The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  “Roger, ’tis a long story, and you should rest.” She did not want to speak of what she’d done. ’Twas too horrible, and much too intimate a tale to share with him, especially when he was in such an ungenerous frame of mind.

  What would he think of her if he knew what she’d done? Her throat suddenly became thick with tears, and she moved away from him.

  ’Twould be best if she never again thought of the incident in the chieftain’s cottage. Reliving those moments served no purpose. She brushed away her tears and picked up Anvrai’s tunic.

  This would be no fine sherte like the one he’d given her from his own back, but it would shield him from the cold. She ran her fingers over the expertly embroidered hem of the garment she wore. “The needlework on this tunic is beautiful,” she said to Anvrai. “Your friend’s wife is very skilled.”

  “Aye. Lady Elena has many talents.”

  “Elena. The Saxon woman?”

  “Aye.” His curt answer was clearly intended to put an end to further conversation. But Isabel wondered where he lived, who his friends were, who loved him.

  He was much younger than she’d first thought. Isabel realized he must have been little more than a youth when he’d fought and earned his fierce reputation at Hastings. “What is your age, Sir Anvrai?” she asked, unable to resist the question.

  “I’ve seen twenty-seven summers, my lady,” he replied. “Are you finished with that tunic?”

  “Oh.” She lifted the garment from her lap. “Just let me tie this last knot.”

  She did so and handed the tunic to him. When he pulled it over his head, Isabel was gratified to see that it fit him well. She gave him the belt, and he tied it ’round his waist.

  Meeting his gaze, she detected a flicker of appreciation, but he turned away quickly and left the cave. Isabel watched him retreat through the tunnel and wished she had not pressed him with questions. Anvrai might have been defeated by the Scots at Kettwyck, but it was due to his skill and strength that they were alive and well, safe in this cave.

  “Isabel?”

  Roger was awake and watching her. She filled a bowl with meat and broth and sat down beside him. “Tell me about your estate in the south, Sir Roger.”

  “’Tis called Pirou,” he said. “When we get back, the castle will have been built and made ready for habitation.”

  She thought about the magnificent holding that had been granted to Sir Roger. He was very well connected to King William’s court, and if Isabel’s father was correct, Roger would soon have titles and honors beyond compare.

  He propped himself upon one elbow. “I’d hoped to take you to Pirou as my bride.”

  “Aye…I know.”

  “Isabel, I’ve already received your father’s consent, and now I must ask if you—”

  “Roger, let us postpone any discussion of marriage until we are safely out of Scotland.”

  “But I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

  Yet she was not. Before their abduction, she’d believed Roger the perfect groom. His dark eyes were earnest, and even though his face was no longer clean—nor clean-shaven—he was still a comely young man. He was a gentle soul, quite different from the rough and uncouth knights in her father’s service. Different from Anvrai d’Arques.

  Isabel shook herself out of such pointless ruminations. She was a fool to question the choice she’d made at Kettwyck. When she became Roger’s wife, she would be chatelaine to a rich holding and spouse to a man who was capable of understanding her gentle-hearted ways.

  ’Twould be a worthy occupation.

  Two days passed before Roger was able to travel. By that time, Isabel had made use of every pelt in the hermit’s supply to provide them with adequate clothing for the journey. Anvrai hadn’t found a wain, but he gave Isabel credit for anticipating their need to carry the supplies they’d found in the cave. She’d made a satchel from fur and leather scraps, and three shawl-sized wraps that would have to serve as blankets as they traveled.

  Her foot had healed well enough for her to walk without limping, but Anvrai still made a germander poultice every day and dressed her wound, holding her foot gently while wrapping the cloth ’round it. Isabel became accustomed to his touch, leaning back and relaxing as he tended her, closing her eyes and sighing as though she enjoyed his ministrations.

  Of course she did not, but Anvrai allowed himself this one small illusion.

  He gave them no warning before announcing ’twas time to leave their temporary shelter and take the path down to the dale. ’Twas an optimum day for travel since the sun was shining and the weather mild. ’Twould soon turn cold, and Anvrai wanted to get a good many miles south before the weather changed.

  During their days in the cave, Isabel had not gone down to the valley, clearly preferring to spend her waking hours by Roger’s side.

  “’Tis too soon to leave,” she protested when she saw Anvrai gathering their meager possessions into the satchel.

  When he paid no heed to her objections she became angry. “Roger won’t be able to keep up.” She stood up to him like one of the Norse Valkyries of old, her golden eyes flashing, her dark hair swirling ’round her hips.

  Anvrai looked away, dismayed by the staggering punch of arousal that hit him when he looked at her, fiercely protecting her mate. “Roger needs only to walk,” he said, shoving the leather snares into the pack. “I will carry what we need. But we must be on our way.”

  “’Tis all right, Isabel. I am capable.” For a full day, Roger had been up and about, leaving the cave for necessary trips outside. He and Isabel sat together in companionable silence, or talked at length, effectively excluding Anvrai from their company.

  Anvrai had to admit he had excluded himself as well. The two were perfect for one another, both beautifully made, and the experience of their abduction by the Scots drew them close to one another. Roger had used the hermit’s blade to shave, and he was as comely a lad as he’d seemed at Kettwyck. The hermit’s robe hid the boy’s thinness, making him appear a well-developed man.

  Anvrai drew the satchel strap over his shoulder and slipped through the tunnel as he had done countless times since their arrival at the cave. Isabel had not returned there since the first day, when the height of the ledge outside had caused her to retreat into the cave.

  Anvrai waited as Roger and Isabel emerged from the tunnel, relying on the young man to help her get down to the path. He was certain that once they reached the path, her fear would disappear.

  Roger went to the edge of the cliff and stood with his hands upon his hips, surveying all he saw, as though he were lord of the land.

  “So this is where you found our food,” he said. He glanced back. “Come, Isabel.”

  She stood by the opening of the tunnel and did not move. Her skin turned pale, and there was panic in her eyes when she looked from Roger to Anvrai. When she tried to speak, no words came.

  Her fear made Anvrai want to reach out to her, but ’twas not his place. He scrambled down the ledge, away from them. ’Twas up to Roger, her intended husband, to deal with her one weakness.

  The path was quite easy after the initial step down. Anvrai was certain that once Roger managed to move Isabel past that first drop, she would be all right.

  He walked alone to the bottom of the escarpment and waited for Roger and Isabel to come along. The sun warmed him, and he took a seat upon a large rock near the path and waited. The sound of Roger’s voice drifted down to him occasionally, but after a lengthy wait, they still did not come.

  Anvrai removed the satchel. Placing it beside the rock, he returned to the ledge where he found Roger trying to cajole Isabel into descending with him. She was clearly paralyzed by fear and unable to move.

  He pushed past Roger and took hold of Isabel’s arm, turning her, then quickly lifting her into his arms. He wasted no time, nor did he listen to her protests. He went to the ledge and jumped down to the path. In spite of her struggles, he held on to her, carrying her all the way to
the rock where he’d left the satchel.

  Her struggles abated, but Anvrai did not release her. She tightened her hold ’round his neck and pressed her face into his chest as he continued down the path. Roger called to them, but Anvrai’s attention was fully centered on the pressure of Isabel’s supple body in his arms.

  They made it to the bottom of the dale all too soon, but Isabel did not release him immediately. Anvrai allowed himself a moment’s pleasure at her touch before lowering her to the ground.

  “The tales are true, I see,” said Roger angrily, coming up behind them. “You are every bit as barbaric as they say.”

  Anvrai picked up their supplies and started walking. Isabel said naught, but fell into step behind him, easily keeping up the pace he had set in consideration of Roger’s convalescence.

  “I wonder how far it is to England,” Roger said.

  “’Tis impossible to say, Sir Roger,” Isabel replied. “We marched for many days before arriving at the Scots’ village, and when we escaped, the river carried us…far out of our way.”

  “My father will have all his men scouring the north country for us.”

  Anvrai snorted. Lord de Neuville’s men were on their way to Lothian with King William, to challenge the Scottish king. The loss of one spoiled son would be a low priority. Lord Kettwyck might also be inclined to send men after them, but his forces had been decimated on the night of the attack.

  “What?” demanded Sir Roger. “Why do you scoff?”

  “The king has mustered his forces to attend him at the mouth of the River Tees. From there, he plans to march north to engage King Malcolm,” Anvrai replied. “De Neuville’s men would be en route even now.”

  “Why wasn’t I informed of this campaign?”

  Anvrai laughed at the young man’s indignation. ’Twas not as if he had any military expertise that would be required on the field of battle. His aptitude was that of a courtier, not a soldier.

  “Of course you would have been informed, Sir Roger,” Isabel interjected. “’Twas most certainly an oversight during the fete.”

  Roger’s stamina lasted only until late afternoon. Anvrai had set a reasonable pace, but Isabel’s foot ached, and Roger was exhausted by the time they stopped.

  “Set up camp,” Anvrai said when they stepped off the path and went into the cover of a dense wood nearby. He led them to a narrow stream, where Isabel knelt and gathered cold water into her hands for a drink. “I’ll see if I can get us some food,” he added, taking his snares and heading off into the forest.

  “Where are the bowls?” Roger asked. “We brought them, did we not?”

  “Aye, we did.” Isabel dug through the pouch and handed one of the two bowls to him, then went to gather wood for a fire. ’Twould become cold during the night, and they would need its heat. Besides, if Anvrai brought food, they would have to cook it.

  Making a fire circle, she noted Roger’s exhaustion. They had left the cave much too soon. He should have had another day or two to rest and gather his strength before setting out on their journey. Still, it felt good to take action. Idly wasting any more time in the cave would have tested her sanity.

  By the time Anvrai returned, Isabel had a fire going, and Roger was resting, wrapped in the fur shawl she’d made. She was proud of what she’d accomplished in the time Anvrai had been gone, especially in light of her ignominious behavior when they’d first set out from the cave. She did not know why she was so fearful of heights, but it had always been so. Had Anvrai not carried her down, Isabel had no doubt she would still be standing upon the ledge outside the tunnel at the start of their journey.

  Seldom had she felt so secure as when Anvrai had held her body close to his. She’d kept her eyes tightly closed during their descent to the dale and imagined ’twas Roger who carried her.

  Or, tried to imagine it. Unfortunately, she was all too familiar with Sir Anvrai’s powerful muscles and formidable strength to mistake him for Roger. She’d wondered how it would feel to press her cheek against the bare wall of his chest rather than the fur tunic he wore, or to touch her lips to his skin.

  Shocked by the direction of her thoughts, she unwrapped the last of their food from the cave and offered some to Roger, then to Anvrai. “If your snares yield anything, we can feast upon it tomorrow.”

  Anvrai raised an eyebrow at her words, and Isabel wondered if her statement had been taken amiss. Surely he did not believe he would trap enough food for them before nightfall?

  “Aye, my lady,” he said.

  “We have plenty for tonight, Sir Anvrai.”

  He took his portion and settled down near the fire to eat. Roger had already dropped into slumber, so Isabel packed their bowls away and hung the satchel on the branch of a tree.

  Darkness fell, and the flickering light of the fire cast ominous shadows in the surrounding woods. “I hope there is no village nearby,” she said, glancing ’round.

  “There isn’t,” Anvrai replied. “I looked for signs of habitation when I set my traps.”

  “But what if someone should see the smoke from our fire?”

  “’Tis unlikely, my lady.”

  Isabel sat down near the fire, not far from Anvrai. “Are there wolves?” she asked. “I remember hearing tales of wolves in the north country.”

  Anvrai seemed to hesitate before answering. “No,” he finally said. “I saw no sign of any wolves.”

  Isabel glanced at Roger, sleeping peacefully, and wondered if she would find her own rest so easily. She moved closer to Anvrai.

  “How is your foot?”

  “Oh. ’Tis…. I think you should look at it.” She trusted his skill and gentle touch. The wound was nearly healed, but another application of his germander poultice would not be amiss.

  Anvrai left his place to gather what he needed to complete the task. Isabel watched uneasily as he disappeared into the darkness, even though there was no good reason to be afraid. She believed him when he said there were no people or wolves about.

  Isabel shivered and pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders. There was a chilly edge to the air, and she knew ’twould grow much colder as the night wore on.

  Anvrai returned and positioned himself on the ground where Isabel could extend her leg and place her foot in his lap. He took her foot in hand, untying the fur boot. Carefully, he unwrapped the bandage and looked at the cut in the sole. “’Tis healing well.”

  “But it’s sore.”

  “The cut?”

  “No…the muscles.”

  He nodded. “From walking today.” He cradled her foot in his rough hands and pressed his thumbs against the sides, then the sole. “You did well.”

  Isabel put her elbows on the ground behind her and leaned back on them, closing her eyes with the pleasure Anvrai elicited with his words, his touch. He rubbed the muscles of her foot, and Isabel moved slightly, giving him access to her ankle.

  He unwrapped the fur from her other foot and began to rub it, then slid his hands higher, massaging both legs at once. Isabel opened her eyes and looked at his face, but she did not withdraw, even though his touch was wholly improper. Her feet should not be lodged in Sir Anvrai’s lap, nor should she allow him to caress her so intimately. His touch made her tingle…her breasts tightened, and her womb contracted pleasantly. ’Twas a most unusual sensation, but she could not make herself pull away.

  “Should I expect my husband to perform this service after I am wed, Sir Anvrai?”

  The rhythm of his touch did not change, but he raised his head and met her gaze. “I would not know, my lady,” he said. “The duties of a husband are foreign to me.”

  His voice was quiet, as though it came from a great distance, and Isabel realized the subject was not a welcome one.

  “How did you learn so much of the healing arts?” she asked, moving to a safer topic.

  “At the house where I fostered,” he replied, “the lady was a gardener and provided medicine for the manor and village. She taught me.”
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br />   He must have been quite young then, for later, when he’d grown, he’d have begun his knight’s training. She wondered if he’d been as fierce a child as he was a man and decided not. He had too gentle a touch always to have been a fearsome warrior.

  “Does your liege lord utilize your skills at Belmere?”

  “Aye. Some.”

  The heat of his hands spread up her legs to her loins and beyond. Her bones turned to liquid, and she craved something more.

  “Mayhap you can teach Roger to do this,” she said.

  Anvrai stopped his ministrations abruptly. He placed the poultice on the cut, wrapped her foot, and stood. “You won’t need another poultice after this, my lady. The wound is nearly healed.”

  Confused by Anvrai’s abrupt withdrawal, Isabel wrapped her feet in the fur boots and tied them in place. “Thank you, Sir Anvrai,” she said. She came to her feet and stood facing him. “And for earlier today…when you carried me down the slope. I would never have made it alone.”

  “’Twas naught. We had to get started while the sun was high.” He handed her the shawl she’d made for him and walked to the opposite side of the fire. “Take this. You’ll need it more than I.”

  Chapter 10

  It did not take long for Anvrai to retrieve the game birds from his snares. He discovered a few nests while on his early walk through the woods and collected the eggs within. They would make a quick meal before resuming their southward trek, allowing them to save the cooked fowl for eating at midday.

  As they sat together breaking their fast, Anvrai was anxious to be on their way, to have other matters to occupy his mind besides the moments of the night before when he’d held Isabel’s delicate feet in his hands. He’d erred in sliding his hands up the calves of her legs, in rubbing her skin and muscles. Though she’d given him free access to her legs and the smooth silk of her skin, she couldn’t have any idea of the effect her sensual reaction had had on him.