Authors: Margo Maguire
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.”
“Y
ou 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, Isabel. 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.
“’Twill not be necessary, Sir Roger. Her majesty ordered that a chamber be made ready for Lady Isabel.”
They finally reached a small, comfortably furnished bedchamber, and one of the maids pulled open the bed-curtains so that Anvrai could place Isabel gently upon the mattress.
“I knew you’d…” Roger frowned as he
looked down at Isabel. “What is amiss? She seemed well enough yesterday morn when I last saw her.”
“The wound, Roger.” Anvrai had no patience for Roger’s stupidity. If he’d ever wondered what battle experience the boy had had, the question had just been answered. None. Else he would have understood the danger of infection when he’d left them the day before.
He turned to the servingwoman. “We’ll need hot water and clean cloths for bandages.” She curtsied and left them as Anvrai covered Isabel with a light linen sheet.
“How long has she been like this?” asked Roger.
“The fever came during the night,” Anvrai replied. “She has been ill since then.”
Tillie sat down on a chair near the bed, holding Belle, who remained awake but quiet, and when Anvrai went to the door to look for Desmond, he saw Lady Symonne approaching instead.
“I heard you’d arrived, Sir Anvrai,” she said. She was a golden-haired beauty, a few years older than Isabel, wearing garb that was much more ostentatious than that of the queen. For a disaffected Norman, it seemed her wealth had not been compromised.
Desmond arrived and evicted everyone but
Anvrai and Tillie. Roger protested being asked to leave.
“Surely the lady’s betrothed should remain, Desmond,” said Lady Symonne, looking pointedly at Anvrai.
Anvrai’s hackles rose at the lady’s words, but Desmond paid no heed and Anvrai said naught until all the rest had gone, even Roger. He told Desmond of the cool baths and willow bark he’d given Isabel, and the poultice he’d placed upon the wound.
Desmond examined Isabel, even going so far as to press his ear against her chest to listen to her heart, then touch the pulse points in her neck, arms, and feet.
“I would bleed her,” said the physician, “but she already lost a great deal of blood, and there is a delicate balance to be maintained.”
Anvrai nodded, relieved he would not have to assist Desmond in draining Isabel’s veins, glad the physician had forgotten he’d asked everyone to leave.
The old man heated a decoction of tormentil leaves and managed to get Isabel to drink it. A few minutes later, she was sound asleep, and did not react when Desmond unwrapped her wound and packed it with a strange, pungent mixture.
Even in illness, Isabel was the most beautiful
woman Anvrai had ever seen. And she was no empty-headed snob. She had as much courage and strength of purpose as the bravest Belmere knight.
He kept her well covered but for her injured leg, unwilling for her to be exposed even to Desmond’s eyes, even as he forced himself to remember that she could never belong to him. He was not likely to become lord of a grand estate anytime soon, making him acceptable to Isabel’s father.
’Twas an impossible situation. He could not take her to Belmere or to live in the king’s garrison at Winchester. Nor should he. If she survived this assault, ’twould be no thanks to him. Time and again, he’d proved himself incapable of keeping her safe.
When Desmond left, Tillie was taken to the servants’ quarters, leaving Anvrai alone with Isabel, pacing, worrying every time she moved or whimpered in her sleep.
He knelt at her bedside and took her hand in his, touching his lips to her fingers, pressing her hand to his face. “It can never be, Isabel,” he whispered, even though she did not hear him. ’Twas as if the words, when spoken aloud, could convince him of their truth. Just the sight of her pallor should have been enough to sway him. This was his worst nightmare.
A rustle of noise made him turn to the door, where Lady Symonne stood watching him. “’Tis an unfortunate circumstance for the godchild of Queen Mathilda,” she said.
“Roger’s mouth is as overactive as ever,” Anvrai replied, standing and walking to the window. Isabel’s relationship to England’s queen would have been better left unmentioned while they were there in the Scottish king’s domain.
“Have no fear of me, Sir Knight,” said Lady Symonne. “’Tis my husband who is out of King William’s favor. On the other hand,” she lowered her voice, “I still have…cordial relations with William.”
“Meaning?”
Symonne clasped her beringed hands at her waist and came closer. “I find occasion to provide useful information to the king from time to time.”
“Such as?”
“Even now, I know what force King Malcolm leads north to meet our king. How many swordsmen, how many archers.”
Anvrai raised a brow. Such information could be invaluable. “And do you know where King William is…and how to get this information to him?”
Isabel moaned in her sleep and whispered his
name. Symonne turned and looked upon her. “She does not care for Roger,” she observed.
Anvrai let her statement go unanswered, and Symonne looked up at him, quietly assessing him, and he wondered how long the lady had stood watching him, listening.
“I sent a messenger—my cousin—to observe the Scottish king’s army. Fortunately, his absence from court was not noticed. ’Twould not go well for him if the queen learned of his sortie.”
Anvrai’s mind raced. ’Twould be a great advantage to know the enemy’s strength and location before going into battle. Mayhap Lady Symmone’s cousin could return to the field with this valuable information. If she’d gone to such lengths to gather the information, ’twas likely she had a plan to get it to King William.
Isabel’s eyes felt dry. Scorched. Her mouth tasted sour, and her tongue felt thick. She pushed herself up in the bed. Where was Anvrai?