The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin

      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