“Breathe slowly now,” Anvrai said. “Or you will faint.”
The girl whimpered, but as the pain built again, she grunted and pushed.
“’Tis here, Tillie! Keep on!” Isabel placed her hands under the infant’s head, and as Tillie pushed again, the bairn turned, and its shoulders slid out. Anvrai watched carefully, but he could not yet tell if it was alive. “Once more!”
The girl lay back for a moment and caught her breath before raising herself up on her elbows to push again. Anvrai supported her back, and she pushed again. A moment later, the child was fully born.
“’Tis a girl,” Isabel said softly, her voice hoarse with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “’Tis wondrous.”
Anvrai felt a strange thickening in his throat, but he swallowed it away and observed Isabel and the new bairn as Tillie fell back on the bed in exhaustion. Anvrai could hardly breathe as he watched her new bairn’s tiny fingers opening and closing, the perfect little feet kicking. Yet she seemed to be struggling for air with her arms and legs flailing in distress. Anvrai reached for the child, but she suddenly let out a loud wail, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.
The bairn seemed healthy, with its lusty cry and pink cheeks; but Anvrai could not trust that all would be well, not even as Isabel washed her with warm water and he tied and cut the cord that connected her to her young mother. Isabel wrapped the infant in a soft woolen blanket and handed her to Tillie.
“Here’s your child, Tillie.”
Anvrai did not know how Isabel could fail to understand the fragile boundary between life and death. This birth might have ended disastrously, yet Isabel’s face seemed lit from within, and so beautiful Anvrai could almost forget the tragedies in his past.
“Look at the nails of her fingers,” Isabel said, gently straightening and separating the bairn’s fingers. Something inside Anvrai’s chest swelled, almost painfully. “And her tiny mouth. Her lips are like the soft petals of a flower.”
As were Isabel’s. Anvrai let his gaze drop to her lips and thought of kissing her, of tasting the sweet depths of her mouth. Madness, but he could not seem to help himself.
“What will you call her?” Isabel asked. She felt Anvrai’s gaze upon her and shivered with an awareness and an attraction that drew her to him, making her step closer until she felt the warmth of his body. She felt the urge to lean into him, to feel the hard planes of his body against the softness of hers.
Her senses were filled with Sir Anvrai. He’d been so kind and gentle with Tillie and her bairn that Isabel could hardly reconcile this man with the stern knight who’d gotten them out of the Scottish village and safely to their cave refuge. He could not possibly be the same man who’d been so gruff with Roger when he’d been ill.
“I don’t know what to call her,” Tillie replied to a question Isabel barely remembered asking. The girl suddenly winced with pain. “’Tis another one!”
“No,” Anvrai said, clearing his throat. “Just the afterbirth, and then ’twill be finished.”
With care, he took the infant from Tillie and handed her back to Isabel. Her hands intertwined with his as she took the bairn from him, and she was struck once again by his tender touch, in spite of the roughness of his hands. His face seemed to lose its hard edge, and the scars were not as terrible as they’d once seemed. Her heart, already full from witnessing the birth of Tillie’s bairn, felt it would burst when Anvrai touched her.
She took a shaky breath and walked toward the fire with the infant upon her shoulder.
’Twas far too close in the cottage. Though there was a chimney to channel the smoke from the room, some of it hovered just below the rough ceiling. The partridges roasted on a spit over the fire, with grease hissing and crackling when it dripped onto the hearth.
Roger slept soundly, in spite of all that had just happened. Isabel nuzzled the infant’s forehead and forced an outward calm in spite of her raw emotions. There was no longer any reason to feel nervous and agitated, but the evening’s events had taken their toll.
Fresh air and room to breathe would surely help. With the infant warmly wrapped, Isabel opened the cottage door and peered out. A light rain still fell, but Isabel felt drawn to the peaceful quiet outside. She returned to Tillie and placed the bairn in her arms. The infant immediately turned to suckle.
As one tiny hand curled against her mother’s soft breast, Isabel felt her own breasts tighten and her womb quicken. Yet she had not given birth, she suckled no bairn at her breast.
Alarmed by her unbridled emotions, Isabel blinked away tears and hurried to the cottage door. She let herself out and walked ’round to the back, where she could stand under the eaves, sheltered from the rain. She hugged herself to keep warm and fought the foolish tears that had been threatening to fall ever since their arrival at Tillie’s cottage.
The birth had gone well, yet Isabel wept, and the mist dampened her hair and clothes in spite of the overhang. She shivered as she shed tears for her father and mother, and Kathryn, and for her own narrow escape from Tillie’s fate.
“Isabel.”
Her throat tightened, keeping her from answering. She looked up at Anvrai and tried to keep her chin from quivering.
Anvrai took hold of her shoulders, then pulled her into his arms. Her tears fell freely, soaking the front of his tunic while his shoulders were surely being soaked by the rain. But he did not seem to notice as he held her, caressing her back as she wept. She heard his voice, deep and rich as it resonated through her chest, but did not really hear his words.
He felt big and solid against her, and she remembered that first day at the cave when she’d seen the dense muscles of his arms and shoulders and wondered at the power in his narrow hips, in that potent male part of him nested securely between his legs. She felt firmly rooted in his arms, as though her emotions would not overpower her as long as he held her.
Isabel slid her hands up, felt the thick sinews and muscles of his chest. Boldly, she slipped her hands inside his tunic and felt his bare skin, knifing her fingers into the crisp hair of his chest.
“You are so hard,” she whispered.
He made an inarticulate sound when Isabel touched his flat, brown nipples.
Only they weren’t flat. They’d hardened into tips like her own.
Awareness flooded through her. Hot and liquid, it shimmered through her, making her legs wobble, and the most sensitive parts of her body burn. She looked up at Anvrai and found his head tipped toward hers, his lips only inches away. Closing the distance between them, she touched her mouth to his.
Anvrai filled her senses. His rainwater scent surrounded her, and his taste filled her mouth. She felt the strength of his arms ’round her waist, and the pounding of his heart in her own breast.
He shifted slightly and deepened the kiss, and Isabel opened her lips, welcoming his invasion. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and slid his hand down to her hips, pressing her closer to his groin, fitting them together as they were made to be joined.
When he placed a hand upon her breast, Isabel could not breathe. She imagined him standing upon the rocky bank of the river, gloriously naked, powerfully male. Her body contracted against his, making her aware of an acutely sensitive place between her legs. She trembled and sought his heat again, just as he slipped the old tunic from her shoulders and down her arms.
It fell to her waist, leaving her breasts partially exposed through the torn chainsil of her chemise.
Anvrai released her mouth and touched his lips to her neck as his hands cupped her breasts. She held her breath when he kissed her throat and rolled the tips of her breasts into tight, sensitive peaks.
“You are so very beautiful,” he said, just before he took one nipple into his mouth, making her weak with pleasure.
He moved slightly, allowing his hand enough space to slide down her belly and touch her in the crook of her legs, the place that hummed with arousal. She gave a small cry, letting her head fall ba
ck and her eyes drift closed as he caressed the small, aching bud between her legs.
’Twas heaven. All at once she felt hot and cold. Her muscles tightened, then turned to powder.
She cupped Anvrai’s face in her hands and pulled him up for her kiss, wishing there was somewhere to go, someplace where they could lie together and satisfy her burgeoning need to make him part of her.
He suddenly grabbed her wrists. Breathing heavily, he pulled away from her, holding her still, holding her away from him. “Isabel,” he rasped. “We…This is no good.” His throat moved heavily as he swallowed. “You do not want to kiss me, nor should you.”
She looked up at him in puzzlement. “What do you—”
“I will not dishonor you this way.”
He released her arms and turned abruptly, stalking away in the rain while Isabel watched, confused, as he disappeared into the mist.
Anvrai had no excuse for his behavior. Isabel had chosen Roger. And just because he’d happened upon her when she was in a vulnerable state was no reason to take advantage. Under normal circumstances, that interlude in the shelter of the eaves would never have happened.
It should have been Roger who comforted her…Roger who kissed her, Roger who laved his tongue over her breast, Roger, whose hand fondled that most intimate feminine flesh.
Anvrai was still aroused and erect, and likely to remain so as long as Isabel was near. The trick would be to stay away, but that was impossible. The small shed with its clutter and leaky roof wasn’t habitable, especially since the light rain had turned into a cold, drenching downpour. ’Twould be madness to stay outside.
He was soaked by the time he returned, and he found Isabel cooking. Tension seemed to shimmer from her body, her movements stiff and awkward as she worked. She did not speak to him when he entered, but continued to stir the contents of a large clay bowl as Tillie gave instructions from her bed.
“’Twill only be plain biscuits,” the girl said in a shy voice, “but with the meat you brought, ’twill be a hearty meal.”
“Tell me what to do next,” Isabel said.
Roger was awake by then and sat on the three-legged stool with his back against one of the walls. A bucket on the floor near the center of the room collected drops of rain that leaked through a hole in the ceiling. The infant began to wail, and Tillie put her to breast. All in all, ’twas a dismal place.
Anvrai took the birds from the spit over the fire and placed them upon the table. He cut the meat, and Isabel made a point to avoid looking at him while she made the biscuits.
“I’ll take a leg, if you don’t mind,” said Roger.
Anvrai ignored him, offering the first choice to Tillie, since what nourishment she took would be important for the survival of her infant. She looked up at him timidly, but her gaze was without revulsion, as though she hardly noticed his disfigurement. “Th-Thank you, Sir Anvrai,” she said. “For this and…I’m sure I would have died had it not been for your help.”
“’Twas Lady Isab—”
“No. She told me of all you did, and I am grateful. Belle and I are grateful.”
“Belle?”
“Aye.” She looked down at the infant in her arms. “I’ve named her for Lady Isabel.”
“’Tis fitting,” Anvrai said as he started to turn away. But there was no place in the cottage where he could get away…from Tillie’s gratitude and Isabel’s discomfiture. And Roger—not even King William expected the kind of service Roger demanded.
“How did you know what to do?” Tillie asked him. “In my village, men were always barred from childbed.”
“Aye. ’Tis how it’s done,” Anvrai replied.
“Then how did you know—”
“I was present twice as a young boy when my mother gave birth.”
“And you remembered?”
He gave a nod and noted once again how young the girl was. If she’d been taken a year ago, she would barely have reached childbearing age. “What happened to the Scot who took you?” he asked, disgusted with a man who would so abuse a mere child.
“’Twas weeks ago,” she replied, her voice small and childish. Her eyes were a nearly colorless blue and tiny freckles covered her nose and cheeks. “In the midst of harvesting his fields, we had heavy rain. The roof began to leak—and not just a trickle.” She nodded toward the bucket in the center of the room. “The water poured in. Cormac was up on the roof, repairing it, and he fell. Broke his neck.”
“You’ve been alone ever since?”
“Aye,” she said quietly. “I thought of trying to get home to Haut Whysile, but I don’t know the way. And with my belly growing larger with every day that passed…” She shrugged and pushed back a string of her bright red hair with filthy fingers. She was so frail ’twas a wonder she’d survived.
Anvrai looked up and caught Isabel’s gaze. An arc of awareness passed between them before she averted her eyes. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, and she pressed her mouth into a tight, straight line, but she had never looked more beautiful.
“I thought I would die here,” said Tillie, in an unsteady voice.
Anvrai tried to put Isabel from his mind as he looked down at the girl in the bed. She’d been fortunate to have food, even if it was only flour, beans, and the Scot’s store of vegetables.
He got back to the questions at hand, the answers to which were important to their continued survival. ’Twas best to forget about those moments under the eaves with Isabel…and the silken feel of her skin under his roughened hands. “Is there a village nearby, or any other farms you know of?”
Her chin began to quiver. “They took so many of us…When we…” Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. To Anvrai’s great relief, she turned away, pressing her face into the mattress. He was not one to deal with children’s tears, but he needed to know if they were likely to be visited soon.
“There must be other farms…” Tillie said, sniffing. “Cormac had many friends. The raiders who came into my village…some of them visit from time to time.”
“But you have seen no one since the Scotsman’s death?”
Tillie shook her head. “No one else knows what happened.”
Chapter 12
Roger took one bite of his biscuit and spewed it across the table. “By God, that’s terrible!”
Isabel rose abruptly to her feet. “The presence of flour, water, and salt did not give me the skills to make a perfect biscuit, Sir Roger,” she said, barely reining in her temper. “But if you want biscuits, feel welcome to try your own hand and keep your curses to yourself!”
Acutely aware of Anvrai’s presence at the table, she took her seat again and resumed her meal, taking care not to look at either of the men, or the biscuits.
They knew she had no cooking skills. ’Twas too much to expect that she could produce biscuits when she had no experience with such tasks.
She had no experience of men, either, or she might have understood why Anvrai had called their kiss no good. To Isabel, it had been a rare awakening, a sensual experience like naught she’d ever known. But ever since his return to the cottage, Anvrai had been distant, and Isabel realized all at once that, but for the heavy rain, he would not have returned at all.
Would he have left them and continued on their southward journey without her and Roger? Isabel had no doubt he could survive without any of the tools or supplies they’d brought from the cave. He was a man of many skills, not the least of which was his ability to melt her bones with a kiss.
Isabel felt acutely self-conscious, sharing this small space with Anvrai. He had touched her, had put his mouth on her breast, yet he barely acknowledged her now. She might as well have been the bucket in the center of the room.
“I apologize, Isabel,” Roger said, oblivious to the tension she felt.
She could not speak to him, or she would blurt out her anger and frustration and regret it later. ’Twas not Roger’s fault that she knew naught of cooking or that his touch had no effect upon her.
He finished his meal and left the table, wrapped himself in a fur blanket, and returned to the place he’d claimed on the floor, stretching out by the fire. He closed his eyes and seemed to drift to sleep in spite of the fuss Tillie’s bairn was making. Isabel shot him an annoyed glance and cleared his bowl from the table as Anvrai continued to eat. She picked up the plate of biscuits, but Anvrai stayed her hand.
“If you would spare another…”
She could hardly believe it, but he’d eaten two of her biscuits.
Her heart relented slightly. He’d eaten the wretched things without complaint.
Isabel swallowed a lump in her throat and left the table to go and help Tillie with her bairn, who seemed intent upon exercising her lungs without respite.
“I’ll hold her a while,” she said.
She took Belle and placed her against her shoulder, patting her back as she’d seen nursemaids do with their small charges.
A moment later, Belle let out a belch that seemed much too large for her size. Isabel laughed, glad to have something to think of besides her own shortcomings and the close confines of the cottage.
The infant soon quieted, but remained awake as Isabel took delight in the small miracle she held in her arms. “Look, Tillie, how she watches the flames in the fire.”
Keeping her back to Anvrai, she could not help but take note of Roger, sleeping as though he had not a care in the world. Unlike Anvrai, he had not shaved his beard every day, yet he was still one of the comeliest young men Isabel had ever met. He was young, closer to her own nineteen years, and Isabel did not doubt he would someday become as formidable a knight as Anvrai. His narrow shoulders would fill out with muscle like Anvrai’s. She was certain his voice would deepen, his beard would thicken. His touch would inflame her.
And one day soon, he would not disdain her kiss.
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