Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  Giselle wasn’t sure how long she’d slept or what had awoken her. She rubbed her eyes and blinked into darkness.

  “I think our friend is awake,” Luc murmured, making her jump. He rose and, a moment later, the darkness was split by a flare of tinder as he lit a candle.

  Giselle sat up and peered over at Ninian’s bed. “You heard him?”

  “He said something, aye. I’m not sure what.” Candle in hand, he stepped over to the bed. Giselle rose to her feet and followed. Face lit by a halo of candlelight, the man stared up at them, his blue eyes wide and fearful.

  “Each-uisge,” he muttered and raised a trembling hand. “Each-uisge.”

  “It’s all right, Ninian.” Giselle took his hand and knelt at his side. “Hush. It’s all right.”

  “I think he’s had a nightmare,” Luc said.

  Giselle nodded. “It seems so. The poor man.”

  The fear in Ninian’s eyes vanished and a slight frown settled on his brow. He tugged his hand free and touched Giselle’s cheek. “Bheannaich,” he said.

  Giselle smiled. “I wish I knew what you were saying. Are you thirsty, perhaps?”

  Luc set the candle down atop the chest and returned a moment later with a cup. He knelt at Ninian’s head.

  “Easy now.” He slid an arm beneath Ninian’s shoulders and lifted him so he could drink. “That’s it.”

  This time, Giselle noticed, Ninian drank with a little more relish.

  “I think he’s improving.” She looked at Luc, seeking affirmation. He said nothing, but set the cup down and eased Ninian back onto the pillow.

  “Tapadh leat,” Ninian said, eyelids drooping.

  Giselle blinked. “That must mean ‘thank you’,” she said.

  “Most likely.” Luc rose to his feet and squeezed Giselle’s shoulder. “Let him rest now. And you should rest as well. You’ll be of little use to him if you exhaust yourself.”

  It seemed Ninian understood, for he touched Giselle’s face again and managed a smile. “Cadail,” he whispered.

  Giselle followed Luc back to the hearth and settled onto her pallet. She closed her eyes and uttered a fervent prayer for Ninian’s survival.

  That night, she dreamed of a ship’s blackened skeleton and a blood-red stallion emerging from the waves.

  *

  Dawn found Giselle kneeling at Ninian’s side once again. He’d managed to drink some more water and was now regarding her with an obvious measure of fascination. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his eyes seemed a little less blue that day – an unwelcome impression.

  “You’re going to get well, do you hear me?” she said, wiping dribbles of water from Ninian’s beard. “I’ve prayed very hard for you and will continue to do so. Are you hungry? You need to eat.” She pointed to her mouth and emulated chewing.

  Ninian frowned, his expression indicating he had no desire for food. Giselle became aware of Luc at her side and looked up at him.

  “Ninian,” he said, his voice gentle, “is there a boat anywhere on the island?” He mimicked rowing. “A boat?”

  The man blinked and then mumbled several incomprehensible words.

  Luc shook his head. “I don’t understand. Are you saying there’s no boat? No way off the island?”

  “A ’gheata.” He pointed at Giselle and then toward the door. “A ’gheata.”

  Luc scratched his head and regarded Giselle. “Any ideas?”

  “None.” Giselle took hold of Ninian’s trembling hand. “It’s all right. Don’t tire yourself.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “Bheannaich tuath.”

  The language had a musical sound to it. “It sounds beautiful,” Giselle said. “I only wish I knew what you meant.”

  He grunted and closed his eyes. Giselle remained at his side for a while, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. “He’s asleep,” she said, rising and arching her back in a stretch. “I’m going to milk Bella.”

  “You’d better hurry.” Luc nodded toward the window. “The sky is blacker than Bella’s rump.”

  It rained for the rest of the day, a relentless downpour that swept across sea and land like a heavy gray curtain. Ninian had not stirred since the morning, although he still breathed steadily.

  “Should I try and wake him, do you think?” Giselle asked, having wandered over to his bed to check on him for the umpteenth time. “Surely it’s not normal for him to sleep like this. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “I don’t see how waking him would serve any purpose.” Luc, perched on a stool at the table, grimaced. “Giselle, the man is gravely injured. In truth, I’m amazed he has managed to survive thus far.”

  She glared at him. “There are times, Luc de Warenne, when you can be very harsh.”

  He raised a brow. “I pray the man lives, but remain doubtful. Would you rather I filled your head and heart with false hope?”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “I’d rather you said nothing at all if all you can do is naysay.”

  He grunted “Then do not ask for my opinion.”

  Giselle swallowed a sob, threw Luc the most indignant scowl she could muster, and wandered over to Ninian’s bed. She heard Luc mutter something and, a moment later, his hands settled on her shoulders.

  “Forgive me,” he said, turning her to face him. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  She sniffed and peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “I’m not crying.”

  “Hmm.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Listen. How about, instead of giving you an answer you don’t want to hear, I do this, instead.”

  “The physical reassurance you spoke of?” Giselle parted with a sigh and snuggled into him. “Yes, this is much better. Unless you change your outlook, I fear you might be quite busy.”

  Luc inhaled. “Giselle.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Look.”

  Her gaze dropped to Ninian, whose eyelids flickered.

  “Oh!” A rush of relief set Giselle’s heart racing. She stepped out of Luc’s arms and knelt beside Ninian’s bed. “Thank God.”

  At the sound of her exclamation, Ninian opened his eyes fully. For a fleeting moment, he appeared panicked. Uncertain. He blinked at Giselle and recognition replaced confusion.

  “Giselle,” he whispered. Even though she’d mentioned her name to him, the sound of it on his lips surprised her. Then he groaned and tugged at the ring on his finger, brow creasing in effort. He groaned again and muttered something under his breath.

  Giselle touched his hand. “Is it the ring? You’re trying to remove the ring?”

  “I believe he is,” Luc said. “Here, let me.”

  He eased it off Ninian’s finger and then gave it to him. Ninian closed his eyes for a moment, lips moving as if in prayer. Then he reached for Giselle’s hand and pressed the ring into her palm.

  “What are you doing?” she said, eyes widening. “I can’t take this. I—”

  With surprising strength, he folded her fingers over the ring. Then he touched his hand to his heart and pointed at her. There could be no doubting what he meant.

  “Oh, nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t need to look after it, Ninian, because you’re going to get well.”

  He smiled like someone with a secret, patted her hand, and closed his eyes.

  “Ninian.” Giselle leaned over and touched his face. “Ninian, please. You mustn’t give up.”

  “Giselle.” Luc’s arms came around her again and lifted her up. “Let him be.”

  “But I don’t understand why he did this. Is he telling me he’s going to die?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that you’ve just been honored, my lady. I suggest you accept it with grace.”

  *

  Luc stared into the darkness and listened to Giselle’s soft breathing as she slept. It was a sacred sound, he thought, that of air entering and leaving the lungs. It confirmed the presence of a living soul and the beating of a human heart.

  Ninian’s heart
had stopped beating a few moments earlier. Luc had heard the old man’s final breath; a long, soft rattle that fell away into silence. It had been a quiet surrender. No struggle. Luc had crossed himself and offered up a prayer. He’d take care of everything else in the morning.

  The struggle would begin when Giselle awoke. She had tossed and turned for hours before finally drifting off, unwilling to accept that Ninian seemed to be aware of his pending demise.

  She’d fallen asleep at last, still clutching Ninian’s ring. The identical one to that given to Luc’s care. Giselle shared some kind of blood connection to Ninian. Luc felt certain of it. He guessed Ninian felt it as well.

  For the time being, Luc would keep the secret of the ring to himself. He’d simply tuck it away with the other secrets.

  For the time being.

  Chapter 13

  Giselle rose early and stepped outside, thankful to see the beginnings of a clear dawn sky. Luc had shown no sign of stirring, although Giselle’s gut told her he was fully aware of her movements. She stopped by the pump, splashed water on her face, and headed to the place where they had laid Ninian to rest.

  Nigh on three weeks had passed since his death and, apart from a few days when bad weather prevented her, Giselle had visited his grave each morning. It lay not far from the cottage, in a small, grassy hollow by the cliffs, overlooking the sea. Luc had hauled a wagonload of sea-washed stones from the beach and laid them atop the grave. He’d also fashioned a cross from wood and hammered it into the ground.

  It was a modest tomb, but one that seemed suited to the simplicity of Ninian’s life on the island. Giselle wondered if she’d ever find out who he was and why he had decided to live in such isolation. Perhaps his heart had been broken. Or he’d committed some transgression and was paying a penance. Or maybe, as Luc seemed to believe, he simply enjoyed his solitude.

  Still, it saddened Giselle to think no one missed him. Someone, somewhere, had to know of his presence on this isle. And what of herself and Luc? They must also have been missed by now. The Marguerite’s disappearance and Luc’s failure to return to Chateau Courtois had surely been noted.

  Poor Henri. Giselle knew he’d be beside himself with grief – and guilt. He’d been quite blunt when expressing his reservations about sending her to Scotland. It seemed his doubts had been justified.

  “I’m sorry I’ve haven’t visited you for a few days,” Giselle murmured as she bent to tuck some sprigs of heather at the base of the Ninian’s cross. “I’m sure you know the weather has been dreadful.” She straightened, gazed out across the waves, and drew a lungful of air. “But this morning is beautiful. Quite magnificent. A day when I can understand why you chose to live here. I confess, there are moments when part of me wishes we could stay…”

  She stopped herself, appalled at the foolish notion. Where, in her addled mind, had that come from? She and Luc each had lives to live beyond this remote outpost. Families. People who cared. Well, at least Giselle did. She had shared tales of her upbringing at Dieudonné without hesitation, pleased by the genuine interest Luc had shown in her childhood home. But other than the brief mention of his sister, he had said little about his family. Perhaps there was little to tell. He’d been fostered out at a young age and seemed to have spent most of his life following knightly pursuits. Giselle had mourned Ninian’s passing. Much of the grief she felt was rooted in sympathy, the fact that no one else was there to weep over his grave. But she’d also felt an inexplicable connection to him. She had the impression he felt it, too.

  She still chose to sleep on her pallet by the hearth, unable to even consider returning to Ninian’s vacant bed. Often, and especially at night, she felt Luc’s gaze assessing her. She supposed he expected a repeat of her previous collapse. But not once had she weakened or even sought the comfort of his embrace.

  There had been moments when she had longed to do so. But was it comfort she sought or merely an excuse to lie in his arms?

  “Both,” she whispered to the wind, and the admission brought a blush to her cheeks. “I’m a foolish girl, Ninian. I’m sure Luc de Warenne cannot wait to be free of me and this isle.” She brushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes. “When and if we are rescued, he’ll dispatch me accordingly and I’ll never see him again.”

  Why did that thought hurt so much?

  “I’m a foolish girl,” she repeated, and knelt on the damp grass to say a prayer.

  A little later, as she wandered back, she noticed Luc atop the small ridge at the side of the cottage. Sword in hand and clad in only his braies, he stood facing the sunrise, his muscular silhouette an impressive outline against the fiery backdrop. Giselle paused, captivated as Luc wielded his sword in a series of controlled arcs and thrusts, each move calculated, graceful, and deadly. Immersed in the depths of his exercise, his concentration and focus was palpable.

  His imagined foe seemed almost real, an invisible adversary of flesh and bone. To approach him now, she guessed, might be unwise. Akin to approaching a snake coiled and ready to strike. Better to wait and watch.

  Not an unpleasant pastime.

  Giselle settled herself on a broad, flat-topped boulder at the side of the path, feeling the telltale thud of her silly heart as she pulled her knees up to her chin. She allowed her mind to wander and wondered, not for the first time, what Luc truly thought about her. Did he ever see her as more than an obligation? He’d complimented her courage and her spirit more than once. And he had held her and comforted her, although without any notable signs of passion. Did he find her physically attractive at all? Had she ever occupied a carnal place in his thoughts? Aroused him?

  Maybe he’d imagined kissing or making love to her, teaching her the pleasures of coupling in the seclusion of the house or out here, beneath the endless sky. Heat warmed her face anew as her romantic fantasy continued. What would he do if she offered herself to him? Would he refuse her?

  Probably. Besides, she would never do such a thing, although her resolve was prompted by fear of rejection rather than propriety. The usual boundaries of propriety are not relevant. His words, but boundaries existed, nonetheless. She wrinkled her nose and shoved her daydreams aside.

  Up on the rise, body heaving with exertion, Luc lowered his sword and relaxed his shoulders. Invisible foe undoubtedly defeated, he stood motionless and looked out across the isle. Like a king, Giselle thought, admiring his kingdom.

  After a short while, he turned, sheathed his sword, and started back down the slope.

  “I thought we might visit the stones today,” he said, wandering past her to the water pump. “I want you to experience the phenomenon I told you about.”

  “All right.” She slid off her rock and followed him, watching as he doused the sweat from his body. “Are we taking Minstrel?”

  “Aye.” He smiled and flicked water at her. “But you didn’t break your fast yet.”

  His touch of playfulness surprised her. As for food, the thought of clambering up on Minstrel’s back and clinging to Luc made her stomach churn.

  “Not hungry.”

  He grunted. “You’re wasting away. Eat something or we don’t go.”

  “All right, but not oatmeal.” She tapped a fingertip to her lips. “I think I’ll have some roasted beef au jus. Nay, not that. Baked salmon in white wine sauce. Mmm, yes. With fresh peas. Followed by strawberries and thick cream. And a goblet of sweet, white wine.”

  “A little extravagant for a morning meal.” Luc walked by and poked her in the ribs, making her yelp. “How about some dried apples and goat’s milk?”

  Giselle laughed and followed him into the cottage. “Sounds delicious.”

  She ate while he dressed. It was a pity, she thought, to cover up such a display of masculinity. All that muscle, hidden behind a threadbare shirt. Luc met her gaze and paused in his preparations. “Do you like what you see, my lady?”

  Giselle choked on her milk. “I don’t… I mean, I wasn’t… Oh, curses. What has gotten into you today? Have
you found some wine spirited away somewhere?”

  “Nay.” Smiling, he pulled his breeches on. “’Tis the swordplay. I had forgotten how good it felt. ’Tis the second-best release for a man’s frustration, and one of the reasons I want to visit the stones today. Or at least, the small forest surrounding them.”

  Giselle frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “My lady, I am first and foremost a knight. I am obliged, therefore, to maintain a level of warrior strength and skill. Due to circumstance, I allowed my skills to lapse and have decided to remedy this.” He tugged his shirt over his head. “I noticed an axe in the shed. I intend to cut down a tree, shape myself a hefty training sword, and use the remaining trunk as a pell. A training post for improving swordplay and building muscular strength.”

  Giselle huffed. “I know what a pell is, but that’s not what I meant.”

  Luc shook his head. “Meant?”

  “You said swordplay was the second-best release for a man’s frustration. What, then, is the first?”

  He grinned. “Do you jest?”

  “Nay. Why? Is this something I should be aware of?”

  His grin faded to a smile. “Forgive me. I forget, sometimes, how young you are and the depths of your innocence.”

  The sudden realization of what Luc meant sent a flood of heat to Giselle’s face. She groaned and closed her eyes, inwardly cursing her naivety. “Oh, lord above. You must think me stupid,” she said, finding the courage to meet his amused gaze.

  He chuckled. “Never that. Are you about ready?”

  They stepped outside and, for the first time in many days, Giselle felt a rush of pure excitement. Today, it seemed, was a day for pleasure. Fun, even. She barely recognized this cheerful Luc. His mood was infectious.

  He disappeared into the shed for a few moments before exiting with a rope slung over one shoulder and an axe in his hand.

  “Minstrel will have to do some work today,” he said, raising his fingers to his lips and blowing a shrill whistle. Giselle fidgeted at his side awaiting the stallion’s arrival. The horse spent most of his time grazing the grassy slopes on the western side of the isle, out of sight of the cottage. But he never failed to hear Luc’s call. Indeed, after only a short wait, the sound of galloping hooves could be heard and Minstrel came careening up the path, kicking out his rear hooves in a frisky display.