Chapter four - Gilbert

Gilbert stood looking down on his sleeping angel. Well, she wasn't his exactly. But, there was no denying he did feel responsible for her. She had come to his door in search of shelter and sanctuary, after all. And now, she lay in his bed, completely dependent upon his mercy.

Exhausted by the effort to relieve herself, she lay where she had fallen, sprawled across the pallet. One arm was flung out to the side, and the other pinned across her chest, still gripping the old blanket tightly to her torso. The material barely succeeded in the attempt at modesty, molded as it was to her curves. He couldn't help but pause to admire her shapely form. And the petite little foot that peeked out from beneath the cover.  She was a tiny little thing.  As delicate as a rose, soft and well rounded. He shouldn't ogle her while she slept but he reminded himself it was only fair to look his fill. She had looked him over just as thoroughly not a moment ago.

His lips quirked into a quick grin as he recalled the shocked look on her face as she had sat there, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock, simply staring. She hadn't been able to peel her gaze away. And then the shock had faded to a kind of bemused admiration, her eyes going soft and sultry.

His chest swelled with male pride, knowing that this beauty openly admired his muscular physique. He had always been strong, but over the last few years, hard physical labor had hardened and toned his muscles.  He was leaner and stronger now than ever before. But, he had never been considered handsome by any stretch of the imagination. He was never anyone's idea of perfect. His appearance was far more likely to intimidate.  His features were too hard, too square to ever be considered handsome. Even without the scars and several years' worth of beard now tangled across his face. There was very little softness in him anymore. Nothing to recommend him among his peers. Even his own family considered him an oddity. And yet this sweet young woman had cast an appreciate eye over him for just a moment. He could almost chuckle with delight.

But then his mouth flattened with dismay as he recalled that moment when he reached past her to set down the bucket, and she had flinched, shrinking away from him in fear. Not that he blamed her exactly.  She had every reason to fear him. After all, she was a lone woman suddenly at the mercy of an unruly stranger. Who wouldn't find the situation the least bit intimidating?

S

he sighed in her sleep, drawing his attention, and his gaze skated over the scratches and bruises on her pale skin. Another reason for her sudden fear leaped to mind. Those bruises all over her tender skin told a horror story all on their own. Of course, she would be leery. She must have been abused and no doubt expected little better from him. Even though his intentions were honorable, any sudden moves on his part were sure to startle and frighten her.

Outrage fired inside his chest once more. Only a cruel, heartless monster would inflict such brutality on a woman. He had the urge to chase the bastard down and pummel him into pulp. But that would not help the woman's recovery. He reminded himself he must be cautious and gentle. And yet, coddling her would grow old fast. She was not an infant and would likely resent being treated as one. She would simply have to adjust to his presence and accept the fact that he was only trying to help her. He honestly had no ulterior motive beyond seeing her recovery. Despite his body's instant reaction to her presence.

There was no denying he was attracted to her. She was a beautiful young woman. He was a normal, lusty male with all a healthy man's natural urges. But he was not some mindless beast. He was a gentleman, and he intended to keep himself under strict control. His only task was to see to the girl's recovery. The sooner she regained her strength, the sooner he could send her back where she came from. The sooner he could have his solitary existence back. True, it was a lonely existence, but it was better this way. It was better to be alone than surrounded by people who constantly criticized and made false assumptions based solely on his appearance.

Thank goodness the woman seemed to be on the mend. He had been neglecting his other chores to care for her. The outer walls of the keep still needed shoring up, and if he didn't get the stable finished before winter, he couldn't in good conscience purchase a suitable mount. A horse would certainly lighten the burden of living here. The more self-sufficient he could manage to be, the better. But the building was not habitable in its present condition. Until he had a suitable shelter built to house the animal, he was unwilling to procure a suitable mount. He could see himself trudging through the snow back and forth for supplies on foot through this winter's snow.

But he didn't want to leave the woman alone for any length of time just yet. In case her fever returned, he needed to be nearby. There were plenty of smaller projects he could work on indoors to keep his hands occupied. His eyes drifted to his work table where his projects sat in anticipation of his return. He often whitled away on blocks of scrap wood to pass the time. Usually, he worked on them in the evenings or rainy, cold days when he was unable to work outside. It was truly satisfying to see all the intricate little figures come to life under his knife. Sometimes, he made things for his own use like bowls, cups, and spoons. He had gotten fanciful one cold day and carved a beautiful chess board with intricate little pieces shaped like knights and dragons. He'd worked them all in black walnut, using the dark, core wood for the black inlay and figures and the lighter, outer wood for the white pieces. He was pleased with the results.

But, what could a man living alone do with a game set intended for two people? Maybe he should just chuck them in the fire and be done. But he couldn't just waste all that hard work. Frustrated with himself, and on a whim, he packed the whole set into his travel bag and carted them into the village. At first, he had no real intentions except to get rid of the things. He showed them to the skinny clerk at the village store who expressed his admiration for the workmanship. His suggestion of selling them was completely unexpected. The clerk took them to his emplyer but the portly shopkeeper had adamantly refused to take Gilbert's carvings. He wanted coin, not useless trinkets. Until a customer happened into the shop and openly admired the delicate chess set placed out on the counter. The moment the merchant discovered he could resell the carvings at a profit, their deal was struck. Now Gilbert had to keep a regular supply of small pieces for trade. But it wasn't the tiny trinkets that held his attention at the moment.

After throwing on his shirt, he slipped his big feet into his favorite sturdy boots and moved to his work bench. He retrieved the figurine he'd been working on and reverently rolled it between his hands, lovingly caressing the smooth surface. This piece was intended to become his precious masterpiece not for sale at any price.

It began life as an awkward, egg-shaped burr he'd found in the forest. Years ago now. The fibrous anomaly was not the largest block of wood he'd ever worked with, but it was easily the most beautiful. Perfectly sized for hand carving, the piece was about the length of his forearm and a hand span in width. The true difficulty was that the grain of wood-burrs was always difficult to predict. The wood was notoriously tough to work with, but the resulting project would be gorgeous.

From the moment he harvested the thing, he knew exactly how he would fashion it. A beautiful angelic figure had peered out at him from the wood. A blessed little cherub with features so belovedly familiar, his heart cried out in anguish. He had sat and stared at that rounded block for an eternity, reluctant to lift his chisel to release her from the wood. It had taken him ages to actually bring himself to begin. At first, the painful memories had swamped him. He could hardly bear to look at it sitting in its place of honor on his workbench.

But the angel locked inside the wood clambered for release every time he had passed by, until he could hardly stand it. He'd found himself reverently lifting that wooden anomaly and gazing longingly at the little angel trapped inside its form. His heart ached to once again bring that innocent babe to life.

And so, over the past couple of days, he'd worked, lovingly molding the chubby limbs and coaxing gossamer wings from the wood until he was very nearly finished. Only the finely detailed facial features remained to complete. The pleasant aroma of fresh-hewn wood wafted into the air with every pass of his blade as he lovingly shaped the details of her little face. Round, innocent features. Plump rosebud lips, a tiny button nose, and wide beseeching eyes. Brilliant blue eyes that had once gazed up at him from the comfort and safety of her mother's arms. He could almost hear the happy childish babble that had often welcomed him.

Gilbert was so absorbed in the past that it wasn't until the woman sighed and shifted in her sleep that he was reminded of her presence. Thinking she might wake soon, he set aside his work and brushed off his breeches. He had only to sand, polish, and oil the wood, and the tiny angel would be finished. He really was pleased with his success in bringing the infant to life. But for now, he needed to clean up his workplace. He grabbed the broom from its position near his chair and made quick work of sweeping up the shavings.

She would no doubt want answers. Gilbert only wished he had the ability to voice them. He would give anything to be able to speak. Not that he was ever any great orator. As a matter of fact, his family had often accused him of being gruff, blunt, and abrupt. Now he could hardly utter more than a rough grunt. If only he could raise his voice as he used to. Bellow to the rafters and curse the heavens, but he could barely even whisper. His voice was gone, and he thought by now, he should have accepted that fact.

Having gathered up all the shavings, he moved to the fireplace and added them to the fire. He paused and stared into the flickering flames. It was a wonder he could even stand so close to the heat. He had lost so much due to one terrible fire. His voice, his family, his home, his everything.

For the longest time after his recovery, he'd been unable to face flames of any sort. He had virtually banned candles from his vicinity. The only light he felt safe with was the glass hurricane lanterns, and even those made him nervous if they were not firmly affixed to the wall. It had taken him ages to actually bring himself to light a fire in the grate. Even now, he was overly cautious.

Impatiently, he thrust aside the painful memories before he was sucked under again.

That way led to madness. He had walked as close to that road as he ever wanted. The loss of a building he could have dealt with. An annoying inconvenience. Nothing more. A house could be rebuilt, improved upon. The cost would have been negligible to a man of his means. But a family, a beloved wife, an innocent child barely toddling about. Those could never be replaced. It had nearly killed him to know he had failed in his role as a protector. Failed them both. Angry with himself for allowing the past to intrude, he spun away and strode to the back door. He'd learned long ago, keeping busy in mind, and body was the only way to keep despair at bay.