She called out again, and he answered her. “She’s here in the woods.”
The girl looked so small and terrified, Anvrai wondered if Isabel would be able to coax her out.
Isabel arrived and pushed aside one of the low boughs that served to conceal Tillie. Holding Belle with care, she lowered herself to the soft, damp pine needles and spoke quietly, ignoring Anvrai, focusing all her attention on the girl. “Tillie, ’tis Isabel. And Belle.”
Tillie gave only a small reaction, a pitiful whimper. Isabel looked up at Anvrai with uncertainty in her eyes. She was unnerved, too, mayhap as much from his burst of temper as the battle itself.
“The Scots are gone. D-dead, Tillie. Sir Anvrai killed them.”
The girl took a deep, shuddering breath and turned her eyes in Isabel’s direction.
“They cannot harm you, sweetling. They’re gone. Come.”
Her tone was warm and kind, her words carefully weighed to lure Tillie out. Anvrai clenched his teeth. He shouldn’t have been so harsh with her. He had never before shouted at a woman, but her actions had shaken him to the core. ’Twas God’s grace, or sheer luck that had given him success. Isabel’s death was unthinkable.
Tillie wrapped her arms ’round herself and shuddered. “They…They’re dead?”
“Aye.”
“Those men…They came twice before…They…they hurt me…” Her face crumpled like a wilted leaf, and she let out a painful sob.
Anvrai felt helpless, a sensation he did not enjoy. If he could kill the Scots a second time, he would do it for Tillie’s sake.
But there was no more he could do. He rose to his feet and returned to the yard, leaving Isabel with Tillie. She was much better suited to dealing with the girl’s tears.
’Twas no surprise Roger hadn’t moved the dead men, and for once, the boy’s inaction caused no grief. The bodies should remain undisturbed until Tillie saw them with her own eyes. ’Twas the best reassurance he could think of.
Their departure from the cottage had become even more urgent. When the Scotsmen failed to return to their place of origin, they would be missed. Anvrai did not know if anyone would be sent to find them, but he would not risk another encounter at the cottage. He was going to get the cart repaired and leave at dawn.
“Roger!”
Smoke drifted up from the chimney, and the cottage door was tightly closed against the dead men in the yard. The wooden stool lay broken in pieces, a reminder of Isabel’s brush with death. She’d risked her life to save Roger. Anvrai’s anger surged again at the thought of it.
The Scot could easily have turned and seen her. The man wouldn’t have thought twice before spearing her with his sword.
Anvrai went into the cottage and found Isabel’s young knight sitting at the table with his tunic off. He held a cloth against the cut in his arm. “It’s still bleeding,” he said.
Anvrai shook his head in disgust. He’d known others like Roger, men who could think no farther than their own troubles, yet Isabel had risked all for him. She must care deeply for the young man in spite of…
He cleared his throat. “There is work to be done. Put on your clothes and come outside.”
Roger looked up at Anvrai blankly.
“While I get the cart ready to travel, you’re going to dig a hole deep enough to bury the Scots.”
Roger took the cloth from the wound in his arm and showed the gaping cut to Anvrai. “I doubt I’ll be able to do any digging.”
“You can have Lady Isabel stitch your cut later. Bind it now and get the Scots buried in a grave far out of sight.”
Unwilling to argue, Anvrai left the cottage and encountered Isabel carrying Belle and walking with Tillie through the yard. She glanced up at him, but he kept moving. He might apologize for his harsh words, but he had meant every one of them. And if he spoke to her just then, he was likely to shake her and demand to know if her love for Roger was worth risking her life.
Anvrai found a shovel inside the shed and propped it on an outside wall for Roger to find. He hoped the boy would come to him to complain of his task. Anvrai was still angry enough to lay the worthless knave on his arse.
With brute strength, he tipped the cart off its broken corner and pulled it outside, into the clearing to make a better assessment of what needed to be done. He would like to have thrown the damnable thing off a cliff to assuage his anger, but ’twould not be practical.
Besides, there was no cliff nearby.
Work was what he needed in order to put Isabel and Roger from his mind. They could have each other with his blessing. The incompetent knight and his fair maiden. The pampered nobleman’s son and the willful lady. The immature bridegroom and his brash, brave, beautiful bride.
Anvrai muttered a curse and returned to the shed for the tools he needed. Upon the ground lay the patch Isabel had made for his eye. He reached down and picked it up, regretting telling her of his past. He could have said merely that he preferred not to wear it and told her nothing more. Yet he’d spoken to her of the events that had destroyed his family, a tale he’d told no one else.
He placed the leather patch over his eye and held it in place. It felt no different. He was still half-blind, still the son who had failed his father. He tied the thin straps that held the patch over his eye, unwilling to offend Isabel’s tender sensibilities. He would spare her further exposure to his scarred eye socket.
He gathered the tools he needed, then dragged the broken wheel from the shed. ’Twas going to be a piece of work, making the cart usable, and work was exactly what he needed.
Tillie’s trembling continued at least an hour, and Isabel could understand why. Cormac and the other Scots had used her badly. ’Twas a wonder she tolerated Anvrai’s touch and Roger’s presence. Fortunately, both men were away from the cottage when she returned with the girl. They walked ’round the bodies in the yard, and though Tillie kept her eyes averted from the grotesque scene, Isabel knew she’d taken notice. She seemed to breathe easier, though she was still dazed. Belle began to cry, and Isabel pushed open the cottage door.
“Tillie, you must feed Belle.” She handed the wailing infant to the girl, but Isabel had to guide her to the chair and open Tillie’s bodice to give the infant access to her breast. “Hold her, dearling. Put your arms thus.”
Isabel folded a blanket and put it under the bairn to support her until Tillie overcame her shock and slid her arms ’round her daughter. There was no doubt the girl had relaxed somewhat after seeing the dead Scots, but the attack hardly seemed real to Isabel. She could not imagine how Tillie must feel.
The maid needed a distraction, something else to think of. Isabel thought of making up another tale to take Tillie’s mind from the dead men, but the fresh loaves of bread caught her attention. They would have to leave soon, and ’twould be good to have food ready to pack for the journey.
“Will you help me, Tillie? Tell me how to make bread?” She took a bowl from the shelf and placed it on the table. “First, the bowl. Now, flour.” There were several sacks of grain, and Isabel chose the one containing barley flour. “How much, Tillie? How much?”
Tillie looked up at her. “Do you see that mug on the shelf?” she asked. “Fill it twice.”
Elated by her success in getting Tillie to talk, Isabel followed the girl’s instructions and prepared the dough in much the same way as Anvrai had done it the night before. She’d watched him carefully, telling herself it was because she wanted to see how to make the next loaf. But in truth, ’twas because she could not take her eyes from the sight of his strong hands kneading the dough.
Those hands were so different from Roger’s. Long-fingered and blunt-tipped, they were as capable of protecting them as they were of providing food. Everything about him was what she most feared in men. He was big and brash, rough, and even crude at times. Compared to Roger, Anvrai was barbaric.
She’d been so certain ’twould be better to choose a husband whose differences from her were minimal. A man like Roger.
He danced well. He spoke nicely and understood protocol.
Isabel had never seen Anvrai dance, and he spoke bluntly, if at all. Yet the mere sight of that tall, disfigured knight made Isabel’s heart leap. ’Twas the differences between them that intrigued and attracted her. He was a fierce warrior, and his harsh reaction to her appearance on his battlefield was probably well deserved. It had been rash and dangerous to go out there. Belatedly, she realized that her actions had distracted him, might even have caused him to err in battle.
Isabel punched the dough and lamented her impulsive behavior. Surely no heroine in any tale would have acted thus. She should apologize for jeopardizing the outcome of the battle.
Taking Tillie’s instructions, she made two loaves, then plucked the turkey Roger had caught, gutted it, and put it on the spit. She did not relish the task of skinning the hare, but she listened to Tillie’s description of the process anyway, then took the knife and went outside to do the work. She could not stand to be idle.
Dressing the hare was more difficult than Isabel anticipated, but she managed it somehow and put the meat in a pot with water and vegetables, then hung it over the fire.
She took Belle from her mother, bouncing her gently. “You should sleep now, Tillie.” The bairn belched and fell asleep, and Isabel helped an exhausted Tillie into the bed. She placed the bairn in the crook of Tillie’s arm and went outside.
Not yet ready to face Anvrai’s justified anger, Isabel went in search of Roger and found him a short distance away, digging a hole and muttering under his breath. When she realized he was digging a grave for the Scots, a wave of confusion came over her. The wound in his arm had saturated the bandage with blood, yet he worked on, ignoring it. This was so unlike him…
“Roger, your wound—”
“Is likely to kill me before I get this grave dug.”
“Let me take a turn with the shovel. You can go back to the cottage for a new cloth to bind it.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “And let that bastard catch you performing my task? No.”
“Then I’ll get a new bandage and bring it back to you.”
“Bring a cool drink, too. ’Tis damnably hot in this sun.”
He muttered under his breath, and Isabel could only imagine the agony he felt in his arm. Yet his task was necessary. His arduous labor in spite of the wound in his arm made Isabel consider how vulnerable they were. If the three men who’d come to visit Cormac were missed, someone might come after them. ’Twas imperative they get away as soon as possible. They had two days at most, two days to get a head start.
She returned to the cottage and was relieved to see Tillie and Belle still sleeping soundly. The day’s activities had been too strenuous for Tillie, and she needed to rest, especially if their journey was to begin upon the morrow.
Gathering a length of cloth to bandage Roger’s arm, she picked up the bucket and went down to the brook for freshwater. Though he said not a word of thanks, Isabel was certain Roger was grateful for her efforts in binding his wound and bringing him refreshment, and she decided to brave an encounter with Sir Anvrai. Surely he was in need of refreshment, too, and he would accept her gesture as an offer of peace between them.
Leaving Roger to his task, she carried the water to the shed. When Anvrai turned, her breath caught in her throat. He wore the eye patch she’d made.
Chapter 15
The patch transformed his face, covering the worst of his scars. Now, instead of being overwhelmed by the horrible eye socket, his good eye and its clear green color, surrounded by thick, russet lashes, was prominent. His cheekbones were high and appealing, his nose straight and strong, and his jaw sharp and masculine. Isabel looked at his lips and could not help but remember their taste and texture.
“Y-you’re wearing it.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I have no desire to offend your good taste, my lady.”
“You—” She clenched her own jaw. “Do what you will, Sir Anvrai.”
He was insufferable. Isabel left the water with him and returned to the cottage, busying herself with household tasks and preparations for their departure. There were foodstuffs to pack as well as the extra clothes she’d found. She told herself ’twas not necessary to go back to the shed to look for other useful items to take with them, but in spite of herself, she was intrigued by Anvrai’s transformation. She had to go back and see if she’d imagined the change in his countenance. He had not changed his attitude. Even with his scars covered, Isabel knew he still felt responsible for his family’s demise and was averse to taking responsibility for the safety of their party. It seemed he shepherded them only out of necessity.
The bodies were gone from the clearing when Isabel returned to the shed. She found the cart standing upright on the ground and the tools nearby, but Anvrai was not there. Too restless to return to the cottage, she walked in Roger’s direction and saw that Anvrai was there, wielding the shovel while Roger stood watching. The bodies lay in a row nearby.
“Go back to the cottage,” Anvrai said to her. “Find a needle and thread for Roger’s arm.”
“You will sew it?”
“No, you will.”
“I? But I’ve never…” She took a deep breath and straightened her back. “Aye,” she said, resolute. “I can do it.” She could do anything necessary to survive this misadventure, and she would show no squeamishness to Anvrai. He might be their reluctant guardian, but Isabel was fully capable of doing what was needed to survive.
Anvrai pulled his tunic over his head, tossed it upon the ground, and resumed digging, half-naked. Isabel whirled away and returned to the cottage. The sight of his broad, muscular back and transformed face did her no good. ’Twas too unsettling.
Tillie continued to sleep, so Isabel turned the meat on the spit and stirred the pot. She would not think of the muscles Anvrai displayed so brazenly or the quickening she felt in the most private, sensitive parts of her body. Her reaction to him was an aberration. Far better to consider how she was going to sew Roger’s wound.
She looked askance at the sewing basket sitting on the floor beside the bed. The very idea of sewing Roger’s arm made her queasy, but she would manage it somehow. When she thought of all Tillie had endured, putting a few stitches through Roger’s skin seemed a minimal inconvenience.
’Twas nearly dark when Roger came inside. His mood was edgy and peevish. “I’ll be glad to see the last of that overbearing savage,” he muttered. “He’s hardly better than a damnable Scot.”
Isabel held her tongue. She might be annoyed with Anvrai, but there was no denying all he had done for them. She could only think Roger’s bad temper had to be due to the terrible gash in his arm. She could not imagine the pain he’d endured while digging the grave.
“Look,” he said, holding out his injured arm with its blood-soaked bandage. “’Tis still bleeding.”
His bruises had faded, as had the lump upon his head. His eyes, sharply blue, were beautiful, as were all his features, as comely as those of a young girl. When Isabel looked at him, she felt no pulsing awareness of him, no quickening of her heartbeat or fever of her blood.
She pulled the bandage from Roger’s arm and wondered how she could have been so mistaken about him. He was one of her father’s favored choices as her spouse. Had Henri Louvet understood the shallowness of Roger’s worth, or had the value of his London estate blinded her father the way his handsome face and demeanor had dazzled her?
They’d all come so close to death. ’Twas only Anvrai’s prowess that had stood between them and a gruesome end in Cormac’s yard.
Isabel turned to Roger, unsure how to begin the sewing, but Anvrai did not come in to give instruction. Steadying her hands, she reminded herself she’d done every possible kind of stitching…save this. Surely it could not be so different.
She bid Roger sit on the chair while she crouched before him. She dabbed blood from the gash, took a shuddering breath, and began.
As Anvrai repaired the wheel, he s
aw that the axle was also weak. He welcomed the reason for staying out in the shed, working on it past dark. He hoped the others would eat supper and go to sleep before he returned to the cottage. The less he saw of Isabel, the better. Her allegiance to Roger rankled more than it should, reminding him that he needed to keep his distance from her.
As darkness fell, Anvrai continued to work by the light of a lamp. He finished building a new axle and attached the wheels. When he was satisfied with his work, he chose the tools he planned to take when they left on the morrow, placed them in a leather pouch, and put them in the back of the cart.
The cart was sturdy enough to carry Tillie as well as Isabel, but he had concerns about staying on the path. Recent experience told him it was a well-traveled thoroughfare, and he had no interest in meeting any other travelers.
The door to the shed opened, and Isabel entered, carrying a large bowl of pottage and a thick slice of bread. “You did not come in to sup with us,” she said. Her demeanor was demure and shy, reminiscent of every other lady who’d ever looked upon his ugly countenance.
Anvrai did not like it. Isabel seemed accustomed to the sight of his face. And now he wore the patch that covered the worst of his scars. She should find him less offensive. Likely the tale he’d told her had repulsed her even more than his face.
His hands ached to touch her. The tunic she wore over her ragged chemise would come off easily, giving him access to her soft skin, but he reminded himself he had no rights, and she had no business coming out to him.
She looked away from him, her gaze alighting upon the cart. “’Tis ready,” she said. Her voice was soft, her words tentative.
“Aye.” He took the bowl she offered. “We’ll leave in the morn.”
The Bride Hunt Page 13