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Exiled noblewoman Isolda of Iness longs for the one thing her forest home cannot provide—a baby to inherit her family’s lost lands. She has already chosen the virile hunter who visits her woods to father her child, intending to lure him to her bed before quickly sending him away. Besides being young and handsome, the stranger also warms Isolda’s untouched body with a desire she has never felt before…
With no adoption agencies in the Middle Ages, where would a noblewoman turn if she desperately wanted a baby and she’s been cast out from her keep during war time? While I’m sure there were many children in need of good homes during the 11th century, Isolda of Iness can’t afford to come out of hiding long enough to search for a child who needs her. So she resorts to baby-making the old fashioned way. All she needs is the right man to cross her path.
Cormac of Glenmore can’t believe his eyes when Isolda—a virgin by all accounts—launches a full-scale seductive assault. It takes a heroic effort to resist her, but that’s just what he must do. Because Cormac wants far more than one night with the mystery woman in the forest, and he’ll do whatever he needs to make her his for a lifetime.
I hope you enjoy The Virgin’s Pursuit and, as always,
Happy Reading!
The Virgin’s Pursuit
Joanne Rock
For my grandmother, Grace, a heroine in her own right.
Chapter One
The potion tasted bitter, but the result would be the sweetest blessing imaginable.
Isolda drank it down in one gulp and shuddered, her eyes focused on the second half of the equation that would bring her heart’s desire. She imagined this one would taste far more pleasant.
Peeping over a low-hanging branch from her hiding place just outside her woodland cabin, Isolda of Iness watched the hunter as he prowled through the forest. Tall and powerfully built, he moved with surprising silence over fallen tree limbs and dead leaves. He was young. He was virile.
He was the perfect choice to be the father of her baby.
She had watched him hunt in her woods for many moons, and had long admired his respect for the animals. He never took more than he needed, and he always treated the land and its creatures with care. In a world gone crazy—with wars and violence everywhere she turned—Isolda had come to value a strong but gentle hand in a male. Her hunter was a rarity among men, and she would have no other give her the one thing she could not provide for herself in the forest home she’d come to love since her self-imposed exile.
The longing for a babe had started even before her retreat to the woods. Norman invaders had killed the neighboring lordling she should have wed. Even though she had not loved the man or the match, she had looked forward to becoming a mother before all of Northumbria was cast into turmoil.
Nearby, the hunter paused. His thick muscles bunched. He turned.
She had never ventured this close to him before, always keeping her distance and making herself disappear when anyone passed near her well-hidden hut. But today, she wanted to be seen. Noticed.
She’d planned for this moment over and over again—how to win him to her bed to achieve her heart’s desire, yet send him on his way again without undue interest in her life. Her past. Her precarious position as an exiled noblewoman.
What kind of life would it be for her child if her true identity was discovered? No. She had to be very, very careful. Discreet. That meant she couldn’t approach him like a highborn woman accustomed to sweet manners and courtly deference.
She would throw off her mantle of decorum for the sake of the babe she wanted so desperately. A child that she would nurture to strength in the safety of the woods until her heir was strong enough to claim the Iness birthright.
That meant she would approach the hunter with the earthy charms of a young kitchen maid or an experienced widow. If only she had observed such interactions more carefully instead of averting her eyes to the occasional lovers’ games that played out in darkened corners of the hall or shadowed nooks between the corridor tapestries.
Now the hunter’s tawny eyes swept the tree line, penetrating the thick hedge of thorny brambles she’d trained all around her tiny thatched dwelling. Her heart pounded with a strange excitement that plagued her only when she laid eyes upon him. She told herself it was because she knew he was the key to her success if she wanted to have a baby.
Yet she’d never experienced such a reaction when she’d been in the company of her betrothed, before her world fell apart.
“Who’s there?” The hunter spoke, and his voice was a new sound to her. He’d always been silent in the past, except for the occasional whistle to his merlin if he brought a bird for hunting.
The timbre of his smooth, deep bass hummed all around her, echoing through her veins. The welcoming reverberation calmed her and helped draw her feet forward.
Her body accustomed to the thorny hedge, she ducked and drifted easily through the maze of sharp obstacles until she stepped clear of it. Into sight.
“Greetings, sir,” she started, unsure of her words, but injecting a note of husky warmth into her voice. “Your journey must be a long one to venture so deep within the woods. Fare you well?”
He studied her in silence with the same predatory stillness she’d observed many times when he stalked his prey.
She’d never been so close to him, nor had she ever viewed him so keenly before. He had the lithe strength of a stallion with his sleekly muscled grace. His dark looks were not the foreign variety of the Norman invaders, although his tawny eyes were unusual for a Scot. Thick, dark hair shone with good health and revealed good care of his person, one of many reasons she’d chosen him for this task.
He was garbed in the muted shades of the forest, with dark braies that hugged muscular thighs and ended around the taut bulge of his calves. His boots were laced up the ankle, the heavy leather protecting him from the thick forest brush, and enabling him to tread with utter stealth.
His tunic was of a crude hue that many a crofter would wear in the field. Yet the fine pleats and embroidered embellishment about the placket conveyed a far higher status. A deposed nobleman? The thought struck a deeper note of fear. Nay. No nobleman hunted the woods alone as often as this forest warrior. His sword was simple and free of gems and scrollwork. A rough leather strap served as his belt, with a functional eating knife at the hip.
Surely this hunter’s position leaned more toward a successful trade.
“My journey has been long,” he admitted after a moment, his finely sculpted mouth capturing her attention as he spoke. “Have I ventured near another town to meet a fair maid I’ve never spied before?”
“I wash clothes in yon river,” she lied, pointing away from her cottage to help ensure he did not know where she lived. With luck, he would think her a lowly washerwoman and never seek her out again, which would keep her babe safely in her care alone.
Then, rousing her courage, she made a bold suggestion. “Perhaps you would like me to wash your clothes?”
As soon as she made the offer, she realized she’d spoken a bit too softly, her tone lacking the brash flirtation she’d heard more experienced women use. But the words themselves were so improper, she found it difficult to infuse them with more suggestive meaning.
“You are unprotected here?” he asked, looking around the clearing for some companion. “Does no one accompany you?”
The concern in his voice alerted her to how badly she’d misjudged this business of seduction. He was not thinking about stripping down to nothing and taking advantage of her in the remote woods. He worried for her safety. The notion touched her heart even as she feared she would