“He has no property, Isabel,” Henri said, stepping away from her. “No standing, and no prospects.”
“I care for him, Father, and I will wed no other.” Etienne might be a fine man, but Isabel loved Anvrai.
“We will speak of this tomorrow, Isabel. ’Tis late and I am weary.”
“My heart will not change overnight, Father.”
Isabel heard him sigh. They spoke no more of it as they climbed the stairs, and he left Isabel at her door.
She went inside and stood staring into the fire in the grate. The chamber was warm, and there were heated bricks in her bed, but Isabel did not care for the warmth such objects might give her. She craved Anvrai’s strong arms ’round her and the heat of his lovemaking.
Pacing the floor of her chamber, she was fully aware that he would not come to her and wondered if she dared to go to him once again. It had taken all her nerve to cross the hall to his chamber at the inn the previous night, and that had required only a few steps.
Gathering her shawl about her shoulders, she took a candle and left her chamber. The climb to the next floor was not so very challenging, but Isabel went quickly up the steps before she could lose her nerve. She knew Anvrai’s door was at the end of the hall, and she knocked lightly upon it.
There was no answer.
Isabel pushed open the door and stepped in. The grate was cold, and the chamber looked uninhabited, but for one dark tunic hanging upon a peg behind the door and the shaving blade that lay upon a table near the bed. Both belonged to Anvrai, but these were the only signs the room was inhabited.
She set her candle down and hugged herself against the damp chill of the room as she paced impatiently. Where had he gone? Surely he had not left Durham already. He would not want to travel at night, and certainly not in the wet weather that was coming.
Likely he already knew her father planned to betroth her to Sir Etienne, and he had decided to stay out of it. Knowing Anvrai as she did, she believed he would think it easier for her if he made himself scarce.
Anvrai left Isabel with her father and went out to join one of Earl Waltheof’s patrols in the gathering darkness. Over the years, the Scottish king had done much damage to the vicinity, and Earl Waltheof was determined it would never happen again. Sentries kept watch at the city gates, and groups of well-armed knights rode the perimeter of the walls, alert to any danger.
Anvrai was much more suited to this work than he was to sitting idly in a grand hall, exchanging pleasantries. He could easily spend the night guarding the castle, challenging foes, thinking of naught but his next battle. He’d never wanted a wife or children of his own…He had naught to offer, no lands, no wealth…and no desire to take on the responsibility of a family.
’Twas clear Henri had chosen Sir Etienne for Isabel’s husband. Anvrai could not deny they were handsome together. Etienne was a man of character who had conducted himself well in battle. His family had not the same prestige as Roger’s, but he was lord of a valuable holding near Hastings. He would provide well for Isabel.
Anvrai muttered a vicious curse and would have slammed his fist through a wall if he’d been close enough to one. He was well and truly damned if he was going to allow another man to take her.
No one could care for Isabel—no other man could love her—as he did, and by God, he would not allow her to wed Etienne. He was going to have words with Henri, would promise whatever was necessary to win Isabel’s hand. If it meant taking the post at Winchester, so be it. Mayhap he’d have to beg Lord Osbern for a modest house at Belmere. By all the saints, he knew he was capable of providing for her, of sheltering her and keeping her safe.
Taking his leave of the men in his company, he started back toward the hall to confront Lord Henri but was distracted from his purpose when the sentries called out an alarm.
Anvrai drew his sword and joined the other knights who gathered to challenge the intruders. They rode hard to the gates and discovered a large army approaching in the distance.
“’Tis the king,” said Anvrai, putting his sword away. “Let us take Durham’s banner and ride out to greet him.”
Anvrai sent a man to the hall to inform Waltheof of William’s arrival, then led a contingent of Durham’s knights to the king, who rode in good spirits in spite of what had to have been a long day’s ride.
“Anvrai!” William greeted him jovially. “You will be happy to know your ploy was a success.”
“Aye, sire. ’Tis very good to know.”
“The accord is signed. Now Malcolm is my man. He would never have been able to defeat our forces, but ’twas good this time to prevail without bloodshed.”
Anvrai nodded.
“I would hear of the meeting you had with Malcolm,” William said. “But later. Let us make haste before the rain returns.”
They entered the city gates and approached the castle, dismounting when they reached the great hall. The king’s army dispersed as was their wont, but Anvrai remained with William and climbed the staircase beside him. “You did very well, Anvrai. We are pleased.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“Are you ready now to come to Winchester?”
Anvrai hesitated, and King William shot him a curious glance.
“We’ll speak of this again,” he said. “Now let us go inside and take our ease.”
The earl and his wife welcomed the king warmly and led him toward the small room where Anvrai had once met with Waltheof, but Anvrai held back. “I beg your leave, sire. I must find Lord Henri.”
“Leave is not granted, Anvrai. Come. I wish further discourse with you.”
Resigned to delaying his discussion with Isabel’s father, Anvrai accompanied the king and their hosts.
“Rest easy, Anvrai,” said William, sensing his agitation.
“Your Majesty, I have decided to go to Winchester. I will—”
“Too late,” said the king.
No, it was not too late. Anvrai was going to make this work so that he and Isabel could wed. “Sire, I—”
“Your loyal service has gone too long unrewarded.” William walked to one of the windows. “I have given this much thought and decided to grant you the title and standing of baron, along with Rushmuth, and all its lands, tenants, and payments.”
“Sire?” Anvrai’s head spun at William’s declaration. ’Twas not at all what he expected. Rushmuth was a valuable holding west of Kettwyck. Living there, Isabel would be close to her family, and Anvrai would have the resources to assist in the search for Kathryn.
“A castle is needed there. I want you to build a fortress and defend my northern borders, Anvrai. Do you accept?”
Anvrai took a deep breath and realized that every obstacle to marrying Isabel was gone—even his own fears. Henri would have no grounds for refusing the marriage. “With pleasure, Your Majesty. ’Twould be my honor to accept.”
“Good. And now, I believe—”
A tap at the door interrupted his words, and Lady Symonne entered. “Sire…”
Her greeting was brief, and Symonne quickly turned to the others in the room. “Lady Isabel seems to be missing.”
Chapter 25
Anvrai encountered a very distraught Lord Henri as he left the king and joined in the search for Isabel.
“’Twas her maid who discovered her gone,” said the man. “I don’t know where—”
“We’ll find her, Lord Henri,” said Anvrai. He knew of no dangers to her in the castle, and was certain she wouldn’t have gone far, now that the pouring rain had returned. He calmed himself, unwilling to think of every dire possibility for her disappearance.
Anvrai questioned the maidservants, then sent Etienne to the grounds to organize a search there. He took Tillie aside, taking note of her tear-stained cheeks and the worry in her eyes. “Where did you last see Isabel, Tillie?”
“Here. In the hall. She was talking with her father, but when I came to help her undress for bed, she was gone.”
“Had she been to her chamb
er?”
Tillie shook her head. “She did not change clothes.”
“All right,” Anvrai said. “Don’t worry, Tillie. We’ll find her.”
’Twas unlikely anyone had looked for her in Anvrai’s chamber, yet he thought it possible that she awaited him there. He climbed the stairs and made his way to the room he’d been given, but when he opened the door and stepped in, ’twas empty.
Only then did Anvrai allow himself to worry.
If the entire keep had been searched, Isabel must not be within. Yet the weather prohibited activity outside. Where—?
He took to the steps once again, descending, then making haste through the great hall and out into the courtyard. When he reached the gatehouse, he climbed again, high up to the wall walk. The wind and rain pelted him when he stepped outside, but Anvrai was undeterred. If Isabel had been looking for him, she might have come up to find him.
He saw her at once, standing paralyzed in the rain, with her back pressed against the parapet. Anvrai rushed toward her, removed his cloak, and pulled it over her shoulders, hardly able to believe she’d braved the height of the parapet to come to him. “Isabel.”
He pulled her into his arms, shielding her from the view of the ground below the wall. She grabbed hold of his tunic as if that would keep her safe at that height. He started back toward the stairs, guiding her steps, holding her trembling body against his, but she stopped and pushed him from her.
“Whatever possessed you to come up here?”
“I w-was looking for you.” She pushed free of him. “I came here of m-my own volition…to tell you that I love you, Anvrai d’Arques. I will wed n-no man but you.”
He swallowed and tried to speak, but no sound would come from his throat. He was moved and humbled by her strength of purpose…by the power of what she felt for him.
He kissed her then, deeply and thoroughly, loving her as he would love no other. He tore himself away and trundled her down the cold, stone stairs before she could protest.
He carried her across the courtyard and into the keep, intending to take her right to her chamber, but they encountered Lord Henri and Lady Judith in the hall.
“Isabel!”
“She is well, Lord Henri. Just cold and wet.”
“But where—”
“My lord, Isabel is soaked to the skin,” said Anvrai, unwilling to waste time on explanations. “I would see her settled in her chamber.”
Tillie led the way with a lamp, entered Isabel’s bedchamber, and went to rekindle the fire in the grate. “Can I do anything for you, my lady?”
“One thing,” said Anvrai. “Tell Lord Henri that Lady Isabel has retired for the night. She will see him in the morn.”
Tillie smiled and went to the door. “Oh, aye. I’ll do that, sir.”
The fire flared, and Isabel shivered. Anvrai took her hands, raised them to his mouth, and blew his breath upon them, warming them as he had weeks before, just after they’d made their harrowing escape from the Scottish village. He’d wanted her then, with a lust that had shaken him. He cherished her now, and would never let her go.
“My heart is yours, Isabel,” he said. “I love you.”
She raised up on her toes and kissed him, pulling his head down, angling her body against his. He slid his arms ’round her, holding her tightly, opening his mouth, tasting her, breathing her scent, feeling her soft curves in his hands.
“Isabel.” He dragged his mouth away and pressed his forehead to hers. “You must get these wet clothes off.”
“Aye. Gl-Gladly.”
He helped her with the fastenings, made difficult to open because they were wet, but soon her clothes dropped to the floor, and Anvrai wrapped her in a warm blanket.
“Come to me,” she said.
He suddenly knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “Isabel, be my wife.”
Isabel’s heart jumped to her throat and her chest filled with emotion. She could not speak, but nodded, even as tears welled in her eyes. She dropped to her knees in front of him, meeting his gaze. Touching the edge of his jaw, she slid her fingers up, pulling his head down to hers.
“I love you, Isabel,” he said.
“Anvrai.” She said his beloved name and brushed away her tears. She did not know how or why he’d changed his mind, but said a silent prayer of thanks. “Aye. I’ll be your wife.”
He stood and pulled her to her feet, skimming his arms ’round her, dipping his head down for her kiss. She opened for him as he pressed their bodies together, fitting her to the hard, muscular surfaces she loved so well. Anvrai kissed her neck, then her shoulder, sending shivers of pleasure through her.
The fire was a mere flicker in the grate, but they had no need of its heat, not with the flames they generated between them. When Anvrai cupped Isabel’s breasts and touched his thumbs to her nipples, her knees buckled.
“You are so beautiful.” Between kisses, he pulled off his own clothes, then lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. “Even in rags, you were lovelier than anyone I’d ever seen.”
“But you, my fine, noble knight…” She tipped her head and kissed his hand, then pulled off the patch she’d made to cover his damaged eye. “I let my eyes deceive me. I never knew how trite beauty could be. Your face is well loved, Anvrai, but know that I do not measure your worth only by your bold visage.”
“’Tis my skill in bed, then?” He raised himself over her, touching his lips to each breast, licking them until they drew into tight beads.
“Most assuredly, Sir Knight,” she said, laughing delightedly. “And more. You are all that I could want, Anvrai. No estates, no holdings in all the kingdom could make me want you more than I do now.”
He turned her onto her belly, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. She felt his kisses feathering her skin all the way down her spine. She shivered with pleasure.
“Anvrai…don’t make me wait.”
He slid his hands under her, touching her intimately, making her yearn for more.
“Rushmuth,” he said, moving up to whisper quietly in her ear. “You are my Lady of Rushmuth.”
She did not understand his words, but it was not the time for explanations. “Anvrai, please. Come to me.”
He gave her space to turn, and she faced him again. His broad shoulders were smooth and taut, and full of masculine power. She skimmed her hands over them, pulling him down to her.
“Make me part of you, Anvrai,” she whispered. “And never let me go.”
“Aye, my love. You are mine, always.”
About the Author
MARGO MAGUIRE is the author of ten historical novels, mostly of the medieval era. Formerly a Critical Care nurse, she worked for many years in a large Detroit trauma center. Now Margo writes full time and loves to hear from readers at P.O. Box 201094, Ferndale, Michigan 48220, or visit her website at www.margomaguire.com.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entire
ly coincidental.
THE BRIDE HUNT. Copyright © 2006 by Margo Wider. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition September 2006 ISBN 9780061739675
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