He was leaving and she still did not know who she was.

The strength she had used to push herself back into consciousness was waning quickly. But her hand moved on its own to keep him close.

“Who…am…I?”

The words she most feared at this moment were out now. He would tell her who she was and the chaos inside her would calm and she would remember. She would remember her life and her family and her name. She waited.

The confusion she felt now filled his gaze. She watched as he looked over her face again and again. Now he struggled for words, and as she recognized the import of this, the darkness surged forward to claim her. Losing herself in its grasp, she barely heard the words he whispered in answer to her plea.

“I know not.”

She was truly lost….

The Norman’s Bride

Harlequin Historical #696

Praise for Terri Brisbin

“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”

—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden

“…lush narrative, crisp dialogue and powerful descriptions. Medieval Scotland comes to life under the skillful storytelling of Terri Brisbin.”

—Rendezvous on A Love through Time

The Dumont Bride

“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Beautifully written and well researched, this book is a perfect ten in many ways.”

—Romance Reviews Today

The Norman’s Bride
Terri Brisbin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN

The Dumont Bride #634

The Norman’s Bride #696

This book is dedicated in gratitude to the real Harlequin Heroines in my life:

To Claire Delacroix and Sharon Schulze, the first Harlequin authors I met and who were generous with their time and knowledge in the face of my many, many questions;

To the Hussies, the group of wise and wonderful Harlequin Historical authors whose insight and support is endless and always appreciated;

To Melissa Endlich, my editor, whose support and enthusiasm for my work have been appreciated beyond words….

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Prologue

Silloth-on-Solway

England

1198 AD

“Will she live?”

He said the words in a whisper, not knowing why it meant so much to him, but recognizing that it did.

“She may,” old Wenda, the village healer, replied. “Or she may not. ’Tis in my hands no longer.”

William de Severin, now called Royce, stood by the blazing hearth in his small cottage and watched as Wenda finished sewing the unconscious woman’s face. His gut gripped as though he were some untried boy rather than the tournament- and battle-tested warrior he was. He could not isolate the reason the sight of blood and some stitching bothered him so, and that disconcerted him even more. Hushing the whimpers of his hound, he moved closer to survey the extent of the woman’s injuries.

Merde.

No wonder the old woman could not answer him. William had hoped that once the blood was cleared away, Wenda would declare her easily healed. ’Twas not so after all. He grimaced at the sight of the injuries this woman had sustained—a broken leg, stab wounds on arms and hands, defensive from the look of them and some very deep, and from her labored breathing, broken or badly bruised ribs. He shook his head and offered a silent prayer, for she was closer to death than he had first imagined.

“Should we move her to the keep or to your cottage?” William asked. The healer’s doubts unnerved him. If Wenda did not think she would live, then how could he have hope?

“Nay, Royce. I fear she would not live through even the short journey there. Mayhap in a few days…” Wenda did not finish the words, but William heard them clearly—if she lived.

Wenda stood, her long gray braid falling over her shoulder, and stretched her back, rubbing at its base probably to relieve the hours spent hunching over to repair the slashes, cuts, bruises and broken bones. She had accompanied him without question or hesitation when he roused her from her sleep. If she had thought that finding him, the loner, the outsider, at her door long after the moon’s rising was strange, she said it not. She had simply gathered her supplies and followed him into the night.

He stood nearby, close enough to aid her but far enough to be out of her way during her work. Now she gathered the soiled cloths into a basket and stood.

“A fever will come,” she said without looking at him. Passing her gaze over the woman once more, she shook her head. “Someone filled with anger did this. A terrible anger.”

That someone wanted her dead was clear. The unconscious woman had cheated death this long, but William suspected it would be much longer before she could claim victory.

After giving him instructions, Wenda waved away his offer of a ride back to her cottage and left with the promise of an early return. William sat next to the pallet and leaned against the wall, settling down for the rest of the night. The only sound was the crackling of some peat on the hearth. As he dozed off, he strained to hear the shallow, rasping breaths the stranger took. Although sunrise was only a few hours away, it promised to be a long night.

Chapter One

The wet, rough tongue sliding across his chin startled him, for he did not believe he would sleep at all when he closed his eyes. Pushing away the hound’s face, William looked over at his guest. He feared that her lack of movement or sound meant she had lost the valiant battle she’d fought over this past fortnight. From his place next to the door, he could not tell if she breathed or not.

Rolling to his feet, he made it to her side in a few steps. Touching the back of his hand to her less-bruised cheek, the coolness of her skin made him smile. The horrible life-draining fever had broken. A soft sigh confirmed that she had made it through the worst of her recovery. Watching the movement of the sheet as her chest rose and fell under it, William knew she faced many more days and weeks of pain before she could truly be declared healed. But, with the fever gone, she stood a good chance of making it through that recovery.

Worried that her thrashing movements through the night may have opened her deeper wounds, he gently checked to see if any of her wounds bled. He mumbled a quick thanks to heaven as he saw that all the stitches looked intact. Tucking the sheet higher over her shoulders, he left the cottage to handle his own morning needs and to bring back fresh water from the stream nearby. The hound nipped at his heels and followed him down the path.

After dipping his head in the icy water for a few minutes, William felt clearer minded and ready to face the day. The night had been a tough one; his mystery guest had become almost violent, thrashing and crying out for the first time since he’d found her. He did not know if this was a good sign or not, but he would share the information with Wenda when she arrived for her daily visit.

Twisting his dark hair to remove most of the water from it, William pulled it back and tied it with a leather cord. Even after three years he was still unused to having his hair so long. But, if it made him less obvious, he would continue with it. And the black beard he had forced himself to leave in place hid the gash on his neck. Better to be unremarkable in coloring or appearance than draw the wrong attention.

Completing his ablutions, he filled a bucket with clean water and returned to his home. He would wait until he tried to coax some of Wenda’s broth into his guest before changing his tunic. If her strength was returning, it could be a messy affair.

Although he had lost most of his accent, he could not rid himself of the fastidiousness in grooming that had been the standard as he grew to manhood in Eleanor of Aquitaine’s court. Though generations separated the French origins from most of the current border nobles, he had been but a few years removed from the people and places of his upbringing. ’Twould take more time than that to lose his habits.

No, he would not allow his thoughts to follow that path. There was no good in it, only regrets and recrimination. Nothing could change his past. Nothing.

Shaking his head at the wanderings of his mind and snapping his fingers behind him to gain the dog’s attention, he carried the water into the small hut and prepared some broth for the unconscious woman. She had not moved at all since he’d left, so he warmed the clear soup and brought it closer to her. Then he carefully lifted her up and slid behind her. He cushioned her bruised body with his and cradled her head on his shoulder.

It took time to coax the warm liquid into her mouth without losing most of it on both of them. If he gauged it correctly, she had swallowed more this time than even last night. That had to be a good thing, didn’t it? He would ask Wenda when she arrived. Bloody hell! He felt no more at ease in her care now than when he had found her bleeding to death near his door almost two weeks ago. Luckily Wenda had asked one of the village girls to stay here during the day and care for the stranger. Although he would most likely not give voice to his doubts, he would take all the help offered in this endeavor.

Men were not supposed to do this, he was certain of it. He was more comfortable fighting a dozen well-armed warriors than sitting at bedside tending this wounded woman. He hoped she would waken soon so that she could be moved to the keep or to Wenda’s and he would be done playing nursemaid. Yet, even as the thoughts crossed his mind, he knew he lied to himself.

Something had called him to the little-used path where she lay dying in a pool of her own blood. Something had grabbed his soul in the night when she seemed to turn into his palm as he soothed her flaming brow. Something had given her the strength to fight death’s grip and struggle back to life, and he felt powerless next to it.

William de Severin, the man who had died on the field of honor three years before, only knew that he was part of her fight for life and nothing he did or thought could change that.

The pain!

Deep, searing, like flames through her, tearing at her strength until she could fight no longer.

At first, she tried to struggle against the pain, to claw her way up through the darkness, toward the light she could feel at the edges of her existence. Then she realized that in the darkness was numbness. And numbness was relief from the rippling waves of anguish that seemed to have no end. So, for a while, she sought the comfort that the darkness offered.

Then a voice pierced the darkness. A soothing, warm voice that called to her, urging her to fight, telling her not to surrender to the darkness. Sometimes the tone was soft and sometimes powerful, but never could she ignore it. Although there was no pain in the bliss of the darkness, the voice called her from it and when she had gathered enough strength, she followed it.

She knew not how long she had remained within the darkness or how long her journey through the pain took. She simply listened for that voice to guide her, to give her courage and to sustain her when fear attacked her resolve.

At some time in her struggles, the urge to know and to find the source of the voice overwhelmed her and she forced her eyes to open. As she did, even more pain coursed through her body and she hissed with the intensity of it. Deciding she had not the strength or courage needed yet, she slid back into the darkness and waited.

Had she made a sound? William moved closer and drew the covers more securely around her. A chill not uncommon for this time of year had spread through the area and he remembered Wenda’s instructions to keep the woman warmed enough. As he brought the lamp nearer to her, he saw no sign of waking on her face. If her breathing had changed, it was even once more.

He paced the small room. It had been three days since her fever had broken and Wenda told him that every day she spent in this limbo was an indication that she would not recover. A deep sadness filled him at the thought that she would simply drift off into death without him even knowing her name or her story.

’Twas at times like this that memories of his sister Catherine came to mind. There were days and nights at the convent in Lincoln when he thought she would simply give up her hold on life. The good sisters who cared for her urged him to speak to her, even in her unconscious state, and to talk to her of things mundane and comforting. And he did. He spoke of happier, carefree times when she was but a child in a household and family that loved her. He spoke of her dreams and urged her to fight. Recent letters passed to him from the convent spoke of her recovery.

William found himself using the same tones and the same words each night before he sought his own rest. He spoke to this woman, called her to fight and to survive. And for the first time since he’d disappeared from the court in England three years before, he allowed himself to care what happened in his life.

Chapter Two

Her eyes were green.

He had not realized he was curious about her features before the attack until he glanced down at her indrawn breath and saw the emerald-green color.

She was looking at him.

She was awake.

A moan escaped her lips as he shifted her head higher onto his shoulder to feed her from a bowl of broth. He could only imagine the pain that still afflicted her from the many wounds she’d suffered. He whispered to her as he lifted the spoon to her mouth, urging her to comply with his directions. After a moment’s hesitation, she swallowed the soup without resistance.

Even as he tamped down an initial desire to ask her the questions that had plagued him in the weeks before, he knew that she must have just as many questions of him. William carefully and methodically fed her the broth, giving both of them time to adjust to her awakening. He finished spooning the entire helping into her mouth and then paused for a minute. He planned his next move to cause the least amount of pain to her, but he realized she would suffer nonetheless.

“I am going to move you now,” he whispered. “Do not try to move yourself.”

William began to slide from behind her, holding her head in his hand to support her. Pushing some pillows in to replace his own body, he took care with every movement so that it was slow and did not startle her into resisting him. Soon he had her sitting up on the pallet, with pillows and rolled blankets surrounding her. William moved a few steps away and crouched down next to the sleeping platform.

“Welcome back to the living,” he said with a cautious smile. He wondered if she knew what she had gone through in recent weeks, how close to death she had been. “Do you have need of anything?”

She blinked her eyes several times and then looked around the room slowly. ’Twas not so large a room that it took much time at all. Soon her gaze was back on him. Questions clouded those emerald eyes and pain filled them, too.

“Some water? Mayhap the broth was too salty?” He stood and retrieved a cup of water from the jar he kept. Lifting it to her lips, he tipped the cup to let her drink. She tried once to lift her head to meet the cup, but the moan that escaped told him how painful such a movement was to her.

“Here now, rest back and do not fret. I am rushing you, I think.” He pulled a stool close to her side and sat on it.

She closed her eyes and he was not certain if she was still awake or falling back to unconsciousness. But, after a few moments, she looked at him once more. Her breathing was ragged now that she was awake. Any relief that the sleep of the unconscious had given her was gone now. She forced a word out with great effort.

“Who…?” she gasped.

“Ah,” he said, nodding in understanding. “I am called…Royce.”

Would he ever not trip over the name he used? It was his middle name and one he was familiar with, but the urge to say his real name had not lessened in the three years he had not used it.

Her eyes closed again. This time he waited, realizing that she was dealing with the pain. When her eyes opened, confusion and agony filled them.

“You are in my cottage near the village of Silloth-on-Solway Firth.” Before she could ask, he answered what he thought would be her next question—it would be his. “You have been here for three weeks. I found you, or rather my dog found you, in the woods some distance from here.”

Her gaze became cloudy again and he waited. He could only imagine how much strength it was costing her to stay awake and not scream against what she must be feeling. He had suffered his own wounds in battle and in tournaments and had developed a tolerance for most pain, but this woman could not have experienced anything like this before.

“Would you like to rest?” he asked, ready to stave off his curiosity until she was stronger.

With obvious great effort, she shook her head slightly and mouthed the word no. She swallowed again and tried another word.

“I…hurt.”

Her voice was strained and husky from disuse and probably from damage, as well. He noticed that her left hand clutched the blanket as she tried to speak.

William looked at her, examining her once more and seeing the bruises and scars as though for the first time. She did not need to know everything at this first moment, he decided. He did not want to scare her into a faint with the extent of her injuries.

“Your face was cut and a few ribs were broken. The worst of it is your leg, but Wenda says it is set well and it should heal as straight as it was before.”

Her face lost more of its already pale color so he stopped detailing what had been done to her. “I am tiring you. You must rest and then we can talk again. I am certain you have more questions and I have some for you.”

He leaned down to straighten her covers. The touch of her hand on his surprised him—her grasp was stronger than he would have thought she could have accomplished. William did not pull from her, but waited. Her mouth moved several times as though she could not choose the words she wanted. Then she spoke.

“Who…am…I?”

The darkness threatened to claim her once more, but she needed to ask that one question. Upon regaining consciousness a wave of panic moved through her, removing any coherent thoughts. Only this man’s voice had calmed her mind and spirit. It sounded familiar and soothing and safe. But nothing else she could see or hear did.

As he finished feeding her and moved from behind her, she followed his instructions. The pain was so great that truly she had no choice, but his gentle handling made it easier to put herself in his control. ’Twas as he was staring at her that she realized she did not know who she was.

Searching through the thick fog of her memories, there was only black. She saw no faces, heard no voices and smelled no aromas. Only a black void existed where her life should have been.

She needed to know her truth. Who was she? Where was she? And who was this man holding her and caring for her? Was he her husband? Brother? It had been his voice speaking in the hellish darkness; his voice guiding her and soothing her. Why?

The first word she could form and force out had really been about herself, but the man misunderstood and gave his name.

Royce.

A kingly name for this rough warrior before her. Then another wave of darkness surrounded her as she realized the importance of him sharing his name with her. If he told her his name, then she had not known him before. Had he known her?

Every breath hurt. Just moving her mouth to speak took all of her strength. But she had to know…so many things. And she needed to know now, before the panic that pushed in on her from all sides took control and she lost all thought.

She used the pain to focus her thoughts and her efforts. It moved through her in waves, some more powerful than others, but like the relentless sea, it did not stop. More a statement than a question, her words were forced out of her by the torturous anguish.

“I…hurt.”

He did not want to tell her the truth. She read the coming lies in his silver-gray eyes before he spoke the words. Now fearful of knowing, she listened to the sound of his voice and did not pay attention to the content. Her wounds were grievous; she knew that from the inside out. A retelling would simply make the pain more frightening than it already was.

A question filled her mind and she realized it would be the last one she would ask. The strength she had used to push herself back into consciousness was waning quickly. He stood and came nearer, tending to her. He was leaving. He was leaving and she still did not know who she was. Her hand moved on its own to keep him close.

“Who…am…I?”

The words she most feared at this moment were out now. He would tell her who she was and the chaos inside her would calm and she would remember. She would remember her life and her family and her name. She waited.

The confusion she felt now filled his countenance. She watched as he looked over her face again and again. Now he struggled for words and, as she recognized the import of this, the darkness surged forward to claim her. Losing herself to its grasp, she barely heard the words he whispered in answer to her plea.

“I know not.”

She was truly lost.

’Twas not the first time he had felt this helplessness in his life, but he prayed to the Almighty that it be the last. As he watched her eyes close, his gut gripped. Had she died? Her body slumped back as she gave up the fight to speak.

William reached down and removed the bolsters from behind her, laying her flat on the pallet. He watched for the rise and fall of her chest even as his own tightened. It took a few moments, but then he saw it. Letting out his own breath, he watched hers become slower as she slipped further and further into unconsciousness.

This was a fine muckle, as Connor the Scot would say. The burly warrior from north of England’s borders had a saying for every situation.

Had he himself caused her faint with his words? He thought not. Covering her with another layer of blankets, he sat back and thought about this mystery.

William had hoped she would awaken from the sleep of these past weeks, tell him her identity and then he could return her to her people. Well, that was not the complete truth. A part of him was certain that her death was the motive for the attack on her and returning her to her people would not be the safest thing to do. Someone had tried to kill her, had almost succeeded and would try again if her survival was known. The warrior he was knew this for a certainty.

Who would want to kill a woman? And with such savagery?

From the smoothness of her hands, he suspected she might be a noblewoman. But what woman of noble blood could simply disappear and have no one know? If she were titled, someone would be searching for her. Lord Orrick would have known if there was a search being carried out, especially on his lands.

No, he was mistaken about this. Shaking his head, he circled the cottage and prepared for the night. Not of noble blood. Then who? And more importantly, why?

In his travels before settling here in the service of Orrick, he had seen many unfortunates throughout England—women who had been deserted, abandoned or marked for some failure on their part. Divorce was not possible, so men would simply force an unfaithful or unwanted wife from their home, taking everything from her but for the clothing she wore.

And sometimes, not even granting her that much. If marked as a whore, the woman would find no sanctuary and be forced to accept whatever living she could. Although this cruelty was infrequently seen, it existed nonetheless. Orrick did not permit it on his lands, but other less scrupulous lords did.

William sat on the pile of blankets on which he slept and watched her in the low light thrown off by the vestiges of the hearth’s banked flames. He was probably worrying for naught. This first awakening after so many days asleep must simply be one filled with confusion for her. As she regained strength and did not have to fight against the pain he knew coursed through her with every breath, her mind would clear and she would know herself.

Wenda and young Avryl would arrive just after dawn and he would tell them of this brief period of alertness. Wenda would surely know what to do for the confusion that plagued the woman, for the healer knew a potion for all ailments.

Aye, Wenda would know what to do in the morning.

“Royce.”

The strangled whisper of his name was like a scream in the silence of the night. He was up in an instant and at her side before she could say it again. He did not need to see her to know she was awake. He could hear the uneven pace of her breathing and the turmoil in her restless movements.

He lay down beside her and whispered to her. Careful not to lean against her and cause more pain, he gently stroked her forehead and urged her to calm herself. The words flowed easily for he’d said them to her many times before in the darkness and privacy of the night. Softly, over and over, he spoke the words. Finally he felt the tension leave her body and he thought she slept once more.

As he began to move away, her voice pierced the night again.

“Stay?” It came out on a hiss. A plea, not an order.

William settled back on his side and did not move. The morning’s light found him still there.

Chapter Three

“’Tis a good thing then?”

William had moved away from the group of men he sat with at the table and waited to hear Wenda’s advice. Lord Orrick had asked him for a report on the stranger in his care and William did not want to delay. And he wanted to know for himself.

“That she has awakened? Aye, ’tis a good thing.” Wenda nodded. “But this confusion is not.”

“Will it go away? Surely, her memory will return?”

“Mayhap it will and mayhap it will not.” The old woman shrugged at him. “I have seen this but once before and that in a man wounded in the head during battle. He recovered his mind after a few days.”

“Surely it will be so for her?” William was frustrated by the healer’s words more than he was satisfied by them.

“I have heard stories of those who have never regained their memories.”

“Nay!”

His words and tone were a bit more vehement than he had planned so he paced away from the woman and tried to sort out his thoughts. He would not believe that this stranger would live in a state of confusion and without identity for the rest of her life. Last night had been her first time awake in weeks and this fog must be normal, a natural part of healing. But if it were that, the nagging thoughts in his head told him that an experienced healer such as Wenda would know of it.

“Royce,” Wenda said. “We must simply wait to see if she continues to heal or if this is a pause in a decline. Time will tell us something more with each day.”

“And is that what I tell Lord Orrick?”

“That is all we can tell him for now.”

William let out the breath he held and looked toward the high table where the lord he served was at his meal. Orrick was a fair man and would not begrudge a stranger a small measure of care after an attack such as she had suffered. Once she was stronger, her thoughts would clear and she would know herself. Once she was stronger, she could move to the keep and be tended by the women there. Once she was stronger, he would lose her.

Shaking his head at his own foolish thoughts, he thanked Wenda and walked forward at Orrick’s behest. Her recovery would be a slow one and be filled with pain and struggle. It would be best if she was moved as soon as possible since his many duties for Orrick took him away from the village frequently. ’Twould be easier for all if she were not in his cottage. He thought himself convinced so no one was more surprised than he when his first words to Orrick were a request to keep her where she was.

The rest of the day moved too slowly for him and he found himself wondering how she would be when he returned home. Wenda said that Avryl would continue to come each day to take care of her needs while he was at his duties. Wenda would visit often and Orrick had given his permission for things to be this way until the stranger either recovered enough to give an accounting of herself or until she succumbed.

Finally his duties were finished and he took up his weapons and walked through the village toward the stream. Following it for a few minutes, he soon stood in the doorway of his small croft. It was quiet within. Young Avryl stirred a pot on the hearth and his guest lay sleeping. He fought a smile when he noticed that her hand rested on the head of his also-sleeping dog. She had found a champion after all.

William dropped his sack next to the door, gaining the attention of the girl before the fire. Avryl was really older than a girl, nigh to ten-and-seven if he remembered correctly. He watched her graceful movements as she used the edge of her skirt to shield her hand from the heat of the pot and then poured some of the stew into a bowl on the table.

She would not meet his eyes as he thanked her for the meal, and William noticed the blush creeping up her neck and face. He remembered Avryl’s mother trying to make a match between them after his first year in Silloth in the service of Orrick. A new bachelor in the close-knit community, especially one high in the esteem of Lord Orrick, was fair game for any unmarried woman. He had done his share of dodging those who would try to tie him into matrimony.

He could afford no entanglements of that nature. Nothing that endangered his anonymity or threatened to reveal his past could be allowed. He became practiced at brushing aside the matchmaking. He waited for her to finish putting food and drink out before turning his attention to the woman lying on the pallet.

“She has been awake for some hours today,” Avryl answered the question before he could ask it.

“Does she know herself yet?” William crouched down to be nearer to the woman and inspected her for signs of worsening.

“Nay. But she spoke a few times to Wenda and to me.”

“Has she eaten?” William looked at the bowl of steaming food. It was probably too hearty for her.

“Aye, she had something not long ago. Wenda gave her a potion for the pain and said she might sleep the night through.”

William nodded at the information and stood. “My thanks for your care of her.”

“I could stay longer…?” Her voice softened with a question and he did not miss its true meaning.

“’Tis been a long day for both of us.” William pushed the door open and stood next to it. “Would you like me to walk you back to the village? The dark is growing deeper.”

Avryl gathered a few items together and put them in her sack. Slinging it over her shoulder, she shook her head. “I can go back by myself.” He could also hear her unspoken words.

Looking at this young woman who invited him to walk with her, William felt much older than his years. In another life, he would have been seeking out young women, wooing and bedding and marrying an appropriate one. Avryl would have been suitable for the wooing and bedding but not the marrying, if he’d stayed in his former life. Now, she was suitable for someone in his station.

He sighed, letting out some of his frustration. He was now the one not suitable for marriage, so he took his pleasures discreetly when he felt the need. Never with the wife of another man. And he never encouraged any of the women in the village or within the purview of Lord Orrick to expect anything more.

William would not let her work go unappreciated, so he walked to the stream with Avryl and waited for her to make her way a good distance before returning to the cottage.

Looking around his home, he noticed that Avryl had been busy during her time there, and not just in tending to the sleeping woman. His stores of oats and other food supplies kept in jars were neat and the shelf that held them was now clean of any crumbs. His floor was swept clean and a pile of clothing lay on the table neatly folded. Busy, indeed.

“She likes you.”

He turned at the words and found his guest looking at him. How long had she been awake? He moved closer to aid her in sitting up, but she shook her head slightly.

“Eat.”

“Do you need something? Water? Broth?”

“You eat.” Her focus turned to the table and the bowl of hot stew sitting there.

William nodded and sat on the bench next to the table. It placed his back to her, but he did not move it. He concentrated on the meal and finished the thick stew, chunk of bread and cup of ale in a few minutes. Then he cleaned out the wooden bowl and cup and placed them up on the shelf in the corner. Lifting the pot from the hearth, he placed it on the floor to cool. Covering it with a battered lid, he knew that there were at least two more meals left within it.

When no other tasks lay before him, he paused before facing her. Nervousness grew inside him and he knew not the cause. This was the feeling that usually accompanied a new challenge or going into a fight, but he had neither planned. He only needed to face this unknown woman who was in his care. In his home.

Aye, that must be it, he thought. No other woman had spent the night here since he first moved from the keep. And he had not slept beside a woman in a very long time. Especially to sleep only. He had done that last night and now confusion over the way he felt about it filled him.

Finally he turned to his guest and found her watching his every move. He pulled the bench from the table, placed it next to her pallet and sat down. How do you begin when someone has lost all memory?

“Catherine?” He paused to see if she reacted. None. “Alyce? Emalie? Mary? Eleanor? Margaret?” None of the names elicited more than the lifting of her brow and a blank stare as she listened.

“I do not remember,” she whispered. “None sound like my own.”

“What do you remember? Any faces? Anyone else’s name?” How did you go about helping someone regain their memory?

“Would you help me up? I want to sit for a while.”

Her voice was soft and refined. Once more the suspicion that she was noble reared itself in his mind. The dog roused and moved away as he reached down and supported her head and shoulders to help her to sit. After packing the blankets behind her to keep her steady, he moved away and let her settle.

She clearly battled pain, for she held her breath and bit down on her lip. He watched her hands clutch and release the blankets over and over again. Since he could do nothing for her, he waited for her to gain control. A minute or two passed in silence as she gained some measure of relief in not moving.

“Voices?” He tried again to focus her thoughts.

“I know only you and those who were here today,” she replied.

For a moment, his heart threatened to stop beating. She knew him?

“Me?” He must know. An icy chill shivered through him as he waited. Had they met before?

“Royce. Last night, you told me you were called Royce.” She frowned as she spoke and he realized that all was well. Had his panic shown? He pushed his hair from his face and nodded. He must move away and focus the attention back on her.

“Shall we try a few more names? Mayhap one will trigger a memory?”

“I do not think so. Avryl has been doing the same thing each time I wake.”

“Really?” She nodded slightly, pain still clear on her face. “Would you simply like to pick a name you’d care to be called until we find out who you are?”

“Isabel sounded nice when Avryl mentioned it.”

“Well, then, Isabel is it.” He smiled and let the name settle in his mind. “Isabelle.” He repeated the way he used to say his mother’s name.

“You speak French?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and nodded. No use denying he spoke the language of the court. Many did, not just the nobles who existed within its hierarchy. He gave away nothing by admitting the truth. Then she shocked him by speaking to him in that language.

“Have you always lived here?” she asked in flawless French. Then she blinked several times, surprised at the words she’d spoken. “I speak French?” she asked in English once more.

“Apparently.” He turned the conversation back to her instead. “Do you remember traveling there or speaking it?”

She—nay, Isabel now—closed her eyes and sat quietly. Myriad emotions crossed her face, none staying for more than an instant. She shook her head. “No.”

William felt the disappointment as she uttered that single word. Surely, when her injuries healed, her memory would return. Surely.

“Do not dwell on that. For now, rest and regain your strength.” He stood and prepared the cottage for the night. She said nothing as he moved from spot to spot, placing his sword and sharpening stone on the floor next to his sleeping place and wrapping a rope around the knob on the door.

“Would you like to sit or should I help you lie back down?”

“I would stay up for now. Will it disturb your rest?” she asked.

“Nay. Sit as long as you’d like. I have to work on my sword, so I won’t go to sleep right away.”

He sat down and gathered his tools closer. Wrapping the well-oiled cloth around the blade of his sword, he wiped it clean. Then he picked up the stone and began to smooth away any roughness caused in the day’s practice. Over and over, he slid the stone down the length of the sword in even strokes, putting a fine edge onto the steel of the weapon.

The movements tended to soothe her as she watched the motion of his hand and the sword in the shadows thrown off by the hearth’s low flames and allowed her thoughts to roam more freely. She had many questions she wanted to ask him but feared interrupting his work. He had already done so much for her and the last thing she wanted was to annoy him.

“I am not tired,” she whispered across the room. Her black hair fell over her shoulders as she shook her head.

Royce looked over at her and nodded, his movements never slowing or altering. “You have slept much in these last weeks. I am certain that some restlessness must be expected as you heal.”

Restlessness? Was that what she felt? Although she knew he would not hurt her, a measure of absolute panic ran through her. How could she not know her own name? Could someone survive in this state, never coming back to themselves? The shiver of fear ran deep and threatened her hard-fought-for control.

“Are you cold?” he asked, putting his weapon aside and beginning to stand. “Let me build the fire up.”

She raised her hand to stop him. It took all her strength to move it, but she was pleased to know her body was coming back under her power.

“I am not cold. And I do not want to disturb your work.” Her movement was not without a price to her for it caused the pain to flow and ebb through her. She waited and took another breath. “I am fine.”

“Not fine, but not cold is more like it,” Royce said, settling down on his pallet. “I suspect you will not be fine for some time more.”

He inspected the blade and checked its sharpness with his thumb. He moved the stone over one side and then the other, repeating the action and checking every few minutes. The silence in the room was not uncomfortable and she watched the muscles in his arms ripple as he worked.

“Will you tell me of this place?” She, Isabel as she would call herself now, had many questions to ask.

“This land belongs to Lord Orrick. His family has been here for decades and descends from the Norse invaders who took control of this land many years ago.”

“We are near the coast?”

“Silloth is a small holding on the south end of the Firth of Solway. How did you know?” His hands never slowed as he spoke.

“I did not know,” she answered. “It was more of a feeling of the air around me being different.”

“So you come not from the coast but from inland?”

“I…do…not…know.” The terror welled from its place deep inside her. It was building stronger and soon would be unmanageable. Not knowing, not recognizing, not being someone. It was too much.

In an instant he was at her side. Royce sat carefully next to her and brushed the hair from her face. Although her panic was strong, she did not fear him at all. He lifted a cup to her lips and she sipped a small amount. It was ale.

“Shh… Do not fear, Isabelle. No one can harm you now.” He whispered the words, but she sensed the promise of them through her whole being. Tears gathered in her eyes and she felt weak. Too weak and too weary. But the most haunting questions still remained. She would ask just one more before surrendering to the exhaustion.

“Why? Why would you do this for a stranger?”

He looked at her and lifted a corner of the sheet to wipe her tears. A sad smile crossed his face and it made her want to cry even more.

“You remind me of someone who needed the help of strangers and received it.” His words were poignant with some emotion. Her own chest tightened in response to the haunted tone of his voice.

“Your appearance here reminded me that we cannot always avoid what the Almighty throws at us.”

He turned away from her and as he stared into the fire she could see his profile, a profile that did not hide the pain he suffered. He left her side and moved back to where his sword lay. Silently he sat and returned to sharpening, the stone gliding on the edge of the metal until she thought he would speak no more. A crackling block of peat drew her attention for a moment, and then he did speak.

“Your survival reminds me that sometimes we must force ourselves to live even when we would like to die. That is why I took you in.”

Chapter Four

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.

Chapter Five

He was a coward.

With the cold dampness seeping through his blanket and into his exhausted body, it became clear to him, and he smiled grimly as he realized the punishment for his cowardice. The torments of being on this road escorting his lord’s wife on her pilgrimage to Carlisle Abbey was probably as torturous as staying behind and facing the prospect of Isabel in her bath. Turning onto his side and pulling the meager blanket tighter, William knew assuredly that one hell was just as bad as the other.

William’s plans had been to leave before Wenda’s arrival at the cottage the next day. His services, already requested to escort the lord’s wife for a visit to the convent where her sister was prioress and her niece was a nun, was his ready excuse. He’d accepted the lord’s assignment with a speed that surprised even himself. Mayhap he’d known what was to come?

William de Severin, champion of numerous jousts and tournaments all over the Plantagenet kingdom on the continent and in England, was a coward after all. The victim of visions of a woman and a bath. It was all her fault, after all.

He’d been able to think of her as an injured stranger for all the weeks when she lay in his cottage, helpless and ailing. But when she spoke of her anticipation of a bath, a simple bath, his mind was suddenly filled with her as a woman.

He’d been able to fight the images until she asked for his aid in getting off the pallet that next morning. Isabel wanted to be seated at the table in order that Wenda could decide about removing her stitches and so the old woman would have to lean down no farther.

Placing his hands on her waist, he’d lifted her easily from the pallet. When her knees buckled at this first standing and his hands slipped up from her waist, he’d been granted a hint of the womanly attributes still hidden under the loose shift and gown she wore. The reality of the woman shocked him, for he had thought only of her as a stranger and never looked at what was in front of him all those weeks.

His attention followed his hands’ course and then her indrawn breath drew his attention. Without loosing his hold on her, he moved to her side and held out one hand for hers. Balancing her weight as in the step of a popular court dance he once knew, William eased her to the bench and guided her down to it. They were both out of breath when she settled on the bench.

She would not raise her eyes to him immediately, but took a few moments to position her splinted and trussed leg. From the way her lips pressed together and her brows wrinkled, he knew she was battling the significant pain of being on her broken leg for the first time.

William left her and came back with a mug of water. Isabel gulped it down in two swallows and the mug thunked back onto the table.

“Is there aught else you need?” he’d asked her. A strange awareness had been created in that moment of touch and he’d felt the strong need to be away, as though threatened in some way.

“I will just sit until Wenda arrives. My thanks for your help, Royce.” She lowered her eyes and fumbled with her skirt, rubbing on her leg to ease what he knew must be tightness and discomfort.

And then he ran.

Oh, he knew to outward appearances he strode purposefully from the cottage with his sword and scabbard in hand. He knew that he’d maintained a directed, self-composed pace until he’d reached the cover of the trees, and then he’d run as though chased by demons.

Or by the thoughts of a full-breasted woman within his embrace.

William shifted again on the hard ground where he lay and waited for the dawn. There would be no sleep this night, not with the memories of the soft-bodied woman who lay asleep in his home while he lay here. Sitting up, he slid back and leaned against a stout tree. It was not much later when Lady Margaret’s maid approached him with her lady’s call.

Lady Margaret sat within the dry, well-appointed travel tent that he and his men had erected the night before for her comfort on the road. ’Twas obvious that Lord Orrick supported his lady wife’s need to go on pilgrimage and had made her frequent journeys as comfortable as possible. That this was opposite of what was normally expected of pilgrims on their way to holy places for prayer and contemplation had surprised him the first time his escort had been asked. Now he’d grown accustomed to the many ways in which Lord Orrick indulged his wife.

“I seek your counsel, Royce.” Another of the indulgences of Lord Orrick was his lack of opposition to his wife calling his men by their given names. In many circles at court, this would have been an indication of some untoward attentions being given, but not here within Lord Orrick’s sphere of control.

William considered it another of the many eccentricities that seemed to govern life on the fringes of the Plantagenet kingdom in England. Left on their own, close to the wild Scottish borders, those who held land and power lived their lives according to their own standards. So long as their tribute in fighting men or in wealth of one kind or another arrived when requested, the king and his brother bothered them not. With King William of Scotland and King Richard’s agreement some years ago, the north of England lay in relative quiet while chaos in the kingdoms to the south, on the continent, held Plantagenet attentions.

“How may I help you, my lady?” William dropped the tent flap behind him and stepped closer.

“I rely on your opinions, as does my lord husband, and have a question for you.” The lady changed from the rough English tongue and now spoke to him in Norman French, their native language.

He nodded and waited for her question. She played this game often—speaking in a language not heard in the mostly Saxon northwest. If she had revealed this practice to Lord Orrick, he knew not, for Orrick never mentioned it to him and she did this only in private, with her maid as the only witness.

“While at the convent, should I mention or seek out information about a woman having been beaten and left on our property? So many people pass through its gates that surely someone may have heard or known the woman you harbor.”

William thought about her words. Since the prioress of the Gilbertine Abbey was her sister, Lady Margaret would have no problem seeking out information about such a woman. But he knew, just as surely, that someone did not want the woman now called Isabel to live. And that someone might very well still be in the area or be waiting to hear of anything that could link him to the attack. No, until Isabel had some sense of herself, the danger to her life still existed.

“I would listen, my lady, but ask nothing at this time.”

She smiled and nodded. “I understand, though what bothers me is the harshness of this. ’Tis easy enough these days to rid one’s self of an unwanted wife by putting her aside and placing her in a convent or other religious community. Having her killed is a bit excessive.”

“One would think so, my lady.” He had enjoyed her irreverent sense of humor since he’d been introduced to her. She was very different from Lord Orrick in temperament and upbringing, but it seemed that opposites did attract in their case.

“Then, unless words are offered, none will be given about this woman. Has she spoken of her life? Know you anything yet?” Lady Margaret motioned for him to sit in a chair next to her and he did so. Her maid offered him a cup of ale.

“She continues to live without knowledge of her past, or at least, none that she can speak of.” Lady Margaret nodded at him.

“But you suspect what?” Another thing he respected about the lady—her intelligence.

“She speaks as one noble-born. She has fleeting memories that speak of wealth. She knows of knights and squires and she knows our Norman French.”

Lady Margaret’s eyebrows rose at those revelations. “Is she aware that you know these things?”

“The French, yes. We exchanged a few words in it when she realized I understood it.”

He waited for the Lady Margaret’s reaction, for no one but she and her maid knew this about him. He’d sheltered his past from all in Silloth. She chose, and he recognized it for the conscious decision it was, to ignore this weakness on his part and offer her own suspicions.

“A lord’s bastard or leman? Both could have that same background—raised or living near the noble-born, exposed to the wealth and privilege of those in that rank.”

It was his turn to raise a brow. Never had she come so close to speaking of her truth to him before. He knew it, of course. He had heard the story many times both in his homeland of Anjou and at the court of Eleanor—although no one would have ever spoken of it in the queen’s presence. Then called Marguerite, she was the bastard of one of Henry’s closest allies in Anjou and her beauty and wit drew him like a bee to honey. She’d been Henry’s mistress for a number of years before overstepping her bounds and demanding marriage of the king.

Henry had, in his own way, said yes. But he’d married her off to Lord Orrick, in thanks for services rendered in his service in the north of England and Marguerite became Margaret. So far as he knew, she’d been the perfect English wife to the powerful lord. Her tale had been used for years to caution those women hungry to gain the royal gaze and attentions that, regardless of his volatile relationship with his queen, Henry would never voluntarily give up anything Eleanor had brought to their union.

“That is a possibility, of course. Until she remembers more, there is no way for us to know.”

Lady Margaret stood and handed her goblet to her maid. “Tell my husband when you return that she should be moved into the keep and placed in my care. When she is able, that is. Let Wenda guide us on that. As my sister would say, she has been delivered to us for a reason. We should be responsible in our care until we discern the Almighty’s reasons.”

“Aye, my lady.” He rose as she did and handed his cup over as well. “We will break our fast and be ready to leave anon.”

“I shall be ready, Royce.” When the last words were spoken once more in English, he knew their discussion was over.

There were no more private meetings during the rest of their two days of travel through Thursby and into Carlisle. William and his men delivered Lady Margaret to her sister’s abbey outside Carlisle and left the next morning to return to Silloth. If he forced the group to travel more quickly on their return, no one remarked on it. All knew that their pace was faster due to the lack of women, but William also knew he wanted to get back to see how Isabel was progressing. As Lady Margaret had said, he needed to be responsible in his care of their injured stranger.

They arrived later than he had planned and he was drawn into several hours of discussions with Orrick about the news from Carlisle and the building of the new stone wall around the keep. He accepted Orrick’s standing invitation to stay the night, but the dawn found him awake. In spite of Orrick’s assurances that a man had been sent to guard her, William could not fight the urge to return to his cottage and see to her safety.

It was an hour after dawn when he approached his home. As he dismounted from the horse that made his arrival sooner rather than later, he heard voices from inside. A man’s and a woman’s. No. Two women’s voices—Isabel’s and Avryl’s. William walked to the door and opened it.

The first thing he noticed was that she stared at him with wide, jade-green eyes and did not look away. Then he realized she was sitting up, on a chair in front of the hearth. And after nearly three years of taking notice of little and having even less interest than that in the way of things, he saw that her black hair reached to her hips.

The silence rose between them and he was aware of Avryl and young John who stood and watched. No words came to him. He searched for something to say and nothing happened. Except that he felt the rising tension in the room and knew he must stop it. Finally he took a breath and blurted out his first thoughts without censoring them for the others present.

“By the look of things, your bath went well.”

He watched the blush spread over her face, down her neck and below the collar of her gown. Isabel blinked several times and looked away from him. He listened to Avryl’s sudden intake of breath and tried to ignore the choking sound that young John made. The gangly youth with the scruffy growth of a first beard on his face stood protectively near Isabel. With a sinking feeling in his gut, William realized the personal nature of his words.

Inappropriate and personal. Well, they would be if he had not been taking care of her for weeks. Confused by the reaction in the room and the change from cheery to uncomfortable, William sought to explain himself.

“I did not seek to embarrass you, Isabel, and meant only that you look well. How are you feeling?”

He moved across the room and crouched in front of her, focusing on her. When closer to her, he could see the results of her injuries. Wenda had removed the numerous stitches from Isabel’s face, but the angry scar still outlined her from scalp to chin. More of the redness and bruising would go away with time; however, the area looked sore right now. Her nose carried a bump from its break that would never go away. William fought the urge to reach out and touch it.

“I am well, Royce. Avryl and John have been attending to me these last few days while you were gone.”

He stood and nodded at the two as they watched the exchange of words with some interest. “My thanks for looking after our guest.” The urge to sweep them out the door grew in him and they must have sensed his desire for them to leave. With a few murmured words of leaving, they rushed out of the cottage and strode off in the direction of the keep and village.

“John’s father made this chair for me. Wenda thought it might be more comfortable to sit in rather than lying on the pallet.”

“’Twould seem to make sense. This gives you much more support than the bench.” William sat on the bench himself. Looking over her face once more, he was surprised again by her appearance now.

“Now, without the blood and stitches to hide them, you are taking note of all of my flaws?” 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 making me lose consciousness like her last brew?”

He smiled. “She assures me so. She said you have no tolerance for some of the herbs she added last time.”

Isabel nodded at him, lifted a spoonful of the thick stew to her mouth and savored its well-cooked taste. After a few minutes of silent eating, she wanted to talk to him.

“I have been eating Avryl’s cooking, or that of her mother, for all these weeks and have yet to taste two of her fish stews or soups that are the same.”

“’Tis true. They are good at cooking.” He shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed it.

“Fish is plentiful here?”

“It is a mainstay of our diet. Even the fish-days of Lent are no hardship, as the women here lack not in ways to cook it.”

“Because we are near the coast?” Wenda had explained where the lands of Lord Orrick were located and the general surroundings of the area.

“Aye, and because Lord Orrick owns most of the sea lathes to the north where salt is produced. So, fresh in summer or salted in winter, fish is always on our tables.”

“I think I like the sea.” Isabel could see an image in her mind of the ocean, with its salty scent and its waves crashing wildly onto a sandy beach. Then she could see two young girls frolicking on that beach, one with black hair and one with blond. They splashed along the edge of the ocean, their gowns dragging on the wet sand as they ran in the shallow water. They were held back from running in completely by the stern warning of—

“Isabel?”

She closed her eyes, knowing that she wanted to keep the scene she’d watched in her memory, for it was important in some way. But, to her despair, the sounds and sights grew dimmer until it was gone.

“Isabel? Are you well?” Royce touched her hand and she opened her eyes.

“I saw…I remembered.” Her throat clogged with tears and she could not get the words out. He held her hand under his and squeezed it gently.

“Do not fight these memories, Isabel. Let them flow over you when they happen. Grasping too tightly simply forces them away.”

She swallowed to clear her throat. “How know you of such things?” Did he not speak of his past because he could not remember it? Was that how he could seem to understand her every struggle against this overwhelming darkness?

“A very wise person counseled me about this. I yield to her knowledge, not my own.” He nodded at her and lifted his hand from hers. Returning to his meal, he did not speak again.

Her knowledge. Wenda? But, if Wenda was this wise person, why had he not simply called her by name? Because he spoke of someone else. Someone in the past that he held close to him and that he shared with no one here in Lord Orrick’s estates. She was certain of it.

They finished the rest of their meal in silence. It felt so different to her to be sitting up at the table and eating instead of reclining on her pallet. It felt wonderful.

“So, you are happy with your successes this day?” His voice was deep, even when lightened by his tone.

“I am. I was able to get to my feet alone, to stand and even to walk a few steps from chair to table and back again. I expect to be battle ready by the end of the week.”

He laughed at her nonsensical boast and she looked at his face as he did. Most of the time he wore a frown, deeply troubled by something or worried over something. His manner was always intent, focusing on his duties or the activity that held his attention. The laugh altered his countenance and showed her a man much younger than she had thought him to be. Her curiosity won and she blurted out her thought to him.

“You are a score and ten?”

His gaze narrowed on her and she thought he would not answer, but he did.

“Nigh to that. And you?”

“A score and five.”

He nodded at her words and then she began to tremble. She had not considered his question at all before answering it. The words had simply escaped from her. His hand on hers, when it happened, was comforting against the fear.

“I have five and twenty years,” she repeated, now more sure that it was true when the words came out.

“And?” he asked.

She tried to search her memory but it was dark. Nothing came to her. She shook her head.

Royce stood and moved the table back to its place by the side of the hearth, near the cottage’s lone window. She watched as the task was accomplished with little effort on his part. The strength of a warrior. Then he pulled a bench next to her chair and sat on it, leaning down and closer to her.

“Tell me what you remembered before. We spoke of the ocean and you were watching something in your thoughts.”

She was almost undone by the kindness in his manner and tone. She felt the tears gathering in her eyes when he took her hands in his and held them.

“Fear not, Isabel. Simply close your eyes, take a breath and tell me of your ocean.”

She did as he told her and thought once more about the ocean and its waves. Soon the scene from before filled her mind and she watched as though she were on the shore. Isabel saw the two girls with their gowns growing wetter as they ran along the length of the rocky beach. Darting into the water and out again, they raced each other, always laughing and screaming at the coldness of the water on their bare legs.

“Tell me what you see,” he whispered.

“Two girls, one with black hair and one with pale, running on a beach.”

“How old are they?”

“They have not ten years yet.” She watched as they darted among the boulders that crept up to the ocean’s edge. She smiled. “They run like the wind.”

“Tell me of the day.”

Isabel looked around the scene before her and noticed that the sun was hovering above the sea, gaining strength. “’Tis only after dawn, for the sun just now rises over the edge of the sea. We sneaked away to play pretend on the beach.”

Royce noticed the change in her view, for now it was “we” and not “the girls.” “What do you pretend you are?”

“Maidens running from Viking warriors. We pretend that we can see far out to sea and watch their ships approach from the north and east.”

She was on the east coast of England. And, if she was correct, she had a blond-haired sister, although many people whose hair was light as children darkened with age. He suspected that it was her sister who played pretend on the beach.

William nearly let out a laugh of his own when he realized that his own Viking forebears would have licked their lips over such a prize unguarded on an English beach.

“Who is with you on the beach?” He watched as her eyes moved behind closed lids. He still held her hands in his.

“My sister and our maid. See her there?” Isabel turned her head to one side.

William marveled at her ability to see these scenes. ’Twas then he noticed her empty cup on the table. Were Wenda’s herbs causing this? Could this be a way to encourage her memory to return?

“Isabel, what is your sister’s name? Call out to her now.” William waited for a response. If he discovered the name of her sister, it might be possible to trace her family after all.

Her face lightened first as she began to call out a name, but none came, no words were said, no names called. She turned her head from side to side as though seeking someone.

“They’re going!” she shouted. “They’re going away,” she whispered mournfully. Tears glistened as they rolled down her cheeks. “Please…”

Her sorrow and frustration tore at him. He had thought to help to guide her to some memories, but had only caused her more pain. William released her hands and let them fall to her lap. Taking her by the shoulders, he called out to her.

“Isabel. Open your eyes, Isabel.”

Her 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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