The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin
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eyes fluttered and then slowly opened. Her gaze was vague, as though lost in some other place. He was not certain she even recognized him.
“Isabel? Can you hear me?” He shook her gently to rouse her. A look of resignation filled her now.
“Royce? What happened?” She put her hand up and touched her forehead. “I feel so dizzy.”
“Here,” he said, putting his arms around her and lifting her from the chair. “I think you pushed yourself too far today. You are overwrought.”
William carried her the short distance to her pallet. Kneeling down, he gently placed her on it and stepped back. As he watched, she shifted on the blankets and positioned her leg before lying back.
“Try to sleep,” he told her. “And on the morrow, try to pace yourself.”
“Yes, commander,” she whispered, calling him the name he had used for her just a few days before.
“I did not mean to give you orders, Isabel. I but sought to suggest…”
She reached out for his hand, stopping his words, and when he leaned down and gave it to her, she squeezed it. “I thank you for your care of me, Royce. I know I would have been dead without you.”
He reached over her and took another blanket from the pile next to her. Shaking it out, he placed it over her. He did not trust himself to say anything, for her gratitude had caused a strong reaction inside his soul. She did not know, could never know, how much her presence brightened his sorry life. Never know how much life she had brought into his existence even as close to death as she once was. She could never know that she had made him think about a future in spite of the fact that she certainly could not be in any future of his.
William was not as strong and aloof as he would have wished at that moment, for before he stood and went about cleaning up the cottage for the night, he allowed himself to reach out and touch the smoothness of her cheek. And he allowed his thumb to brush over the softness of her mouth as he enjoyed, for a single second, the guilty pleasure of imagining that he could kiss her lips. When she turned into his palm, as she had many times during her dark, unconscious nights of pain, he knew he would remember it for years after she was gone and when his life was as it was before her arrival.
Before going too far to turn back, he asserted his control and stood up. “Sleep well, Isabel.”
She must have seen his struggle or recognized it and been frightened by the desire in his eyes, for she simply nodded and turned on her side. ’Twas a good thing, for his hard-won self-control was waning and any sign of welcome from her would be his complete undoing.
He followed his routine without thought, gathering up the dishes, covering and moving the pot for the night, hanging the wineskin back on the cupboard and putting everything in order. He needed some distance to regain his equilibrium and decided to walk to the stream while she fell asleep.
“I will return anon, Isabel. I need to fill the jug of water for the morning.”
She did not reply and he had hoped she would not. Escaping with the jug under his arm, he snapped his fingers to call the dog to follow him. This time, the mutt heeded his call and ran at his side through the trees.
Sometime later, after tearing off his clothes and swimming in the frigid water, after cursing himself for the fool he was becoming, he returned to the cottage to find Isabel asleep. He watched the even movements of her shoulders for a few moments and then, convinced she was soundly asleep, he brought in the small leather-covered box he had taken from his storage chest. It had all been a ruse that day, an attempt to make her think he’d been there for a reason other than to see her. He would never show anyone, especially Lord Orrick, the contents of this box, for it exposed his secrets in a terribly painful way.
But he kept the papers inside, for they strengthened his resolve when he faced a weak moment like this one. When he thought that mayhap he should seek a life, or seek to share his existence with someone else, he was drawn back to this collection of parchment.
Passed from Gilbertine convent to Gilbertine convent by way of messengers and travelers, the letters had made their way from near Lincoln to the place where Lady Margaret’s sister was prioress. He knew not if his lord’s wife was aware of the letters passed on to him by her sister, but they never spoke of them or of his need to receive packages from the prioress.
William lit a candle and placed it on the table. Sitting with his back to Isabel, he opened the box, took out the top letter and, with the greatest of care, smoothed it open. The reverend mother’s words of greeting gave way to a report on the status of his sister Catherine. Although her physical recovery was wonderful news to him, the rest of the letter tore him apart, for he was the one whose actions had destroyed Catherine’s life and made her the target of the evil machinations of a dark prince of the realm.
If only he had given in without a struggle, Prince John would never have sought out Catherine as a weapon of control over him. If only he had stood up to John and revealed his plans to the Earl of Harbridge, Gaspar Montgomerie. Montgomerie had strong allies and could have, would have…
William leaned on his elbows and cradled his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes and pushing his wet hair back. He had made so many mistakes and so many others had paid for them. Now, his chance to let them live their lives and the chance to somehow redeem himself was threatened by the presence of a woman who could not know how great a danger she was to him and all he had put in place over the last three years.
He owed it to his sister, his former betrothed and to their daughter to never let anyone know of his existence. The price of their lives was his death and he would continue to honor his agreement with the new earl. Rereading the indignities and dishonor his sister had to accept in her life, being passed off as the orphaned cousin of the countess instead of the heiress and pampered daughter of a noble family that she was, William renewed his own inner strength.
Isabel would be ready to move to the keep and take a place within Lady Margaret’s circle of women until her memory came back. Her future would be out of his hands, her life no concern of his. And his future? William looked once more at the reverend mother’s letter and knew the answer.
William de Severin would remain dead and buried and Royce of Silloth would simply continue to exist on the fringes of the English kingdom. There was no future for him at all since any exposure could endanger Catherine or Emalie or…
No future at all.
Sleep did not come easily or well for Isabel. Mayhap it was another reaction to Wenda’s brew or mayhap the memories of the girls on the beach had stirred something deep within her. Whatever the cause, her restlessness even scared Royce’s dog away. She turned once more and faced the open space of the cottage, limited though it was, and let out a sigh.
As exhausted as she was, the thoughts in her confused mind would give her no peace. She tried to simply relax and let the physical exertions of the day force her to sleep, but that hadn’t worked. And even more than the vague memories that tugged at her from an unknown place within, Isabel could not erase the expression on Royce’s face when he’d first entered the cottage that morning.
In some way known to women, she’d read the stark wanting in his eyes. And Isabel had felt it when he gently touched her cheek and slid his thumb over her lips. But it was so much more than simple physical desire; ’twas as though she offered him everything in the world he wanted…and could not have. And it tore her up inside that just being here somehow caused such pain to the man who’d saved her very life.
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