Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  Aroused him.

  It was something of an unexpected quandary and one that demanded self-defense. Whenever he felt himself weakening, he resorted to curt responses and a cool demeanor. He knew his unpredictable behavior confused her. Hurt her, even. So be it.

  Luc steered Minstrel toward the forested area. As they neared the hill, the size of the stone circle became more evident. It was larger than he’d assumed. More impressive. And quite eerie.

  The mist had drifted over the land like an opaque shroud. It surrounded the stones, obscuring their lines, giving them a ghostly appearance. Luc pulled Minstrel to a walk. For now, the path ahead remained visible enough, wending through patches of yellow fescue and windswept heather. A well-trodden thoroughfare, too, which implied frequency of use. Another puzzle.

  At the edge of the trees, Luc reined Minstrel to a halt and dared to look back. The cottage had been buried by the mist. For a moment, Luc continued to stare at the spot, telling himself he’d been right in leaving Giselle behind.

  Minstrel, evidently impatient, snorted and shifted beneath him. Luc sloughed off his doubts, patted the stallion’s neck, and urged him into the dark stand of pines.

  The sweet scent of pine sap served as a balm to Luc’s busy mind. Still, he remained alert, although nothing stirred in the shadows. The belt of trees ended where the slope began. The path veered to the right, cut sideways into the hill, and rose up in a gentle arc. Not a difficult climb for man or beast. Luc clicked his tongue and urged Minstrel forward.

  The stallion tossed his head and halted, all four hooves squared beneath him.

  “Forward,” Luc said, pressing his heels to Minstrel’s flank. “Forward, I said.” This time, the stallion backed up a step.

  “What’s wrong?” Luc leaned forward and tugged on the horse’s ear. “What are you afraid of?” In response, Minstrel blew threw his nose and lowered his head.

  “As you wish.” A prickle of apprehension ran across Luc’s scalp. The horse had never before disobeyed him. “Then wait here for me.”

  Minstrel’s refusal to climb might have been due to fatigue. Or, Heaven forbid, pain. But Luc thought it more of an instinctual response. Something about the place obviously bothered the horse. Something about the place bothered Luc as well, but he patted the hilt of his sword and began to climb.

  He paused at the top and gathered his breath. Ahead, the stones stood in erect silence, like ancient sentinels guarding their mist-covered domain. Luc approached one and stood beside it, amazed by its sheer size. It towered above him, maybe twice his height, its gray, weatherworn surface marred with patches of yellow lichen. Touched by a sense of reverence, Luc pressed his hand to the cold surface. Who had carved out these mighty pillars? Who had raised them and for what purpose?

  The truth had been lost to time. No one knew what these circles represented or even who had created them. Some considered them to be evil. Pagan temples to the old gods. Places of dark magic. Luc had no such impression. Rather, he sensed the sanctity of the place. It had surely been a site of great importance to its creators. Consumed by a sense of wonder, Luc entered the circle’s heart, hearing only the elevated thud of his own. He followed the interior perimeter, counting the stones. Thirteen in all, eleven of them the same height, while two of them, diametrically opposite, were larger.

  Luc moved to one of the larger stones, drawn to it by an odd configuration of lines on its surface. Black, they threaded across the surface of the rock like glass veins. They appeared to be natural, however, unlike the oddly carved symbols etched into the stone’s surface. Luc traced his finger over some of the carvings, wondering what they represented.

  The place had an undeniable atmosphere, further enhanced by the still air and pale mist. But what of the light? Luc wandered around the circle again, this time searching for signs of fire-pits, ash pits, torches or braziers. He found none. Nothing offered any kind of explanation for the strange beacon he’d seen. If not for the fact that Giselle had seen it, too, Luc might have actually doubted the light’s existence.

  The ground within the circle also puzzled him. It appeared to be crisscrossed with narrow paths, forming an erratic pattern that made no sense.

  And there was no sign of the missing man.

  “Where to now, Luc?” he muttered, heading toward the trail. The far side of the hill, he thought, the side not visible from the cottage. But he paused at the top of the trail, unsettled by a sudden feeling he’d missed something. Frowning, he looked back, trying to make sense of it. The sudden shriek of a gull drew his gaze skyward, but mist obscured his view of whatever birds flew aloft. An awareness revealed itself, an understanding that defied belief.

  “God’s teeth, it’s not possible,” he said, looking back toward the circle. He drew breath, approached the nearest stone, and placed his hand on it, feeling the same, cold surface as before. Then he took a tentative step forward, reentered the circle, and listened… to absolute silence.

  He heard nothing except his heartbeat, thudding in his ear.

  “Christ above,” he said, crossing himself and taking a step backwards. “What heathen magic is this?”

  Doubting his sanity – and his ears – Luc stepped outside of the circle again, only to be greeted by the familiar song of the island. Bewildered, he bit back an urge to laugh. How could this be? Was it witchcraft of some sort? An ancient spell? And if so, what purpose did it serve? It made no sense.

  To remove all doubt, he entered the circle for the third time and, once more, the silence enveloped him. Was the phenomenon harmful? He felt no pain. No discomfort. As far as he could tell, whatever invisible force lay within the ancient circle had done him no harm. He closed his eyes and drew on his instinct, already sensing there was naught to fear.

  “Minstrel,” he murmured, reminded of the stallion’s refusal to climb the hill. “I wish you could speak. I’d like to know what you feel about this place.”

  With a final glance at the mysterious stones, Luc headed back down the path. So far, his search for answers had merely resulted in more questions. The entire island seemed to be steeped in mystery.

  Minstrel nickered a soft greeting. “’Tis a strange place, my friend,” Luc said, hoisting himself onto the horse’s back. “I cannot fathom the oddities of it, whether they are good or evil.”

  The island’s missing occupant had all the answers, but the question of where he was still remained unanswered.

  Luc followed the same path out of the woods. His plan to skirt around the back side of the hill no longer seemed quite as appealing or sensible.

  “Damn,” he murmured, taking a swig of water as he surveyed the misted landscape. The unpleasant weather was a hindrance. Dangerous, too, for someone unfamiliar with the terrain. He pondered, hesitant to continue yet reluctant to give up. If the man was lying injured somewhere, he’d not last long in this damp mess. But where to start? The island, while relatively small, still presented a fair challenge when searching for one person.

  The man might be anywhere. He might even have left the isle for some reason, although Luc doubted that scenario. Even so, given the worsening conditions, it made more sense to return to the cottage. He’d have to try again on the morrow, he told himself, weather permitting.

  Besides, the vague sense of unease he’d felt earlier had returned.

  Decided, he urged Minstrel into a smooth trot, telling himself he had no cause for hurry or worry. The maid would be quite safe, assuming, of course, she’d stayed at the cottage. He frowned as Anna’s words drifted into his mind.

  Headstrong. Proud. Foolish, at times.

  Luc uttered a mild curse and pressed Minstrel into a canter.

  Not long after, the white walls of the cottage emerged from the mist. The door was closed and a thin spiral of smoke rose up from the chimney hole. The goats lay huddled in a corner of the pen and the absent chickens had, no doubt, found a dry roost somewhere. Everything appeared peaceful enough. It almost seemed too quiet.

  Lu
c scratched his unshaven jaw, threw his leg over Minstrel’s back, and slid to the ground. The hair on his neck lifted as he cast a searching glance about the place. Odd that Giselle had not appeared at the door, since she must have heard Minstrel’s approach. Then again, perhaps she was still sulking. Or asleep. Luc shook his head, seeing no sign of anything untoward until his gaze settled on some items of clothing laying on the grass nearby. As recognition took hold, his gut twisted. He slid the sword from its scabbard, strode over, and picked up Giselle’s wet robe.

  “What…?” His mind sought an explanation, one that did not add to the angst he already felt. The maid had washed it, obviously. Her shift, as well. But why leave them outside? Sword in hand, he approached the cottage door and lifted the latch. The door swung back in silence, revealing an empty room beyond. Luc entered and threw the wet shift on the table.

  No sign of a struggle, thanks be. Then again, if she was outside…

  Luc gritted his teeth, wrestling both fear and fury. “Christ, give me strength.”

  Why must she test me like this? All right. Think. She likely removed her clothes to wash them. But why, then, did she leave? Has she wandered off by herself or been…? No, not that. Not that. And what…? He growled and grabbed the woolen cloak off the bed. What, under God’s miserable sky, is she wearing?

  Tossing the cloak aside, Luc lifted the lid of the trunk, trying to remember what clothes had been in there and if any were missing. The neatly folded pile within told him nothing. His throat tightened. Was she running around naked out there? Under different circumstances, he might have considered such a thought agreeable, but now…

  I swear, if she’s come to any harm, I’ll never forgive—

  “Luc!” Giselle’s distant cry swept through the open door.

  He groaned and closed his eyes for a moment. Thank Christ.

  The shout came again, more frantic this time. “Luuuc!”

  Something was wrong. Sword still in hand, he dashed outside in time to see Giselle stumbling down the slope. Wild-eyed, with flushed cheeks and mud-spattered legs, she slid to a stop in front of him, chest heaving.

  “Luc. Thank God you’re here. I…” She clutched at his tunic and bent her head, gasping for breath.

  “What’s happened?” He wanted to hold her. Shake her. Kiss her. Instead, he lifted her chin and met her gaze. “By all the saints, Giselle, where have you been? Are you hurt?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “No, I’m not, but he is. I found him, Luc. The man who lives here. He needs our help. Please, we have to go now or he’ll die.”

  Luc absorbed what she’d said, set emotion aside, and tidied his disorderly mind.

  “What injuries does he have?”

  “Um… his head is injured. It was bleeding, but I don’t think it is now.”

  “Can he walk at all?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. He’s barely even conscious.”

  Luc nodded. “And where is he? Is it far?”

  She sniffed. “Um, no. Not too far. On a beach, a little way past where we came ashore.”

  “Hmm.” Luc released her and clicked his tongue. Minstrel, who had been grazing nearby, lifted his head and approached his master. Luc hoisted himself onto the horse’s back, drawing a tearful gasp from Giselle.

  “Oh, no, Luc de Warenne! You’re not leaving me here again. I’ll swear I’ll—”

  “Give me your hand.” Luc held his out and also extended a foot. “Use my foot as a stirrup and…” He pulled her up behind him. “That’s it. Good. Now, hold on to me and tell me when you’re ready.”

  Giselle shuffled closer, wrapped her arms as far as she could around his abdomen, and then grabbed two fistfuls of tunic.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  Luc glanced down at the pale, feminine leg mated with his. Despite the mud-spatter, the sight of that slender limb stirred his most feral instincts. Not an appropriate time, he told himself, steering Minstrel up and over the rise. Giselle pressed her cheek into his spine and tightened her grip.

  She guided him through the mist till they reached the narrow path. “I think Minstrel has been here before,” she said. “I found hoof prints a little farther along, where it widens out.”

  Luc considered for a moment. “Maybe this is where he came ashore.”

  “Maybe.” She shivered against him and he cursed inwardly. He should have thought to give her the cloak. An earlier image of her stumbling down the hill came to mind. What, in the Devil’s name, was the maid wearing anyway? It looked like a blue sack.

  “Sir Luc?” Giselle’s voice, little more than a whisper, broke into his thoughts. “I found something else on the beach as well. In my rush, I forgot to tell you about it.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “The Marguerite.”

  A chill brushed across Luc’s neck. “That’s not possible, my lady.”

  There came a brief pause.

  “You’ll see,” she replied at last and sighed against him.

  After that, they travelled in silence, although Luc’s thoughts gave him no peace. Giselle’s wild claim had rattled his confidence in the state of her mind. Had he been blind to some internal struggle? Had the trauma of the past few days festered and poisoned her sanity?

  Until a few weeks ago, Giselle de Courtenay’s life had likely been a feather bed. A rose garden. Blues skies and rainbows. Since then, the maid had passed through the gates of Hell and, in truth, had yet to fully emerge from the shadows.

  Minstrel’s step faltered and interrupted Luc’s musing. Then a fierce shudder ran through the horse’s flank.

  “Easy, my friend.” For the second time that day, the horse had exhibited strange behavior. Puzzled by this fresh nervousness, Luc slowed him to a walk as they approached the edge of the cliff.

  Behind him, Giselle straightened and uttered a single word.

  “There.”

  Luc squinted into the mist, his gaze travelling across a strip of pebbles to a stretch of sand, where a blackened hulk raised skeletal timbers to the sky. His breath caught, and he halted Minstrel with a sharp tug on the reins.

  “Mother of God,” he said. “It can’t be.”

  “I assure you it can.” Giselle drew a shaky breath. “Set your concerns aside, Sir Luc. I haven’t lost my mind. Can we please hurry?”

  Her intuitiveness poked at his conscience. Luc offered his apology with sincerity and a good measure of relief.

  “Forgive me for doubting you, my lady.” He dragged his gaze from the disturbing sight, dismounted, and reached for Giselle. “I’d rather lead Minstrel down the path. Safer for him and us, I think.”

  He lifted her down, trying to ignore how right she felt in his arms. Just as well, he thought, the cottage was about to be reclaimed by its owner. At least they would not be alone anymore. He released her with a little more abruptness than necessary, evident from brief flicker of shock in her eyes.

  Damn it, Luc.

  “He’s over there,” she said, pointing into the mist. “I pray to God we’re in time.”

  Luc grabbed Minstrel’s reins and followed Giselle down the slope. As he passed, he paused briefly at the charred wreck, wondering what devilish force had kept the cursed thing afloat. It was little more than a burnt-out shell. Too bad it hadn’t beached on the mainland, he thought. Questions would have been raised and a search might have ensued. Then again, who could look at a sorry wreck like that and believe anyone might have survived?

  “I thought it might be nice to make a cross and set it into the sand,” Giselle said. “Right there, by the ship’s bow, above the tide mark. What do you think?”

  Luc gave her a sincere smile. “I think it’s a fine idea, my lady.”

  A touch of color came to her cheeks. “This way. He’s just over here.”

  Luc felt a tug on the rein and looked up at Minstrel, who was rolling his eyes and prancing sideways.

  “Easy, my friend,” Luc said, wondering again what had the horse
so agitated. The shipwreck, maybe? He patted the stallion’s neck. “Come on. We need you.”

  The horse obeyed, but with obvious reluctance, tossing his head and showing his teeth. Ahead, Giselle was crouched by what looked like a pile of rags on the pebbles.

  Luc dropped the reins. “Stay here,” he commanded and Minstrel blew through his nose.

  “He’s still alive.” Giselle looked up at Luc with hopeful eyes. “We’re not too late.”

  Luc stepped over the man’s helpless form and crouched at the other side, his nostril’s flaring at the stale odor. Poor bastard. He sent up a silent prayer and lifted one of the man’s eyelids, gratified to see the pupil contract slightly. Then he ran his hands over the man’s limbs.

  “Nothing broken, thank God,” he murmured, touching gentle fingers to the dried blood on the back of the man’s head. “But this does not look good.”

  “I know. It’s terrible. And to think he’s been out here for two days.” Giselle rose to her feet. “I think he’d have died for sure if he hadn’t brought the blankets and that wolf pelt with him.”

  “I’m curious to know what happened.” Luc scrutinized the ground around them. “What caused him to stumble?”

  “He slipped on the wet stones, obviously.” Giselle gestured to Minstrel. “Are you going to lift him onto your horse?”

  Frowning, Luc stood and pushed his foot into the pebbles. “I think not.”

  “What?” Giselle’s response came out as a wail. “What do you mean? We can’t just leave him here.”

  “I mean, I don’t think he slipped. At least, not by accident.” Luc glanced around, widening the perimeter of his gaze. At last he spotted something – an object that, to him, seemed out of place on a seashore. “Ah.”

  “By the Devil’s hairy arse.” Giselle spoke through gritted teeth. “Accident or not, we’re wasting time, de Warenne.”

  Luc ignored her, strode over and picked up the object. “His staff, I believe,” he murmured, peering at the thicker end of the stick, “and with blood on it.” An image took shape in his mind and he cast a thoughtful glance at Minstrel. That had to be it. But why would he attack the horse?