Chapter 12

T he last thing Magnus wanted was to return to Hodwell. He ran the risk of running into people that he would really rather not. The blacksmith he’d threatened yesterday. Lord McRae’s henchmen. But most of all, he feared meeting the sandy-haired archer he’d spotted yesterday. If he did, it would ruin everything.

But he had no choice if he was going to get what he needed, so as he re-entered Hodwell, leading the horse he’d stolen from the outlaws, he kept his eyes peeled, peering around warily.

He slunk along the outskirts, seeking to avoid the center of the town where it would be busier. The smell of mud and horse manure filled his nostrils as he passed unnoticed behind the rows of thatched-roof houses.

Soon, he found himself at the edge of the livestock market, one of Hodwell’s busiest sites. It lay sprawling across a huge open field next to the town, a noisy, bustling place with pens of bleating sheep and braying donkeys, cawing chickens and lowing cows.

Pushing through the crowd, he made his way to the horse pens. He quickly scanned the area and spotted who he was looking for: Harold, a well-known horse trader with a reputation for fair-dealing and fine stock.

Harold was standing by a corral in which a herd of sleek looking fillies were grazing from a long trough. He was a stout man whose grizzled beard matched the silver streaks in his hair and he was busy haggling with a group of young men—noblemen or merchants’ sons, by the looks of them—who were after their first mounts. A brass emblem, depicting a rearing stallion against a setting sun, hung prominently around Harold’s neck, declaring his affiliation to his guild.

As Magnus approached, Harold’s gaze flicked over him, assessing him as though he were another horse to be traded. “What can I do for ye?”

Magnus jerked his head towards the horse he’d led all the way from the monastery. “I’ve come to sell.”

Harold’s eyes lingered on the horse for a moment before he waved the young men aside. They huffed but retreated, leaving Magnus and Harold alone by the sturdy wooden corral.

“Now here’s a fine steed,” Harold commented, stepping closer and running practiced hands over the mare’s flank. His experienced eyes darted over every inch of the horse, from her strong hooves to her glossy mane. “Where’d ye get her?”

“Never mind that,” Magnus replied sharply, wary of revealing too much. “What will you give me for her?”

Harold patted the animal, running practiced hands over her belly, haunches, and finally inspecting her teeth. He sucked his teeth. “Ten silvers.”

And so the dance began. That was an outrageously low price, but Magnus had expected it. They began haggling, the horse trader seeming to enjoy himself immensely, Magnus quickly losing his patience. He wanted this over with so he could get out of Hodwell and back to Isabelle.

After what felt like hours of haggling, they finally agreed a price. Magnus took the pouch of coins Harold held out, handed over the reins of the mare, and they shook hands. With a final nod to the horse trader, Magnus turned and strode away, feeling the weight of the purse. He only hoped it would be enough. If not, he would have to resort to similar methods he’d used on the blacksmith yesterday, and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. He wasn’t sure he could face that look of horror in Isabelle’s eyes again.

He skirted Hodwell at a dog-trot and was glad when he found himself on the monastery road once more. He glanced at the sun. It had taken longer than he’d hoped to get to Hodwell and back and the afternoon was wearing on, the sun beginning to dip towards the horizon. At the monastery, they would soon be getting ready for Vespers.

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed himself more than he had this morning, chasing chickens around the yard with Isabelle and Aiden. It was ridiculous. He was a trained warrior of the Order of the Osprey and yet he’d whooped and hollered like a child and felt lighter than he had in years. Isabelle seemed to have that effect on him.

Snaffles was the first to notice his return. As he closed the monastery gate behind him, he heard an excited barking and a giant streak of sable came hurtling from the direction of the kitchen garden.

Magnus only just managed to keep his feet as the excited hound jumped and gamboled around him, lines of slobber flying from his jowls.

“Aye, lad,” Magnus said, patting the enormous head. “I’m pleased to see ye, too. How about we go see yer mistress, eh? ”

Snaffles’ tail whipped around like a windmill as he started off in the direction of the kitchen garden. Magnus followed, the scent of freshly turned soil filling his nose as he rounded the corner.

He found Isabelle on her knees with her back to him, hands in the dirt, busy turning over soil in one of the vegetable patches. Aiden, dark-haired and serious, crouched next to her, mimicking her actions with his own trowel. They didn’t notice Magnus’s arrival until Snaffles barrelled into them with a happy yelp, announcing Magnus’s return.

Isabelle gasped, falling onto her side with a soft oomph before breaking into laughter as Snaffles began to lick her face. His heart clenched at the sight of her—a smiling, laughing Isabelle covered in freckles and dirt—and he found himself grinning idiotically.

“Snaffles!” she managed, her voice muffled by the dog’s fur, attempting to push the hound away.

Snaffles finally obeyed, backing off and prancing around with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Straightening her clothes and swiping a few strands of hair from her face, Isabelle turned and her gaze fell on Magnus. She scrambled to her feet.

“Magnus! You’re back!”

A smile that warned his heart lit her face. Before he could respond, she rushed over to him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips.

Magnus froze. Shock coursed through him, leaving him stunned and breathless, like a sparrow caught in a falcon’s grasp. Her lips were soft against his, tasting of sunshine and a sweetness that was uniquely Isabelle’s. A rush of warmth flooded through him, chasing away the chill of the late afternoon air as, for a timeless, ecstatic moment, the world spun blissfully out of orbit.

But it was a fleeting, impulsive act, and it was over before it began.

Isabelle pulled back quickly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. There was something in her eyes—a shock, realization, fear perhaps?—as she hastily disentangled herself from him.

“I... um...I’m sorry,” she stuttered, taking several steps back. Her hand came up to cover her mouth, her eyes darted around, not meeting his.

Magnus was most definitely not sorry. His lips tingled where she’d kissed him and a painful ache had lit in his groin. Dear God, what was this woman doing to him? He wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her back, kiss her like he’d ached to ever since he’d met her, kiss her until she melted into his arms and gave herself to him.

But the moment was over and Isabelle had retreated back into herself. And besides, Aiden was watching with wide-eyed fascination.

“Dinna be,” he finally managed to say, breathless. “I could get used to welcomes like that.”

Her face flushed again, but the faintest hint of a smile quirked her lips. “What can I say? You were missed.”

Magnus chuckled. “I was? And here’s me thinking the dog is the only one who likes me.”

Aiden, who had been watching the entire exchange with the keen interest of a ten-year-old who’d been thoroughly sheltered from the world, finally found his voice. “Are ye going to get married now?”

Magnus choked on his chuckle. “It doesnae quite work that way, lad.”

He cast a sidelong glance at Isabelle, who was blinking rapidly and biting her lower lip. She seemed torn between mortification and amusement. Magnus felt an urge to kiss away that troubled look, to run his fingers through that silky hair, to lay her down and—

He cleared his throat, desperately trying to yank his thoughts into some semblance of order. He bounced the bag of coins he’d gotten from the horse trader on his palm. “My trip to Hodwell was a success.”

Isabelle looked at the bag. “Where did you get that?”

“I sold the horse.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if I’m going to get what I need from Armand of Torloch, I’ll need money.”

“Why? What are you planning to buy?”

“This isnae for buying things with. It’s a bribe.” He could think of only two ways of getting the information he needed out of the blacksmith who had made the sword. Beating it out of him as he’d done with the blacksmith in Hodwell, or paying for it. After what had happened yesterday, paying for it seemed by far the best option.

“Ah! Good, there ye both are!” said a voice. “I’ve been looking for ye.”

Abbot Oswin stepped out into the kitchen garden and came hurrying over, holding up his habit to keep it from trailing in the soil. The light reflected off his tonsure as he reached them and bobbed his head.

“Good news! I’ve managed to secure ye transport to Torloch, as ye requested. Sean MacTavish brought in a cartload of leeks and parsnips for us this morning and he’ll be returning to his farm just outside Torloch. He’s agreed to give ye a ride. He’ll drop ye off with Mistress Kearnan at the boarding house there. I often send pilgrims and travelers her way, so she’ll take care of ye.”

His gaze softened as he looked at Magnus and then at Isabelle, and Magnus got the distinct impression that the old man knew more about what was happening between them than he let on. He shouldn’t be surprised. Oswin was a sharp mind clad in a humble habit.

“Um. My thanks, Abbot Oswin.”

“You have both our thanks,” Isabelle echoed, her gaze lingering on Magnus a little longer than necessary. Magnus felt a prickle of warmth in his chest as he imagined that same voice whispering his name in the depth of night, her soft breath against the nape of his neck. He shook his head to cast off such thoughts.

“Where’s this kindly farmer, then?” Magnus asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from what he desired but could not have.

“Waiting in the courtyard.”

Magnus nodded a goodbye to Aiden but Isabelle threw her arms around the lad and held him close. The lad turned scarlet, but also looked mightily pleased as his skinny arms went around her to hug her back. He even reached down to pat the excited Snaffles .

“Take care of yourself,” Isabelle said, when she released him.

Magnus tousled the lad’s hair, and then the two of them followed Oswin through an arched entrance and into a wide courtyard beyond.

There they found a burly, ruddy-faced man leaning against a weather-beaten cart filled with empty crates. A mule stood docilely in the traces, head hanging as he drowsed.

“Sean MacTavish, at yer service,” the man bellowed with a grin, pushing himself off the cart to offer them an enormous hand. His eyes twinkled warmly under bushy brows, crinkling at the corners. “Abbot Oswin tells me ye need a ride to Torloch.”

“Aye,” Magnus said, shaking the offered hand with a firm grip. “We appreciate yer help.”

“Not at all,” MacTavish replied, his wide smile never leaving his face. “Always glad to lend a helping hand. Hop aboard!”

Isabelle drew in a deep breath and turned to Abbot Oswin. “Thank you,” she breathed. “For everything.”

Abbot Oswin actually blushed. “Ye are most welcome, my dear. And dinna forget to come visit if ye are ever out this way again.” On impulse, Isabelle threw her arms around the spindly old man, just as she had with Aiden. Abbot Oswin gave a low chuckle and squeezed her tight. “Now off with ye. Ye’ve a fair way to go tonight.”

Isabelle nodded and released Oswin before climbing gingerly up onto the cart’s seat .

Magnus came to stand in front of Abbot Oswin. The old man gave him a sad smile. “Goodbye again, eh, my lad?”

Magnus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was surprised at how much he’d missed his old tutor and this place that had been his home for such a short space of time.

Oswin took his hand in both of his and squeezed. “Remember what I said. The Lord forgave ye a long time ago. Now ye need to find a way to do the same.”

“I’ll remember,” Magnus promised. “Goodbye, Abbot.”

With that, he climbed up onto the cart—which creaked alarmingly under his weight—and settled onto the seat next to Isabelle. MacTavish sat on her other side. This was going to be an uncomfortable journey. The seat was too small really to accommodate three people, but with the back of the cart full of empty crates, they had no choice but to sit squashed up against each other. Isabelle’s warm thigh pressed against his, sending an ache through him that spread right to his groin.

“Ready?” MacTavish asked. He took up the reins, glancing at Abbot Oswin with a friendly nod before urging the mule into a slow plod. The cart creaked and swayed beneath them as they began to move, throwing Isabelle’s warm weight against him.

He swallowed, feeling heat spreading through him. Oh hell. How was he supposed to endure this?