Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  “But what if…?” Heaven forbid. “What if something should happen to you?”

  Luc heaved a sigh and pulled himself onto the stallion’s bare back. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I’ll return soon enough. Stay here and stay out of trouble.”

  His offhanded dismissal of her concerns fired up her indignation again. “I’ll have you know that should a ship come to my rescue in the meantime, I shall not hesitate to avail myself of it,” she said. “In that case, I hope you enjoy your time alone on this island, Luc de Warenne. And a female goat is called a nanny, by the way.”

  His mouth twitched. By all things holy, was he laughing at her?

  “I’ll return soon, my lady,” he repeated. “Please remain here till I do, rescue ship or not.” Then, with another twitch of his lips, he turned Minstrel and urged him down the hill.

  Giselle watched as man and horse shrank into the distance, apparently heading for the stone circle. She sighed. Perhaps she should have sought Luc’s sympathy and confessed to having a genuine fear of being left alone. She did not fear the intrusion of strangers. She feared the intrusion of unbearable memories and grief.

  Behind her, a goat let out a long a mournful bleat. Giselle turned and wandered over to the pen, where two of the goats were busy chomping on some hay. The third was up on hind legs, her black and white face peering at Giselle over the fence. The pen had a small milking table in the center of it, she noticed, but she needed a pail.

  Her gaze moved to the shed at the side of the house. Curious, she went to it and lifted the burlap curtain. Dozens of neatly-tied bundles of hay had been stacked against the one wall. A scythe, a shovel, and a pitchfork were propped up in one corner. A small, two-wheeled wagon occupied a spot on the floor, its rear resting on the ground, shafts pointing skyward. Two burlap sacks, obviously filled with something, sat against the wooden back wall. And, at her feet, was a wooden pail.

  She grabbed it and returned to the goat pen, letting herself in through the gate. The larger of the nanny goats did, indeed, need to be milked. Despite being of noble birth, Giselle was no stranger to the ways of country folk. As a child raised in rural seclusion, she had frequently sought out the company of servants and farmworkers. Many times, she’d watched them as they worked the land and cared for the livestock.

  “I’ve oft tasted fresh goat’s milk,” she said to the goat, who stretched out her head and sniffed Giselle’s skirts, “and I’ve watched its extraction, but I must confess, I’ve never actually extracted it myself. I trust, then, you’ll make allowances and give me your best cooperation.”

  The goat flicked an ear and bleated. Giselle moved toward the milking table, clucking her tongue. To her surprise, the goat followed and jumped up without a fuss.

  “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Giselle slid the pail beneath the udder. “And Luc exaggerated. Your teats are nowhere near the ground.”

  After a few fruitless tugs and several choice curse words, Giselle at last managed to find the knack. “Thank you, my lady goat,” she said after a while, lifting the pail. “You’ve been most generous. Do you have a name? No? What about Bella? It suits you, I think. Bella it is, then.”

  On her way to the house, she glanced at the water pump and a thought sneaked into her mind. Absolute solitude, she realized, actually offered a good measure of freedom. A smile curved her lips.

  Despite being combed, Giselle’s hair, laden with salt, felt like straw. Her flesh, too, felt dry and itchy. She needed to bathe. The thought of a hot, scented bath drew a groan from her. Would she ever experience such luxury again?

  She glanced down at herself, sighing with dismay at the sight of her salt-crusted robe. To wash it, she’d need a temporary change of clothes. An outfit of some serviceable sort, one that at least protected her modesty.

  Careful not to slop the milk, she went inside and set the pail on the table. Then she went to the oak chest, lifted the lid, and searched through the garments. A dark blue fabric caught her eye – a long-sleeved tunic, made from fine wool. She stood and held it against herself, grimacing. It only fell to mid-calf and would, no doubt, be far too loose. But it would serve for now, although it really needed…

  “A belt!” She pulled out a braided strip of leather, thin and pliant enough to be tied about her waist. “This will do.”

  Heartened by a growing sense of accomplishment, Giselle left the items on the bed, settled a fresh peat block into the hearth, and headed back outside. To be sure of her continued isolation, she clambered up the nearby slope and looked out across the landscape. Seeing no sign of Luc or Minstrel anywhere, she slithered back down, wandered over to the pump, and undressed.

  Naked, she rinsed both robe and shift in the fresh water and draped them over the grassy bank nearby. Then she partially refilled the pail, took a deep breath, and poured the contents over herself, letting out a squeal of shock. Gasping and shivering, she repeating the torturous routine twice more.

  “You’re mad, Giselle de Courtenay,” she said, squeezing excess water from her hair as she scampered indoors. “Utterly mad.”

  Teeth chattering, she pulled the tunic over her head and tied the leather belt around her waist. Then she sat on the bed, took the comb, and worked it through her damp tresses before weaving them into a neat braid that hung over her shoulder.

  “There,” she said, rising to her feet and smoothing out the tunic. No doubt it looked ridiculous, but Giselle didn’t care. She felt clean, dry, and warm.

  Almost normal.

  She wandered outside again and clambered up the small rise to the rear of the cottage, this time hoping to see a sign of Luc and Minstrel. The mist, though, had wafted in and now obscured the distant circle of stones. Behind her lay the path they had originally followed, and yet another idea took shape in her head. So far, she reasoned, her endeavors that day had been successful. Perhaps she should try a little exploring of her own.

  She set out, following the path. Soon, she reached the spot above the small beach, where they’d come ashore. She paused, her gaze following a line out across the water, to a distant and uncertain location buried in the mist.

  The sights and sounds of that terrible night flooded her mind. The fear. The cries. The disbelief. Grief, Giselle acknowledged, was an unpredictable emotion. It would lessen its grip and become bearable for a time. But when freshly disturbed, as it was now, it sliced through the soul like a broadsword at full swing.

  I should not have come here. Not yet. It’s too soon. Too painful.

  With a sob in her throat, she spun on her heel, meaning to return to the cottage and await Luc’s return. As she did so, she noticed another, less evident, path tracking through the thick fescue towards the narrower end of the island. Away from the cottage. Away from Luc.

  She hesitated, still wrestling with her grief, but tempted by the lure of curiosity. Paths, after all, did not create themselves. Whose feet, then, had carved out this narrow artery? Giselle pondered. To explore it would offer a diversion, shift her focus away from her dark thoughts. Better than returning to the cottage and sitting alone with her thoughts. Besides, she may actually find something of worth.

  Decision made, she set out in pursuit of whatever lay along the enigmatic trail, the long grasses brushing her bare calves as she waded through them. After a short while, the path widened and its exposed surface brought Giselle to a halt.

  A single set of horse’s hooves had been carved into the earth, heading away from the distant shore, toward the cottage. Giselle crouched and touched one of the indents. The tracks could only belong to Minstrel. No mystery there. But his hooves were not the only feet that had passed that way. Another set of prints had been carved into the mud, these heading in the same direction as Giselle, toward the beach. A man’s footprint, judging by the large size. They couldn’t be Luc’s. He’d ridden off in the opposite direction.

  Whose, then?

  The question only had one answer and it brushed a chill across Giselle’s skin. Th
e prints had to belong to a man who, for some reason, had been unable to return home. And there could only be two reasons, Luc said.

  Injured or dead.

  Giselle rose, her gaze following the continued line of the path. It appeared to slope away and downward, toward a far cliff edge. A good distance, but not daunting.

  Maybe I should go back and wait for Luc. Then again, he might not return for hours, and if the man is injured, he’s sure to need help. If he’s dead, then…

  Giselle shuddered at the thought of what she might find. Either way, she decided, returning to the cottage served no productive purpose. Besides, she’d come this far. Resolved, she set out, her stride quickening as she drew closer to the shore. An odd sense of urgency gradually replaced her fear, driving her forward. It turned into something resembling a panic. She broke into a run, pushing through the deep grass as the path narrowed again. As it snaked toward the edge of a cliff, she slithered to a halt. Chest heaving, she gazed down at a broad stretch of mostly pebbled beach. Closer to the fall of the waves, the pebbles gave way to sand.

  The mist softened the shoreline and stifled the tumble of waves. As always, countless seabirds cried out to each other, their muted colors blending into the gray skies. It was, at first glance, a pleasing scene.

  As she’d approached the shore, Giselle had summoned up a number of possible images, all of them centered around a stranger. An injured man. Or, Heaven forbid, a dead man. But never, in all of her dreadful imaginings, could she have imagined the sight she now beheld. It couldn’t be real. It had to be an illusion, created by a grief-stricken mind.

  Giselle fell to her knees and crossed herself.

  Like a grotesque skeleton, the ravaged remains of a ship’s hull lay embedded in the sand at the sea’s edge. Blackened ribs rose up from both sides of a charred keel. A pile of burnt timbers lay in the exposed belly of the ship; the cremated bones of the Marguerite’s decks and masts. The ghostly mist, floating across the pitiful remains, further enhanced the eeriness of the sight.

  Giselle rose to her feet, slithered down the cliff’s gentle slope, and approached the wreck. Horror gripped her heart, yet she also felt something akin to reverence. How the stricken ship had stayed afloat defied explanation. That it had drifted to this island and settled on this beach also thwarted reason. As she gazed upon the incredible sight, she became aware of a measure of comfort. Anna, and all the others who had lost their lives, now had a marker. A gravestone. A testimonial, albeit a bleak one, to their existence.

  But what of the missing man? Giselle looked about, squinting into the ever-thickening mist. She set off to her right, only to be deterred by a narrow, rocky ridge. So, she wandered back the other way, past the wreck, following the sea’s edge as her eyes searched the beach.

  At first, she thought she spied a shapeless pile of rags washed up on the shore. As she moved closer, she noticed a rumpled pelt of gray fur.

  A dead wolf?

  Then she noticed the hand sticking out from beneath the fur. Pale human fingers, curled into a loose fist. Giselle’s stomach lurched. She had found him, and Luc had been right. The man was either injured… or dead. She approached warily and crouched beside him, cringing at the smell. It reminded her of the odor in the ship’s cabin.

  A blanket partially covered the head. With hesitant fingers, Giselle peeled it back and looked into his face. “Heaven help us,” she murmured. “You poor soul.”

  The man had an aged, but noble countenance, framed by a wealth of gray curls. His jaw wore a generous, matching beard. His most pronounced features, though, were his eyelashes. Stark white and abundant, they fringed the edges of his closed lids.

  Giselle knelt beside him and bent her cheek to his partially open lips, hoping to feel a whisper of breath against her flesh. Was that a touch of warm air? Or merely her wishful imagination? She frowned and pushed two fingers beneath his jaw, probing, searching for a sign of life. The answer came in a slow, weak pulse. Her own pulse quickened in response.

  “Praise be.” She placed her hand on his cheek. “Can you hear me, sir? Can you open your eyes?”

  There was no response. In truth, she had not expected one. But what ailed him? Had he taken a fit and collapsed, perhaps? Was he injured? Bleeding? Giselle moved the blankets aside and examined both body and limb, but found no trace of blood or broken bones. No sign of physical weakness, either. Despite his advanced years, the man seemed to be of solid form. Then she leaned over and peered at the back of his head.

  “Oh, dear God!”

  Blackened crusts of blood matted his curls. The stained rocks beneath also bore sad witness to his injury. Giselle reached for one of the blankets, folded it to make a pillow, and slid it beneath his turned cheek.

  Then she took the other blankets and began to swaddle them around him, tucking the edges beneath his limbs and body. He wore a ring, she noticed, pausing to lift his gnarled right hand. The pitted gold band had a dull, antiquated sheen. A circle of small, black gems decorated its flattened head, which had been engraved with the design of a star.

  Something moved in the depths of her mind as she ran the pad of her thumb across the stones. An unclear image, like the remnant of a forgotten dream. It suggested recognition. As if she’d seen the ring before somewhere. Impossible, of course.

  Unsettled by her odd thoughts, she set his hand down and continued with her swaddling. Obviously, he needed urgent help, but she could do little by herself. She had to find Luc, and quickly. It seemed he’d been right about the missing blankets. The man must have seen the burning ship and come down to the beach in search of survivors. How he came to be injured remained a mystery. Perhaps he had simply stumbled and hit his head, his armful of blankets landing atop him. Intended for others, those blankets had likely saved the man’s own life.

  “A blessing,” Giselle murmured, pressing her lips to the back of his hand. “I’m going to get help now. I’ll return as soon as I can, all right?”

  His fingers twitched. Giselle released a soft gasp and looked up to see the man’s white lashes flicker.

  “Praise be,” she said, leaning over him. “Take comfort, sir, and lie still. You are found and I’m going to get help.”

  The man swallowed, his brow creasing as he did so. Then his mouth moved in an apparent attempt to speak.

  “Nay, hush.” Giselle tucked his hand into the blanket. “Save your strength. I’ll return soon. I promise.”

  She rose, uttered a fervent prayer, and set off at a run.

  Chapter 10

  Luc tapped his heels against Minstrel’s side, urging him toward the distant hilltop. Other than the gash, which didn’t seem too serious, the stallion appeared to be none the worse for his remarkable swim. As a precaution, Luc kept him at a gentle canter, listening and watching for any hint of discomfort. Prompted by a sudden rush of gratitude for Minstrel’s survival, Luc leaned forward and patted the horse’s neck.

  Surrounded by the wild, desolate landscape, Luc’s spirit lifted. Clean air washed over him and he drank it in, filling his lungs. A chaotic chorus of gulls and puffins lifted to the clouds, and the sea and the sky appeared as one.

  Luc imagined how it might feel to be lord of such a place and then shook his head at the foolish notion. The island offered solitude, but naught else. A profitable manor awaited him back in France. A touch of exasperation soured his mood.

  He hadn’t counted on a shipwreck.

  The past two days, although it felt much longer, seemed like a wild dream. A fantastical, feverish nightmare of tragedy and miracles. Nor was it over. They had been beyond blessed to find refuge on this mysterious isle, but Luc now needed to find a way to escape it. There had to be a boat tucked away somewhere.

  Giselle’s petulant remark about a rescue ship brought a smile to his lips, at the same time sparking a flare of guilt. He’d seen the fear in her eyes – unfounded, he believed, but real, nonetheless. He resisted the urge to look back in case she was still watching him. No doubt she’d b
e cursing him, calling him a few choice names. He chuckled and steered Minstrel onto a path that appeared to lead to the stone circle.

  Of course, Luc didn’t expect to find a boat sitting atop the hill, but it seemed like a logical place to begin searching for answers. The missing occupant of the house had obviously lit the mysterious beacon, so he must have gone there first. Whatever had befallen the man afterwards had yet to be ascertained. Luc could only assume it had been incapacitating. Besides, something about the ancient monument beckoned. Indeed, the entire island seemed to exude a curious atmosphere, one that stimulated Luc’s senses.

  Some of the stimulation, though, could be blamed on the presence of his spirited, female charge. During the first few days of their journey, despite the girl’s obvious efforts to engage him, Luc had maintained a disciplined façade. He had been instructed to protect the girl. Not befriend her.

  But the night of the fire had changed everything. Giselle de Courtenay had stood on a blazing ship, looked him straight in the eye, and released him of his duty. Told him to save himself and his horse. She’d insisted on staying with her maid, a foolish but nonetheless noble decision. As for Anna, may God rest the woman’s selfless soul.

  Luc had been quietly humbled by the dignity and courage of the two women.

  Then he’d saved Giselle’s life. Now, he was no longer just her guardian, but her hero. He saw it in the way she looked at him, honeyed eyes often hopeful, always inviting. He was also aware of the frequent surreptitious glances she cast his way. Her young, unspoiled heart reached out to him without deceit. And the way she touched him in her discreet fashion – innocent, yet sweetly evocative.

  The shipwreck had literally thrown them together. He could no longer maintain the same aloof distance as before, and he could not deny that Giselle de Courtenay had an effect on him. She irritated him. Challenged him.