Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  For a few silent moments, he regarded her. With his unshaven features and the glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, Luc de Warenne appeared almost feral. Giselle suppressed a shiver, but one caused by arousal rather than fear. She didn’t fear him in the least, and especially after what had just occurred. He did, however, intimidate her at times.

  In truth, she couldn’t logically fathom her attraction to him.

  Firstly, he had to be nearly twice her age – though she also knew many men of his ilk took much younger women as brides. But, despite indisputable moments of kindness, he continually made it clear where she stood in his dutiful domain. The feelings he engendered within her were new and strange. And, in this case, misplaced and ill-timed. Although she craved his company, being with him constantly did little to cool her ardor.

  “I’ll take you there tomorrow,” he said, startling her. “And you can see for yourself.”

  Giselle glanced at the man on the bed and shook her head. “As long as he still lives, I will not leave his side. Can you not tell me what it is you wish me to see?”

  “Nay, since it is not really a question of seeing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor am I sure how to explain.” He sighed. “Suffice to say there is something very strange about the place. I will tell you this much. Minstrel refused to go near it.”

  Giselle gasped. “He was afraid of it?”

  “Not exactly.” Luc frowned. “In fact, now that you pose the question, I have to say he showed no sign of fear at all. He simply refused to go beyond a certain point in the woods. So, I left him there and climbed the path by foot.”

  “Most strange. Obviously, he senses something. I have oft thought creatures, domestic or wild, to be possessed of instincts we lack. Or have forgotten how to use.” She stifled a yawn. “This place raises so many questions.”

  “And our friend over there likely has all the answers.”

  “May God grant him the chance to share them.” A pang of regret tightened Giselle’s throat. She lay down and tucked the blanket around herself, hay crunching beneath her as she fidgeted. “I am indebted to you, Sir Knight.” She stifled another yawn, which pushed tears to her eyes. “Goat fodder makes a comfortable bed.”

  “Preferable to the hard earth,” he said. “And I noticed you managed to do the milking.”

  “Mmm.” Giselle struggled to keep her eyes open. “It took a while, but Bella was very patient with me.”

  “Bella?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “Ah, I see.” She thought she heard a soft chuckle. “Get some sleep, Giselle.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered as her eyelids fell shut. “For everything.”

  *

  Candle long extinguished, the faint glow of the burning peat was the sole source of light in the cottage. Despite the late hour, Luc lay awake, watching Giselle. She was curled up like a child, fisted hands tucked beneath her chin. Once in a while, her lips would tremble and her brow would crease.

  Even in sleep, it seemed, her shadows haunted her.

  Those same shadows had caught up with her earlier and dragged her down. Luc blamed himself, cursed his lack of foresight. Only when they brought the injured man back to the cottage had he begun to recognize the weight of Giselle’s grief and fear. Over the course of the day, he’d watched her succumb to it, realizing he’d underestimated her fortitude. Not that the girl wasn’t possessed of an admirable measure of courage, but a soul could only take so much. Hers was bleeding, her grief still raw.

  And there was yet more to come.

  His gaze flicked past Giselle into the darkness to where the man lay abed, straddling the line between life and death. The soft, rhythmic rattle of his lungs served as testimony he still lived. Who was he? And what was his connection to Giselle? For there surely was a connection, although Luc had yet to tell Giselle of the ring.

  And what of her, after all? This girl who had managed to breach his defenses. Luc considered his unstable feelings. Unwanted feelings. He readily admitted he’d come to care for her in a fashion that went beyond his vow of guardianship. He feared succumbing to temptation, overstepping the already loose bounds of propriety.

  Luc’s reward, his destiny, awaited him in France. His dreams were not lost, just delayed. He could not allow himself to be distracted by his growing attraction to Giselle de Courtenay. Easier said than done. He’d never before encountered a female who affected him on so many levels.

  To linger on the island, he realized, was dangerous. He needed to deliver Giselle to her father and convince the man of the girl’s heritage, ancient ring or not.

  Firstly, he had to find a boat. He remained convinced that one existed on the isle, tucked away somewhere. In the meantime, without being unkind, he’d simply have to hold Giselle at arm’s length.

  A whimper pulled him from his musing. Giselle’s eyes were now wide open. She blinked into the firelight, as if uncertain of her surroundings. Luc hoisted himself onto an elbow.

  “A nightmare?” he muttered, frowning. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

  She looked at him as if he’d asked her to sprout wings and fly. Parting with another soft whimper, she grabbed her blanket and crawled over to his pallet. Then, without uttering a word, she lay down beside him, tugged the blanket over herself, and snuggled into his chest.

  “Please don’t send me away, Luc,” she whispered. “Not tonight. My dreams frighten me.”

  Christ. He released the breath he’d locked in his lungs and slid an arm around her, drawing her close.

  “I won’t,” he said. “Hush. It’s all right.”

  *

  Wet braies clinging to his legs, Luc stood beside the water pump and gulped a lungful of morning air. A feeble sun had begun to rise above the eastern horizon, casting delicate rays across a pale sky. The dawn marked the beginning of their third day on the mysterious island. To Luc, it felt much longer.

  He’d awoken to an armful of sweet, feminine curves and an uncomfortable rise in his braies. Though his basic instincts begged him to do otherwise, he eased himself away from his sleeping bedmate and stumbled outside to douse himself with cold water.

  Already, his desire had waned. He blew out a breath and scraped his fingers through several days of beard, trying to remember if he’d seen a shaving blade in the wooden chest. With that, he realized, to his absolute shame, he hadn’t even glanced in the old man’s direction that morning. Jésu. If he died in the night, Giselle will—

  The door opened and Giselle stepped out. She appeared calm. Happy, almost. Luc released a subtle sigh of relief.

  “His color seems a little brighter this morning,” she said, on a smile. “Nor does he have a fever.”

  “Good to hear.” Luc shook droplets from his hair. “And you, my lady?”

  A flush arose in her cheeks. “Embarrassed, in truth. I was in absolute despair yesterday eve and behaved foolishly. I must thank you for your patience with me.” She swept a brief gaze over his half-dressed, damp form. “I hope you were not too discomforted by my lapse. It won’t happen again.”

  He had expected more grief and had been prepared to deflect her need of him, albeit gently. Yet, in a matter of moments, she had taken his preconceptions and torn them to shreds.

  He brushed off her concerns with a mixture of falsehood and truth. “Not in the least discomforted, my lady, nor do I think your behavior foolish. The events of the past few days would test the strongest of dispositions. Since you’re feeling better, do I dare leave you on your own for a while? I’d like to continue my search of the island.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She shrugged. “I am not exactly alone, either, although my companion is sadly indisposed.”

  Appeased by Giselle’s assurance, Luc dressed, ate, and summoned Minstrel, who was visible as he grazed on the distant grassland, with a shrill whistle. He chuckled as the stallion raised his head, lifted his tail, and sprung into a gallop toward the cottage. A short
time later, snorting with pleasure, the horse bounced up to him like an adoring hound. He seemed no worse for his adventures. If anything, running wild seemed to suit the stallion, who had a skittish look in his eye. And the scab was already beginning to peel away, revealing healed skin beneath.

  Luc bridled the horse and mounted, steering him back toward the beach where they’d come ashore. Twice he left the horse atop the cliffs and descended on foot to both beaches, hoping he’d previously missed seeing a vessel of some sort resting in the sand. But he saw nothing but the dreadful blackened remains of a doomed ship.

  With a growing sense of futility, Luc continued on his quest, steering Minstrel along the path to the island’s narrow, rocky point, pausing a while to watch the waves hurling themselves ashore in a thunderous display. The path ended there. He craned his neck and squinted along the island’s western perimeter, seeing nothing but an unrelenting line of sheer cliffs. A forbidding bastion, whose walls plunged directly into the Irish Sea.

  Frustration congealed in his gut. It seemed impossible to believe the man did not have a boat somewhere. Luc glanced over at the stone monument. Did anything of significance lie beyond the hill? Doubtful. But it was the only part of the island he hadn’t yet seen.

  He patted Minstrel’s arched neck and pressed him into a smooth canter as they rode back the way they came. After passing the larger of the two beaches, Luc guided the horse onto a narrow cut that sliced through the long grass. It appeared to follow a line across the central spine of the island, leading directly to open grassland and his intended destination.

  The sun now sat well above the horizon, its light muted behind a thin layer of clouds. A breeze had sprung up, wafting in from the west. Luc drew a lungful of sea air and gave license to his thoughts.

  If a vessel could not be found, he had to face the real possibility of being stranded on the isle indefinitely. Fortunately, food was in plentiful supply, although it might be wise to ration it, at least to some degree. It had been intended to feed one mouth, not two. Or three, if the man survived, which, despite Giselle’s optimism, still seemed unlikely.

  If the food had been delivered from the mainland, rather than collected, it might be weeks before another boat happened along. On the positive side, as long as the hens laid and the goats produced, they’d at least have some sustenance.

  He cast a glance across the waves. No doubt the sea possessed a fine bounty, but Luc was a soldier, not a fisherman.

  The island had trees, he mused, and more than enough to fashion a raft. Had he been alone, he might have attempted to build such a vessel. Might have taken a chance and struck out for the mainland. He would not risk such a perilous endeavor with Giselle.

  Nay, he was not a fisherman. Neither was he a boat builder.

  As they drew near to the base of the hill, Minstrel slowed his stride without prompting. “I wish you could talk, my friend,” Luc murmured, “and tell me why this place repels you.”

  He skirted around the edge of the trees, the lack of a definite path confirming what he already suspected. A short while later, his suspicions – and his fears – were confirmed. The trees continued around to the backside of the hill, which then gave way to a slope dotted with soft green furls of new bracken. At the edge, another dizzying precipice.

  No sign of a boat.

  Frustration swelled inside as Luc turned Minstrel around. He tried to reason it out. Perhaps there had been a boat and it had been washed away in the storm. Or maybe the man simply didn’t need one. Maybe the island had regular visitors from the mainland, as indicated by the fresh stockpile of food. Perhaps, within the next few days, a boat would happen along and rescue them.

  He also reminded himself that things might easily have been worse.

  Much worse.

  He peered into the distance, to where the cottage was now visible, tucked into its protective niche. No doubt, Giselle still held vigil within. Luc envisioned the scene, feeling a brief twinge of guilt at leaving her alone with a man whose life dangled on a thread.

  He pressed his heels to Minstrel’s flanks.

  Chapter 12

  Giselle awoke to the sensation of something crawling in her hair. Groggy, she took a moment to orient herself, realizing she must have fallen asleep, her head lolling onto the small bunk as she kept vigil over the injured man.

  Her hair moved again and Giselle let out a squeak and sat up, slapping at her scalp to dislodge whatever multi-legged creature wandered there.

  A moment later, her hand froze in its attack and her breath seized in her lungs.

  “Oh!” The exclamation fell from her as she exhaled and dropped her hand. She blinked and continued to stare into two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  “God be praised, you’re awake!” She frowned and leaned closer. “Can you speak?”

  The man blinked at her but said nothing. Giselle felt a touch and looked down to where his fingers caressed hers. As they had caressed her hair, she realized. “It’s all right,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You’ve been injured. You fell and banged your head. But you’re safe now.”

  He swallowed visibly and with obvious difficulty, cracked lips moving as if trying to form words.

  “Wait. Let me get you a drink.” Shaken by the man’s return to consciousness, Giselle rose to fetch a cup of water, wincing at her stiffness. She knelt beside the bed and slid an arm beneath his shoulders, raising his head a little so he could drink. He did so, acknowledging his thanks with a slow blink of his eyes.

  Before she set the cup down, Giselle glanced at the back of man’s head, a chill scraping along her spine at the sight of the stained bandage. A yellow brownish fluid had formed a large blot on the fabric and even seeped into the pillow. At least it wasn’t blood, she thought. Perhaps the wound was merely cleansing itself. And there was still no sign of fever.

  Releasing a raspy breath, the man settled back and placed a trembling hand atop his heart. “Ninian,” he whispered, and then pointed at Giselle.

  “Ninian?” She touched his chest. “Is that your name?”

  He answered with a blink and pointed at her again.

  “Giselle,” she said, patting her chest. “My name is Giselle.”

  He tried to repeat and failed. Head lolling slightly to the side, he groaned and closed his eyes.

  Had he expired? Panicked, Giselle took his hand and pressed it between hers. “Don’t die, Ninian. Please don’t die.”

  His fingers twitched in response.

  For a while Giselle watched the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest as he slept. Sharing their names, she mused, had at least created a connection between them. She prayed he would live.

  From outside came the sound of hooves. It seemed Luc had returned.

  Giselle rose to her feet, wincing again at the stiffness in her legs. The door opened and Luc entered, eyeing her for a moment before casting a glance toward the bed.

  “How is he?”

  Tears came to her eyes. “His name is Ninian.”

  “What?” Luc looked startled. “He spoke?”

  “Yes. He awoke, had a sip of water, and told me his name.”

  Luc blew out a breath and scratched his head. “I never would have thought… Wait. He speaks French?”

  “Nay.” Giselle shook her head. “But his meaning was quite clear to me. He fell asleep right after, though. And his bandage is a mess, Luc. Will you help me change it?”

  Luc frowned. “Yes, of course.”

  Later, as the sun sank below the horizon, Giselle sat by the hearth and listened to Luc’s account of his exploration.

  “So, there’s no sign of a boat.”

  Luc shook his head. “Nay. It’s baffling. I can only assume the food and supplies are delivered from the mainland.”

  “Well, if Ninian continues to improve, maybe we can find out more from him.”

  Luc sighed. “Giselle, I think you need—”

  “I know what you’re going to say.” She had seen the te
rrible seepage from the wound. “But you also doubted he’d wake up and he proved you wrong.”

  “And I pray he proves me wrong again. But I have seen men with lesser injuries who did not survive. Younger men. Stronger men.”

  “Well, I dare to hope he will survive.” She stifled a yawn. “When I was little, I remember a man – a thatcher – falling from the roof at Dieudonné. He injured his back and lost all feeling in his legs. Mama said he would never walk again. I remember thinking what a terrible thing that was. To have legs and not be able to use them! Can you imagine?”

  “And did he walk again?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. They took him away.”

  Luc chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady, but I don’t see the point of your story.”

  She smiled. “There really isn’t one, I suppose. The memory simply came back to me. All my childhood memories are of Dieudonné. Until this voyage, I’d never been anywhere else.”

  “Were you happy there?”

  The unexpected question startled her. “At Dieudonné? I… yes, I suppose so. I mean, I wasn’t unhappy. But I often dreamed of leaving. I knew there was more to see in the world and I longed to see it. This voyage was the answer to a prayer. A chance to escape. Unfortunately, it hasn’t exactly worked out the way I envisioned.”

  “It will,” Luc said. “I’m sure one day, it will.”

  “I pray so. What of you? To what do you aspire, Luc?”

  A guarded expression flitted across his face. “Like you, my aspirations have yet to be realized.”

  “I see,” she said, sensing his reluctance to elaborate. “Well, whatever your ambitions, I hope you achieve them.”

  His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. Giselle had the impression he was trying to decide something.

  “It has been a lifelong dream of mine to own land,” he said, at last. “To be lord of all I survey from my window. To be rid of my servitude.”

  “’Tis a fine dream.” She smiled over a suppressed yawn. “I hope it comes true for you.”

  “I hope so, too,” he murmured, stretching out on his pallet. “But first, we have to find a way off this island.”