Click Here to Preorder from Barnes and Noble! Isabel de St. Marie is a Norman maiden who has chosen Sir Roger Neville for her husband, the most gentle and comely knight she has ever seen. At the end of the fete at her father’s English estate, their betrothal will be announced. During the fete, Scottish intruders raid Isabel’s father’s estate and abduct Isabel and Roger. Sir Anvrai d’Arques, a scarred and war-torn knight, takes a company of men and goes after Isabel. He is a man who knows he is unattractive to women, especially to the most beautiful ones like Lady Isabel. Consequently, he avoids them as much as possible. Anvrai is a master soldier but alas, he is outnumbered and his rescue attempt fails. Anvrai is also abducted and taken north – with Isabel and Roger – to a Scottish settlement. It is through Isabel’s efforts that they manage to make a harrowing escape on a river, and manage to take shelter in a hermit’s cave, far from their captors. She and Anvrai struggle for survival, while poor Sir Roger lies unconscious during the beginning of their journey home.   Excerpt of The Bride Hunt Isabel did not see any reason for Anvrai’s bad temper. They were safe for the moment and had a formidable retreat to give them shelter. Mayhap he was anxious to move on but resented her and Roger for holding him back. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You may feel free to go as you will, Sir Knight.” “Go as I will?” “Aye. Leave me here with Roger. We will manage without you.” “To starve?” “I’ll think of something.” She always did. He gave her a skeptical look but Isabel gazed back at him defiantly. “I escaped the Scottish chieftain … and got us to the currach, did I not?” “And almost killed on the river.” She admitted readily that it hadn’t been easy. “But we made it. And we’ll make our way back to Kettwyck, too.” Turning away from him, she retraced her steps toward the cave, and Anvrai followed. The rain started just as they entered, but the fire had warmed the cave. ’Twas comfortable inside. “Birds!” Isabel cried happily when she saw the two partridges lying on the floor. She smiled up at Anvrai. “So we won’t starve.” And there were cabbages and onions, too. He picked up one of the carcasses and went deep into the cave while Isabel knelt beside Roger. She’d been unfair in her thoughts about the young knight. He was ill, and that was the only reason he’d seemed so unappealing, so … incompetent. She tore another length of cloth from her hem and wet it, then laid it upon the bump on Roger’s head. “Isabel,” he groaned, “you’re here.” “Aye,” she said gently. “How do you feel?” “My head … My chest …” “Your chest hurts?” He swallowed and gave a weak nod. “Is it bruised?” “Aye.” Isabel opened the laces of his tunic and looked down at the expanse of skin she’d bared. There were no obvious bruises or cuts. Nor was there much muscle, or even hair. She raised her eyes to his face as she pressed the heel of her hand to his breast. “Does this hurt?” He winced. “Aye.” “And this?” She moved her hand to another place on his chest. “I hurt all over.” She felt no thick layer of muscle under his soft, smooth skin. ’Twas clear Roger was a gentle knight, one who gave more attention to virtue and prayer than those who made war at every turn. He was exactly the kind of man she’d decided to choose for her spouse, a man who was gentle and kind. One who would understand her delicate needs. “Take a drink of water, Roger.” He sipped from the cup she held and dribbled some of the water down his chest. Isabel tended him and forgot about her curt interchange with Anvrai. He was rude and had no concern or understanding of her feminine sensibilities. Otherwise, he would not have stood naked in a place where she was likely to see him, displaying more than any virtuous young woman should see. He spent a great deal of time removing the feathers from one of the partridges and cutting it into parts. When he finally finished, he put the pieces in the cook pot, poured in water and hung it over the fire. Then he cut up an onion and a cabbage and added them to the pot. Roger was asleep again, so Isabel leaned back against the wall of the cave and untied the lace that held her fur shoe in place. She unwrapped the bandage she’d wrapped ’round her foot and looked at the wound. “Oh!” ’Twas green and disgusting. “’Tis a poultice,” said Anvrai without turning to look at her. “I put it on your foot while you slept last night.” ’Twas impossible. “I did not awaken?” “No, my lady. You were exhausted.” “But you were not?” He shook his head. “Not as much as you.” She peeled away the poultice and wiped her skin with the wet cloth she’d used on Roger’s head. The wound was deep, but there was no dangerous redness, no drainage. “Let me see,” Anvrai said, crouching beside her. He turned her foot to get a good look by the light of the fire. “’Tis healing well.” He made another poultice and placed it on her foot, then wrapped it carefully. He worked without speaking, and the silence seemed to grow like a palpable thing between them. ’Twas a strange sensation, having him touch her foot so intimately. She felt warm and languid, and it seemed that even her bones turned to pulp. She studied his face as he worked, his strong brow and straight nose, his mouth – those full lips tightly closed as he concentrated on his task. Roger suddenly awakened and called for her. “Water,” he said weakly. Anvrai sat back on his heels, giving Isabel space enough to get past him. She felt his gaze as she sat down beside Roger, offering him sips of water and gentle conversation. With sheets of rain spilling down just outside the cave entrance, Isabel felt completely cut off from the world, though ’twas not such an unpleasant sensation this time. A meal was cooking on the fire, and ’twas warm and secure inside the cave. Roger’s wounds were mending. Had she remained at the abbey, she would never have known this moment in time, would never have felt the prickling awareness of Anvrai’s rough potency. He touched something deep within her, some foreign aspect of her she hadn’t known existed. She moistened her lips and looked up at him. “Why do you think that man came here?” “The hermit?” She nodded, and he shrugged, adding more wood to the fire. “I cannot imagine closing myself away from everyone and everything I know.” “You become accustomed to it. Were you not used to life in the abbey?” “Of course, but that’s different.” “Not really,” Anvrai countered. “You have little contact with anything but nuns and abbey walls.” “But there is a community of people in the abbey. Here, the hermit was alone.” Anvrai said naught, but stirred the contents of the pot. A savory aroma emanated from it, and Isabel felt her stomach clench in anticipation of the meal. “There are many reasons a man might seek solitude,” he finally said. He did not look up, and Isabel sensed he spoke from experience. Yet he was a powerful knight whose reputation had been known to all at Kettwyck. Surely the celebrated Sir Anvrai had never felt the need to remove himself from society. “Name one.”