wcEND.rtf (6 page)

Hunter stood outside speaking with a couple of women. Their muffled voices barely carried through the thick wooden door, their words unintelligible. Was one of the women the one Hunter said he'd send to help her? How was Isabel to follow him with other people at her heels?

Isabel hung her head back against the door. She'd wait a little; maybe the women would go away.

The reality of Détra's fleshier body suddenly weighed her down. The waterlogged chemise chilled her to her soul. She hugged herself for warmth and comfort as her gaze caught sight of two wooden chests sitting on the floor a few feet from where she stood. Maybe she could find some dry clothes in there. It wouldn't do for her to get sick and get stuck in bed, or worse, be dependent on medieval medicine. She had no clue how healthy
Détra
's body was. Better not take any chances.

As she moved toward the more ornate chest, figuring that should be Détra's, she noticed for the first time how her thighs rubbed against each other in a very unfamiliar and unpleasant way. She tried to ignore the odd feeling.

This is only temporary,
she chanted silently to herself.

The very large, rectangular chest adorned with paintings of rose vines on its face and flat cover undoubtedly doubled as a bench. Isabel removed the handheld mirror lying on it and sat it on the floor without looking into it again. Opening it, she rummaged inside, finding several gowns, chemises, woolen stockings, and a small leather box containing jewelry, a lock of hair, ribbon
s
—
s
mall mementos of Détra's life.

Uncomfortable with going through Détra's personal belongings, Isabel put the small box back inside, lifted the first gown she saw, and closed the lid down.

She pulled the wet chemise over her head and let it fall in a wet heap on the stone floor. Two oil lamps, suspended in rings on the wal
l
, cast an unreal glow on the flawless, pa
l
e skin, the large, full breasts, and the slightly rounded stomach of Détra's Rubenesque form.

Isabel muffled a cry. Good God, she truly hoped Détra was not pregnant. With trembling fingers, Isabel rushed the dress over her head, shielding the unfamiliar body from her view and the cold damp of the room. Her feet were cold and dirty. She picked up the wet chemise from the floor and used it to clean them, then put on the leather shoes she'd found by the chest. They fit her perfectly. Of course they did. They belonged to this body she had stolen.

Changes were not new to Isabel. In her wandering life she'd learned to accept them, learned to find good in the different and familiar in
the
unknown. But not even she could appreciate the ludicrous twist of fate she'd brought upon herself, Détra, and her unsuspecting husband.

She must undo this horrible mistake.

Blindly swirling around, Isabel ended up face-to-face with the massive four-poster bed whose white hangings opened like curtains, the largest and most decorated piece of furniture in the room. The mere thought she'd be expected to share it with Hunter drove her to the far end of the room where an arched window graced the wall.

An elaborate iron bar, used to keep the shutters closed, leaned against the wall. The intricate ironwork in such a utilitarian object intrigued Isabel, momentarily distracting her from her dismal plight. She'd seen similar objects in museums across Europe and had marveled at their beauty and antiquity. She traced the vine that laced the bar whose tips spiked to different directions like a two-pointed arrow and felt an odd emotion of witnessing the inconceivable.

Her attention drifted to the pane made up of small pieces of white-greenish glass that covered the window. Subdued rain stroked the glass with rhythmic, soothing pe
c
ks as the storm cleared outside. For a moment the sound comforted her, but soon reality hit Isabel with full force. She might need
t
he storm to put things back to the way they were. It didn't escape her that she might have to re-create the scene exactly as it was, storm and all.

Good God! First she'd lost sight of the chalice and now the weather was changing. Was her window of opportunity already closing on her?

Desperation seized her and Isabel pushed against the unmoving glass pane, soon realizing the futility of her action. She took a step back and drew in a deep breath. From the corners of her eyes, she saw a kneeler underneath a wooden cross standing somberly by the arched window. She turned to it. Judging by the worn indentation on the leather kneeler, either Hunter or D
é
tra, or maybe even both, had a strong relationship with God.

Though Isabel would never deny her spiritual sid
e
— no one could truly appreciate the whimsical beauty of art without being a little mystica
l
—
s
he could hardly remember the last time she prayed. Baptized Catholic, thanks no doubt to her mother since her father had been a confessed atheist his entire life, Isabel had retained only the rudiments of her religion.

Yet she didn't need to be a churchgoer to realize there was something decidedly unearthly to what had happened to her. Exchanging bodies with another woman was inconceivable, unimaginable, and impossible to say the least, and yet it had occurred.

Whatever power had made this travesty possible though, it could surely undo it. Unwilling to wait for her fate to unfold, Isabel turned her back to the kneeler and the myriad of details firmly establishing her presence in this foreign time and plac
e
—
a
s if being in another woman's body wasn't enough to drive a sane person to madnes
s
—
a
nd bolted to the door. Before she reached it, though, the door swung open. Behind the young woman standing in the threshold, Isabel could see Hunter disappearing out of sight.

Damn! She couldn't lose sight of him now.

"My lad
y
—
"

Rushing past the woman at the door, Isabel cut her short with a wave of her hand. "Later," she mumbled, flinching at her own curtness, but she didn't have time to get acquainted right now; Hunter was already rounding the corner of the corridor and in a few seconds more she'd lose him.

Hanging behind at the top of the landin
g
—
s
he didn't want him to know he was being followe
d
—
I
sabel glimpsed Hunter gliding down the steep stone steps. After he crossed the huge room and stepped outside through the massive oak door, she gave him pursuit. Not bothering to look inconspicuous to the other inhabitants of this alien world, Isabel crossed the room after Hunter. She had a mission in mind and nothing would stop her.

Outside, the rain had all but abated and only sporadic drops fell from the clearing skies where the sun peeked shyly between the retreating dark clouds. The weather had taken a decided turn for the better but a cool breeze was still blowing.
With
a little luck the rain would start again soon, and by then she should have already recovered the chalice.

The morning was growing late and the empty yard of earlier was now heavily populated. A quick glance to her right revealed massive stables and farther down a crowd of men practiced with swords and horses. The twin gates to the outside world lay open in the distance, guards standing sentinel by them. More guards stood at different points on top of the wall encircling the castle. There were plenty of people coming and going, yet there was no sign of Hunter.

Where the hell did he go? She'd kept at his heels, not possibly allowing him enough time to reach the stables or lose himself among the men in training. He certainly couldn't have crossed the vast expanse of yard between the castle and the outside gates. He could have entered, however, one of the many little huts distributed haphazardly in the huge yard. Or rounded the castle walls in the direction of the back of the building.

Isabel paused for a moment, considering which route to take. The back of the castle seemed the quicker, and safer, choice. Hiking up her skirts, Isabel skidded and slid her way to the back. There, a grassy hill sloped down to an orchard of apple trees. As fast as the wet, slippery grass would allow, Isabel rushed down the hill.

Peeking through the neatly planted rows of fruit trees, Isabel saw no sign of Hunter. She braved her way inside the grove. A few sporadic drops fell from the rain-laden leaves above, running down her face like solitary tears, while birds chirped cheerfully in the aftermath of rain. Isabel couldn't share their joy. She needed the storm back, lightning, thunder, and the chalice. She wanted to be back in her own body, her own time, and her own life.

She stopped, let her skirts fall over her feet, and jerked the unruly curls of hair away from her face, gathering the ridiculously long tresses in a makeshift ponytail at the back of her head. She realized Détra had no control over the jarring auburn color of her hair, or the profusion of curls, but why would the woman allow her hair to grow below her buttocks? It was such a nuisance. Isabel longed for her short, manageable hair.

She gathered her skirts again and trod on, avoiding a low branch hanging over the path. After a while she stopped again to take stock of what to do next. She'd already gone deep enough into the orchard and hadn't found Hunter. Maybe he hadn't come this way at all. She should just return to the castle. Darting a glance backward she discovered the castle was no longer visible behind the canopy of fruit trees.

"Do you seek me?"

Isabel jumped, swallowing down a shriek and swirling around, her hair splashing free again against her face.

Appearing out of nowhere, Hunter leaned a shoulder against a tree, his feet crossed in a leisurely manner, as if he'd been there all along watching her.

Damn! The man was proving difficult to fool. Not that she was very practiced in this game of deceit, anyway.

"Not particularly," she said, gathering her hair once again away from her face. Her gaze sought his person and she noticed he didn't have the chalice with him, and neither was it in the vicinity of where he stood. Had he hidden it in the orchard or had he dropped it somewhere in the castle or even along the way? How could she find out without asking him, or drawing attention to it?

Sensing his gaze upon her, Isabel brought her attention back to him. "After this morning's ordeal I needed a little fresh air," she said in explanation for her presence in the orchard. For effect, she took a deep breath, the pleasing after-rain earthy scent filling her lungs.

With an easy motion Hunter pushed away from the tree and ambled in her direction. The moment he invaded her personal space, Isabel's nostrils filled with the intoxicating manly scent of hi
m
—
c
lean, fresh, and much more enticing than any artificial perfume could ever aspire to be. The heat from his body floated to her like vapors from a hot spring. She resisted the urge to fan herself with her hand.

"Last we spoke your need for rest was greater."

Isabel couldn't say whether his tone was doubtful or simply matter of fact.

"Needs change," she answered cautiously, feeling like a blind woman everyone believed could see. "My room suddenly became too dark and suffocating. I decided a walk would do me greater good than a rest."

"And thus you sought the freedom and privacy of the orchard," he offered.

Isabel nodded. That was exactly what she wanted him to believe. Maybe she still could pu
l
l this off. "I
l
ove the sun, the freedom of the opennes
s
—" She snapped her mouth shut. She'd forgotten who she was supposed to be.
Détra
might fee
l
the absolute opposite from her. Likely, the woman hated being outside, judging by her pale skin, and loved dark and suffocating, judging by her choice of husband.

"Indeed?" he asked, noticing her reticence. "That is odd since I thought you disliked the outdoors."

Isabel didn't know what to say. She was caught in her first contradiction. How many more before Hunter became suspicious of her? But why would he? Hadn't she lost her memory?

"I guess I forgot about that too," she said.

Isabel knew that anything remotely connected with mental illness in the Middle Ages would be misunderstood and thought evil, but on what else could she blame the blunders she was bound to commit until she could reverse her wish?

"I know it is difficult to understand
-
—
I
myself cannot understand it at al
l
—
b
ut I remember nothing about my past."