The man threw her to the ground. Her head hit something hard, stunning her. When her vision cleared, she saw him raising his sword again. She scrambled across the rough ground on hands and knees and flung herself on top of FitzAlan.
The man above her was shouting a string of curses at her, but Isobel was screaming back. Suddenly, he jerked her to her knees by her hair. She looked up at the man’s face, mottled with rage, and braced herself to be backhanded across the face.
As he swung his arm back to strike her, she heard a roar. The man turned, his arm frozen in midair. From the corner of her eye, she saw a blur of movement through the trees.
Thunk!
She stared at the hilt of a blade protruding from the man’s left eye socket. Blood gushed from it, splattering on her. Even when his grip on her hair loosened and he fell to the ground, her mind could not yet grasp what had happened. She felt herself sway just before strong arms caught her.
Then Stephen was holding her against him. He was squeezing the breath out of her, but she did not care. As he covered her face with kisses, she sucked in gasps of air that came out as choked sobs. He murmured into her hair words she did not try to understand. But his voice comforted her.
She could not say how long he held her. It might have been an eternity, but it would never be enough.
Once her heart stopped pounding so violently in her chest and her sobbing subsided, a dense wave of exhaustion rolled over her. The leaf-strewn floor of the forest swirled beneath her.
“Thank you,” she whispered and closed her eyes.
Stephen entered the wood riding at a pace that risked his horse, cursing himself for taking so long. Damn, there had been just too many of them. He charged into them, slashing his sword from side to side. He killed two in the first foray, but the next two took more time. While he fought them, the others scattered.
A few rode off across the fields, but he thought he saw at least two go into the wood. That was why he was riding like a madman through the trees.
He rode straight for the log where he’d left Isobel and William. When he saw them, his heart stopped in his chest. Isobel’s body lay over William’s. A man stood over them, holding a sword. God, no! They were dead! He was too late!
Over the sound of his horse crashing through the trees, he heard Isobel’s screams as the son of Satan lifted her up by the hair.
Stephen was very good with a knife—he’d learned from William, after all—but could he risk throwing it with Isobel so close? When the man drew his arm back to strike her, a yell of rage and madness ripped from Stephen’s throat. As he thundered down on them, he threw the blade through the trees.
Then, in one motion, he leapt off his horse and pulled Isobel into his arms. Nothing in his life would ever feel as good as holding her against him at this moment.
He wanted to weep with relief. God in heaven, what a woman! Fighting like a she-wolf, screaming curses at the man. Jesus help him, she used her body to shield William!
When her knees gave way, he carried her to the log and held her while he scanned the woods. There could be one or two more in the wood. When he spotted two bodies lying on the ground, he blew his breath out with a whoosh. Thank God.
He turned to check on William. Oh, God, but William was pale. Moving quickly, he pulled the flask from inside his shirt and held it to Isobel’s mouth until she drank. As soon as she was able to sit on her own, he dropped to his knees beside his brother.
William’s pulse was strong, but he’d lost a lot of blood. If they got him somewhere safe—and soon—he could be saved. As he replaced the bloodied bandage with a strip of cloth from his shirt, he looked up at Isobel. She was almost as pale as William.
“We must go quickly,” he said. “Where are the horses?”
His question seemed to startle her out of her daze. She got up at once, saying, “I shall get them.”
As he cradled William’s head to pour ale down his throat, William opened his eyes.
“Bit slow, weren’t you?” William said in a weak whisper.
Good God, William was teasing him.
“I shall have to tie you to your horse,” he said.
William attempted to nod and winced with pain.
Stephen looked up to see Isobel coming through the trees, leading the horses.
“Ready?” he said to William. “One, two, three.”
William gasped as Stephen lifted him onto the log.
At Stephen’s nod, Isobel brought William’s horse around and held him steady.
“One, two, three,” he said again to warn William and then hoisted him up onto the horse.
William got his feet in the stirrups before slumping forward over his horse’s neck.
Just as well he is not awake for this.
As he tied his brother to the saddle, he looked over his shoulder at Isobel. She was mounted and awaiting his signal, her face serious and intent.
“The abbey is not far,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I don’t want to frighten you, but we must get there with all possible haste. The monks will know what to do for William.”
He did not tell her his other reason for haste. If this was not a random attack—and he suspected it was not—those men would not give up easily and move on to other prey. They could be part of a larger force, as well.
Stephen rode in front, leading William’s horse. Twice Isobel called out that William was sliding off, and he had to stop. He told Isobel to stay mounted and kept his eyes on the horizon as he retied the ropes.
When the abbey finally came into view, he gave a silent prayer of thanks. Surely God was with them this day.
As they approached, the gates opened and Jamie and Geoffrey came running out. Jamie went at once to William.
“How badly is he injured?” Jamie had his knife out, ready to cut the ropes.
“Best to keep him on the horse until we are inside,” Stephen said as he tossed the reins to Jamie.
Jamie swung up behind his father. Leaning protectively over William, he spurred the horse through the gates, across a narrow bridge, and up the short slope of the outer courtyard to the church. With monks trailing him now, he turned his horse and rode along the side of the church and through an arched doorway.
Stephen ducked his head as he followed Jamie through the arch. With a twinge of uneasiness, he realized they were in the monks’ cloister. God might forgive them for bringing horses into this quiet place, but the monks would not.
“The infirmary is there,” Jamie said, pointing to a doorway off the opposite side of the small courtyard.
Together they cut the ropes and lifted William down. Jamie blanched when William’s head lolled back, revealing the bloody bandage around his neck.
Stephen met his nephew’s frightened eyes. “There is no one stronger. He will make it.” Stephen needed to believe it, too.
“With God’s help.”
Stephen turned to see who had spoken. It was an ancient monk with a bent back and pure white tonsured hair. The monk waved them through the low doorway Jamie had pointed to and followed them inside. As they laid William down on a cot in the corner, he moaned. He did not waken, but he was alive.
“Bring me the lamp,” the monk said as he lowered himself onto a stool beside the cot.
While Jamie fetched a lamp from across the room, the old monk pressed his ear against William’s chest.
“The heart is strong, and he is able to draw air,” the monk said as he straightened. “Remove the bandage.”
Stephen knelt beside the cot. As soon as he cut off the blood-soaked bandage, the old monk cleaned the wound from a basin of water he seemed to pull from the air. The monk snapped his fingers at Jamie and pointed to several pots on a shelf. Faster than seemed possible, he mixed a smelly paste.
“Does he have other injuries?” the monk asked as he spread the paste with flat, bent-back thumbs over the oozing wound.
“Just this one,” Stephen said, “where he took an arrow.”
“Has h
e wakened since?”
“Once, briefly, more than an hour ago.”
“He awoke a second time,” Isobel said behind him.
Until he heard her voice, Stephen did not realize she had followed them inside. He was grateful for her presence. It comforted him to have her near.
“There was a man I did not see,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “Lord FitzAlan threw a dagger into his heart.”
Stephen reached for her hand and squeezed it, then kissed her icy fingers. “ ’Tis so like William, to wake just when needed to save the day. He is the best man I know.”
Stephen heard a choking sound behind him and got to his feet to put an arm around Jamie.
“ ’Tis my fault he is hurt,” Jamie said in a cracked voice.
“Nay, the blame is mine, not yours,” Stephen said, feeling the full weight of his misdeeds. “I am so sorry.”
The old monk’s ears were still sharp. “ ’Tis God’s will this man was struck,” he said without turning. “And with God’s help, he will survive.”
He turned on his stool and craned his neck to look up at them. “You are all big fellows, are you not? It will take time for this one to get his strength back, but he will heal.”
“He will recover?” Jamie asked.
“He is not out of danger. But aye, I believe he will.” The monk made a shooing motion toward Stephen and Isobel. “Take the woman and leave the lad with me. I need only one pair of helping hands.”
Stephen nodded but said, “I need a word with my nephew first.” Best to get this over with.
“I know what I told you upset you,” he said when he had Jamie in the far corner of the room. “It all happened a long time ago, when your mother was not much older than you are now. ’Tis not my place to tell you the whole of it, but neither is it yours to judge her. She did what she had to do to survive.”
Jamie kept his gaze on the floor and his lips pressed tight together, but he was listening.
“William has been father to you since you were a child of three,” he said. “You’ve always known you do not share his blood, but you are the son of his heart.”
Jamie nodded and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He is the best of fathers.”
“And your mother?”
“I wish she were here,” Jamie whispered. “The rest doesn’t seem important anymore.”
Stephen gave Jamie’s shoulder a squeeze and led him back to the cot where William lay. Under the old monk’s ministrations, William’s color was already much improved. He appeared to be resting comfortably.
“Your father is in good hands,” Stephen said. “He will be fine, I am sure of it.”
This time when the old monk shooed them, Stephen thanked him for his care and left with Isobel. Outside in the cloister, they found Geoffrey waiting. The tall, distinguished-looking man with him could only be the abbot.
“We are grateful for your hospitality,” Stephen said after Geoffrey introduced them.
The abbot took Stephen’s arm and led him a few steps down the walkway. “We welcome travelers, of course, but these are troubled times,” he said in a low voice and shook his head. “And we are a small abbey. It is… difficult… for us to accommodate… female guests… comfortably.”
Stephen suspected the abbot was concerned not so much with Isobel’s comfort as with the brethren’s peace. Having a beautiful woman—dressed in leggings, no less—within the confines of the small abbey was a disruption the abbot did not want.
“We shan’t stay long,” Stephen assured him. “I intend to ride back to Caen under cover of darkness tonight and return on the morrow with a large contingent of soldiers.”
The abbot’s eyes widened in alarm. “We have but two small guest rooms—” he began in a querulous voice.
“If it is safe to move my brother,” Stephen interrupted, “we shall all depart by midday tomorrow.”
The abbot heaved a sigh of relief. “One of our brothers grew up in the next village. He can lead you the first part of the way in the dark.”
The abbot wanted them gone.
“I will have food brought to you in the guest quarters,” the abbot said.
“You are too kind,” Stephen said. “Perhaps after we eat I could take Lady Hume outside for a walk?”
“A walk would be just the thing to soothe her,” the abbot said, brightening at the prospect of having Isobel removed for the afternoon. “There is a lovely path that goes along the river and up to our orchard. The land is within the precinct walls, so it is quite safe.”
Stephen ate with Geoffrey and Isobel at the small table in the woman’s tiny guest room. As they ate, he questioned Isobel about what happened after he left her and William in the wood.
His stomach tightened as she told him. How close he’d come to losing them both! It took his breath away to think about it. He hoped Isobel did not realize the men would have raped her first; he wished he did not know it himself.
The image of her sprawled over William’s body, when he thought them both dead, was burned into his memory forever. He took her hand, not caring what her brother might think.
“A walk would help take our minds off all that has happened,” he said. “The abbot told me there is a path we can follow along the river.”
“If we are to leave tomorrow,” Geoffrey said, getting to his feet, “I would like to spend the remaining hours praying before the abbey’s holy relic.”
Isobel gave him a faint smile. “ ’Tis why you came.”
“But please take Isobel,” Geoffrey urged him. “It will do her good.”
Isobel’s brother was naive to the point of foolishness. Stephen knew damn well what would happen if they went out alone this afternoon. After their brush with death, neither of them was likely to exercise caution this time.
Stephen got to his feet as Geoffrey went to the door.
“I shall pray for Lord FitzAlan’s recovery,” Geoffrey said.
“Thank you,” Stephen said. Looking down at Isobel, he added, “We are all in need of your prayers today.”
As Geoffrey’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor outside the room, Stephen held his hands out to Isobel. He knew what he wanted now. If she was willing, he would have her.
Isobel met his eyes, making no pretense she did not understand. She took his hands.
Chapter Twenty
Isobel saw the naked hunger in Stephen’s eyes. If she were going to refuse him, she must do it now. She took his hands. Today she did not care what was right or wrong, wise or foolhardy. This one time, she would take the man she wanted, not the man she must. She would allow herself this gift and not think about what came after.
There was no falseness between them. No pretense as to what they intended to do. Without a word passing between them, Stephen took the woolen blankets from the cot and folded them beneath his cloak.
They followed the stone walkway past the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen garden, they found the gate that led to the river path. Thankfully, it was neither the season for harvesting apples from the orchard nor the time of day for hauling in the fish lines for the monks’ dinner. There was no sign of another living soul on the river path.
Once they were hidden from view by the trees, Stephen put his arm about her shoulders. She sighed and leaned into him. It felt right, walking with him like this.
After the harrowing events of the morning, the chirping birds and gurgle of the river soothed her. The sun was out, and the air had none of the blister of March she was used to in Northumberland. Spring came early here. The trees were budding, and crocuses poked their bright heads out of the ground. An unexpected peace settled over her.
Neither spoke until they came to a fork in the path.
“Do we continue along the river, or go to the orchard?” Stephen asked, waving his arm first in one direction, then the other.
Stephen’s lopsided smile made him look so handsome that, on impulse, she reached up to touch his face. As soon as her fingers grazed his stubbled cheek, his smil
e left him. His eyes darkened, sending a rush of desire through her that almost curled her toes.
“Come,” he said and pulled her by the hand up the orchard path.
They moved with a sense of urgency now. As the trail went uphill, they left the scrub trees that grew near the river. They entered a field that would soon be planted with wheat or rye. Beyond the field was the apple orchard. An old croft stood between the two, its wooden door hanging at an angle.
“This is such a pretty spot,” she said, looking around her. “What would make a tenant abandon this croft?”
“Likely he had to,” Stephen said as he heaved the door open, “when his lord gave the land to the abbey.”
As Isobel stepped over the threshold, she saw that the croft had not been abandoned so very long ago. The sun poured in through gaping holes in the thatched roof, but the walls had not yet begun to crumble. There were piles of leaves in the corners where the wind had blown them.
Her heart rose to her throat as she watched Stephen clear debris from the earthen floor with his boot and spread one of the blankets. Knowing it would happen now, she was suddenly gripped by nerves.
Stephen turned and took her hands. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked in a quiet voice. “We can still go back.”
“I want to stay.” How like him to make her say it. With Stephen, she could never pretend to herself she was seduced against her will.
She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallowed. He pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, following it with his eyes. “I do not want you to have regrets.”
“I shall have none.”
When this did not seem sufficient to reassure him, she said, “If I died today…” She ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried again. “What I would regret is never knowing how it feels to bed a man I want to touch me.”
She could never have been so bold to say this to another man. Somehow, she knew Stephen would neither judge her nor make her feel bad for it.
When he still made no move toward her, she rose on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his. His lips felt so soft and warm, the kiss unbearably sweet. She had expected lust, not this tenderness that welled up in her chest until she felt she might burst with it.
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