The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  Anvrai felt almost human again. Since he’d used the hermit’s blade on his face and washed the filth of captivity from every pore, he could go and check the snares he’d set.

  He returned to the cave and found only Roger. Isabel was gone.

  Telling himself ’twas impossible for her to become lost on their small shelf of land, he headed toward the tunnel that would lead him to the south side of the cave. He stepped outside and saw that the wind had picked up, and heavy clouds were moving in their direction. It would soon become colder.

  He wondered if Isabel had noticed the change in weather, or if he should leave his snares and go searching for her. Would she feel the cold edge of the wind and know that she should return to the cave?

  Anvrai turned to go back, but stopped himself. Isabel was a grown woman who could look after herself. By the sky’s appearance, they were going to be trapped inside the cave for at least one day, and he could only hope his snares had already trapped something they could eat.

  He stood above the dale and looked out, searching for the paths that would lead them south, to England. The route did not appear difficult, but if Roger survived, he would be weak, and Isabel’s foot was injured. Neither was a good prospect for moving rapidly.

  Mayhap the hermit had a wain or cart stored somewhere nearby. The man must have used something to carry his firewood and crops back to his retreat. If Anvrai could find it, Isabel and Roger would be able to sit in it while he pulled them to Kettwyck.

  He looked for it as he scrambled down the path to the dale, but saw no signs of a wain nor any wheel tracks. His luck changed when he came upon his snares. Two birds had been trapped, fat partridges. Anvrai collected them and a few more eggs, then replaced his traps and returned to the cave where Roger lay groaning. “Isabel?” the lad called weakly.

  Anvrai could do naught for him. If the boy was strong enough, he would survive. He set the partridges on the floor near the fire and went to the cave entrance.

  From the water a light mist had come up to cover the ground. Isabel should have already returned. She’d had ample time to take care of her needs. The lady might be a grown woman, but ’twas sure she hadn’t sense enough to come inside when the weather threatened.

  He headed for the area where he’d landed the boat and found Isabel bending over the water, washing her hands.

  She’d removed his tunic, and the thin cloth of her chemise molded to her buttocks, showing such detail that he could see a small mole on one side.

  She sat up abruptly when he cleared his throat. “You startled me!” Her face flooded with color, but she did not look away, as she usually did.

  “It’s about to rain,” he said.

  She looked like a goddess of old, rising out of the mist with her fair skin, golden eyes, and that dark, curling hair swirling down her back. “Your beard…”

  “’Twas itchy. The hermit had a razor, so I made use of it.”

  “Must you shave it every day?” A small crease formed between her delicate brows, and Anvrai realized she must know naught of men if she had to ask that.

  He nodded, suddenly uncomfortable as she studied his neck.

  “You cut yourself,” she said. She stood and moved close, then touched a finger to his throat. “Here.”

  The hair that framed her face was wet, as was the front of her chemise. It opened invitingly, and the upper swells of her breasts were visible above the cloth. Her dusky nipples pebbled her thin garment.

  Anvrai swallowed. He should step away.

  “And here.” She touched his cheek, and he grabbed her wrist, not to hurt her, but to stop her. He was already painfully aroused, and she was no harlot who would welcome his advances.

  “A few more scars mean naught.” His voice seemed rough, even to his own ears. “’Tis time to go back.”

  She bent down then and reached for the tunic just as Anvrai did the same. They bumped heads on the way down.

  “I’ll get it.”

  She stood still, with her hands at her sides as he handed her the sherte. “Put it on, Lady Isabel.”

  She did so, but not quickly enough for his peace of mind, and he wondered if she had any idea of her effect upon him.

  “Roger is asking for you.”

  Isabel did not see any reason for Anvrai’s bad temper. They were safe for the moment and had a formidable retreat to give them shelter. Mayhap he was anxious to move on but resented her and Roger for holding him back.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You may feel free to go as you will, Sir Knight.”

  “Go as I will?”

  “Aye. Leave me here with Roger. We will manage without you.”

  “To starve?”

  “I’ll think of something.” She always did.

  He gave her a skeptical look, but Isabel gazed back at him defiantly. “I escaped the Scottish chieftain…and got us to the currach, did I not?”

  “And almost killed on the river.”

  She admitted readily that it hadn’t been easy. “But we made it. And we’ll make our way back to Kettwyck, too.” Turning away from him, she retraced her steps toward the cave, and Anvrai followed.

  The rain started just as they entered, but the fire had warmed the cave. ’Twas comfortable inside.

  “Birds!” Isabel cried happily when she saw the two partridges lying on the floor. She smiled up at Anvrai. “So we won’t starve.” And there were cabbages and onions, too.

  He picked up one of the carcasses and went deep into the cave while Isabel knelt beside Roger. She’d been unfair in her thoughts about the young knight. He was ill, and that was the only reason he’d seemed so unappealing, so…incompetent.

  She tore another length of cloth from her hem and wet it, then laid it upon the bump on Roger’s head.

  “Isabel,” he groaned, “you’re here.”

  “Aye,” she said gently. “How do you feel?”

  “My head…My chest…”

  “Your chest hurts?”

  He swallowed and gave a weak nod.

  “Is it bruised?”

  “Aye.”

  Isabel opened the laces of his tunic and looked down at the expanse of skin she’d bared. There were no obvious bruises or cuts. Nor was there much muscle, or even hair. She raised her eyes to his face as she pressed the heel of her hand to his breast. “Does this hurt?”

  He winced. “Aye.”

  “And this?” She moved her hand to another place on his chest.

  “I hurt all over.”

  She felt no thick layer of muscle under his soft, smooth skin. ’Twas clear Roger was a gentle knight, one who gave more attention to virtue and prayer than those who made war at every turn. He was exactly the kind of man she’d decided to choose for her spouse, a man who was gentle and kind. One who would understand her gentle needs.

  “Take a drink of water, Roger.”

  He sipped from the cup she held and dribbled some of the water down his chest. Isabel tended him and forgot about her curt interchange with Anvrai. He was rude and had no concern or understanding of her delicate sensibilities. Otherwise, he would not have stood naked in a place where she was likely to see him, displaying more than any virtuous young woman should see.

  He spent a great deal of time removing the feathers from one of the partridges and cutting it into parts. When he finally finished, he put the pieces in the cook pot, poured in water and hung it over the fire. Then he cut up an onion and a cabbage and added them to the pot.

  Roger was asleep again, so Isabel leaned back against the wall of the cave and untied the lace that held her fur shoe in place. She unwrapped the bandage she’d wrapped ’round her foot and looked at the wound.

  “Oh!” ’Twas green and disgusting.

  “’Tis a poultice,” said Anvrai without turning to look at her. “I put it on your foot while you slept last night.”

  ’Twas impossible. “I did not awaken?”

  “No, my lady. You were exhausted.”

  “But you
were not?”

  He shook his head. “Not as much as you.”

  She peeled away the poultice and wiped her skin with the wet cloth she’d used on Roger’s head. The wound was deep, but there was no dangerous redness, no drainage.

  “Let me see,” Anvrai said, crouching beside her.

  He turned her foot to get a good look by the light of the fire. “’Tis healing well.”

  He made another poultice and placed it on her foot, then wrapped it carefully. He worked without speaking, and the silence seemed to grow like a palpable thing between them. ’Twas a strange sensation, having him touch her foot so intimately. She felt warm and languid, and it seemed that even her bones turned to pulp. She studied his face as he worked, his strong brow and straight nose, his mouth—those full lips tightly closed as he concentrated on his task.

  Roger suddenly awakened and called for her.

  “Water,” he said weakly.

  Anvrai sat back on his heels, giving Isabel space enough to get past him. She felt his gaze as she sat down beside Roger, offering him sips of water and gentle conversation.

  With sheets of rain spilling down just outside the cave entrance, Isabel felt completely cut off from the world, though ’twas not such an unpleasant sensation this time. A meal was cooking on the fire, and ’twas warm and secure inside the cave. Roger’s wounds were mending.

  Had she remained at the abbey, she would never have known this moment in time, would never have felt the prickling awareness of Anvrai’s rough potency. He touched something deep within her, some foreign aspect of her she hadn’t known existed.

  She moistened her lips and looked up at him. “Why do you think that man came here?”

  “The hermit?”

  She nodded, and he shrugged, adding more wood to the fire.

  “I cannot imagine closing myself away from everyone and everything I know.”

  “You become accustomed to it. Were you not used to life in the abbey?”

  “Of course, but that’s different.”

  “Not really,” Anvrai countered. “You have little contact with anything but nuns and abbey walls.”

  “But there is a community of people in the abbey. Here, the hermit was alone.”

  Anvrai said naught, but stirred the contents of the pot. A savory aroma emanated from it, and Isabel felt her stomach clench in anticipation of the meal.

  “There are many reasons a man might seek solitude,” he finally said. He did not look up, and Isabel sensed he spoke from experience. Yet he was a powerful knight whose reputation had been known to all at Kettwyck. Surely the celebrated Sir Anvrai had never felt the need to remove himself from society.

  “Name one.”

  God’s breath, would the woman let him be? He’d tended her foot and would provide her a meal. Was it too much to ask for a bit of quiet? A little peace?

  He left the cook pot and went to the hermit’s store of supplies. There was much to do before they could leave the cave and take to the paths that would lead them to England. ’Twas late in the season, and Anvrai had heard of the harsh winters in this northern clime. The sooner they headed south, the better it would suit him.

  There were enough pelts to make at least one tunic, maybe more. He’d taken the hermit’s shoes and clothes before sending him off into the river’s current, but they would only fit Roger. If the boy survived, that was the garb he would wear when they left the cave. Roger would never need to know his clothes had come off a corpse.

  They would need as much protection against the weather as they could find or make, since they were unlikely to find nightly shelter as they traveled.

  “I am a very good seamstress, Sir Anvrai,” Isabel said, after Anvrai had sat down with the pelts. “If you hunt and cook…I’ll sew.”

  He must have given her a dubious look, for she came and knelt beside him, taking the bone needle from his hand.

  “Truly. I am quite good.”

  She started to lay out the pieces of leather and fur.

  “Your hands…” Anvrai began. They had to be too sore to work.

  “I am accustomed to doing my share, Sir Knight,” she said, bristling. “Do you have the knife?”

  He handed it to her, and she cut one long piece of leather into two. “First, I’ll make sleeves for you.”

  “No. ’Tis you who need more adequate covering.”

  “There is more than enough here for my needs,” she said. “Don’t argue.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and watched her work. She had not lied. She knew what she was doing.

  She cut small holes in the long edges of the cloth, then used the needle and a length of twine to sew it into sleeves. When they were ready to be fitted to the tunic, she bid him to stand before her. “Let me have your arm, Sir Anvrai.”

  Her attitude was still stiff and annoyed, and Anvrai had an uncharacteristic urge to lighten the moment with a jest.

  “’Tis attached, my lady.”

  When she looked at him quizzically, ’twas obvious his jest had failed. “My arm. ’Tis attached to me.”

  “Well, of course it is.” She moved toward him with one sleeve. “Put your arm out.”

  She slid the sleeve up his arm. “Haven’t you been cold without any sleeves?”

  “Not much.”

  “Even without your tunic? I appreciate your giving it to me, but—”

  “No, my lady,” he said. “I was not often cold.” Did she not realize his reason for giving his tunic to her? ’Twas only partly to keep her warm.

  “’Tis very finely made.” She glanced up at him suddenly, then looked away. “Did your…wife…sew this for you?”

  “No wife, Lady Isabel.”

  “Oh. The needlework is so fine, I assumed…” A small crease appeared between her brows. “Sir Anvrai, you were not among the knights who gathered at Kettwyck to vie for my hand. I would have remembered.”

  “No, my lady, I was not.”

  Would she never stop fondling his arms and shoulders? How long did it take to sew a simple sleeve?

  “You must have bought it in France, for the craftsmanship is—”

  “No, it belongs to a friend who lent it to me for the banquet at Kettwyck.”

  “Oh.” Her hands stilled for a moment, then resumed her measuring.

  “My friend’s Saxon wife made it,” Anvrai said in an attempt to distract himself from her touch. He could remember no other young woman who’d touched him willingly. ’Twas a heady feeling.

  He tried to ignore the sensation of her hands on his bare skin as she worked, matching the front of the tunic to the back. “I’ll take it off,” he said, standing to do so.

  “Wait. I’ll fix it properly, but I must see how it fits you.”

  She loosened the leather belt he’d tied ’round his waist to keep the fur tunic in place. Isabel shifted the cloth, pulling it lower in the back. “Raise your arms.”

  He closed his eye and attempted to stop the growing arousal resulting from the touch of her hands upon him.

  “I was sure the Scots had broken your ribs,” she said quietly, touching the bruises on his side. “But you can move so well.”

  “Naught was broken,” he said stiffly. “Are you finished?”

  “Aye. You may remove it and give it to me.”

  Bare-chested, Anvrai left her to her work, retreating to the far edge of the cave where the hermit stored his supplies. He took a torch and looked through the odds and ends he found there as he shook off the lingering awareness of Isabel’s touch. Was it possible she no longer felt repulsed by his face and his scars? Mayhap he’d assumed wrongly about her, and she was not like every other fetching young woman. Even so, she belonged to Roger, and that was truly a relief to Anvrai. He was not the one ultimately responsible for her.

  She worked quietly and efficiently until Roger awoke. When the boy sat up, she went to him immediately, hovering over him, feeding him broth from the cooked partridge before easing her own hunger. ’Twas as if she and R
oger were the only ones in the cave.

  “What happened to us?” asked Roger. “I can’t remember. They tied me to a post…was it a village?” He looked up at Isabel. “How did we get away?”

  She shivered violently, then went completely still. “We’ll talk about it when you’re better, Roger.”

  “What happened?” Roger persisted. He tried to sit up, but Isabel placed a hand upon his shoulder and restrained him. “That barbarian Scot violated you! I’ll kill him! I’ll—”

  “Roger, please lie back.”

  Anvrai unclenched his teeth and gazed at her slender back. He’d seen all of war’s horrors, watched his mother and sister killed before he’d been half-blinded and left for dead. The same feeling of powerlessness came over him when he looked at Isabel. They had a long journey ahead of them, and he knew Roger would not be the one to protect her, yet Anvrai did not know if he would be able to keep her safe, either.

  “We escaped the Scots before any harm came to me.”

  “By God, where were your father’s men? Why were we left to those barbarians?”

  “Roger, my father’s men were overpowered. I fear for Sir Hugh, my father’s—”

  “Normans overpowered?” he said incredulously. “By Scots?”

  “Sir Anvrai came after us.” She turned to Anvrai, and Roger took notice of him for the first time. “But he and his men were defeated.”

  Roger closed his eyes and settled into the fur bed. “So, even that gargoyle couldn’t save us.”

  Chapter 9

  Isabel was certain Roger’s rudeness could only be due to his illness. Surely he appreciated Sir Anvrai’s attempt to rescue them. He didn’t remember that the Scots had lain in wait for Anvrai and his men, that they’d been defeated before they’d even arrived.

  “There were so many of them,” she said, glancing back at the big knight, hoping he had not heard Roger’s insult.

  “Tell me what happened,” Roger said.

  Anvrai tossed a log on the fire and sat leaning against the wall of the cave. Isabel felt his presence acutely and knew, somehow, that she and Roger were safe under his care. It was a peculiar feeling, the sense of security projected by Anvrai’s raw masculinity. The power of his strength and size would have made her uneasy only a fortnight ago. Yet now ’twas not the least bit threatening to her.