To Anselm’s dismay, his throat constricted and the sting of tears burned his eyes. How long had it been since he had last heard such words from Father’s lips, especially directed at him? But Seth did not witness the result of his surprising admission, for planting a quick kiss on the top of Anselm’s head, he got up from the bench and strode away to the other side of the hall, where several villagers were already waiting for him to hear their petitions.
The gale of the previous night had passed, and the morning breeze that followed in its wake had barely the strength to stir a blade of grass, but the legacy of the torrential downpour lived on. In the space of a few brief hours, the hammering rain had transformed the usually hard-packed earth into a slimy trail of mud that oozed and shifted beneath their feet.
In silence, Anselm and Vadim trudged the familiar path up the mountain, saving their breath, for the going proved most arduous.
As he walked, Father’s parting words still preyed on Anselm’s mind. Doubtless it was the amount of wine Seth had consumed on the previous night that was responsible for such an unusual display of affection. Even so, guilt pricked at his heart.
Almost as if Vadim had access to his innermost thoughts, he turned to look at Anselm. “You are not coming with me today, are you.” A statement of fact, not a question.
Ignoring the gentle whispers of his conscience, he replied, “No. I am going to Mullin.” Guilt be damned. His love for Isobel was stronger than any oath.
Vadim sighed and continued up the trail. He did not speak again until they reached the little plateau where they always broke their journey. Panting a little, they stood side by side, surveying the world beneath them. Using his teeth, Anselm uncorked his skin of ale and took a few swift gulps before handing it to his friend. Wordlessly, Vadim took the ale, but his dark, brooding eyes betrayed his disapproval.
“This cannot go on, my friend,” Vadim said at last.
“What” Anselm paused from the task of scraping the thick claggy clumps of mud from the soles of his boots.
“You know full well what I mean: All the lies. The deceit.”
Anselm sighed. “Oh, do stop fretting. You remind me of Mother Galrey with all your glowering and predictions of doom.”
“Do I?” Vadim swept back his hair one handed, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Then I might as well earn the name you have given me. Listen well, little brother. The consequences of your ill-considered actions will affect more people than just you. If Seth were to find out—”
“Will you tell him, then? Is that what you mean?” His heart quickened at the prospect.
“Of course not! You know me better than that.”
“Then speak plainer and be done. But first know this: Whether you approve or not, my course is set, and nothing you can say will alter it.”
“You have finally spoken the truth, but I cannot pretend I am glad to hear it. Then heed this: From this day on, you walk alone on the path you have chosen. Live your life as you will, but do not expect me to cover for you anymore.”
A rush of anger flared in Anselm’s belly. “I thought we were friends, but it seems I was mistaken.”
“I am your friend, and were you not so blinded by love, you would see it.” Vadim gave a heavy sigh. “Seth has been good to me—”
“And I have not, I suppose?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
Vadim exhaled hard and unclenched his hands, which had been bunched into fists at his side. “All I am saying is this,” he said in a deliberately softer tone. “No matter how much I value your friendship, I cannot keep deceiving Seth.” He smiled sadly. “My conscience will not allow it.”
“Oh. I see.” ’Twas a blow, to be sure, but not an entirely unexpected one. Although Vadim had never actually lied to Seth and Sylvie, he had at least gone along with whatever tale Anselm had chosen to weave. But now that he could no longer count on Vadim’s silent support, Anselm feared it would not be long before his secret broke loose.
Staring moodily at the horizon, he barely noticed as the gray clouds parted, suddenly releasing the sun from its gloomy shroud.
“I hope you understand, brother,” Vadim said, placing a cautious hand upon Anselm’s shoulder.
“Of course I do. A conscience is a terrible burden to bear, or so I hear.” He forced a smile. “Put it from your mind.”
“What will you do now?”
Anselm shrugged. “I have no idea,” he answered truthfully. Until he learned the contents of Isobel’s heart, there seemed little else he could do but continue as before. But one thing was certain; he would not give her up, not unless Isobel herself bade him to do so.
“You will be the ruin of her, you know.”
Anselm glared at his friend. “How could you think so ill of me? Do you want to know the truth? Then brace yourself, brother, for here it comes: I love her. There! I said it.” And it felt good to admit it out loud. “Are you happy now?” As he spoke, he had the great satisfaction of seeing Vadim’s jaw drop. But a moment later he had regained his composure.
“I believe you,” he said. “I really do. All the more reason that you should exchange deceit for openness. After all, maidenhood is a delicate flower that cannot be restored after being trampled—”
Anselm groaned. “Oh, please! Spare me another of your tedious lectures on the peril of deflowering virgins, I beg you. I might appear foolish, but I am not quite so dim witted as you assume.”
“Oh?” Vadim arched his eyebrows. “Then perhaps you would accept a kindly reminder that gossip and rumor are equally damaging to a maiden’s virtue.”
Anselm opened his mouth to protest then hurriedly closed it again. Vadim might walk about with a staff up his arse most of the time, what with his old-fashioned notions of honor, but in this instance he was right. Like the gray clouds of morning, the uncertainty within his mind suddenly cleared. One way or another, the situation needed to be resolved. Today, if possible.
“I have to go.” Now that his course was set, he needed to speak to Isobel. “I will return here at dusk.”
Vadim nodded. “And you will find me, waiting.”
“Thank you, brother. For everything.” Overcome with emotion, Anselm pulled Vadim into a brief hug before he raced off up the treacherous trail.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Urgency lent his feet wings, and by the time Anselm reached Mullin it was barely mid morning. At this hour, most of the population were already hard at work in the fields, and apart from two old fellows sitting on a bench by the village green, there was no one else about.
Nodding politely to the two grandfathers, whose conversation his unexpected arrival had interrupted, Anselm crossed the grass by the most direct route, heading for the mill. The geese and goats that the old men were minding looked up as he approached, scattering with many hisses and bleats of alarm.
Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Anselm glanced over his shoulder. The grandfathers were watching him, silently following his progress, the stems of their clay pipes resting motionless upon their lower lips.
Swiping his sleeve over his clammy forehead, Anselm hurried across the wooden bridge and was instantly mobbed by the pack of village dogs that were lying in wait for him at the other side. Fending off the excited animals as best he could, he jogged up the track that led to the mill, though what he would say if the miller or his son answered the door, he had still not considered.
But luck seemed to be on his side. Much to his relief, the spot where the miller usually parked his wagon sat empty, save for a few hens pecking and scratching in the dirt.
“Hello, mister Anselm!” called a cheerful voice.
He stopped and looked about, unable to see who had hailed him.
“Over here!” the voice cried again. “Look!”
At last, Anselm saw someone waving to him from the river
bank. It was Brom. He was sitting cross legged by the river, his huge body half-hidden by the towering grass stalks. Judging by the pole and hook in his hand he had been doing a spot of fishing.
Anselm raised his hand in greeting. “Good morning to you, Brom. Have you caught anything yet?” Not that he had a hope, for the river traveled much too fast and shallow here, with sharp rocks jutting from the water like the teeth of a dragon.
“Not yet,” Brom replied with a wide grin. “Perhaps the fishies are still in their beds.”
“Happen they are.” He wandered over to where Brom sat camouflaged by the tall, swaying grass. Brom the Fool, the other villagers had dubbed him. But fool or not, Anselm always had time for Brom, much preferring the lad’s oftentimes childlike conversation to that of many other people in this village.
Lad! He ought to say man, for Brom was several years older than Vadim, and already twice as broad. Tall and strong limbed, his massive head topped with an unruly thatch of jet-black hair, Brom was by far the largest man Anselm had ever seen. A giant almost. Had he a mind to, Brom could easily best any man in a fist fight, but fortunately his nature was as sweetly innocent as that of a child.
“They are out,” Brom said, jerking his head toward the mill.
“What? All of them?” Please let Isobel have not gone too.
“The miller and... him. Not Miss Izzy, though. She is still home.”
Anselm could breathe again. “Excellent.”
But the mention of the miller’s son had dimmed the brightness of Brom’s smile. It was common knowledge how much he feared him, and with good reason. When no one was around to stop him, Jack would mock Brom terribly, teasing the defenseless creature to the brink of tears and then laughing at his misery.
The cruel bastard. Torturing Brom was akin to torturing a child or a helpless animal, and on three occasions already, Anselm had taken immense pleasure from bloodying Jack’s nose as punishment for his sins. But like most bullies, Jack was a sniveling coward, and he had made no effort to defend himself. After his beating, he had dragged his bony arse homeward, whining all the way like the spineless cur he was.
“Fear not, my friend. If Jack ever troubles you again, you know where to find me.” He smiled and ruffled Brom’s shaggy hair. “But for now, I will leave you to enjoy your fishing in peace.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As Anselm turned for the mill, Brom called after him, “She has been weeping, you know... Miss Izzy. I have heard her.”
A chill rippled through Anselm’s blood. “She has?”
“Mmm. And again last night.”
Anselm forced himself to smile, for there was no use in needlessly worrying the lad. “Women’s troubles, I expect. Nothing more. Leave it to me, Brom. I will ensure Miss Izzy finds her smile again.”
Apparently satisfied, Brom returned to his fishing, leaving Anselm to wander the rest of the way to the mill brooding over the news of Isobel’s distress. What could be vexing her so? Grief for her family, no doubt. Such a terrible wound would take a long time to properly heal if, indeed, it ever did.
As he raised his fist to knock at the mill’s battered door it suddenly flew open.
“Anselm!” There she was. Isobel. Bright eyed and pink cheeked, and lovelier than the dawn. His knees almost buckled beneath him at the mere sight of her. “I saw you talking to Brom. I am so glad you have come early today.”
“You were—” he cleared his throat to banish the unmanly squeak from his voice “—expecting me?”
“But of course.”
Smiling, he reached out to touch her cheek. “But I do not recall that we made any arrangement to meet when last I was here.” He trailed his index finger over the plump, rosy bloom of her skin. “Or am I so predictable? I shall have to do something to remedy that.”
“Oh, hush. Do not tease. Not today.” Snatching her shawl from its peg behind the door, Isobel hurried outside and slammed the door behind her. “Uncle has gone to Edgeway to pick up some part or other for the mill, so I hurried through my chores in the hope we might spend the day together.”
Blessing the mill for its temperamental nature and its boggling arrangement of machinery, Anselm took the threadbare shawl from Isobel’s hand and arranged it about her shoulders. But all the while, she fidgeted terribly and seemed eager to be off.
“Oh, come along. The day is a-wasting even as we speak.”
He laughed. “My! But you are an impatient minx today. I have not even had the opportunity to tell you how beautiful you are.”
“Am I?” she asked, a little breathlessly. “Am I really?” Her beaming smile flipped his heart.
“For certain you are. How could you doubt it?” Brom must have been mistaken, for no trace of sorrow marred Isobel’s sparkling eyes. Boldly taking her hand, Anselm raised it to his lips. “The fairest maiden in the whole of the Norlands, in fact.”
Isobel’s smile dimmed. “Oh, come now. You can hardly expect me to take such an outrageous comment seriously, not unless you are acquainted with all of Norland’s maids, as the gossips insist you are.”
What was this? A flame of jealousy, perhaps? How marvelous. Although Isobel had absolutely nothing to fear on that count, he sincerely hoped he was right. “What care I for the tittle-tattle and rumor of the ill informed and ignorant? ’Tis what you believe that most concerns me. Do you really think me capable of such ungallantry?”
Isobel said nothing, only smoothed her hands over the skirt of her blue woolen gown. Plain though it was, Anselm much preferred it to any of the exquisite gowns he had seen during his time in Edgeway, for the simple cut suited her slim figure well, concealing everything that lay beneath in a flattering, if modest, manner. Entranced by her beauty, he stared into the fathomless depths of her eyes, drowning in their gaze. Her pupils dilated until only a thin sliver of violet remained, ringing each black disc.
For once, Isobel had no pert comment to make. Instead, she cleared her throat and slid the point of her pink tongue over the plumpness of her lower lip.
Erde! If that was not an open invitation to kiss her, he was no judge of women. But as reluctant as he was to break the spell they were weaving, he wanted to take her somewhere less public. If they did not leave now, he would kiss her, consequences be damned, and in full view of Brom and the two old grandfathers sitting by the green. “Shall we go?” he asked rather curtly.
“If you wish.” She lowered her eyes and seemed almost disappointed. Did she imagine he was rejecting her? Oh, that would never do. Capturing her chin with one hand, Anselm tilted it until he could see her eyes again.
“Too many eyes observe us here, my sweet,” he murmured. “And unless we depart at this very moment, I fear I might act... rashly.” He could not look away from her lips. “Do you understand?
“Yes,” she replied. “I do.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
With Isobel’s hand tucked snugly in the crook of his arm, Anselm hastened toward the path beside the river.
Usually when they were together, they were all teasing and insults, almost like siblings, but today it was different. They walked in silence for a time, but all the while, he felt her eyes upon him, almost as if she had never seen him before.
“Stop it,” he growled. The need to kiss her made his speech unintentionally harsh.
“St-Stop what?”
“Looking at me like...”
“Like?” A hint of her usual mischief returned, displayed in her laughing eyes.
“Like... like...” Now that the moment had come, he knew not how to proceed. Usually he was the hunter, and a confident one at that. So why did he suddenly feel like the prey? He cast a glance over his shoulder. They were out of sight of the village but still too near for comfort.
“Like?” she prompted again. She sucked in her lower lip, and the action set off an uncomfortable throbbing in his trews.
> “Be warned, my lady.” He stroked back a lock of golden hair from her eyes. “If you keep this up, I will kiss you.”
“Good. And not before time too.” To his astonishment, she stopped walking and pressed her hands against his jerkin, boldly sliding them up his chest. “I had begun to think you never would.”
His heart leaped. This was most unexpected. So much for maidenly modesty. “Are you teasing me again? If so, I would advise against it.” The way her slim body pressed up against his was all too tempting. He was close to losing the slender thread of control that prevented him from accepting her offer.
“Shh.” She moved closer and linked her hands at the back of his neck, sliding them beneath his hair. “Just kiss me,” she murmured. “I want you to.” As she closed her eyes, her long eyelashes fluttered upon her cheek.
Propriety be damned. Hooking one arm about her waist, Anselm crushed her to him and kissed her with all the hunger he had fought so long to conceal. Obediently, Isobel opened her mouth and let him inside to taste her as freely as he desired. Erde! She tasted better than any of his fevered imaginings. Hot and intoxicatingly sweet.
Moaning softly, Isobel clung to him, her breasts crushed against his tunic, while her mouth made the kind of demands no untried maiden should know. The way she ground her hips against his, rhythmically pressing her body to the aching hardness within his trews, pushed him to the brink of sanity.
No innocent was she, and Anselm was glad of it. Cupping the back of her head, he kissed her more deeply, relieved he need not rein himself back. He wanted to devour her whole. To taste every inch of her ripe, needful body until she screamed his name to the heavens.
Perhaps Isobel was of the same mind, for she twined his hair roughly about her hand and pulled him lower, panting within his mouth with the fervor of their kiss.
But still they were not close enough.
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