The Bride Hunt

by Margo Maguire

  ’Twas not long before he could smell the sea. Though he was no expert on waterfowl, he knew the large birds circling overhead were seabirds. When he reached a cliff that rose well over the water, he walked near the edge until he saw King Malcolm’s hall.

  From a distance, it appeared to rise directly from the rock, high above the sea, and the forest surrounded it on all the other sides. ’Twas practically unapproachable, except by one narrow road leading to a stout gate that guarded the entire compound.

  Anvrai retraced his steps and returned to the area surrounding the church, setting snares, whiling the afternoon away. When he returned, he washed himself at the church’s well, then drew up a bucket of water and carried it inside. The priest’s quarters were immaculate. It looked as if Tillie had washed and scrubbed every surface. “Have you seen a bathing tub?” he asked her.

  “No. But the priest would surely have one. Outside?”

  Anvrai looked ’round the outer walls of the church and discovered a sizable cupboard leaning against the east wall. Inside were three shelves that contained several tools, and at the bottom was a washtub large enough to use for bathing.

  He carried the tub inside and set it in the bedchamber near the fire as Isabel continued to sleep. He spent the next hour carrying water, heating it to boiling, then adding it to the tub.

  “I found soap,” Tillie whispered, handing him a thick, unscented cake.

  He took the last pot of hot water to the bedchamber and poured it into the tub.

  “Anvrai?” Isabel wakened gradually. Her earlier sadness was still on her face, and she tightened her lips together. Her eyes were sleepy, but clear.

  Anvrai tested the water. “Your bath, my lady.”

  She caught sight of the tub of steaming water and her eyes glinted with tears. Anvrai crossed to her bedside, crouching down beside her. “I thought this would make you happy. Why do you weep?”

  Isabel lifted a hand to his face and touched him, softly running her thumb from his nose to his cheek. “It does make me happy. Will you help me?”

  He’d intended to have Tillie do it, but Anvrai could not refuse her request. He nodded and closed the door to the other room, where Tillie had lain down with her bairn to rest. He turned back to Isabel and saw her trying awkwardly to remove her chemise.

  He swallowed and turned away. He had to brace himself for the sight of her, for the feel of her body in his arms when he carried her to the tub.

  Casually lighting the candles, Anvrai told himself he could do this. Their sojourn was nearly over. When Isabel’s wound was healed, Queen Margaret would see that they were suitably equipped to travel to English lands.

  He turned abruptly when he heard Isabel attempting to leave the bed. She made a small sound of distress and would have fallen had Anvrai not moved quickly to catch her. She dropped the blanket as well as the poultice on her leg as he lifted her into his arms, and he carried her to the tub, painfully conscious of her nakedness.

  He would get her into the tub and leave.

  With care, he lowered her into the water. She closed her eyes and sighed, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub. Anvrai had never seen such a sensual display, and could not keep himself from drinking in the sight of her in spite of his intention to depart.

  His body clenched tight with arousal, but he stepped away, turning from the sight of her breasts peeking out from the clear water, and the long, smooth length of her legs, bent at the knee, fully exposed for him to see. Not even the black stitches that marred her thigh could detract from her loveliness.

  “’Tis heaven, even without soap,” she said. And Anvrai’s wits returned sufficiently to remember the cake he’d put on the mantel.

  She ducked her head under the water, fully immersing herself as he went for the soap. When she emerged, he handed it to her and would have left, but she waylaid him once again. “Anvrai, I need help.”

  The warm water soothed the relentless pain in Isabel’s leg but did naught to ease her disappointment that Anvrai was so anxious to leave her. He looked like a dangerous rogue with the patch covering his damaged eye, intimidating in size but hardly unpleasant to look upon.

  She took a deep, quivering breath and leaned forward, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “Wash my back?”

  He flashed a quick look to the door but filled his lungs with air, then knelt beside the tub, took the soap from her, and lathered his hands. Gently, he rubbed her shoulder, then ran his soap-slicked hands down her back. He repeated the motion, and though she’d moved her arms forward, he carefully avoided contact with the sides of her breasts, treating her as though she were some fragile treasure.

  But she was not fragile. The pain in her thigh had subsided to a dull ache ever since the physician had treated the wound.

  He dropped his hands into the water to rinse them, and Isabel feared he would leave. “Will you help me with my hair?”

  “Isabel, I—”

  “I don’t think I c-can do it alone.” She picked up the soap and started to work it into her hair. His voice sounded strange, and Isabel realized he was not unaffected, as she’d thought. She turned her body slightly, in order to face him, and raised her hands to her hair.

  His gaze dropped to her breasts, and Isabel saw his throat move soundlessly. Her nipples pebbled into tight peaks of arousal, yearning for his touch.

  Anvrai cleared his throat and took the soap from her. Next, he began working it into her hair, massaging her scalp until she sighed with pleasure. She leaned back, dropping her arms over the sides, letting her legs fall apart.

  Anvrai’s sharp intake of breath was audible to Isabel’s ears, and she wanted him to forget about her hair. She felt a deep warmth in her womanly core, and a need to be filled…by Anvrai.

  “Isabel.” Her name was but a whisper, a plea, the sound of it vibrating through her body, as physical as a caress.

  He slid the soap through the length of her hair, his hands hesitating when he reached her breast. Isabel arched her body slightly and felt Anvrai surrender.

  He allowed the soap to fall into the water and cupped her breasts. A shiver of greed went through her, and she pulled his head down to hers for his kiss.

  She spread her lips for him, and as his tongue surged into her mouth, he teased the sensitive tips of her breasts with his fingers. His soapy hands slid down her torso, washing her, caressing her, until he probed the cleft between her legs and touched the sensitive nub that pulsed with arousal. He knew exactly the degree of pressure that brought her close to dissolving with pleasure, but stopped short of giving her the ultimate satisfaction. ’Twas as though he knew her body better than she did.

  He broke their kiss and dipped his free hand into the water to retrieve the soap. “Lie back in the water.”

  Isabel followed his direction.

  “Now close your eyes.”

  She did so, and Anvrai proceeded to wash every part of her body, taking his time to fondle and arouse her to a frenzy of need. When she thought she could withstand no more, she opened her eyes and caught his admiring gaze.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  “Anvrai, take me to bed.”

  “No, Isabel. You are hurt, and I won’t—”

  “’Tis barely an ache, Anvrai. Please.”

  He ignored her request, touching her, moving his slick hands over her breasts, then slipping down once again to give torturous attention to the small bud that begged for release. His gaze never left hers, making his exploration of her body so intimate she thought her heart would burst.

  “I want you inside me.”

  He moved away from her and picked up a bucket of clean water. A moment later, he poured it over her and lifted her out of the tub, placing her on her feet before the fire, naked and quivering for his touch. He came to her with a linen cloth and dried her with a gentle, reverent touch.

  Isabel was hardly aware of the wound in her leg. Her senses were full of Anvrai, and when he lifted her into his arms and carried her
back to bed, she watched, as if bewitched, when he removed his own clothes.

  He started with his shoes, then the tunic she’d made for him, unlacing it, pulling it from his arms and shoulders and tossing it to a nearby chair. His belt came open next, and he shoved his braies and chausses to the floor and stepped out of them.

  Awed by the sight of his body and the powerful display of manhood between his legs, Isabel’s heart leaped in her breast. Without dropping her gaze, Anvrai picked up the second bucket of water and carried it with him to the tub. He ducked down and washed quickly, then stood and rinsed the soap from his body.

  Fire arced between them, and a desire so breathtaking, Isabel could barely remember she’d been hurt. She could only think about his touch. She picked up the unused drying cloth that lay upon the bed and beckoned to him.

  If there was a momentary hesitation, he overcame it and went to her. Naked, he stood before her. Isabel slid out of the bed and raised the cloth to dry him. She rubbed his wet skin and pressed her mouth against his chest, kissing each area as she dried it. She felt his fingers spread her wet hair across her back as she drew the towel behind him, across his buttocks.

  His arousal, hard and hot against her belly, pulsed provocatively. Isabel dropped the cloth and let her hands wander purposefully, seeking the fire that burned him from within. She encircled his erect flesh and stroked him, eliciting a low growl with every caress. ’Twas deliciously hard against her hand, and Isabel relished the knowledge that he would soon be inside her, pleasing her in a way only Anvrai could do.

  A small sound escaped her, and Anvrai lifted her from her feet and laid her gently upon the bed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Chapter 20

  “You won’t hurt me, Anvrai.” She moved aside to make room for him. “Come to me.”

  Somehow, she managed to refrain from writhing with impatience when he raised himself up over her, braced his weight upon his hands, and leaned down to kiss her. Isabel’s eyes drifted closed, her body flaming and tingling as he deepened the kiss, drawing her tongue into his mouth. Isabel arched her torso to meet his chest as he kissed her and spread her hands over his shoulders to draw his body down to her. She wanted to feel his weight upon her.

  Isabel slid her hands down to his buttocks, then ’round his thighs. When she came to the sac between his legs and ran her fingers lightly over it, Anvrai broke the kiss and groaned, touching his forehead to hers. “Isabel.”

  The sound of her name whispered through her, encouraging her to continue her sensual exploration. She sheathed him in her hand, sliding up and down in a pale imitation of the act that drove her.

  She moved her injured leg, shifting her body down on the bed, teasing his shaft with her hand and his nipples with her tongue. His big hand cradled her head as she moved down, pressing kisses to the line of taut muscle at the center of his belly. She moved lower and felt his breath catch when her mouth touched his cock.

  Anvrai groaned and started to move, but he did not resist when Isabel held him in place. He had pleasured her with his mouth and tongue, and she discovered it was nearly as great a pleasure to lick and suck him as it was to feel him using his mouth and tongue upon her.

  “Now, Isabel! Gesu, now!”

  Taking great care to avoid hurting her leg, he moved over her, centered himself, then leaned down to place a reverent kiss upon her belly. Isabel grabbed his arms as he raised himself and plunged into her. He moved slowly at first, but increased his movements in a rhythm that heightened her pleasure. It built like the steam in a cooking pot, until the top burst off and she dissipated into a mist of utter fulfillment.

  Anvrai surged one last time, shuddering, his rasping breath loud and warm at her ear, then he was still.

  He withdrew from her and slipped out of the bed.

  “Anvrai—” She did not want him to leave, but he went to the tub, moistened a cloth, then returned to her.

  He eased her legs apart and washed her, and when he was finished, washed himself. He tossed the cloth back to the tub and climbed into the bed with her, easing his body ’round hers, holding her close until she drifted off to sleep.

  ’Twas full night and unbearably hot in the room when Anvrai awoke. Yet the fire had died down.

  Isabel slept soundly, and he soon realized the heat came from her body. He pushed himself up on one elbow and felt her skin.

  ’Twas burning up.

  He left the bed and looked through the small bottles left by the physician, certain there was one containing willow bark. When he found the medicine, he poured some into a mug, then added water and returned to Isabel.

  “Isabel,” he whispered. He touched her arm and gave a gentle shake. “Awaken, Isabel.”

  She shook her head and turned away from his voice, but he persisted. “Wake up, Isabel. Look at me.”

  Her throat moved thickly as she swallowed. Anvrai slid one hand behind her head and placed the mug to her lips. “Drink, Isabel.”

  She moaned and tried to push him away, but he did not relent.

  “’Tis bitter,” she complained.

  “Aye, but it will help bring down your fever.”

  He welcomed her complaint, since her quietude would have been more ominous. “I want to look at your leg, sweetheart.”

  “My leg…my heart…” She sighed. “Any part you please, Anvrai.”

  She was delirious. Anvrai smoothed her hair away from her face and uncovered her. Lowering the lamp so he could see, there was some drainage coming from the wound, and it felt warm to the touch. Anvrai muttered a quiet plea to God. Putrefaction and fever were the worst things possible.

  He went to the next room and woke Tillie. “I need your help.”

  “Aye?” said the girl, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She looked ’round in confusion, then got up and followed Anvrai.

  “Sit with lady Isabel while I go for freshwater.”

  “What is amiss, Sir Anvrai?”

  “Fever.” He said the word calmly, as though there was no crushing worry in his heart, no self-recriminations for making love to her when he should have insisted she lay quietly. God’s teeth, he should have taken her to the king’s tower. If she’d been well enough to make love with him, she could have traveled the short distance to Dunfermline.

  He went out to the well and filled a bucket. When he returned, Isabel had not moved.

  “Tillie, wet the cloth and bathe her arms.”

  The girl did as she was told, even though Isabel cried out with discomfort. Anvrai sat upon the bedside and drew a lamp close by. He pressed the skin ’round the wound with two fingers and expelled more drainage.

  “’Tis not good,” Tillie said. Her brow was creased with concern. “Is there aught to be done?”

  “Aye.” Anvrai went to the priest’s anteroom and found a small paring knife in a cupboard. When he returned, he sat again at Isabel’s side and began to slice through the stitches he’d made.

  “Sweet Mother of God!” Tillie exclaimed in a whisper.

  “’Tis necessary,” Anvrai said grimly. “The poison must come out.”

  Isabel cried out when he cut the stitches, and tried to push him away. “I’m sorry, Isabel,” he said. “There is no other way.”

  Infection could kill. He’d seen it many times before, and he would not allow it to happen this time. Not with Isabel.

  One of Desmond’s pouches contained ragwort. Anvrai poured some of the powdered leaves into a cup and added water. He mixed it until its consistency was that of a paste, then spread it into the wound.

  “She is shivering, Sir Anvrai.”

  “The water is too cold. Hold for now while I heat it,” he said. “But leave her arms and legs uncovered.”

  Anvrai eventually sent Tillie back to bed. He continued to bathe Isabel’s arms and legs with warmer water, and the chills finally stopped. But her skin was still much too warm, and she was restless.

  “Hold me, Anvrai. Come to bed with me.”

  “I’m here, I
sabel. Sleep,” he said. He pulled a chair to the bedside and dozed fitfully, awakening with every move Isabel made.

  When morning came, he intended to take her to King Malcolm’s tower, where Desmond could attend her. Anvrai had a fair knowledge of healing, but Desmond was clearly a learned man. ’Twas he who should see to Isabel’s care.

  Isabel lay insensible upon the mattress in the cart. Tillie protested that she could walk the distance to Dunfermline, but Anvrai prevailed upon her to ride in the cart with Isabel as they made their way to the king’s tower. He took the footpath all the way to the road, openly approaching the tower.

  Two Scottish warriors stood guard at the gate, and four more watched from the top of the high wooden barbican. The guards did not have to be told Anvrai’s identity, and they admitted him without delay.

  Anvrai took little notice of the stables and other buildings housed within the walls, nor did he stop to speak to any of the well-dressed nobles who strolled in the pleasant surroundings. He pulled the cart directly to the great hall, and as Tillie clambered down with Belle, Anvrai lifted Isabel into his arms and carried her up a long flight of stairs.

  The door to the hall opened before he reached the summit, and Roger de Neuville emerged, followed by a well-dressed Scot and two maidservants.

  Anvrai wasted no time. “Desmond. Is he here?”

  “’Twill be no trouble to summon him, Sir Anvrai,” said the man as Anvrai passed him and entered the hall. ’Twas a large chamber that was mostly empty but for two overlarge chairs, a settee placed before a huge stone fireplace, and a long table that stood upon a nearby dais. Clean rushes upon the floor gave a pleasant aroma to the place, and there was room enough for trestle tables, should there be occasion for the king and queen to entertain guests.

  One of the maids went to fetch Desmond as Anvrai walked through the hall.

  “Cuilén, he can carry her to my chamber,” said Roger. “Anvrai, Sir Cuilén is King Malcolm’s seneschal.”

  Anvrai cared naught for introductions, but he gave a quick nod and followed Roger and the maid up a staircase off the main hall.