Chapter Eight

P ulling on a dry shirt, William paced outside the cottage, listening to the sorrow-filled sounds made by the woman inside. He stopped himself from entering at least five times, choosing to wait and give Isabel some time to recover from this torrent of emotions. Thinking to help her and comfort her, he’d first imagined going to her, apologizing to her for his blatant teasing and holding her in his arms and…hell, there was only one way that could end and he could not permit it to happen.

So he waited outside his own home.

And the irony of the situation struck him as a blow—an outsider again. But once Isabel moved into the keep and into Lady Margaret’s domain, his life would go back to its structure and regularity.

Ha! He wrung out the water from his shirt and rebuked himself. The old lies no longer worked for him. His very existence had been changed the night he found her. He drew in a breath and let it out as he tossed the last of the sopping garments over a bush— with too much force, for it went flying onto the ground on the other side of the shrub.

He admitted to himself, with some reluctance, it would take somewhat longer to adjust to her absence than it had for him to become accustomed to her presence. It had taken a fair amount of time to close off his soul when he’d first lost everything. It would take some time to remove the memories of her he had within him. It would take a long time…

He didn’t hear the silence at first. William had been trying so hard not to hear the sobbing that he didn’t realize she’d stopped. Looking up, the only sounds were those of the breeze that moved the trees and the sniffing of the dog as it hunted for something interesting on the ground.

But no crying.

William fisted his hands and waited a few more minutes to be sure that Isabel had regained her control. And for him to regain his. He did not want to embarrass her by acknowledging her loss of it. And he could not risk losing his.

Or should he? Mayhap this was one of those times with a woman when she needed to be comforted?

Damn! He was sinking into the quagmire of feelings again. William turned and stalked into the trees. He could not do this. He would not do this. It was too dangerous to let her affect him thus. Too many lives, none his own, were at stake here.

He found himself standing at the side of the rushing water, staring at the whorls and eddies moving within it and getting no closer to telling Isabel of the plans for moving her to the keep. Mayhap it would cheer her from her mood to know that she would be among people again and not kept in such a small place without company?

Aye.

That was most likely what she needed—the busyness of the village and the structure of those who lived there. Each knew their place and their duties, be it serf, knight or lord, and Isabel would find the life she’d forgotten, most probably without even trying. Memories were breaking through into her thoughts much more frequently now, even though he knew she did not share them with him. He was certain that even her nightmares were memories, just the darker ones better left unstirred.

Part of him wondered at the wisdom of moving her now, but, to Lord Orrick’s knowledge, no one had been searching for her here or anyplace nearby. That meant only one thing to him—whoever had done this to her thought they’d succeeded in their goal. They thought her dead. And so long as she remained that way, she was safe. Lost, but safe.

Like another blow, that irony was not lost on him, either. He must remain dead as well to all who knew him. The difference was that he had made his life and his decision and knew he would abide by it no matter how unpleasant or lonely or painful.

Isabel, however, was dangerous because she held on to life and would not relinquish her hold. She fought to regain the life taken from her. And, if she did, the identity of the person who had taken hers would be revealed. If his suspicions of her background and standing were right, someone would have to pay for the crimes against her. Someone who wanted her dead once.

Someone who would kill to accomplish his goals.

Someone who knew her with or without her memory of them.

William debated the wisdom of her leaving the security of his home for the exposure she’d gain within Lord Orrick’s family and people. Although Orrick was himself of Saxon and Norman blood, his father’s family had been in this area before England took control of it decades before. And one thing was certain—they protected their own. If Orrick granted his protection to this woman, that would end any speculation of their role in it. No one would carry tales out of Orrick’s lands. No one would question her or her presence, at least not openly.

Isabel would be safe enough.

It was time to tell her of the arrangements made for her. He turned back and walked to his croft and found her standing in the doorway. Dressed now and using her crutch for support, she watched him with troubled and swollen eyes.

“I was not sure if you had gone,” she said, her voice trembling as she spoke.

“I but searched for anything you might have left behind.”

They knew the words for the lie they were, but Isabel did not argue them. She simply nodded and walked back into the cottage, sitting in the chair until he followed her. ’Twas as she was dressing that she realized he had returned from the keep much earlier than usual. From his expression, she thought it must be bad news he carried. Unsure of what his message could be, she took a breath and waited for him to speak.

“Are you well?” His gaze moved over her in a perfunctory way, assessing her. When he met her eyes, she nodded.

“Well enough now that I am dry. What brings you home in the light of day?”

Her words had wounded him in some way, for his eyes darkened and narrowed. Had she insulted him? Been too sharp in her tone? Ah, she had reminded him of why she needed to change garments. “I meant no insult by my words, Royce. Have I caused you one?”

“Not at all. I just did not realize that there was such a pattern to my days.”

“You are a creature of habit, Royce. You leave each morning just after sunrise and return just after sunset. You eat your food, clean your table and then your weapons. Then you retire for the night.”

He reeled a step back as though struck by a blow. Isabel wanted to slap herself for her foolish words, but was so startled by the truth of it that she waited for him to respond. The way she described his life was no life at all. Surely there was more to him? Was she, her presence here, the cause of his habits?

“I did not even think about it until now, Royce. I have been such a disruption to your life. Surely you do not live in this manner? Have you curtailed your days to care for me?”

His face became like granite and she knew she was stepping farther and farther into some hole that she feared she would not climb out of. How to get out of this? How did this happen?

Something had changed between them. They had moved from caretaker and patient to man and woman and it was making for a growing discomfort. Did not the church teach that that had been the original sin committed by Adam and Eve? The knowledge of themselves had been their undoing. And for her and Royce the knowledge of their natures was making things difficult.

Could they go back? Would they ever look at each other in the innocence of one helping an unfortunate and one receiving that aid? She thought not. Once knowledge was gained, it could not be unknown the next moment. Then he shook his head at her question.

“I have done nothing different since I brought you here. Except to care for you in the night when you had need.”

His tone had not changed, but a sharp stab of pity pierced her. He had no one. He carried out his duties to Lord Orrick and otherwise he survived. He did not live.

Angered by the meanness of his existence, she wondered why. Even the lowest serf had family and companions and something other than only the work he did. After toiling for his lord, he could return to family and share the burdens of his life with someone. Royce had no one and it tore her heart in pieces.

Mayhap he did not live here in this croft? Mayhap his belongings other than this one chest and his weapons were in some other place? She’d sensed in Wenda’s and Avryl’s words that Royce was held high in regard by his lord. That should mean a suitable place to live, especially if one was a knight, as she suspected he was.

She was about to ask him a question, one about family, when the bleakness in his eyes gave her pause. Isabel knew she was prying, seeking information that he did not give freely. Who was she to ask for an accounting of his life? She was his guest, a woman who owed him her life. This was beneath her. She could feel that through her being.

“I owe you so much, Royce. I ask your pardon. My questions have gone astray of what I wanted to ask.”

“And that was?” His voice was flat, devoid of all inflection. All emotions. Or was it filled with so much that it just seemed unaffected?

“Did you have news for me?”

He seemed to shake off the bad feelings her questioning had caused and the tension between them seem to ease a bit. He shook his head and finally spoke.

“Lord Orrick told me that Lady Margaret returns in two days from Carlisle. She would like you to come to the keep at that time.”

“To meet her?” Finally she would meet those whom she had heard so much of from Wenda and Avryl.

“To stay there while you complete your recovery.”

He was getting rid of her. Now that she was healed or mostly healed, she would no longer be his responsibility. As if he’d read her thoughts, he shook his head again.

“Nay, Isabel. ’Tis not that I want to be rid of you. Lady Margaret believes you may remember more if surrounded by the usual things, the people of the village and the life of the keep.”

“You have spoken to her of me?” She did not want to be the center of gossip. The very thought made her uncomfortable, like icy fingers on her spine.

“Many times. And to Lord Orrick, of course, as is his due.”

The heat of a blush stole into her cheeks and she only knew a deep embarrassment. How did she feel these things? How did she know things about her temperament? About propriety?

He moved toward her and she looked at him. Crouching next to her, he smiled. “As lord and lady, it is their right to know about anyone on their lands. You know that somehow, do you not?”

She did. She nodded her agreement.

“I have been keeping them informed as to your progress.”

Isabel surmised he told them much more than was required. “And your suspicions about me?”

“I do not have suspicions about you, Isabel. It is about your past that I suspect many things.”

“Such as?”

As if it would take some time, he stood and pulled a bench nearer to her. After taking some time to pour each of them a cup of ale, he sat down and looked directly at her. Isabel trembled, not certain she was ready to hear his words. She lifted the cup to her mouth with a shaking hand and sipped the ale. And she waited.