Simon told himself there was no point in further attempting to convince her. He did not care to whom she gave her unquestioning obedience. He had no wish to gain her loyalty, or anything else, for that matter. He was in fact nothing but a fool for having told her that his target had been her father. He knew it would not matter if she did go to her father with this information, as Kelsey already knew the truth. What troubled him was his lack of self-control with Isabelle, especially when she could seem so vulnerable one moment and so cold the next.
Yet in spite of the return of that abominable coldness, he could not forget that momentary lapse as they had spoken of her father. Nor could he forget the fact that she had admitted to looking on him with favor that first day before discovering who he was. For the sake of what might have been if they were two different people, Simon had to offer her the option of not telling her father she had failed her duty. She could take it or not, as she pleased.
“Your father need not know we have not obeyed his orders.” He knew that his anger with her father, her, and yes, even irritation with himself for giving in to this impulse to help the frustrating wench, was revealed by his tone but he was past caring at the moment. “I will remain here in your tent, but will sleep upon a separate blanket.”
Isabelle felt shame wash through her in a sickening wave. She could hardly believe what had just occurred here. He had refused her, had made it clear that as the daughter of his enemy, he would never want her. And she, dull-wit that she was, had gone so far as to offer herself to him, had in fact insisted upon his compliance as if it were not her own maidenhead they discussed until he offered the solution of pretending that he had bedded her.
And worse than that, she had allowed herself to become overwrought in his presence. What about this man could so make her lose control of herself?
How had things gone so dreadfully awry? Surely it was fear of what her father would do if she did not obey him.
The strange feelings that had risen inside her as she had handed Simon his cup of wine meant nothing.
After her father had informed her that she was to prepare herself for her wedding night, she had done just that. All the while she had told herself over and over again that her trepidation was unreasonable.
She had told herself that she was married now. Though it might be difficult to give herself to the man who was her husband perhaps it would not take long before she found herself with child. It had been these thoughts that had made it possible for her to behave calmly, to act as if what was about to occur was of no more import than a casual invitation to dine.
In one fell swoop, the proud Simon Warleigh had robbed her of everything she had planned for so long.
Isabelle pushed her sadness to the deepest darkest core of herself. As she always had. She raised her head high. “Do not trouble yourself over me, my lord. You need not remain here when ’tis clearly distasteful to you. Pray go on your way.”
He frowned. “I would not have you encounter difficulty with your father over this.”
As she spoke she was aware of the fact that her voice betrayed the slightest trace of bitterness though she did try to hide it. “I do not require your charity.”
Simon Warleigh looked at her closely, thoughtful. She raised her own brows, holding his gaze without wavering as he said, “I am not offering charity, Isabelle. I would not presume.”
What she was to make of that she had no idea, so she concentrated on what she did know. That she did not wish for him to know how devastated she was at his rejection of her. “We understand one another then.”
Even as she said it she knew it was not true. She did not understand anything about this man and wished more than anything in her life that he would go and leave her to nurse her wounds in peace.
“Nonetheless, I will stay.” He went to her bed, the bed Helwys had turned down for the two of them. He hesitated as he reached down to take one of the furs. “We should blow out the candles. Our shadows may be visible on the wall.”
Realizing that he would not be swayed, and that arguing further might inadvertently reveal all that she would keep to herself, she nodded sharply. Isabelle went to the bedside, meaning to blow out the candle, needing the darkness to hide the pain that made her eyes sting with unshed tears. Unfortunately their eyes inadvertently met as her unwanted husband swung around to blow out the candle at the same moment that she bent over it. As those warm brown eyes met her damp ones, he stopped, his gaze becoming puzzled, then uncertain.
Quickly, turning away from Simon, she blew out the candle and dropped down onto the bed. It was no great feat to get inside the bed furs. Or it would not have been if she had not been shaking so badly from the top of her head to the tips of her feet.
Simon seemed to stand there for a long moment. “Isabelle?”
She had to swallow around the lump of sadness in her throat, but was pleased with the evenness of her voice. “Yes?”
His voice was too gentle—kind in a way that was unexpected and surprising. “Are you all right?”
Isabelle felt a rush of yearning take her. If only she could believe in that kindness. She knew that she could not allow herself such weakness. This man was no more trustworthy than any other. Although she had no doubt that her father had indeed lied about him to King John, he had admitted to plotting against her father.
Closing her eyes she prayed that he could not hear how deeply his gentleness affected her. “I am fine. Only weary. Please, go to bed.”
Yet Simon Warleigh stood there for another long moment before finally moving away. It was not until his deep and even breathing sometime later told her that he was asleep that she allowed her rigid body to relax.
Though hot tears scalded her cheeks Isabelle made not a sound, crying out her misery in utter silence. She cried as she had not cried since her beloved uncle’s death when she was eight. Then she had cried for the loss of the only one who had ever shown her love. She had paid for those tears by being locked in her chambers for days until her father was certain she could control herself. Now she cried for the loss of a dream, her hope of having a child, which was no less painful for all that it had not been a reality.
Simon rose before Isabelle awakened. Leaving the tent in complete silence, he stepped out into the crisp morning.
Simon did not meet any of the eyes that focused upon him. It was not that he felt the men would know he had not bedded his wife. He simply did not like the notion of them thinking about Isabelle and him.
Or perhaps if he was honest he would have to admit that he did not care for the images their knowing looks might conjure in his own mind. They were the very same images that had plagued him until he’d heard the soft but unmistakable sounds of Isabelle crying.
Those tears had moved him more fully even than the offer of her body. And truth be told that had been temptation enough for any man.
He could not allow himself to forget that Isabelle was Kelsey’s daughter. Her crying could have been based on no more than frustration at being told nay for perhaps the first time in her life, in spite of his impression that her sorrow had been genuine.
At that moment Simon unintentionally looked up into the face of the man who had brought about all this chaos. Kelsey’s hate-filled but triumphant gaze swept him and Simon met it with deliberate indifference.
For Isabelle’s sake he was prepared to keep the secret that he had not bedded her. Yet as he swung away to ready himself for the day’s journey, Simon realized that Kelsey’s attention on this matter did seem somewhat curious.
Why was he so very adamant that Simon bed his daughter?
As they continued on their way to Dragonwick, Isabelle not once looking in his direction, he kept on hearing the barely audible sound of her misery replaying itself again and again his mind. He was beset by feelings of pity.
Which, looking at her as she rode atop the black mare beside her father, seemed utterly and completely mad. Isabelle Kelsey was the only daughter and heir to one of the most powerful
men in England. She was lovely beyond description, obviously doted on with her clothes and jewels.
Was she not?
Simon was aware of a growing sense of uncertainty.
Haps there would be no harm in an offering of friendship. But not until they had reached Dragonwick where Kelsey would have other business to occupy his attention.
For reasons he did not yet understand, Simon was loath to let his temporary father-by-marriage know of any change in his relationship with the woman. Even if it was only friendship.
Chapter Five
“May I enter?”
A surprised Isabelle looked up from the sewing on her lap to see her husband standing there in the open doorway of her chamber. Until this moment he had made no effort to speak to her since the unpleasantness between them, not even when he’d come last eve to sleep on the floor of her tent. Nor had he addressed her since their arrival at Dragonwick late this very afternoon.
And Isabelle had no wish for him to do so. She wished to avoid Simon Warleigh whenever possible.
Isabelle had sent Helwys to tell her father she was too fatigued to attend the midday meal, which they had not taken upon the road, being so close to Dragonwick. Surely even her father would not find it odd and would not guess her true intent.
She stood, feeling a rush of discomfort with the notion of her husband’s being in her room. The exchange between them in her tent had affected her far more deeply than she cared to admit. Throughout the journey home it had been all she could do to meet his coolly assessing brown eyes. And not wholly because of her guilt at keeping their failure to consummate the marriage a secret.
She felt unexplainably hurt by Simon’s rejection of her, and thus vulnerable. Isabelle told herself that this made no sense. She did not care what he thought of her. It was the fact that there would now be no child that plagued her.
A streak of rebellion, and yes, pride, moved her to speak casually. “My lord, do enter.”
Warleigh watched her, those mahogany eyes unreadable, for a moment that seemed to stretch on for far too long. He came forward onto the thick carpet that marked the center portion of the room. She saw the way he studied the tapestries upon the walls, the fine carpet beneath his feet and the lush rose velvet hangings of the bed.
His gaze moved from the bed to her. For unknown reasons Isabelle shivered.
Whatever was the matter with her? With determination she inclined her head with careful civility as he came to a halt before her. “My lord Warleigh?”
He arched a dark brow. “’Tis a formal greeting for a husband. Surely, you may call me Simon, even in these untenable circumstances.”
“You have made no effort to speak to me for two days, even last eve when you came to make your bed on the floor of my tent. Why would you expect aught else but formality?”
He shrugged wide shoulders, his mobile mouth twisting wryly, seeming unexpectedly uncertain for one brief moment before that unshakable confidence fell back into place. “I thought, now that we have arrived at Dragonwick, it might behoove us to get to know one another a little.”
Isabelle was hard-pressed to contain her chagrin. She did not want to become familiar with this man. He had already upset the delicate balance of her peace so very thoroughly, and seemingly without trying. Beyond that, what more was there to know of him? He was her husband, yet not. He could have been the means to her most cherished hope. Yet he had been the death of it instead.
But suddenly she realized something that this might mean. Did this overture indicate that he had rethought the notion of their coming together?
The memory of how he had looked that first evening in the stream, his body all gold and glistening in the evening sunlight made her tingle afresh as it had in that moment. Immediately Isabelle dragged her thoughts back from that unacceptable path.
Her gaze raking his, she spoke coldly. “You are not thinking that I will now…”
His brown eyes widened. “Nay, not that.”
She told herself that it was relief she felt in her belly as she forced herself to go on. “That is well, for I would not have you now.”
The tightening of his jaw was all the reaction she could detect as he replied, “I would not expect it. Nor do I wish it.”
Though Isabelle was angry with this intractable man the words cut deep. With an act of will she held that long-practiced shield in place. “Then to what do I owe this unexpected overture, my lord Warleigh?”
He smiled thinly. “Simon.”
“Simon,” she replied without inflection.
Unaware he motioned toward the bench before the fire. “May I sit?”
She inclined her head, resuming her own seat as he did so, realizing as she looked down that her hands were trembling. Not wishing for Simon to see this, Isabelle busied herself with smoothing the silver embroidery on the sleeve of her lavender velvet kirtle.
Isabelle could feel him watching her, but did not look up as he said, “I know this must be a strange situation for you. As it is for me.”
She did not disagree. “Aye, strange enough.” She was very pleased when her tone remained even.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to try her equanimity further. When she forced herself to look into Simon Warleigh’s disturbingly handsome face, he was frowning. He spoke in a tone of disapproval. “You can not truly be as cool and unmoved by life as you appear? That first night in your tent you…you can not deny that you became quite angry with me for a moment.”
Isabelle stiffened, but retained her equilibrium in spite of her irritation with this man for speaking of things she preferred not to speak of. “You may rest assured that it is not my way and will not happen again. You, sir, are not of such great import to me.”
He arched dark brows over eyes that bore the slightest trace of chagrin. “Perhaps I am not, yet surely the circumstances we find ourselves in are. It would be naught but normal for you to be overset at the events of the past days. At marrying a complete stranger.”
She looked at her hands again. “I never expected my life would be any other way.” She glanced up at him, not knowing why she was telling him the truth. “When one has no expectations, one can not be disappointed.”
He seemed a bit taken aback by her words. Then his expression, amazingly enough, seemed to grow sympathetic as he spoke softly, “’Tis unfortunate indeed when a lovely young woman has so little hope for her own future. I regret that your feelings were not taken into account by the crown. Were I your father, I would have seen to that, no matter how determined the king might be.”
As she looked into those warm brown eyes, Isabelle felt a wave of doubt about her life, about the necessity of remaining distant from others. The immediate yearning that throbbed in her breast made it suddenly difficult to breathe. What would it be like to put her faith in this strong man, to rely on anyone beside herself for the first time since her uncle died?
Her uncle.
Horror swept through her. She could not allow Simon Warleigh to breach her defenses. He had already shown that he was not to be trusted when he had betrayed The Dragon all those years ago. She had no notion of what he would do with any confidences she might inadvertently reveal. He could reveal anything she might say to her father, even if it were unintentionally.
Quickly and with the coolness born of both desperation and long practice she said, “Have no pity for me, my lord.” She was forced to look away as she finished, fearing he would read the lie she was about to tell in her eyes. “I trust my father’s judgment in all things and would not wish to decide such an important matter for myself.”
Glancing up from beneath the cover of her lashes she saw that Warleigh was now scowling, as his disdainful gaze swept her. “Forgive me for being so foolish, madam. I see that you are indeed your father’s daughter.”
She had a sudden urge to erase that disapproval from his face. Yet she held to her self-reliance. She would not fall victim to the strange influence this man seemed to have with her.
Simon stood. “I have come in error. I had thought I would try, at least in some small part, to make amends for I did hear you crying on the night of our marriage and thought…”
A gasp escaped Isabelle as a wave of horror tightened her belly at the mere notion of Simon Warleigh’s being privy to her weakness. Desperately she denied it. “Crying? You are mistaken, sir. I do not cry.” She was reminded of the time her father locked her in her chambers for three weeks when she had cried after her uncle had died.
Lips tight, Simon quirked a dark brow. “Again I beg your forgiveness, my lady. You will not find me rude, I hope, for leaving you now. I find I have no more stomach for conversation with the daughter of Kelsey, even if she be my wife.”
She sucked in a breath through her nose, but forced back the retort that sprang to her tongue. Isabelle could not let him goad her into saying more than she wished to, into showing any more hints of weakness. She would think on nothing save the numbing relief that he was leaving.
He paused at the door without looking back at her. “One last thing.” He pointed off vaguely to his right. “I will make a bed on this floor as I did in your tent.”
Heart thudding, she stood. “But…”
Still he did not look at her. “Do not worry yourself. My actions are not for your sake. Though I can not fathom why your father would be so interested in my bedding you I would have him think me acquiescent to his wishes. I mean to return to Avington at some point and peace with him will no doubt be a requirement of that end.” He turned to her then, his eyes hard. “In spite of your decision not to have me, I trust you will not inform your father of our arrangement. For to do so would entail revealing your own part in keeping the truth from him thus far.”
She bit her lip, not willing to tell him that she would not have told her father at any rate.
It would not trouble her for Simon to believe them at odds. It was in fact just the way she wanted things to rest between them. She was far easier with that notion than anything more unfamiliar to her.
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