Free The Bride Hunt by Margo Maguire

repulsive to every young maid he met. Long ago, he’d forgone all hope of enjoying the touch of a comely young wife. He would sire no children, leave no riches nor wealthy estate.
    He was a landless knight, a man who lived by his talent with his sword, an occupation that had become abhorrent to him. What woman, comely or plain, would take a husband who refused to do the king’s bidding and therefore possessed naught?
    He made a low growl at such pointless musings and tended the cut in Isabel’s foot. ’Twas deep enough to need sewing, but since the hermit seemed to possess only one thick needle made of bone, Anvrai decided to put a poultice on the wound instead, then bind it tightly. With care, the cut would heal.
    In the meantime, Lady Isabel would not be able to walk very far—certainly not down the path he’d discovered as he’d walked the woodsand fields, setting snares and looking for food. They were trapped there together, at least for a few days. Anvrai covered Isabel with one of the hermit’s pelts and moved to the far side of the cave. The weariness temporarily assuaged by the bread he’d eaten returned, and Anvrai felt every bruised muscle and bone in his body. He eased himself to the floor and lay down to sleep.

Chapter 7
    I sabel felt warm and secure in her soft bower lined with rose petals and fur. She heard the early sounds of dawn and felt the heat of the French sun upon her face. A man’s voice, deep and resonant, sent a frisson of expectation through her, a feeling unlike any she’d ever experienced before. She glanced his way and warmed at the sight of his powerful body, his strong muscles.
    She could not see his face, but she knew he was her beloved, the one whose touch would give her such pleasure—
    “Do you want some food?”
    Suddenly confused by the rough male voice, Isabel opened her eyes and looked up at Sir Anvrai’s terrible countenance. She recoiled instantly, and he leaned back, putting space between them.
    “’Tis dawn, my lady,” he said coldly. “And there are eggs to eat.”
    Isabel sat up, regretfully leaving the peace and contentment of her dream. She was hungry, and her stomach growled when Anvrai handed her a bowl of cooked eggs. “Thank you.”
    His reply was hardly more than a grunt. Isabel took a bite of the hot food and decided that though the man was uncivilized, at least he knew how to cook.
    Anvrai moved away as Isabel finished her meal. He spoke quietly to Sir Roger, and Roger replied.
    “He’s awake!”
    “Aye,” said Anvrai.
    “Isabel?” Roger croaked. “Are you all right?”
    She put down her bowl and hastened to his side, taking his hand and placing it upon her cheek. “Me? I’m fine! I was so worried about you!”
    His eyes drifted closed. Anvrai returned and handed her a cup of water. “He’s feverish. See if you can get him to drink.”
    Anvrai was right. Roger’s skin was hot. Isabel helped him drink half the water, and whenhe would take no more, she helped him lower his head upon a soft pelt she found nearby and covered him with one of the skins she’d stolen from the chieftain’s hut. Anvrai must have brought them inside, for they were dry and folded in a neat pile near the place where she’d slept.
    Anvrai sat beside the fire, where he was cutting a fur pelt with the hermit’s knife. He cut it into two squares, then sliced two long, narrow strips of leather.
    “What are you doing?” Isabel asked.
    “Making you some shoes.” He came to her then, crouching beside her. “Give me your foot.”
    She extended her leg, and he wrapped her foot in the fur, tying it in place with the leather strip. He started on her other foot and Isabel experienced the oddest, most disturbing feelings, akin to the agitation she’d felt during her dream.
    “I can finish,” she said, pulling her foot away from his competent hands. She did not need Anvrai’s assistance for such a simple task. Nor could she deal with the onslaught of sensations caused by