“How?”
“Just go!” He spoke urgently, as the interlopers came nearer.
With stealth, he hurried to the beaten trail, which came precariously close to Tillie’s cottage. The best plan was to watch the men undetected to see where they were headed. ’Twould not do to confront a group of Scots if their plans did not include stopping to visit Cormac.
There were only six of them, but too many for Anvrai to battle alone. Even if Roger were capable of wielding the ax at the cottage, Anvrai knew the boy could not battle three—or even two—of the Scots if they approached.
The men stayed on their southerly course without diverting toward the cottage. If they knew Cormac’s house was there, it seemed they had no intention of stopping. Anvrai followed them, keeping himself hidden within the trees, his mind occupied with plans to protect Isabel. He’d failed her once, but he would not allow her to be taken again.
Anvrai remained hidden and watched as the Scots stopped on the path and shared a meal. He hoped they did not know of the cottage’s existence or notice the smell of smoke from the chimney. But if they headed toward Isabel and the others, he would have little trouble striking down two or three of them before they got close to her. If Roger could deal with at least one, then Anvrai would deal with however many were left.
Still, he preferred to avoid a confrontation altogether. He kept plenty of space between himself and the Scots. They laughed among themselves, and when one of them stood and pointed in the direction of the cottage, Anvrai put his hand on the hilt of his sword and prepared to move. They laughed again, but came to their feet and continued on their southward path without another glance toward the cottage.
Anvrai followed them a few more miles until they came to a break in the path, where they divided into two groups. Three of the men took the southern route, and the others continued west.
Only then did Anvrai relax.
Moving swiftly, he headed back to the cottage. They were safe for the time being but too vulnerable in the cottage. ’Twas too close to the path. They needed to leave.
’Twas past noon by the time he returned. He found Tillie sitting in a chair by the fire, feeding her bairn, though she’d modestly covered her breast and Belle’s face with a light cloth. Roger sat idly by, but at least he’d fetched the ax from the shed, and it lay close beside him.
“Where is Lady Isabel?”
“In the shed,” Tillie replied. “I put Cormac’s things in there when he died…She went out to see what’s there.”
Someone had baked the loaves of bread he’d prepared the night before. Famished, Anvrai tore himself a piece and walked toward the open door of the shed. He heard Isabel inside, singing a quiet tune.
“Oh! You startled me!” she cried when she turned and saw him.
“My apologies.” The place was filthy and liable to have nesting vermin within.
“Look what I found.” She picked up her lantern and moved to the back of the building.
The floor was covered with a thick layer of straw and assorted pieces of wood and tools. The parts of a broken-down cart littered the small structure, but it looked salvageable. Anvrai was going to clean out the mess, which would give him a place to work on it…
Isabel turned to him, holding up a pair of peasant’s trews, then she showed him a rough woolen tunic. There were also mittens and a heavy cloak. “I thought mayhap they would fit you,” she said. “They’re most certainly too large for Roger, but I can see now they will not do for you, either. Your shoulders are so broad, and your legs…”
She gathered the items to her breast and looked away, clearly discomfited by her own words, and Anvrai allowed himself a moment’s pleasure to think she’d admired his form.
“These will be useful at least for Tillie,” he said, taking the cloak from her. “’Twill soon grow colder—”
“You surely mean for her to go with us when we go.”
“Of course.”
“But she cannot walk so many miles.”
“She will ride in this.” He took a few steps to the place where the cart stood, half on its side. He removed debris from its bed.
“’Tis broken.”
“It can be fixed.”
Isabel tipped her head to one side. “Is there anything you cannot do, Sir Anvrai?”
Aye. He could not make himself comely for her. He could not acquire an estate to make himself a worthy spouse. He could not forget his inability to keep her—or any woman—safe. “As soon as I repair this wheel, we will leave. We are too vulnerable here.”
Isabel nodded, then looked away from him, her demeanor suddenly retiring and uncharacteristically shy. “I…made something for you.”
He raised one brow. She’d made the tunic he wore, as well as last night’s disastrous biscuits, but she had never appeared shy before.
She picked up a round of dark leather attached to a length of leather twine. But the second he saw it, she took it away and threw it upon a high shelf. “Never mind. I should not have—”
Curious, Anvrai reached ’round her, intending to take the object from the shelf, but Isabel shifted slightly so that a few measly inches separated her back from his chest. He placed his left hand upon the shelf near her waist and breathed in the scent of her hair. He let his hand drift to her abdomen and pulled her back against him, shuddering when her buttocks made contact.
He was hard and ready for her, and when she moved her bottom, her cleft cradling him intimately, he groaned and pulled back. ’Twas not for him to lay her in the soft straw and share the sensual pleasures his body demanded. Gently bred convent ladies were not wont to give their innocence to randy knights, and she would surely regret such an impropriety.
“Show me what you made.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears, but he knew what was best. They needed space between them. He needed something to occupy his thoughts besides the insistent urges of his body.
He took up the small bundle from the shelf and held it up. “An eye patch?”
No wonder she’d seemed shy before. ’Twas more likely embarrassment, for no one ever spoke of his ruined eye or the rest of his scars. No one acknowledged how repulsive they found him. Until now.
“’Twas presumptuous of me, Sir Anvrai. I should never—”
“My scars are a testament to my family’s demise. A fate I should have shared.” He stepped back, surprised he’d spoken the words aloud.
“Your family? What happened to you, Anvrai? To them?” She lifted her hand to touch him, but drew it back when he turned away from her.
“Raiders attacked my father’s house. They burned what they could not carry and killed all who tried to impede them. I was left with one eye and the rest of these scars.”
“And your family?”
“Ever the storyteller, are you, my lady?” He crumpled the patch in his hand. “Mayhap someday you can regale an audience with details of my—”
“No! I—”
“At first, I hid,” he said, turning ’round to pierce her with an angry glare, but he knew his anger was not justified. Isabel had not meant to insult him or to pry. He did not understand why she wanted to know his history, but he told her of the incident that had robbed him of his family and his birthright. “They came to my parents’ chamber, where my father had gone looking for us…my mother, my sister, and me. The Norsemen speared him and took everything of value before torching the manor.”
He could still smell the acrid smoke as his father’s house burned ’round him.
“Pray, do not continue speaking of it.”
Isabel touched his arm, but Anvrai did not stop. If she found his face so terrible, she would learn the reason why he did not cover it.
“I tried to pull my father to safety, away from the fire, but he knew he would not survive his wound. He bid me to find my mother and Beatrice, to hide with them in a secret cellar below the house, where neither the fire nor the raiders would find us.
“They would have remained safe where they we
re, but I insisted they go to the cellar as my father instructed. The raiders caught us then. They held Beatrice and me, forced us to watch them rape and kill my mother.”
Anvrai gazed down at Isabel as he spoke. Her lower lip trembled, and her eyes glistened with moisture. Did she not understand ’twas pointless to weep?
Anvrai had never spoken so much about that day to anyone, and immediately he regretted telling Isabel of it. He did not want her pity, but her understanding. He wanted her to know why he left his ugly scars naked for all to see, why he would not pledge to keep anyone safe.
“We tried to turn away from the horror, begging them to spare her life, to spare us from having to watch. But they held us fast, taunted us. Finally, they obliged our wish. One of them speared Beatrice through her eye, killing her.
“The one who had taken me…he had only a short dagger, and he was not so thorough. I survived the wound.”
“How old were you?” One tear slid down her cheek, and she brushed it away absently. He was relieved that she did not succumb to a fit of useless weeping.
“’Twas my eighth year.”
She looked at him unflinchingly, with no revulsion in her eyes, but an expression he could not read. “You were…I only…” She swallowed, her delicate throat moving thickly. “I apologize. As I said…’twas presumptuous of me.”
Isabel was mortified. She should have known Anvrai had a reason for leaving his scars exposed. The cruelty he’d survived surely gave him the right to present his face any way he chose. She muttered another apology and left him, swallowing the tears that threatened to fall. ’Twas clear he did not appreciate her sympathy and would abhor any tears on his behalf. Clearly, he felt it a just penance to go through life with his disfigurement for all to see.
Isabel’s tears fell only when she was well away from the cottage. How could a child of eight years be held responsible for protecting his entire family? A whole garrison of knights had failed to protect Kettwyck from Scottish raiders. ’Twas not fair for Anvrai’s father to have charged his son with the task of saving his mother and sister.
Too shaken by Anvrai’s story to return to the cottage, Isabel walked to the brook and began to pace. Anvrai was the most heroic man she’d ever known. He was a fierce warrior, but it was his smallest deeds that garnered her admiration…his tending of the wound in her foot, his gentle handling of Tillie, his tolerance of Roger’s petty behavior. These were the things that—
A sound in the distance caught Isabel’s attention, and she stopped in her tracks. Boisterous male voices were coming from the direction of the path.
In haste, she returned to the clearing just as Anvrai came out of the cottage. He appeared relieved to see her, but his irate expression quickly returned.
“Men are coming this way—” she started to say, but it was clear the others had already heard the voices.
“’Tis Cormac’s friends,” Tillie cried.
“How many?” Anvrai demanded.
Her face paled and she took Anvrai’s arm. “I know of three…Please! Please don’t let them hurt me!”
Anvrai’s expression was resolute. As much as he’d disliked being caught up in the birth of Tillie’s bairn, the Scots would have to go through him to get to her. Isabel felt a surge of confidence in his attitude.
“They are likely some of the men I followed earlier.”
Tillie’s eyes darkened with fear. “They carry axes and swords. They’ll be d-drinking skins of ale…laughing…but c-cruel.”
Anvrai placed his hands upon Tillie’s shoulders. “Can you stand here until they arrive?” His voice was hushed, urgent.
“Here in the yard? No! Please do not make me!”
“I’ll keep you safe, Tillie,” he said. “I need you to do this. The Scots must think naught is amiss when they come into the clearing, and you are the key to convincing them.”
He looked at Isabel. “Take the bairn and go into the cottage, Isabel. Stay there and stay quiet. Roger, go with Isabel, but prepare yourself to come out with the ax as soon as you hear me make the first strike with my sword. We’ll take them by surprise.”
He turned back to the young girl, who stood quaking in fear. “Tillie, look at me,” he said. “Do you trust me to keep you safe?”
She swallowed, then nodded.
“Good. Because the success of the plan hinges upon you.”
Chapter 14
Tillie looked up at Anvrai.
“Stand here as if naught is amiss,” he said. “When I come out and surprise them, I want you to run.”
Isabel felt as if her legs were incapable of movement. Anvrai planned to face all three Scots alone! Madness! “Anvrai!” she cried, shifting Belle in her arms. “You cannot possibly do this alone!”
“No, Roger is going to help me. Go! Now!”
Anvrai had made his plan so quickly that Isabel’s head spun. He sent her into the house with the bairn to keep them both safe while he used Tillie to lure the Scots into the yard. And Tillie was to run away as soon as the battle began.
The plan could not possibly succeed!
Isabel looked ’round the cottage for something to use as a weapon, finding naught but the furniture. Mayhap a chair or the three-legged stool would be useful if she had need to protect herself and Belle.
“Gesu,” muttered Roger. He stood at the door, waiting for the signal to go outside, looking vastly uncomfortable with the ax in hand.
All at once, it seemed, the Scots came into the clearing and called out to Tillie. Then there was a shout of surprise and a loud clang of metal. Isabel flung open the door and saw Anvrai engaged in a fight against two burly men. A third lay dead upon the ground, and Tillie was nowhere to be seen.
“Go, Roger!” she cried with quiet urgency as she lay Belle upon the bed. “Go before they catch sight of you!” She pushed him out the door, then picked up the wooden stool and followed him outside.
“Isabel, go back!” shouted Anvrai.
One of the Scots took note of her and Roger coming out of the cottage, and turned to engage Roger in battle. Roger used the unwieldy ax, but ’twas clear the man with the sword had the advantage. Roger fought valiantly until he tripped over the Scot who lay dead and fell down hard. Terrified that the fall would mean Roger’s death, Isabel raised the stool and crashed it over the Scot’s back just as Anvrai finished off the other man.
Isabel’s action weakened Roger’s opponent sufficiently to give the young knight the opening he needed, but he wavered too long and the Scot was able to jab once again, slicing a gash in Roger’s arm. Isabel screamed, and Anvrai acted swiftly, impaling the man before he could do any more damage. The Scot fell in a pool of blood and expended his last gurgling breath.
’Twas utterly and completely silent in the yard. No breeze disturbed a branch, nor did any bird cheep nearby. But there was an unearthly chill in the air. Isabel felt sickened by the death and destruction in the yard, but she could not tear her gaze from the three dead Scots. She felt weak-kneed when she looked at the three bodies, hardly noticing when Anvrai extended his hand to Roger and pulled him to his feet. Roger carefully covered the wound in his arm and complained bitterly of the Scot’s lucky blow.
Anvrai turned to Isabel, shoving his sword through his belt. “Are you demented, woman?” he demanded. “You should have stayed inside with the bairn. What could you possibly have been thinking!”
“I—”
“One stroke of the sword and ’twould have been your body lying here. Mayhap Roger’s, too!” He jabbed his fingers through his hair and stepped away.
Shaken by his angry shouting, Isabel could barely think. “I only—”
“Say no more.” Anvrai turned and pierced her with a hard, cold stare. “But heed my instructions next time. Only one of us has experience in battle, and you would do well to remember it.”
Isabel swallowed. “Tillie,” she said quietly. “Where’s Tillie?”
“I did not take notice of her flight,” Anvrai said, turning to w
alk toward the shed. “But she cannot have gone far.”
’Twas no great surprise that Anvrai had not seen the girl run away, considering that he’d faced the three Scots in the yard alone. Surely she was not the only one present lacking good sense. The danger to Anvrai had far exceeded anything Isabel had faced. Yet he’d risked death to protect them.
Isabel left Roger and went toward the cottage in search of Tillie, in awe of Anvrai’s skill with his sword, and also a little afraid of him. There was no reason for him to be angry with her. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed she was the one who’d disabled the Scot, giving him the opportunity to slay the man. In another second, Roger would have swung the ax and killed the man. It had not been necessary for Anvrai to interfere.
Piqued with him, she was momentarily distracted by Belle’s cry and went inside to pick up the bairn, holding her against her breast, quieting her, settling her own nerves. Anvrai’s wrath gave her an understanding of the practical reasons for keeping his ruined eye uncovered. Not only would his opponents tend to underestimate the fighting ability of a man who was half-blind, but his fierce visage would surely put any attacker off stride.
It had put her off stride.
He was a formidable warrior. Isabel could barely believe the same hands that had wielded his lethal broadsword were the ones that had held Tillie’s precious bairn so gently; the man who’d censured her so severely had kissed her so tenderly. She let out a shaky breath just as Roger came through the door. He peeled away his tunic and looked at his wound. “Anvrai found her. He wants you.”
“Is she all right?”
Roger shrugged and sat down at the table. Isabel left the cottage, carrying Belle. Taking pains to avoid the dead Scots in the yard, Isabel went to the shed but found no one inside.
“Tillie?” she called.
Anvrai found Tillie some distance from the clearing, hiding at the base of a tall pine with low, sweeping branches. Her face was without color, and her whole body trembled. Her eyes stared ahead, unseeing.
“Here!” he called when he heard Isabel’s voice. The rage of battle and his fear for Isabel’s life still weighed heavily upon him. Having to deal with a fragile female was more challenging than facing three bloodthirsty Scots. What he really wanted was to find Roger and wring his neck. The boy had blundered badly, nearly getting himself killed and putting all of them at risk. He doubted Isabel realized it.
The Bride Hunt Page 12