Читать книгу The Norman's Bride - Terri Brisbin, Terri Brisbin - Страница 12

Two more weeks passed until Wenda finally pronounced her out of danger of dying. Isabel still slept more hours than she’d like to, but her body had decided on its own that rest was more important than discovering her identity. Since she spent most of the hours of the day awake and struggling to function on her own, she could not keep awake when Royce returned to his cottage. Wenda assured her that this was the way of healing, but it was pure frustration for her.

Wenda and Avryl shared women’s talk with her; she felt as though she knew everyone in Lord Orrick’s keep and village without ever having met them. Wenda promised her a trip into the village once her leg mended more and Isabel looked forward to that with great anticipation. For now though, little steps such as sitting up without support were the mainstay of her days.

And although she hesitated to sound ungrateful, she wanted more and she wanted it quickly. She wanted her self back. Isabel looked out the small window in one wall and noticed the darkening sky. Royce would return soon and she would be awake this time.

She watched as Avryl finished her tasks and prepared to leave. ’Twas obvious with each passing day that the girl was giving up hope of having a relationship with Royce. Avryl tarried no longer than necessary when the end of the day approached.

Soon she was gone and Isabel listened for the sound of Royce’s approach. The scurrying of Royce’s dog as he greeted his master brought a smile to her face. Although she could not see out into the clearing from her place on the pallet, she could hear the noises of man and dog frolicking. Isabel wondered if Royce smiled while throwing the stick back and forth.

His gruff voice came closer until his shadow fell against the half-opened door. He shushed the dog at the doorway and peered into the cottage. If he was surprised to see her awake and sitting up, he did not show it. He nodded, pushed the door open all the way and placed his sword and sack on the floor next to it.

“Are you well?”

“Better.”

“’Tis a good thing, considering,” he said, his voice so low that it sounded like a whisper to her.

“Just so. I am making progress. At least Wenda seemed pleased with me.”

“She is a kind soul who is generally pleased with everyone. Even me.”

Isabel looked at him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. “And why would you be a trial to her?” She knew so little of him, even her probing questions were deflected easily.

“Knocking on her door in the middle of the night. Dragging her across the village and into the woods to what she knew not…”

Isabel felt the heat in her cheeks and lifted her hands to touch them. He was teasing her for the first time.

“I must be getting well or you would not abuse me so.”

The corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly, but it was close enough to a smile for her liking. Although a rough-looking man with his long black hair and beard, his manners and movements were more refined than his appearance. Due to her loss of memory, he was a mystery to her, but she suspected that he gave little away about himself to others, as well.

Avryl was a perfect example of that. After days of trying to get closer to him, through caring for Isabel and working in the cottage, the girl had given up her efforts at a match. Wenda’s gossip had hinted that there were other women before Avryl and some who would try after her to gain this man’s attentions.

He crossed to the hearth and lifted the pot’s lid to smell its contents. Isabel watched as his experience at living alone became obvious—he filled a bowl with stew, poured a mug of ale from the jug on the table and found a small loaf of bread sent by Avryl’s mother. Sitting on the bench, he arranged his bowl, cup and spoon and was about to begin when he caught sight of her watching him.

“Are you hungry still?” he asked, beginning to rise from his place. “There is plenty in the pot.”

“Nay. Eat while ’tis hot.” She shook her head and smiled. Her face did not hurt now when she smiled or grimaced. The skin felt very tight where the stitches had been placed, but at least there was no more of the burning sensation when her skin moved against them.

Royce sat back down and began to eat. “So, tell me of your progress.”

“I am awake.” He probably had no sense of how much strength it took to stay awake each day. “And I have been sitting up for a few hours.”

“No mean feat,” he said. “Wenda tells me the stitches will come out in a day or two.”

“Aye. And then a bath.” She knew her desire for a bath was frivolous, but after weeks of being wiped clean, she craved the comfort of submersing herself in hot water until she was clean.

“You must be improving if that is all you think about.” He lifted another spoonful of stew to his mouth and stopped. “Do you like baths?”

“I do,” she answered without thinking about her words. “A steaming bath with rose-scented soaps…” Her words drifted off as the feeling of soaking in such a bath overwhelmed her. The quiet soon gained her attention and pulled her from her reverie. Royce stared at her with a frightening intensity.

“I have suspected that you are not a serf or villein. If you remember the luxuries of bathing with rose-scented soap, you must be wealthy enough to afford them or belong to someone who is.”

“I…”

She could say no more. She did remember baths. She remembered that her favorite scent was that of roses. She could almost smell her perfume now, the one she saved and wore only on special occasions. Her maid would…

He watched the confusion and memories cross her face. There was obviously a slight crack in the darkness of her past. Her mannerisms, even though she was not aware of them, had aroused his suspicions that she was noble-born and raised and now these fleeting memories seemed to confirm it.

He recognized the distress in her expressions and did not pursue the subject. She was trying so desperately to remember her life that she was fighting the memories, grasping instead of waiting for them to flow freely. William could not imagine the terror within her, but he knew he did not want to cause more of it. He paused, eating more of the stew and watched her for signs that the panic was abating. When she was breathing more evenly, he attempted to draw her attention back.

“After a bath, what is your next goal?”

“Next?”

Her thoughts were still confused. He nodded. “Any good battle plan must have a series of goals. Smaller steps taken toward the greater one. Recovery is your larger goal. A bath is your first smaller one. What do you want after that?”

William watched as she began to think on his words. He smiled to himself, pleased that she was the type of person who was accustomed to organizing her thoughts and plans. Another sign of nobility? Someone who oversaw a keep would need to be organized in their manner. A chatelaine would need to supervise many people and tasks. Was that her past?

“In truth, there are several skirmishes I must win before I can attain that bath,” Isabel answered, looking him full in the face. “The stitches must be healed completely, the day must be warm and I must fit into the washtub that Wenda can bring out here.”

The laugh that burst forth from him was a surprise. He could not remember the last time he had found someone’s humor so pleasing. And she did have a sense of humor. He finished the last of his food and stood before answering her.

“Ah, commander, but you have no control over those encounters. How will you win?”

“As Wenda has mentioned on several occasions, I have no patience,” she said. “My first battle must be to, as Wenda says, bide my time.”

“As one who suffers from that same flaw, I know how difficult it is.”

“You are impatient? And how do you win over this in your own self?”

“I bide my time.”

She laughed and the sound rushed over him. He had lived alone for so long now that simply talking with another person was a chore. But he enjoyed this brief conversation, with its insight into the personality of his guest.

Isabel was intelligent, stubborn and had a sense of humor. She had the manners and speech of a noblewoman. And she had no memory of her life or her people. Her presence struck fear in the part of him that had worked so long to detach himself from those around him, the part that knew he had not suffered enough for the evil acts he had committed against the innocent, the part of him that must remain dead for the rest of his life.

She was dangerous to his well-ordered life and he would be wise to tread with care and not reveal much to her during this brief time they shared. He was tempted to laugh once more when she proceeded to pry into his life anyway.

“How long have you lived here?”

Not answering her would be the best way to keep his own life, but how could he avoid such direct questions? Deflect, distract and avoid. Tactics of fighting that could be applied to anything in life.

“You must be getting tired? Can I get anything for you before sleep?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Her eyes narrowed and he knew that she understood what he was doing. She gave him a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

“I have need of nothing else.”

William nodded and rose from his seat to clean up his meal. As he did so, Isabel began shifting her position. A silent grimace on her face was a constant indication that the discomfort was still strong. He waited for her to request help from him. Moments passed like days as she turned her body, slid down from the wall and lay back onto the pallet. He’d held his breath as he watched her, just waiting on a word from her, but the word was never spoken. Her own breathing was labored when she finally ceased moving and closed her eyes.

“Isabel, I would have helped you had you but asked.” He stood over her as he spoke. “I am surprised you could move that much.”

“As I said, Royce, I will have a bath and there are things I must do in order to have it.”

“And this was one of them?” He secured his door, walked to his pallet and emptied his sack to retrieve the implements he needed to work on his sword. Sitting down, he placed the sword across his lap and began to smooth its surface. She did not answer. Peering over at her, he noticed the uneven rising and falling of her chest.

“Every moment is one of them,” she said with great effort.

Memories of his first days after his battle with Christian Dumont and his almost-fatal neck wound filled his mind. Once he had passed the point when his survival was not in question, he’d struggled with the choice to survive or to live. The reverend mother at the convent where he recovered assured him on a daily basis that God had kept him alive for some purpose.

Once he knew his sister was safe and that the earl had pledged his support for her, William had not cared enough about himself at all. He’d left Greystone and everyone he knew and walked off into the wilderness. At that time, he cared not if he lived or died, if it was night or day, warm or cold. He would go for days without eating because nothing mattered to him.

It wasn’t until later, when he’d survived an attack by outlaws in a forest in Scotland, that he had even tried to think about why he had been allowed to live. The earl could have cut his throat with a flick of the blade, but chose to injure and not kill. He was alive for a reason, one he could not discern and still sought.

William stared across the room at Isabel. Was she the reason he had been saved from death? Was saving her life his purpose? Would it atone for the sins of his past?

He nodded at her words, understanding the pain involved with living. “Are you settled for the night?”

“Yes. I will try not to disturb you.”

Little did she know, but everything about her disturbed him. He listened to her as she slept. He wondered about her while carrying out his duties to Lord Orrick. Soon, once she could stay upright and begin to walk, she would move to the keep or to one of the villagers’ cottages that was closer to the keep. Then his life would return to the sameness he had endeavored to create. Nothing unexpected. Nothing eventful.

Nothing.

William decided to seek sleep and put his sword and tools aside. He rose to bank the fire in the hearth, and then claimed his pallet. His dog moaned mournfully, looking back and forth, from him to Isabel. Traitor that he was, the mutt chose to lie at her side for the night. Oh, well, ’twas for the good, he thought. She still needed the comfort of the mongrel’s warm body next to her and he had grown unaccustomed to it in the weeks since her arrival. He could feel sleep claiming him when she spoke.

“Have you no squire or lad to care for your weapons?”

William sat up and looked at her. Sweeping his arm, he gestured around the room. “See you a squire? Do I look as one who would have the services of others for my care?”

“For certain you are a knight.”

“A knight, you say? And how do you know that?”

“The way you carry yourself. Your speech. Your habits. All of those bespeak a man who has attained and enjoyed some level of rank or privilege.”

William wondered if she knew how much about herself she gave away with her words. Now that she grew stronger, her conversations were showing her truths as well as hunting for his. He had deflected the villagers and even Lord Orrick from his truths and he would not be tripped up now by a woman with no memory of herself.

“I am simply a man who works in the service of Lord Orrick. No more and no less.” To accentuate his words, he lay back down, turned his back to her and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. There. That should end her questions.

“Simply a man in service, my arse!” she whispered across the room.

William learned the limits of his self-control in those next moments as he fought the words that threatened to spill out of him. He had not hidden his secrets for nigh on three years to give them away now for the asking. His sister’s safety was still in question if his life was revealed.

And so, with the greatest of efforts, he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing and waited for sleep to come.