Anselm laughed as he kissed her—he could not help himself. His heart was too full, overflowing with such undiluted joy he felt ready to burst. Laughter was the only way to release the buildup of such overwhelming happiness. He had never known life could be this sweet. “Have I told you how much I love you?” he murmured against her lips.
“Only once or twice,” Isobel replied, stroking her index finger down his bristly cheek. Perhaps he had died in the night, for if heaven existed, this moment, here in this damp, tumbledown ruin, was surely it.
A cockerel crowed in the distance heralding the start of a new day. Isobel gave a heavy sigh and kissed his chest. “I ought to return home before I am missed.”
“Must you?” But it was only a token protest. Allowing her to leave his arms was the last thing he wanted, but with one last lingering kiss, Anselm let her get up. Like all small towns, gossip in Mullin was the fuel of daily life, as vital to the villagers as their daily bread. No matter how honorable his attentions were, if anyone should discover where Isobel had passed the previous night, the consequences would be severe, particularly for her. He would not allow any shadows to blight the start of their married life.
Besides, he wanted to go home. There was a conversation waiting there that would not keep another day. As much as he resented its intrusion, it was time they let the world in on their secret.
Isobel clambered from their makeshift bed and, with many a longing backward glance, she began scampering hither and thither, seeking her clothes. Arms crossed beneath his head, Anselm lay back and enjoyed the spectacular view.
“Where is my shift? I cannot seem to... Ah! Found it.”
With a shocked gasp, Anselm sat bolt upright in bed.
As Isobel flitted from shadow to shadow, a bright shard of daylight that pierced the broken roof suddenly illuminated her slender form. What he saw chilled him to the marrow.
With a triumphant grin, Isobel turned to wave her wayward shift at him, but for once he could not return her smile. In that instant, reality, life, and all of its ugliness came rushing back in on a powerful tide, shattering their perfect dream into a million bitter fragments.
“Anselm?” Isobel’s smile guttered and then went out. “Whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”
But he could not respond. Horror had robbed him of a voice.
By the growing light of the new day, he first saw the terrible bruises that defiled the perfection of her body. All of them in places where they would not show, not when she was fully clothed. Each constellation a faithful account of brutality, evidence that had been pressed into her tender flesh.
Isobel’s body was a veritable calendar of abuse, and in every hue and shade between purple and green. There were masses of them, many resembling the imprints of cruel fingers. And what was that on her right breast? It looked like... a bite mark!
Anselm swallowed hard. He felt sick.
On seeing the direction of his gaze, Isobel clasped the shift to her chest. “I-Is anything amiss? You seem s—”
“Those bruises...” He cleared his aching throat and tried again. “H-How... where...?”
In one quick movement, Isobel pulled the shift over her head, concealing the evidence beneath a shield of linen. “’Tis hardly surprising after last nig—”
“No!” In one bound he was out of bed and at her side, naked and trembling, consumed by a terrible rage. “You did not receive them last night, my lady—not at my hand!”
“B-But I m-must have—”
“Some of these are old bruises, Isobel.”
“No.”
“Yellow and green with age.”
“No!” She backed away from him. “’Tis probably a bit of dirt, n-nothing more. Your eyes must have deceived you.”
“Oh?” He advanced on her. “Then take off your shift and let me see for myself.”
She shook her head, her eyes darting left to right like a cornered animal in search of an escape route.
“Prove to me that I am wrong, and I will most willingly apologize for my defective eyesight.”
“No,” she whispered. “Please do not a-ask that of m-me.”
He clenched his hands into fists, battling the urge to forcibly rip the infernal garment from her body. “Show me!” he roared.
“I c-cannot...” She fell at his feet in a crumpled heap, head bowed, her hands clamped over her ears. “P-Please do n-not yell at m-me,” she sobbed. “It was all so p-perfect. Let me have that at l-least.”
Remorse flooded his heart, instantly calming the wild beast that dwelt within him. “I am so sorry, sweeting.” He reached down to touch her tousled head but thought better of it and slowly retracted his hand. “Forgive me.”
He left her for the few moments it took to pull on his clothes and boots, allowing her a little time to compose herself. When he returned, she had still not moved. She remained sitting in the dirt, quietly sobbing and rocking to and fro.
Wordlessly, he draped her shawl about her quaking shoulders and then knelt in the dirt beside her. Uncertain how to proceed, he stayed silent, not trusting himself to speak, for fear that his simmering rage would flash again, unintentionally scorching poor Isobel.
Although they were now covered up, the bruises on her body were engraved on his soul.
He might be all kinds of fool, but he was neither a blind nor a jealous one. Rough, needful coupling was one thing. Rape was something else entirely, an act both foul and loathsome. The mere imagining of what she must have endured caused his stomach to churn.
My poor love.
An icy numbness tempered the flames of rage, and the fingers of his right hand itched in memory of his sword. If only he had brought it with him, for he had murder—no, an execution—in mind. Which bastard must he kill this day? If only Isobel would speak and give him a name.
At length, she wiped away the ravages of her tears and raised her head to look at him. “I-I thought you had gone, you were so silent.”
“I will not leave you,” he replied softly. “Not ever.”
That earned him a feeble smile. “I take it you know what happened to me, then.”
He took a steadying breath before speaking. “Aye. That I do.”
“So why are you still here? If you had an ounce of sense, you would be halfway back to Darumvale by now.”
Taking her gently by the shoulders, he said, “What has sense to do with anything? I love you, woman. All of you.” He stared into her swollen violet eyes, willing her to believe his words. To believe in him. “You are not alone, my love. Just give me the bastard’s name, and I will serve quick justice on the unworthy cur.”
“You would kill for me?” She seemed surprised, but how could she doubt it? Had the previous night not proved the depth of his love for her?
“If needs be, yes.” And he meant it. “I would die for you.”
“Oh, Anselm!” With that, she fell into his arms, sobbing until he thought his heart would break.
At last her tears were spent, and once again he voiced the most urgent question of his heart. “So, will you give me a name?”
“I c-cannot,” she whispered. “Please do not ask me.”
“But why?” Surely she wanted revenge on the man who had taken her maidenhood in such a heinous manner.
“Because I want to forget. Can you not see?” She cupped his face between her hands and gave a watery smile. “If I name him, it becomes real, the nightmare comes to life. If I remain silent I can pretend it was naught but a terrible dream.”
“I see.” But he did not understand and never would. For her sake, however, he would let the matter rest. For now. In the meantime they had more practical matters to discuss. “Then I insist you accompany me back to Darumvale. As chieftain, my father would grant you sanctuary since the protection of your menfolk has proved negligent in the extreme.”
She s
hook her head. “There is no need. My f-family are not to blame. Indeed, it was my own fault. No.” She sighed. “The danger has passed now. Fear not, my love, he cannot hurt me anymore.”
What could she mean? Was the bastard a peddler, a transient of some kind? He frowned. That would make him much less easy to track, but hunt him down he would. Not until the blood of Isobel’s attacker stained the blade of his sword would he rest.
“Tell me the story of the life we will share,” she said, snuggling against his chest. “Paint me a picture of the joy that awaits us down the years.”
Swallowing down his outrage was the hardest thing Anselm had ever done, but he was determined not to further burden Isobel with his feelings, not when she carried so many of her own. There on the packed-earth floor, cradling her in the safety of his arms, he forced himself to speak with a brightness that cost him dearly. “Ah! We will be happy, sweeting. So happy even the Great Spirit will envy us.”
“Even the Great Spirit, hmm?” Her snort of amusement reassured him. “Have a care he does not strike you down for speaking such sacrilege.”
“Could any merciful entity be that petty? I think not.” Merciful entity indeed! How could there be any such thing when evil doers thrived at the expense of decent folk? Anselm had never been overly spiritual, but at that moment it was as though a blindfold fell away from his eyes. Now he knew with unwavering certainty what he had long suspected. There was nothing out there—no Great Spirit, no hallowed halls where the ancestors feasted and shared their tales of earthly glory. No. They were quite alone. Godless. Helpless babes in the face of relentless evil.
“So?” Isobel prompted. “Where will we live?”
Where? “Why, in Darumvale of course.” He almost laughed. Why not embellish the tale with a few fae folk and dragons while he was about it, imagining what was impossible? The prospect of Father welcoming them with open arms was just as fantastical as any mythical beast. “Oh, and the children we shall make—”
“Children?” Isobel sat upright, frowning. “How can you speak of children when we have nowhere to live? We first need a home, my love.”
How typically female of her to be so occupied with the mundane when there was magic to be had. But humoring Isobel was no real hardship. “We will live in the great hall, but only to begin with. I hear there is a vacant house on the outskirts of town that we might claim as our own. It needs a little work, but no matter.”
Isobel’s eyes widened. “Vadim’s house?”
So she had heard of it. The house had been Seth’s idea. As Vadim approached full manhood, Father had encouraged him to begin work on the abandoned cottage, probably thinking that the true earl of Edgeway should at least have a home to call his own. Although the cottage was no grand castle, comprising just one room and a fireplace, it would suit them well enough until he built them a home of their own.
“Yes, but I am sure he will not mind overmuch.”
“We cannot steal your brother’s house!”
“Then I will build you another house—a bigger one, and with a separate bedchamber for our brood.”
“Brood?” She laughed, and the sound of it momentarily banished the shadows from his heart. “Just how many children would you have me bear, m’lord?”
“Six, I think.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Three of each would be nice.”
“Six!”
“But only to begin with. We are both young, and we have plenty of time to—”
“Enough!” Isobel clamped her hand over his mouth, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Pray, speak no more of our brood, m’lord, or I fear I might lose my nerve and decide to remain a spinster.”
His smile faded. “That would be a terrible waste,” he murmured against her lips. Love swelled his heart until it was difficult to breathe. Whatever torment Isobel had suffered—and once her accursed rapist was carrion for the crows—love would surely help ease her pain. Eventually, time would finish the job he had begun and heal her. From that day on, his life’s mission was to ensure Isobel’s happiness, whatever it took.
“Mmm.” She kissed him again, slowly, thoroughly, until he could not think for the urgent demands of his flesh. How could he want her again so soon? She must have felt it too, for in two quick moves she had unfastened his trews and released his eager member. “I want you, m’lord,” she gasped within his mouth as she lowered herself onto his body. “Now!”
He hissed as he re-entered the familiar tight heat of her body. “Take what you will, my love. I am yours to command.”
In mere moments, it was over. Once again they were gasping and spent, entangled and laughing on the filthy floor.
“Now I really must go,” she said, swatting at him as he attempted to detain her. “Go home, my love. Speak to your father, and return with his consent on the morrow, then together, we will approach my uncle.”
Standing in the shadows of the ruined building, Anselm watched her leave, taking the path that led to the mill. She turned once, raising her hand in farewell, a golden moment frozen forever in his memory—Isobel bathed in sunlight. Radiant and forever beautiful. Then she was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Martha’s gaze roused him, dragging him back to the present, and the weight of his grief accompanied him there—a raw and suppurating wound from which he had never truly recovered. He sighed and sadly shook his head. “If I had only known that was to be the last time I saw Isobel in life, I would have never let her go.”
Martha’s lower lip trembled and, like a conjurer, she produced a handkerchief from somewhere in her bodice, quickly dabbing it over her eyes before pressing the slightly damp square of linen into his hand. He could not imagine why until he touched his face and found the bristles of his beard were wet. He had been weeping? The evidence on his face was irrefutable. How odd, for he had not cried in years, not even after Mother had died.
Mercifully, someone else came rapping at the door of the bedchamber—an impatient knock this time. Moments later, Agatha bustled into the room, her plainly favored face contorted in a look of intense disapproval when she found Anselm wide awake and Martha sitting so close to his bedside. “What are you about, child?” she cried with dismay. “Surely you realize how unseemly it is, being in here, all alone, with...” The severity of her expression suddenly softened. “Are you weeping, my lamb?” The old witch darted a suspicious glare at Anselm. “What has he done this time?”
“It’s fine, Agatha. Really,” Martha assured her as she hoisted herself from her chair. “It’s not what you think. Could I have a quick word please? Outside.” Taking the bristling matron by the arm, she half dragged her from the room and closed the door behind them.
Anselm exhaled a long and trembling breath, grateful for the opportunity to compose himself. The hushed exchange of rapid female voices drifted from the other side of the door, and he idly wondered what they were saying about him.
Using the handkerchief Martha had given him, he mopped the tears from his face then carefully tucked the square of damp linen beneath the coverlet. No doubt he would be needing it again before too long, for the worst of the tale was yet to be told. If, of course, Martha still wanted to hear it.
How strange that he should feel no shame allowing a woman to witness his unmanly weakness. Then again, Martha was not just any woman. She was probably the only friend he had in this castle full of enemies. Besides, a few tears hardly mattered, not to a man accused of treason.
In the eyes of the world, he was already damned, so he might as well be hung for the truth this time.
Soon after, Martha returned, and she was alone.
“I asked Agatha to wait outside for a bit,” she said with a smile as she settled back onto her chair. “Don’t worry; we won’t be disturbed.”
He wanted to confess it all, truly he did; but now that the time had come to do so, he scarcely knew where to begin, for there were s
o many ragged threads to choose from. Which should he pick up first? Opening the door to a past long subdued was no easy task. Within his mind, a hundred scenes battled with one another, each one clamoring to be the first told.
Martha must have sensed this indecision. “So what happened when you went home? Did you speak to Seth?”
Had he not felt so miserable, Anselm would have laughed. “Oh, yes. I spoke to him,” he answered bitterly.
Martha leaned forward in her chair, her eyes wide with unveiled curiosity. “You told him about Isobel? Hell! What did he say?”
“Quite a lot, as I recall, and none of it good.” He settled deeper into the pillows at his back, suddenly weary to his very bones. “Mayhap I should have timed my announcement better, for when I arrived home, Seth was already angry...”
The moment Anselm entered the great hall, Seth pounced like a ferret on a rabbit. “Where in hell have you been all night? Your mother is sick with worry and has been pacing and fretting since well before cockcrow.”
Unusually for this time of the morning, the rest of the family were still seated about the hearth. It appeared he had blundered into the middle of a meeting—most likely about himself. Not the best of beginnings for what lay ahead.
Mother got up and hurried over to greet him, a smile of relief illuminating the paleness of her face. “Welcome home, my son,” she said as she hugged him. “I am glad you have returned safely to us.” A pang of conscience twisted within Anselm’s heart as she continued, “I know you are a man full grown now, but I worry so.”
Anselm pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Forgive me, Mother. It was wrong of me to vex you. I did not think—”
“No!” Seth roared, stomping over to where they stood. “You never do, do you, son? And that is half your problem. Stop coddling the lad, woman, and get on with your chores. Both of you,” he added, dismissing his mother along with his wife.
Only Vadim remained where he was, seated beside the fire, head bowed as he fletched another arrow, almost as if he were reluctant to look at his friend.
Ironheart Page 16
