Ironheart

by N. J. Layouni

  He slid his hand lower, tracing down the curve of her spine until it rested upon the plump swell of her buttock. Isobel mewled within his mouth but made no attempt to stop him, only kissed him more fiercely. He cupped her delicious rump and lifted her until she was balanced on the points of her toes. But for all it was flimsy barrier, their clothing parted them as effectively as if they were wearing armor.

  “Oh, Isobel,” he groaned, dragging his mouth from hers so that he could kiss the slender white column of her throat. “My darling girl.” The scent of her skin made him dizzy with the need to make her truly his. She tasted of sunshine and desire. “How badly I crave you.”

  “Then... have me,” she panted. Her voice contained a note of such desperation, he was shocked. Boldly, she slipped her hand beneath his tunic and shirt, raking her nails over the burning muscles of his back. “Take what y-you will, my lord,” she murmured.

  He drew in a ragged breath, and instead of ravishing her as she commanded—as he desperately wanted to—he cupped her lovely face between his hands and rested his forehead against hers.

  “I cannot dishonor you—”

  “Oh, but you can!” Her eyes burned with a bright-violet fire as she looked up at him. “I want you to bed me. Wh-Where is the dishonor in that?”

  Tempted as he was, he could not accept. Not like this.

  Although his character was not quite so black as most people believed, Anselm was no innocent. Since attaining manhood in Big Annie’s arms, he had not looked back. From that day on he had tupped with every willing female in the district. Young or old, married or widowed, pretty or ill favored, he had not cared. A young man’s desire, he found, was a thirst that could not easily be slaked. A malady with no cure. A curse.

  In the days before Isobel, he had been a seeker, constantly hunting the—albeit temporary—oblivion to be found buried hilt-deep in the warmth of a willing woman’s body. For him, life had possessed no greater treasure.

  But on the day Isobel arrived in Mullin, hunched up and weeping on the back of the peddler’s cart, his life had changed in an instant. The frenzied drumbeat of mindless lust had fallen silent, cowed by her presence, and in its place followed a spell of devout celibacy. But Anselm did not resent it, for Isobel was worthy of any sacrifice. He thought too much of her to use her like some common tavern slattern.

  As his heartbeat slowed, common sense prevailed. Loving her as he did, only one course of action could alleviate their suffering. “Harken to me, love. Let me speak to my father—”

  “Your father?” Her eyes widened. “Why? Do you need his permission to tup me?”

  The vulgarity of her speech made him flinch. “Of course not.” After so many weeks of restraint, why was she suddenly so altered, so eager? He could not flatter himself that he was solely responsible for this change. “But if I am to take you as my wife, I would like his blessing. Will you marry me, Isobel?”

  “You w-want me f-for your wife?” She pulled free of his arms, leaving him bereft.

  “Have I not just said so?”

  “W-Why? What for?”

  “Because I love you—”

  “No!” She declared fiercely, shaking her head so violently that her golden hair cascaded about her flushed face in a glorious, shimmering riot. “You must not. We c-cannot.” Wringing her hands in agitation, she began to pace, two steps one way then back again.

  A chill rippled through Anselm’s guts. Although he had harbored no great expectation that Isobel would immediately leap at his offer, neither had he anticipated such a blunt, and peculiar, refusal.

  Perhaps Brom was right after all, for something was most definitely amiss here. Something, he sensed, that had little to do with him.

  Fool that he was, although Isobel had just made it plain that she did not share Anselm’s dreams, still he persisted when silence would have been a better alternative. “Do not think, dearest, just say yes—”

  “No.” Isobel crossed her arms about herself and backed away, her eyes that had been so bright when they set out now dull and guarded. “Please do not ask me again.” Her voice trembled. “I could not bear it.”

  She could not bear it... or him? The ache in his heart was a fiercer pain than he had ever known. If a horse had kicked him in the balls, it could not have hurt him more.

  “But why?” He ignored the voice in his head that urged him to say no more. If rejection was to be his fate, he would at least know her reasons.

  “I ca-cannot tell you,” she whispered, regarding him with tearful eyes.

  A sudden blast of anger barged aside his melancholy. “Tell me!” In two quick strides, he was on her, his hands securing her arms to prevent any further retreat. “You do not love me, is that it?” A terrible suspicion had begun to take form in his mind. “Or is there someone else?” he hissed. “Speak. The truth is always preferable to a lie, and I will not leave until I hear it.”

  “N-No. ’Tis nothing like that.” But the sudden chalky pallor of her cheeks told him he had struck near the mark.

  “Oh, I see him now. Who is he?”

  “No one. There is no one—”

  “Give me his name, my lady!” Increasing his hold on her arms, he hauled her to him until their faces were so close he could feel her breath on his lips. But rage rather than desire drove him now. Hot blood surged through his veins, transforming him from a lovesick calf into a savage beast.

  “Or what?” she demanded angrily, her own temper finally roused. “Would you strike me, Anselm? Would you beat the truth from me, my gallant lover?”

  “Of course not. I would never do you harm—”

  “You are harming me now.” She looked pointedly at his hands which gripped the tops of her arms. “I shall be black and blue in the morning thanks to the tenderness of your embrace.” She kicked him hard on the shin. “Unhand me at once!”

  His leg throbbed where she had kicked him, but the pain barely registered, although the blow would surely yield a bruise to match the ones he had given her. Sanity returned like a punch in the stomach. What had come over him?

  “Forgive me.” Releasing her, he stepped away, allowing her space to breathe. “I meant you no harm. Just give me the truth, sweeting, and I vow never to bother you again.”

  Isobel chewed her lower lip, regarding him in silence for several long, interminable seconds. She had just ripped out his heart and was now in danger of trampling it beneath her little boot. He stared at her, mutely pleading for her to take pity on him.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “Though it gives me no pleasure to tell you so, I do not think we would be happy together.”

  “What utter rot!” The words were out before he could stop them.

  “Unless you allow me to speak without interruption, m’lord, I will say no more.”

  Clamping his lips together to prevent the spilling of any more careless words, he circled his hand in the air, motioning for her to go on with what she had begun. But inside he burned with bitter outrage, cursing the injustice of it all.

  Isobel sighed. “Shall we walk? I always find it easier to speak plainer whilst on the move.”

  He shrugged, beyond caring one way or the other. He looked up at the billowing white clouds that had finally set loose the sun. Shielding his eyes with one hand, Anselm scowled up at the perfect sky. Oh, that it would rain. Let the weather match the despair of his heart.

  Isobel set off walking, and he shortened his stride to hers, taking care that their limbs should not accidentally brush against one another.

  “Even if I did agree to the match,” she said, “you know your father would never consent to it.”

  “He would.” Of course that was an outright lie, but this was no time to be telling the truth.

  “Really?” Isobel arched her eyebrows, obviously seeing through his ruse. “The chieftain of Darumvale, the former steward of Ed
geway, no less, would welcome me, the miller’s poor dependent niece, into his illustrious family? Then he is a far stupider man than I supposed.” She gave a brittle little laugh that contained no humor. “Oh, do wake up, Anselm. It could never have worked between you and me.”

  He made no further attempt to convince her otherwise, for what she said about Seth was true. All too easily, he could imagine the horror and disappointment on Father’s face should he ever learn where his only son and heir had bestowed his heart. For the first time in his life, Anselm wished he had been born a peasant. Then again, it did not follow that the miller would have allowed him to marry his niece even then. He sighed. Circles within circles. Life was full of them, even within the ranks of the peasantry.

  Isobel was watching him. “No more protests? Good. Then you know I speak the truth.”

  “Not at all. You bade me to remain silent, remember?”

  She laughed. “And how convenient that you should recall those words now, at the very moment when any speech would condemn you as a liar.”

  The coldness in her eyes shocked him. Had it always been there? “If you do not return my feelings, I accept your decision, but you might at least try to be kind. Please do not mock me, Isobel. Not now.”

  Her smile faded. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be cruel... not to you.” They followed the path as it wound its way by the river. A gentle breeze stirred through the long grass heads that lined the narrow path, and birds twittered joyfully to see the sun. Anselm reached for the leather tie on his tunic and unfastened it, but although his body was warm, inside his chest his heart shivered, gripped by the deep dark of winter.

  “And then, of course,” Isobel continued, “there is my uncle...”

  “Hmm?” For a moment, lost in his misery, he had lost the thread of conversation. “What of him?”

  “I doubt he would have given his consent.” Isobel smoothed back her hair as it danced in the breeze like gossamer strands of a spiderweb. “Oh, I know he seems pompous and self-serving, but he is not so foul as the townspeople judge him.” She smiled. “He relies on me now, though he would never admit it.”

  “How... nice,” Anselm said, floundering for a suitable response. “I would not have guessed.”

  No doubt the miller did rely on her, his unpaid, live-in servant. Ever since Isobel had arrived, John had been spending more and more of his time frequenting Edgeway’s most disreputable taverns. Often disappearing for days, he rolled home only when his pockets were empty, reeking of stale sweat, ale, and sex.

  Anselm shuddered at the thought of the plump miller in the throes of carnal pleasure, and he pitied the poor whore whose misfortune it was to offer him relief. Surely no amount of silver would render the experience pleasurable. Anyhow, why was Isobel wittering on about the miller? Irritated, he swiped at the head of a tall grass that overhung their path, decapitating it with one blow. Did she imagine that speaking kindly of another man would serve as balm to the wounds she had already inflicted on his heart?

  “My uncle is fond of me... in his way.”

  “Huh! And what about Jack?” Anselm muttered through gritted teeth. “I suppose your cousin is fond of you too. Quite the happy family, are you not?”

  Isobel gasped and stopped walking. “Why?” Her eyes narrowed like those of an angry kitten. “What have you heard? What have people been saying about us?” Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I wager it was Brom, for he is always sniffing around of late.”

  “What?” Anselm gaped at her, for her outburst had come from nowhere. “Be easy, my lady.” He tried to hold her shoulders, but Isobel danced out of reach.

  “What have you heard?” she demanded again, her hands planted on the tempting curves of her hips. “Tell me at once!”

  “I have heard nothing... nothing at all.” But he soon would, he vowed, the very next time he saw Brom again. Was Jack the reason Isobel had rejected him? Surely not. That gangling, weasel-faced rat had little to recommend him; he was as greasy in body as in character. No, he could not acknowledge the miller’s son as a rival for Isobel’s heart. Were he not so miserable, he would have laughed at the very idea. What a ridiculous notion. “Why do you ask? Is there something I should know?” Despite his misery, his lips twitched. “Are you in love with your handsome cousin, my lady, is that it?”

  “Now you are being unkind. Jack cannot help how he looks.”

  “But he can help how he stinks. Does he ever bathe, I wonder?”

  With a huff of annoyance, Isobel tossed her head and marched away, skirt hitched with one hand.

  “What have I said now?” he cried, jogging to catch up with her.

  “You know full well.”

  “But I spoke the truth. He does smell.” Like the decaying corpse of a dog left out in full sun. “How can you stand to share a house with him?”

  She wheeled about, her cheeks flushed a most becoming pink. “I know what people say about Jack, but they are wrong. You are wrong.” She jabbed her index finger into his chest to emphasize her point. She looked so lovely when she was riled, like a hissing, spitting kitten.

  “What about? His stench? I think not.”

  “Jack is family, Anselm. Please do not disparage him so. Since the day I came here, he has been nothing but kind to me, and I will not stand by and allow you to speak ill of him.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “If you consider telling the truth speaking ill then I am guilty as charged. But if it pleases you, I shall not mention your cousin’s poor hygiene again.”

  “Oh, go home, Anselm! I have nothing more to say to you.” With those words, she turned and stalked back along the path toward the mill. The day was ruined.

  “What about my offer?” he called at her departing back.

  “I believe you already have your answer. Farewell, m’lord.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A month passed. Endless days that overflowed with misery. Bleak, interminable torment that haunted him both night and day. Since parting with Isobel, Anselm’s spirits hung lower than the pendulous teats of Gerda, his father’s best sow.

  Lying on his back on his pallet in the great hall, Anselm sighed and stared into the glowing embers of the fire. It was late, and once again the blessed oblivion of sleep eluded him. On the pallet beside his, Vadim slumbered peacefully beneath a mound of furs, and from behind the screen at the far end of the hall, Father’s deep snores resonated in the darkness, mingling with the various nighttime sounds of the livestock.

  Anselm envied them all, even the cow. Unable to get comfortable, he rolled onto his side, the straw mattress rustling beneath his weight.

  This could not go on. He had no appetite for life now that Isobel was no longer a part of it.

  He had even begun visiting Dareth with Vadim in an attempt to wear himself out with the vigorous exercise of sword training. But it did not help. Nothing did.

  There was only one thing for it. He must return to Mullin. Perhaps another dose of humiliation would cure him of his malady and finally snuff out the spark of hope that still resided within his foolish heart.

  The idea had been Vadim’s. He had seen Isobel once or twice when he had been off visiting his pretty widow, and according to him, Isobel rarely smiled anymore. She seemed always distracted and low. Could it be true? Was it, as Vadim suggested, his absence that had made her that way? There was only one way to find out.

  Before cockcrow, he was on his way. The path was so familiar that he needed no light to guide him. A ribbon of intense red light already edged the peaks of the distant mountains, heralding the arrival of the sun. He must make haste for it was market day again, and the miller and his son were sure to be making an early start. Would Isobel make the journey to Edgeway with them this time? Even if she did, no matter. The journey there would be worth it, if only to catch a glimpse of her.

  With each footstep, the heavy load
burdening his heart grew lighter. Cursing the hope that still dwelt there, he hurried on.

  As he crested the final hill, Mullin opened up before him. Crouching behind the shelter of a rotting tree trunk, Anselm paused to catch his breath, watching as the miller and his shambling son loaded heavy sacks onto the bed of the wagon. Suddenly John Miller glanced toward the place where Anselm was hiding. With a gasp, he ducked lower behind the carcass of the tree. Had he been spotted? Surely not. It was still much too dark. Sure enough, after a momentary pause, the miller continued with his work.

  For endless minutes Anselm waited, his eyes flitting constantly to the door of the mill. The wagon was now almost full, riding low with its heavy cargo. Why did they not hurry up and depart?

  With little regard for the earliness of the hour or the repose of his neighbors, the miller summoned his niece. “Izzy? Izzy?” His loud voice echoed in the still morning air, shattering the pre-dawn peace, and rousing the village dogs which responded with a chorus of agitated yips.

  Heart hammering, Anselm stared at the mill. Now they came to it. Would Isobel be going to Edgeway too?

  “Damn and blast it, where are you, girl?”

  “Coming, Uncle!” With a bulging basket hooked over one arm, Isobel scurried out of the mill, her shawl draped carelessly about her shoulders.

  The sight of the garment caused Anselm’s heart to plummet faster than a bird shot from the sky. She was going with them after all. With his eyes, he devoured her, drinking in every detail of her appearance and searching for evidence of the sadness Vadim had spoken of. But from this distance, her emotions were impossible to read.

  Jack, meanwhile, was lounging against the fastened tailboard of the wagon, yawning, and in full view of his fair cousin, was scratching like a flea-ridden dog at his private parts.

  Anselm wrinkled his nose. Disgusting pig. Absence had not improved him a jot. Poor Isobel. What chance did she stand with such vile relations? How soon before they killed her spirit and leeched away her beauty?