The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin
Her lips trembled with a nervous smile and he knew his answer was important to her.
Such things were of importance to a woman.
A woman! Dear God!
He stood and began to clean up the bowls from the table, thinking about this situation as he moved. Hiding beneath the blood and healing for these weeks, right under his gaze and care, was a woman, complete with the fair face, soft, full body and intelligent, quick mind God had given her. Their world had shifted with his notice of her gender. How had he fooled himself for this long?
He had certainly known in those first weeks, when he took care of her needs during the darkest of nights. He had seen and touched most of her body, but realized now that her unfamiliarity and his despair of her not surviving had allowed him to ignore the fact of her femaleness.
“Royce? Have no fear, for Wenda has told me the truth of my injuries.” Isabel lifted her hand to her face and outlined the scar that had cut so deeply into her skin that it reached down to the bone beneath. “’Twill fade, she said, but never be gone. And even now the hair at my scalp grows in white.”
He turned at her words to see what she spoke of. He moved out of the sun’s rays, which poured through the open door, and stood next to her. His eyes could see nothing but the even blackness of her hair and it reminded him, in its brightness, of the shiny ebony and onyx jewels he’d seen on the queen. Isabel lifted her chin a bit and pointed at the place where the scar ran into her hair and disappeared. A tuft of white now grew from there.
A mark to remind her of the terrible battle for survival that she fought and won. He didn’t realize he’d said the words aloud until she replied.
“I am ever the warrior?”
“A warrior of some success, it would seem. Do not belittle your survival or the strength of will it took on your part.”
“Or your part in my survival.”
This was getting much too dangerous a way of discussing the simple topic of her scars. He needed to bring the conversation and situation under control…under his control.
“I am happy I was able to bring you in from the forest and get Wenda’s aid for you.”
She scrutinized his face for a moment and nodded. “You have my thanks for that and more.”
Knowing when to retreat was as important in a battle as knowing when to fight. And William knew, as soon as he was looking at her and noticing her features, her face, her hair and her form that he was in over his head. ’Twas as if he could feel the crack in the shell of his well-ordered, well-controlled, empty life begin in his soul. Once begun, ’twould matter not if the break came from within or without.
“If you need naught from me, I must return to the keep.”
William waited for her reply and, when she shook her head, he searched through his storage chest for something, anything, that made it look as though he had come to retrieve it. Taking out a small wooden box, he turned to her.
“I told Lord Orrick I would bring this to him. I shall return later.”
He left the cottage and made it into the trees before the mocking words in his mind clarified how low he’d sunk.
Coward was repeated but joined by another word.
Liar.
Chapter Six
Exhausted from the past three days’ efforts at sitting, standing and bathing, Isabel spent most of the day on her pallet. The frustration was building within her as each new day gave her no more insight into who she was or where she had come from. Or how she had gotten here, to this lone cottage in the woods some distance from Lord Orrick’s keep. Avryl had returned for the afternoon and Isabel enjoyed the tales of those who lived under Lord Orrick’s protection.
That would be her next goal—to be strong enough to visit the keep and the village. And then…then she would… No thoughts came to mind after that. For the one thing she wanted most was that which eluded her grasp still.
Pushing away the not-so-pleasant reality of her life, she decided that she was done with self-pity for the day and would try to sit up in her chair to eat supper with Royce. Avryl’s very fragrant fish stew was on the hearth, bubbling and soon to be done. A small loaf of dark, crusty bread sat wrapped on the table. It was her intention to set out the bowls and cups by herself—a minor accomplishment in any woman’s day but a more monumental one for her.
Isabel lifted the covers off her and sat up. Forcing her breaths in and out as she moved, she turned onto her side, then her knees. Using all of her strength, she grasped one arm of the chair and pulled herself onto her feet. Taking a moment to regain her balance, she shuffled a few steps until she was closer to the chair, careful not to put too much weight on her still-healing leg.
Rather than sitting down, Isabel stood and stepped closer to the table. Reaching up to the shelf above it, she took down two pottery bowls and cups and placed them on the table. After another moment of balancing, spoons joined the ensemble. Then, placing herself midway between the table and the small cupboard, she managed to grasp and lift the jug of water and then the jug of ale kept there.
Exhausted but pleased with the results of her efforts, Isabel stumbled over to her chair and sat down with more of a thump than she would have liked. Her leg ached, truly it ached terribly, but the sharp and burning pains were gone. She smiled, another battle won. Soon she would walk without pain. Then she could…
Her next thoughts were lost to her as she caught sight of him outside the open door. His eyes met hers and she knew he’d been watching her for some time. There was more in his expression however than just simple curiosity. Something deep within his eyes spoke to her of loneliness and need and denial and a hunger so strong it nearly took her breath. It was something so personal and so personally devastating that it disappeared as soon as he knew he had shown too much to her.
Her heart sped up as she watched him walk into the cottage. He took over the space of the room with his presence and his size, for he was much taller than she and had the build of a true warrior, one who battled with swords and strength of body. He wore the simple clothes of a man in the service to another, but Isabel could almost imagine him in the fine dress required at the royal courts. A deep red tunic would bring out the silver in his eyes and the darkness of his hair….
She blinked, trying to regain control over her wayward thoughts. Royce walked over to where she sat and looked at the table she had prepared.
“You have been busy this day. Were you not supposed to rest?”
“I did rest,” she said, her words stumbling a bit as she spoke. “I am following Wenda’s advice of adding a new challenge to each of my days.”
He crouched down nearer the fire and lifted the lid of the pot. The smells of the seasoned stew floated through the air and her stomach grumbled in anticipation of it. He looked back and smiled.
“Nothing increases your hunger so much as pushing yourself to your physical limits. You must be famished.”
Embarrassed by her noisy stomach and by a sense that a lady should not reveal her appetites, she only smiled. When she would have stood to move to one of the benches, he stopped her with a motion of his hand. Royce surprised her then by lifting one edge of the table and dragging it over in front of her. Her plan to serve the food was at an end since she was now trapped behind the table. Part of her was disappointed, but a larger part of her was grateful for his intervention.
Royce moved the pot to the edge of the embers and ladled out two bowlfuls of the stew. He gave her the same portion as his and she thought to protest, not needing so much, but the set of his chin gave her pause. Then he reached for a skin of wine that hung from the cupboard; he poured some in her cup and handed it to her. Instead of arguing, she sipped it before tasting any of the food.
“Wenda said that the herbs in this will ease your pain and help you sleep better.”
“Without