The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  “’Tis a pleasant setting here at the cottage…or might have been, were we not in Scotland. I—”

  “Isabel, why are you here?”

  She ran her hand over the edge of the cart. “I brought your supper.”

  But it was more than that. Sewing Roger’s wound had been horrible, and all Isabel could think of was how Anvrai would have held up under the stitching. Roger had behaved like a child.

  Anvrai was a man.

  He was the man who’d protected all of them that afternoon with his quick thinking and lethal sword. There was a potency about him that drew her like a butterfly to nectar. They’d come so close to death that day, and countless times since being taken from Kettwyck. She dreaded to think what might happen to them upon the morrow, or the day after. She did not like to think what would happen if their welfare rested in Roger’s hands.

  She stepped well inside the shed and set Anvrai’s bowl on the workbench. ’Twas dark inside but for the light of one lamp.

  “Isabel.”

  “I am sorry for coming into the yard today,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast. “’Twas wrong of me to ignore your command. I hope you will not remain angry with me.”

  She looked up at him, at the face that seemed so unfamiliar now. The anger was gone, but there was an intensity of his expression that took her breath away.

  He took a step toward her, and when he raised a hand to the hair that framed her face, a shiver ran through her. She closed her eyes and leaned toward him.

  “You should not have come here,” he said, but he did not release the lock of her hair. He let the curl wrap ’round his finger.

  His light touch shimmered through her, and she wanted more. She wanted his hands on her shoulders, on her breasts and legs. She yearned for his mouth to touch hers and his tongue to slip between her lips.

  “E-everyone is asleep,” she said, shocked by the direction of her thoughts. “Tillie and Belle…Roger.”

  He said naught.

  ’Twas foolish to have come to the shed. Roger was her future, not Anvrai.

  “We were fortunate today,” she whispered. “Will our luck hold, Anvrai? Will we survive the morrow and sleep upon English soil at day’s end?”

  Questions of their fate lay heavily upon her…not her death, because she’d come so close so many times already. ’Twas irrational, but she was afraid of dying without feeling Anvrai’s arms ’round her once more.

  She raised herself up onto her toes, and he leaned down, sliding his hands across her shoulders, pulling her close. He looked at her face, his gaze moving from her eyes to her nose, then to her mouth.

  Heat pooled in the center of her body, and when Anvrai lowered his head to claim her lips, the heat inside unfurled, tightening the tips of her breasts, tingling low in her belly and between her legs. She felt a desire to eliminate all space between them and become one.

  ’Twas reckless, but Isabel dug her fingertips into his arms and let her eyes drift closed. He was warm and hard under her hands, his scent thoroughly male, and when he closed the distance between them by pulling her against him, she felt the heavy thud of his heart against her breast. She opened her mouth to him, relishing the new rush of sensations when his tongue touched hers. She made a small sound, and he broke their kiss, lifting her into his arms.

  He carried her deep inside the shed and lowered her onto the straw-strewn floor. Bending down to her, he took possession of her lips once again. Isabel arched her back, her body tense and aching for more, drowning in desire.

  His mouth glided over hers, nipping and tasting. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth and sucked, and Isabel felt the breath leave her body. She was weightless, floating in a sea of sensation.

  She slid her fingers into the hair at Anvrai’s nape and pulled him closer. He moved slightly, pushing her legs apart with his knee, touching her breast with one hand. His fingers moved slowly and deliberately, and Isabel gasped when his lips left her mouth to press nibbling kisses down her throat. He loosened the laces of the battered tunic she wore over her chemise, then pushed it aside and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth.

  Shards of fire shot through her, urging her to press her legs together, driving her toward some primitive relief. But Anvrai raised his head, leaving her pulsing and wanting.

  He kissed her shoulder and slid the strap of her ragged chemise down until she was bared to the waist. He unlaced the fur tunic she’d made for him, then returned to her, taking her hand and guiding it to his chest. Isabel speared her fingers through the dense pelt of hair and found his nipples. She fondled and teased them, and learned that her touch pleased him.

  And she wanted more.

  He raised the tattered hem of her skirt to her waist, baring her entirely, then fit himself into the crook of her legs. His body moved against her in a rhythm that drove her nearly to madness. She wanted to feel him against her, not just the rough wool of his braies, but his hard male flesh.

  His weight suddenly shifted off her, and Isabel reached for him. “Please,” she cried softly.

  He touched the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Isabel’s breath caught when his hand moved higher, caressing her intimately, skillfully drawing out her pleasure.

  She felt as if her body would burst into flames when he touched his lips to her belly. The rough texture of his unshaven whiskers rasped across her tender flesh as he moved his head, kissing, nipping, sliding down, moving ever lower until she felt his breath upon her most sensitive parts.

  Isabel gasped and started to protest, but when his tongue stroked her, then dipped into her, pure sensation lifted her off the ground and pulsed through her in waves of quivering delight. He made a low growl and slid his hands under her hips, his sounds of arousal melting her, making her boneless. One flick of Anvrai’s tongue, and all the nerves in her body gathered tightly and pulsed in waves of exquisite pleasure.

  When the spasms ceased, she managed to move, rolling to her side to face Anvrai. She pressed her mouth to his chest, pulling his tunic from his bare skin. She kissed the nipples she’d seen earlier in the day and slid her hand under the belt of his braies, touching the bare length of him.

  He groaned. “Isabel, you must not.”

  “Pray, do not tell me to stop.”

  She felt his hand then, opening his belt, freeing himself to her touch. “Will you put this inside me?” she asked. When he hesitated, she rose up and straddled him. “Make love to me, Anvrai.”

  “Isabel, I—”

  “By midday tomorrow, we may be dead,” she said, pressing her feminine core against his hard, male body, seeking fulfillment without knowing how to accomplish it. “Please…”

  The muscles of his jaw clenched, but he pulled her down to him, smothering her with his kiss, shoving his tongue into her mouth. He moved suddenly, levering her beneath him, spreading her legs with his thighs.

  Positioning his taut male flesh against her soft, welcoming body, he would have thrust into her, but he took a deep shuddering breath instead.

  Desire surged through her again, violent and passionate. She needed more. “Now, Anvrai!”

  He entered her gently, cautiously, intensifying Isabel’s yearning for him. She lifted her hips, and he surged into her as though unable to stop himself.

  He held still then, and she could see the strain on his features. “Isabel.” His voice was a harsh rasp, but he raised himself on one hand and touched her face tenderly with the other. “Did I hurt you?”

  Anvrai forced himself to stay still against the flood of sensation, to wait until Isabel adjusted to him. “N-no,” she replied shakily. “It does not hurt.”

  Yet he’d broken through her maidenhead. ’Twas madness.

  ’Twas wondrous.

  Feverish, he began to move, sliding out of her, then slowly back inside. He increased the rhythm and felt her legs wrap ’round his hips, as if he were the only man in the world. He’d felt naught to compare to the sensations of her body contracting ’round him. She held
him close, with arms and legs going taut with excitement, shuddering when the climax came over her, crying his name, digging her nails into his shoulders.

  Her open gaze was so intimate it sent his blood roaring in his ears. Anvrai plunged deeply, at the same time burying his face in the crook of her neck. Raw pleasure shot through him when she arched against him again, and he found his own release, trembling and quaking as if ’twas his first time.

  And it was. No woman had ever come to him willingly, without good coin in payment for the use of her body. What he’d shared with Isabel was entirely different.

  When he could breathe again, he gathered her close and pulled them to their sides. He slid out of her, and every muscle in his body contracted in an echo of the pleasure he’d just experienced. She pressed her lips to his throat and Anvrai nearly came apart again.

  “’Twas more than I thought possible,” she whispered.

  “Aye.” Naught in his life had prepared him for the intensity of emotions that surged through him at that moment. ’Twas a terrible mistake to make love to her, for he could never claim her as his own. She was meant to be chatelaine of a grand estate and he was not the one who would become her husband-protector. That role was beyond his abilities.

  There could be no future between them, aside from traveling safely to England. She had satisfied her curiosity about him, and he had experienced a joining that had shook him to his very bones. “You should go back inside.”

  “I’d rather sleep here with you.”

  Anvrai swallowed. “What if Tillie needs you?”

  Isabel sat up, her body naked but for the ragged chemise that pooled ’round her hips. Her breasts were full and high, their rosy tips beaded in the cold air. “Tillie won’t need me.” She slipped the chemise down her legs and kicked it away, then she pushed him onto his back and rose over him. “Besides, I want more of you.”

  Isabel slipped into the cottage just before dawn, unnoticed. Roger lay snoring in the area he’d claimed as his own, and Tillie and Belle were quiet upon the bed. Her body still purred with awareness of Anvrai’s touch, and her emotions were in turmoil. She did not know what she felt for Anvrai, only that he made her heart sing and her body hum. She could not regret what they’d shared…they might not survive the journey home.

  And if they made it safely back to Kettwyck? Isabel picked up a fur blanket and pulled it close about her shoulders, wishing it was Anvrai’s arms that warmed her.

  Her father would never accept Anvrai as her husband. He owned no land, and ’twas likely he no longer had even a horse. He had no family with which to make a strategic alliance.

  Isabel took a deep, shuddering breath and looked over at Roger. He was just a boy. He lacked experience and understanding of the world, but he would mature, both in mind and body. Isabel imagined herself as his wife, bearing his children and running his household in the years to come.

  The thought of it gave her an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  The firelight flickered over his soft, handsome features, and Isabel realized how shallow her appreciation of him had been. Anvrai had garnered none of her early regard, yet he was by far the worthiest of knights. His value could not be measured in property or comeliness.

  Belle began to whimper, and Isabel knew she would face the day with very little sleep behind her, but she did not care. The hours spent with Anvrai had been worth it. She lit the lamps and went to the young mother, who seemed recovered from the previous day’s shock.

  Tillie yawned as she put Belle to her breast, and Isabel was reminded how young the girl really was and how alone. “Will we leave here today?”

  “Aye,” Isabel replied. “Sir Anvrai repaired the cart, and so you and your beautiful bairn shall ride.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “To England, of course. We’ll find a way to get you back to Haut Whysile.”

  Tillie looked up sharply. “I’d rather stay with you and Sir Anvrai.”

  Isabel felt her face flush with color.

  “Please, my lady,” Tillie said. “Ask him if he will allow me to accompany the two of you to your home. I am a hardworking maid and—”

  “Tillie,” Isabel said, unable to bear it. The girl believed she and Anvrai were a pair. “We shall see.”

  She began to gather the items they intended to take with them, purposely neglecting to tell Tillie that Anvrai was not her husband and had naught to say about whether or not Tillie stayed with her.

  Roger awoke and went outside, and soon Anvrai pulled the cart up to the cottage. Isabel heard him talking to Roger, giving him instructions.

  Isabel felt numb. The night’s events loomed momentous in her heart, but Anvrai had said naught of her intention to wed Roger. He’d made no declaration, no claim upon her, even after their intimate night together. Surely he would not easily relinquish her to Roger.

  Isabel took Belle from Tillie, holding the bairn close to her breast as the girl went to the privy and prepared to leave. The day would be fraught with danger. The cart would not travel well through the woods, but the path and the other open spaces left them too exposed. Isabel turned her attention to the tasks at hand and tried to put Anvrai from her mind. At least for a while.

  Roger came inside and picked up his blanket from the floor, keeping his injured arm stiff at his side. “Are you ready?” he asked irritably.

  “Nearly so. Roger, let me look at your arm.”

  “’Tis well enough, Isabel.”

  He seemed angry with her, and Isabel wondered if he knew she’d spent the night with Anvrai. Tillie had noticed the bond between her and Anvrai…mayhap Roger had taken note of the same things Tillie had seen.

  Anvrai came inside, but he hardly spared Isabel a glance. He gathered the straw mattress from the bed and carried it outside, fitting it into the cart. Isabel pressed her lips to Belle’s head and followed him with her eyes, wondering at the distance he put between them. He did not speak to her, and her chest ached with a feeling of abandonment. Had she mistaken his passion for affection…or for something even deeper?

  She quaked inside, worrying that she’d made a grave error in going to him last night. His manner today was cold if not outright contemptuous, and it gave her a feeling of helplessness. Of hopelessness.

  “I’ll take her now, my lady,” said Tillie, coming up behind her. When Isabel turned to hand the bairn to Tillie, Anvrai had already gone outside and was walking through the wheel tracks in the yard, spreading the dirt with his feet, obliterating all their tracks from sight. Whatever was between them was gone, too.

  Chapter 16

  “Roger,” Anvrai said, “you’ll pull the cart until we reach the path. I’ll follow behind.”

  Roger said naught, but his expression was sullen. Surprisingly, he did not complain but stood between the two handles extending from the front of the cart and lifted it.

  Anvrai looked back at the yard. No tracks were visible, and the cottage and shed were closed up, as though Cormac were merely absent and intended to return. Anvrai and Roger had buried the Scottish intruders a fair distance from the cottage, and Anvrai had covered all obvious signs of the grave. No one should be able to guess what had happened.

  But he would never forget. Isabel had come to him in the night of her own will. The eye patch had likely made him a more palatable lover, but that was all he could ever be to her, and only once. It had been a mistake, and ’twould surely not be repeated, not when he knew she would move on with her life and wed a suitable bridegroom. If not Roger, then some other likely suitor, a man who had the wealth and power to give her the security she deserved.

  There was room enough for Isabel to ride in the cart, but she had accepted Tillie’s sturdy shoes and led the way, obviously reluctant to add to Roger’s burden. Anvrai squashed the urge to lift her up and place her in the cart.

  Distance was needed. They had to get as far as possible from Cormac’s cottage.

  When they reached the footpath, Anvrai saw no need
to cover their tracks anymore. Wheel tracks were not unusual on the path. They traveled the same course the Scotsmen had gone the day before, and when they reached the place where the trail split in two, Anvrai motioned for them to head left.

  “You’re turning east?” Isabel asked. ’Twas the first time she’d spoken to him since leaving the cottage, and her question was justified.

  “I followed six Scotsmen yesterday,” he replied. “Three took the eastern path. The three who came back to the cottage were the ones who took the southern route.”

  “So you want to meet up with the other three?” Roger scoffed.

  Isabel touched Roger’s hand, and Anvrai looked away, unwilling to witness the affinity that still existed between them. It only showed that what he’d shared with her during the night was a momentary deviation.

  “The three Scots who came to us can’t have gone very far down that path before returning to the cottage, Roger,” she said. “I’m sure Sir Anvrai prefers to take the route where we will have less change of meeting anyone.”

  Anvrai held his tongue and took over pulling the cart, then moved ahead of Isabel and her young knight without adding to her explanation. The boy could not possibly be so dense he didn’t understand the reasoning for going east.

  “Roger,” said Anvrai. “Walk ahead and scout the path for us. Make sure we don’t blunder into—”

  “You go.”

  Anvrai preferred to be the one to go, but he’d intended to give the boy some relief from dragging the cart. His arm must be causing him considerable pain, but his petulance tried Anvrai’s patience. He wasn’t going to argue. “Fine. Which weapon do you prefer? Ax or sword?”

  “Sword,” Roger replied, with a baseless confidence. Anvrai doubted Roger had the slightest expertise with either one, but he pulled his sword from his belt and handed it to the boy, then took the ax from the cart and stalked away.

  “Sir Anvrai!”

  ’Twas Isabel’s voice.

  When Anvrai turned, she cast her eyes down as though she wished she hadn’t called out to him. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth and bit down upon it, then let it slide back into place. He felt an instant punch of arousal. He’d nibbled that lip, as well as her fingertips and breasts…the very center of her femininity.