties she would perform as chatelaine to a husband’s estate. And though she knew how much ale to brew for a household of forty and how many loaves to bake every day, she knew naught of being a wife. She’d lived in the abbey since her tenth year and seen no husbands and wives during the intervening years. What would be required of her?
Obviously, ’twas the wife’s duty to bear her husband’s children, but if that process required her to submit to him as she would have done with the dark-eyed chieftain, she wanted no part of it. Still, she’d seen enough playful flirting between men and women at Kettwyck to know that mating was not always distasteful. Some women actually encouraged it. She gazed at Roger and tried to imagine lying with him, kissing him, urging him to make love to her.
When he groaned and turned toward her, she decided ’twas time to go try out her shoes.
The fur cushioned her step, and though the gash in her foot was still sore, the makeshift “boot” made walking tolerable. The weather outside was mild, and Isabel wondered where Anvrai had gone. Assuming he’d headed toward the currach, she made off in the opposite direction, toward the western edge of the escarpment. She watched the ground carefully, avoiding stepping on any sharp rocks, but came up short at the edge of the trees.
Anvrai stood near the embankment, his fur tunic lying on the ground beside him. He stood in half-naked profile, with his blind side toward her, so he was unaware of her presence. Isabel remained silent and watched him shave the beard from his face and neck.
It seemed too delicate a procedure for such large, rough hands. He scraped the blade from the base of his neck to his chin in repeated motions, and Isabel took note of the strong muscles of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw.
Her gaze rested upon the dense muscles of his chest, formed so differently from her own. Unconsciously, Isabel slid her hands over her breasts and felt their soft fullness. The
pebbled tips were wildly sensitive, and she pressed her hands against them, as if to quiet their demand for…for something she could not name.
Anvrai scooped water into his hands and splashed his face, dripping water onto his chest. His nipples constricted into points.
Isabel loosed the laces of the tunic she wore over her chemise. The breeze did naught to cool her overheated skin, so she fanned herself with a flap of the heavy cloth. ’Twas time to return to Roger, yet she found she did not have the will to take her eyes from Sir Anvrai’s masculine form.
She knew it was mere curiosity. Certainly she had no particular interest in him, but he was made so differently that she could not keep herself from staring. She ran her hands down to her belly. Of course her own flesh did not ripple with hard muscles as Anvrai’s did. Nor were her hips as narrow, yet taut with power, as his were.
Isabel’s face flushed with heat, and she swallowed thickly when he unfastened his belt and dropped his braies to the ground. She felt no fear or revulsion at the sight of his powerful body, the way she had when the Scottish chieftain had stood naked before her. What she felt was something more like wonder—at their differences, at Anvrai’s raw male potency.
’Twas wholly improper to go on observing him unnoticed, yet she did not leave until he had finished his task and dropped into the water. Then she used the moment of distraction to retrace her path through the trees. Roger was much smaller than Anvrai—in every way. And he was definitely not as robust as the other knight. Isabel wondered how their escape would have gone if she’d had to rely upon Roger instead of Anvrai to get them away.
Afraid she knew the answer to that question, Isabel walked directly to the place where Anvrai had dragged their stolen currach and knelt at the water’s edge. She did not want to think anymore.
She slipped her hands into the water and rinsed them, cooling all her scrapes and blisters and cleaning away the last traces of the chieftain’s blood.
Chapter 8
The Bride Hunt Page 6
