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He was leaving and she still did not know who she was.
The strength she had used to push herself back into consciousness was waning quickly. But her hand moved on its own to keep him close.
“Who…am…I?”
The words she most feared at this moment were out now. He would tell her who she was and the chaos inside her would calm and she would remember. She would remember her life and her family and her name. She waited.
The confusion she felt now filled his gaze. She watched as he looked over her face again and again. Now he struggled for words, and as she recognized the import of this, the darkness surged forward to claim her. Losing herself in its grasp, she barely heard the words he whispered in answer to her plea.
“I know not.”
She was truly lost….
The Norman’s Bride
Harlequin Historical #696
Praise for Terri Brisbin
“A lavish historical romance in the grand tradition from a wonderful talent.”
—New York Times bestselling author Bertrice Small on Once Forbidden
“…lush narrative, crisp dialogue and powerful descriptions. Medieval Scotland comes to life under the skillful storytelling of Terri Brisbin.”
—Rendezvous on A Love through Time
The Dumont Bride
“Rich in its Medieval setting…Terri Brisbin has written an excellent tale that will keep you warm on a winter’s night.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Beautifully written and well researched, this book is a perfect ten in many ways.”
—Romance Reviews Today
The Norman’s Bride
Terri Brisbin
MILLS & BOON
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Available from Harlequin Historicals and TERRI BRISBIN
The Dumont Bride #634
The Norman’s Bride #696
This book is dedicated in gratitude to the real Harlequin Heroines in my life:
To Claire Delacroix and Sharon Schulze, the first Harlequin authors I met and who were generous with their time and knowledge in the face of my many, many questions;
To the Hussies, the group of wise and wonderful Harlequin Historical authors whose insight and support is endless and always appreciated;
To Melissa Endlich, my editor, whose support and enthusiasm for my work have been appreciated beyond words….
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Prologue
Silloth-on-Solway
England
1198 AD
“Will she live?”
He said the words in a whisper, not knowing why it meant so much to him, but recognizing that it did.
“She may,” old Wenda, the village healer, replied. “Or she may not. ’Tis in my hands no longer.”
William de Severin, now called Royce, stood by the blazing hearth in his small cottage and watched as Wenda finished sewing the unconscious woman’s face. His gut gripped as though he were some untried boy rather than the tournament- and battle-tested warrior he was. He could not isolate the reason the sight of blood and some stitching bothered him so, and that disconcerted him even more. Hushing the whimpers of his hound, he moved closer to survey the extent of the woman’s injuries.
Merde.
No wonder the old woman could not answer him. William had hoped that once the blood was cleared away, Wenda would declare her easily healed. ’Twas not so after all. He grimaced at the sight of the injuries this woman had sustained—a broken leg, stab wounds on arms and hands, defensive from the look of them and some very deep, and from her labored breathing, broken or badly bruised ribs. He shook his head and offered a silent prayer, for she was closer to death than he had first imagined.
“Should we move her to the keep or to your cottage?” William asked. The healer’s doubts unnerved him. If Wenda did not think she would live, then how could he have hope?
“Nay, Royce. I fear she would not live through even the short journey there. Mayhap in a few days…” Wenda did not finish the words, but William heard them clearly—if she lived.
Wenda stood, her long gray braid falling over her shoulder, and stretched her back, rubbing at its base probably to relieve the hours spent hunching over to repair the slashes, cuts, bruises and broken bones. She had accompanied him without question or hesitation when he roused her from her sleep. If she had thought that finding him, the loner, the outsider, at her door long after the moon’s rising was strange, she said it not. She had simply gathered her supplies and followed him into the night.
He stood nearby, close enough to aid her but far enough to be out of her way during her work. Now she gathered the soiled cloths into a basket and stood.
“A fever will come,” she said without looking at him. Passing her gaze over the woman once more, she shook her head. “Someone filled with anger