The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin

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      “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?”

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