Now, as it had back then, a faint light glowed ahead in the distance, and a cool rush of air caressed Anselm’s exposed skin.
“Ooh!” Isobel shivered and huddled closer to his side. “What is this place?” she whispered.
“Wait and see.”
They stepped from the passageway into a mighty cavern. A towering space of light that soared above their heads. By the way Isobel’s mouth fell open, Anselm knew she gasped, but he could not hear her, for the sound was lost, swallowed by the tumbling white wrath of the mighty waterfall.
Hand in hand, they stood beside the ever-filling pool, watching rainbows dance over their heads where the waterfall kissed the sky. Water vapor condensed on their skin and clothing in a fine mist, quickly soaking them through. Tiny beads of moisture adorned Isobel’s hair, a fragile crown as lovely as the morning dew upon the strands of a spider’s web.
With a wide, joyful smile, Isobel let go of his hand. Tilting her face skyward, she opened her arms and threw back her head, eyes closed.
Anselm could not look away. Entranced, he watched as the rivulets of water dribbled over her face and ran down the slender column of her neck onto the exposed skin of her breast.
He would have kissed her, but at that very moment, Isobel opened her mouth until he could have counted every one of her shining white teeth, and she screamed. At least, that is what it looked like, for he could hear nothing over the tumult of foaming water. Breast heaving, Isobel drew in another quick lungful of air, fueling another soundless cry.
Her eyes snapped open, and the look she gave him pierced his very soul. She took his hand and clasped it between both of hers. Scream, she mouthed.
Anselm smiled and shook his head. Men did not scream. Not unless they were in the throes of dying, of course.
Go on! Her eyes sparkled from her saturated face. So carefree and joyful did she seem, he had not the heart to disappoint her. He might not be able to scream, but he could shout well enough. That ought to please her.
Taking a deep breath, he let out a great yell, but although the sound vibrated in his chest, he could not hear it. He yelled again, and again, and as he did so, a sense of wild abandon gripped him. It felt good to lose control, to vent suppressed emotions that had been too long hidden, freeing them into the cosmos. Isobel laughed then added her own mute cries to their silent cacophony.
How long they stood there, he could not later recall, but when they turned and left the cavern, he felt lighter and more carefree than he had done in many months. Weightless almost.
Hand in hand, they emerged from the cave and stepped into the baking heat of the day. Already, the skin of his face tightened as the sun leached the moisture from his body and hair, until the icy cold of the cavern was naught but a memory.
Isobel raised his hand to her lips. “Thank you,” she said, tilting back her head so she could look into his eyes.
There was no need for words. He knew the effect of the secret cavern better than anyone. In that instant, a sense of calm washed over him. For the first time, he was certain of the future and unafraid of the path he must now take. It was almost as if the waterfall had washed away all of his previous doubts. With this new clarity of mind, he was compelled to take Isobel in his arms and say, “Be my wife, Isobel.”
“Yes,” she replied without the slightest hesitation, reaching up to rest her hand against his cheek. “With all my heart, I will.”
Weak with relief, he leaned down until his forehead rested against hers and silently thanked the spirits for the joy that was now his. To be sure, their path to happiness was barred with obstacles, but he refused to believe they were insurmountable.
Tangling her hands in his hair, Isobel pulled him closer until their lips were separated by only the narrowest of widths. Her eyes glittered, dancing with merriment. “So will you not kiss me, husband?”
He chuckled. “Aye, sweeting,” he replied against her breathless lips. “With all my heart, I will.”
With a sigh, Isobel opened her mouth, her tongue gliding over his in the tenderest of welcomes. It was the sweetest kiss he had ever known. Groaning, he gathered her to him, cupping the back of her head in order to kiss her more deeply, and as he did so, his body responded.
The pounding ache of his manhood pressed hard against the junction of her thighs, making its needs all too clear, but Isobel did not retreat from him. Instead, she hooked her arms about his neck and began to rock her hips, moving them gently from side to side in an unmistakable invitation.
Her ripe breasts were crushed against his tunic and threatened to spill over the modest neckline of her gown. The temptation to hook his finger into the tight lacing that secured her bodice was almost more than he could resist. But resist he must. He could not dishonor the woman he would soon call wife.
But Isobel, it seemed, had other ideas.
While his head spun from the mounting fervor of their kiss, Isobel slipped her hands beneath his tunic and shirt, exploring the heated muscles of his abdomen. He sucked his breath sharply between his clenched teeth. What was she trying to do to him?
Wrenching his mouth from hers, he gently grasped her wrists, stilling the exploration of her eager little fingers. “Beloved... stop!”
“Why?” Isobel looked crestfallen. “Does my touch not please you, m’lord?”
Not please him? A sudden image filled his mind: ’twas of Isobel, naked and writhing beneath him, lying on a bed of heather, with the sun and the swooping swallows bearing witness to their love.
He raised her hands to his lips and kissed each finger in turn. “It pleases me well, my love, but I am only a man.” Drawing a shuddering breath into his lungs, he smiled and said “If you touch me like that again, my honor and your virtue will not live to see another sunrise.”
“Oh?” Her smile returned. Standing on the points of her toes, she took his lower lip between her teeth and sucked upon it. “And would that be such a bad thing?”
Erde! As she suckled upon his lip, the dishonorable part of Anselm’s mind imagined her willing little mouth performing the same act elsewhere on his person, her tousled golden head bobbing as she... No! This simply would not do. Isobel was his future wife, not some well-used tavern whore.
Taking her by the shoulders, he held her away from him. “When we are properly joined you may do to me whatever you will. But until that day”—he gritted his teeth, hating how his words resembled those his foster brother might have used— “we must... remain strong.”
“Why?” Isobel demanded, her lovely face marred by a scowl. “Why must we fight what we most desire? It makes no sense at all.”
“It made no sense to me either, not until this moment.” He gave a crooked grin, the one that could usually be relied upon to send his female admirers into a twitter, in the hope that it would pacify her. “To take you now would mean dishonoring that which I cherish most, and that I will not do.”
Although the intensity of her scowl lessened, it did not retreat entirely. “But who would know?”
“We would, sweeting,” he said softly, stroking back a strand of hair from her flushed face. “We would know.”
With a huff, Isobel flounced away from him to the edge of the hill, and there she remained, motionless, standing with her back to him. Even from a distance, Anselm sensed the tension emanating from her slight frame. Perhaps when her blood had cooled, Isobel would understand the great compliment he had just given her.
Grimacing with discomfort, he adjusted the cramped arrangement within his trews. Being honorable was proving to be a most uncomfortable business, and was something he would prefer not to make a habit of. Poor Vadim must spend much of his life in the throes of such unspeakable agony.
To refuse what he wanted most—especially when it was offered so freely—cost him a good deal.
At length, slightly calmer but no less discomfited, he ambled over to where I
sobel stood. As he drew nearer, he heard her muttering fiercely to herself. She did not look at him, only continued to stare straight ahead, with her arms wrapped about her middle, and her eyes fixed on the distant mountain peaks. The set of her stormy profile unsettled him. He frowned, uncertain how to proceed.
“Shall we return to the village?” he said at last. The sun was directly overhead, and his stomach grumbled, protesting over its neglect.
Isobel shrugged, indicating she did not care either way. Perhaps because he was hungry, irritation flared within him. “Are you sulking?”
She slowly turned her head to look at him, and Anselm wished he had kept silent, so icy was her gaze.
“Sulking? Is that what you think?”
“Well, what else am I to think?” he demanded, raking his hands through his hair. “Believe me, you have no reason to be offended.”
“A better man might wonder how he had wounded me.”
“A better man?” Hunger and weariness sharpened his words. “I had no idea you were acquainted with any. Well, with the exception of my brother, of course.”
“You would benefit from following Vadim’s example, I think.”
“You think so?” Anselm laughed and shook his head. At every turn, he was compared to Vadim. Even now, by the woman he loved.
“For certain. Your brother is everything that is noble and honorable—”
“Yes. His young widow would probably agree with you there.” But the irony was wasted on her.
“At least Vadim knows how to treat a woman.”
“Indeed he does.” Why was she so determined to quarrel and spoil the day? “But believe me, sweeting, Vadim would not tup you if you were to lay naked at this feet.”
Isobel’s eyes widened, and without another word, she stamped off toward the path they had so recently taken.
“Where are you going?” he called at her departing back.
“Home.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the way back down the mountain, Isobel did not speak at all—though her frequent huffs and the narrow-eyed glances she darted at him were expressive enough, and almost more than he could bear.
Of course, he had apologized—many times—but his words had no effect. In the end, he had given up, walking in silence behind her as she stomped her way back down the trail. Although her apparent hunger for his body was certainly flattering, at the same time, it filled him with a mild sense of unease.
Why was she behaving this way? He intended binding her to him at the earliest opportunity—almost as soon as the wedding arrangements could be made, if he had his way—so they would not have to wait over-long until they tasted the delights of marital bliss.
The wedding arrangements.
Anselm grimaced as he imagined Seth’s glowering face. Mother was sure to be supportive, but securing Father’s blessing would prove much more difficult; even so, he was determined to have it. His future wife deserved to be properly acknowledged, and he had no intention of marrying her in secret, as if he were somehow ashamed of his choice of bride.
The very moment he arrived back in Darumvale, Anselm resolved that he would speak to Seth, and unless he gave Isobel her proper due, he would lose him as a son. As for John Miller, doubtless he would prove much easier to win over, for having the son of a chieftain for a son-in-law came with certain benefits. For the miller, at least, the rewards would far outweigh what he would lose. Recompense enough for the loss of his live in maid-servant.
If Isobel left. At that moment, Anselm was unsure whether she still wished to marry him. Judging by the way she was hurrying down the mountain track, the signs were less than encouraging.
By the time they reached Mullin, the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Brilliant shades of red and orange streaked the cornflower sky, and swallows swooped and soared overhead in incredible arcs of speed and agility, hunting one last meal before night once again descended.
The villagers had already returned from the fields. In the distance, threads of wispy smoke rose from their homes as they supped, prepared for day’s end.
Isobel stopped walking and finally turned to look at him. “We must not be seen together. Not alone.” She was calmer now. Fire no longer burned within her eyes.
Anselm shrugged. “’Tis nothing they have not seen a dozen times before. Why should you care for their good opinion now?”
Taking a deep breath, she said, “There has been talk... about us.”
“Oh?” So the gossips had found them out at last. Good. Then it would not come as too much of a surprise when they announced their betrothal, and in a place as small as Mullin, the miller would be sure to have heard some of the rumors. “Tell me, what have they been saying about us, dearling?” He swiped the stick he had picked up over the long grass, making the dry seed heads rattle. “Something interesting, I hope?”
“’Tis not a joking matter, Anselm!”
“I had begun to think you had forgotten my name again. Hardly the best start to a union.” His smile faded. “Or have you changed your mind?” There was no point in upsetting bee hives and getting stung without good reason. “You do still want to bind yourself to me, do you not?” Pray, say yes! He held his breath.
Isobel’s lips twitched as she tried, and failed, to hold back a smile. “My silly peacock.” She took a step toward him, and then another, and suddenly she was in his arms again, her sweet, warm breath brushing his lips. “Of course I do. I-I love you,” she said.
He laughed because he could not help himself, for suddenly his world was right again. Joy coursed through his heart, as he held her, flooding into his blood stream and banishing the lingering knots of uncertainty. He kissed her hard, lifting her until her feet were off the ground, and spinning her round and around. Laughter mingled with their kisses.
If the Great Spirit took his life at that very moment, he would have nothing left to regret. The sudden tension in his trews, however, reminded him this was not entirely true. Almost nothing, he amended.
Reluctantly, he lowered her to the ground again, but they did not part. Fingers entwined, they leaned against one another, foreheads touching, sharing the air of their rapid breaths. Closing his eyes, Anselm inhaled, filling his lungs with the sweetness of her scent, committing to memory a moment he could enjoy for an eternity. Isobel was as fresh and sweet as air-dried laundry and warm lavender that basked in the heat of the summer sun.
Sighing his name, she kissed him with exquisite slowness until the aching in his trews fast became intolerable. Her lips moved on to kiss the sensitive skin beneath his ear while her sharp, white teeth grazed over his flesh, pain intermingling with pleasure so closely until he could not tell the two apart. With a pained hiss he threw back his head as she bit his neck, branding him with her teeth.
“Isobel.” He murmured her name on an exhale, one small word loaded with all of his hunger. And by the spirits, he was ravenous.
“Ssh. Just let me... love you, m’lord.” He groaned as she suckled his earlobe, and whatever control he had remaining crumbled into dust. He was, after all, only a man.
With a feral growl, he cupped her face between his hands and captured her willing mouth in a hungry kiss, kissing her as he had long since wanted to, without mercy, and without fear of any consequences.
At last, Isobel wrenched her mouth from his and looked up at him, her violet eyes flashing with need, her lips glistening with their kiss. “I want you,” she whispered, grinding her hips against his. “Now!” Such was the urgency of her demand, he could no longer refuse her. Honor be damned. They would be husband and wife soon enough.
He nodded. “Where?” He could barely speak for the wild thudding of his heart.
A brief look of triumph illuminated Isobel’s eyes, and then she grabbed his hand and dragged him off down the trail at a brisk trot.
Where was she taking him? The mill, perhaps?
He smiled. How daring and dangerous she was. But no. Instead of continuing to the village, she turned onto a smaller trail he had not noticed before, for it was so overgrown with grass. Barely wide enough for a rabbit, let alone a man.
Stirred by the warm breeze, the long grass rippled as they passed, the dry seed heads bobbing and hissing like the sea. Through this dry golden ocean they waded, the grass almost reaching up to Isobel’s chest in parts, but she did not falter. Her course was as certain as that of any sailor.
What a foolish notion. Why was he suddenly thinking of the sea when he had never even seen it? The only images he had of that vast expanse of water were those conjured within his head, created from the tales of the few sea-faring men he had encountered.
A wall of spiny brambles seemed to indicate the end of the trail, but without faltering, Isobel steered a path around them. Still clinging tightly to Anselm’s hand, she ducked beneath the branches of an over-hanging tree and led him into a small clearing, to a secluded spot he had never seen before.
At one time, the land must have belonged to the mill, for here was yet another graveyard of broken millstones, but this one was much older than the one behind the mill.
Partially covered by their shrouds of moss and lichen, vast chunks of ancient millstones littered the ground. Shattered and broken, alone or leaning up against a neighbor, they waited like lonely sentinels, condemned for all eternity to watch the passing of the world that had made them. Unable to die, and forgotten by all, save the birds and the encroaching brambles. And, apparently, Isobel.
The sound of rushing water hinted that the river was close by, and without hesitation, Isobel headed straight for it. Although the river was not particularly wide, it ran fast and deep here. The jagged half of a once-great millstone lay on its side, partially spanning the river. Isobel turned, casting a quick smile over her shoulder. “Go carefully here,” she warned. “The stone can be slippery.” With that, she let go of his hand, gathered up her skirts and, with the agility of a mountain goat, jumped up onto the broken millstone. Using it as a stepping stone, she leaped over the river, landing safely on the opposite bank.
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