Free The Bride Hunt by Margo Maguire Page A

his touch
    Regretting her curt tone, she thanked him for his efforts on her behalf, then stood and walked to the end of the cave and back. He had done agreat deal for her—and for Roger—and did not deserve her discourtesy.
    Fortunately, he seemed not to notice her rudeness, picking up the larger cooking pot and going outside with it. Isabel sat down beside Roger, smoothed back his hair, and considered her future with him.
    Isabel knew how to run a large household. She’d learned such matters during her years at the abbey, though at the time, she hadn’t realized that she was being prepared for the duties she would perform as chatelaine to a husband’s estate. And though she knew how much ale to brew for a household of forty and how many loaves to bake every day, she knew naught of being a wife. She’d lived in the abbey since her tenth year and seen no husbands and wives during the intervening years. What would be required of her?
    Obviously, ’twas the wife’s duty to bear her husband’s children, but if that process required her to submit to him as she would have done with the dark-eyed chieftain, she wanted no part of it. Still, she’d seen enough playful flirting between men and women at Kettwyck to know that mating was not always distasteful. Some women actually encouraged it. She gazed at Roger and tried to imagine lying with him, kissing him, urging him to make love to her.
    When he groaned and turned toward her, she decided ’twas time to go try out her shoes.
    The fur cushioned her step, and though the gash in her foot was still sore, the makeshift “boot” made walking tolerable. The weather outside was mild, and Isabel wondered where Anvrai had gone. Assuming he’d headed toward the currach, she made off in the opposite direction, toward the western edge of the escarpment. She watched the ground carefully, avoiding stepping on any sharp rocks, but came up short at the edge of the trees.
    Anvrai stood near the embankment, his fur tunic lying on the ground beside him. He stood in half-naked profile, with his blind side toward her, so he was unaware of her presence. Isabel remained silent and watched him shave the beard from his face and neck.
    It seemed too delicate a procedure for such large, rough hands. He scraped the blade from the base of his neck to his chin in repeated motions, and Isabel took note of the strong muscles of his neck and the sharp line of his jaw.
    Her gaze rested upon the dense muscles of his chest, formed so differently from her own. Unconsciously, Isabel slid her hands over her breasts and felt their soft fullness. The pebbled tips were wildly sensitive, and she pressed her hands against them, as if to quiet their demand for…for something she could not name.
    Anvrai scooped water into his hands and splashed his face, dripping water onto his chest. His nipples constricted into points.
    Isabel loosed the laces of the tunic she wore over her chemise. The breeze did naught to cool her overheated skin, so she fanned herself with a flap of the heavy cloth. ’Twas time to return to Roger, yet she found she did not have the will to take her eyes from Sir Anvrai’s masculine form.
    She knew it was mere curiosity. Certainly she had no particular interest in him, but he was made so differently that she could not keep herself from staring. She ran her hands down to her belly. Of course her own flesh did not ripple with hard muscles as Anvrai’s did. Nor were her hips as narrow, yet taut with power, as his were.
    Isabel’s face flushed with heat, and she swallowed thickly when he unfastened his belt and dropped his braies to the ground. She felt no fear or revulsion at the sight of his powerful body, the way she had when the Scottish chieftain had stood naked before her. What she felt was something more like wonder—at their differences, at Anvrai’s raw male potency.
    ’Twas wholly improper to go on observinghim unnoticed, yet she did not leave until he had finished his task and