Her father said, “Do not cross the river into the town. Stay to the castle lands.”
Isabelle nodded. She had only been to the town on rare occasions. Her father preferred for her to stay in the keep or the keep’s lands, where he insisted she was safer.
When she risked a quick glance at her husband that horrified expression had changed to one of frustration mixed with forbearance. This she understood no better than anything else about Simon Warleigh.
In her chamber Isabelle wanted to linger over changing into the dark-green tunic and fawn underdress that she wore for riding. She did not allow herself to do so, nor did she allow herself to speculate on Helwys’s continued certainty that they should indeed trust Simon Warleigh.
In a relatively short time Isabelle was donning her burgundy velvet cape and heading toward the stables.
Simon was waiting in the bailey with their two saddled horses. She greeted him with a brief inclination of her head. Isabelle then gestured to the stable boy, who stood holding the black mare. “Your hand please, Rob.”
He moved to assist her as Simon mounted his own horse without a word or gesture to show that he had noted her reluctance to touch him. Once settled in the saddle she saw that her husband was watching her, an unreadable expression in his brown eyes.
Feeling that a facade of civil unconcern was the best defense against her uncertainty, she smiled toward him, her gaze deliberately trained on his broad brow. Even as she watched he raked the hair straight back from it, before prodding his stallion forward with a cold, “Let us be off.”
Isabelle followed, realizing that thus far her husband had given no sign whatsoever as to having any memory of what had occurred between them when he had kissed her in a drunken stupor. Nor did it seem that he cared about what had happened with Helwys. Isabelle was pleased. This outing might prove easier to get through than she had at first supposed, if he continued to be so indifferent and cryptic.
Relief made her sit up straighter. Free of the worry that Simon might remark on what had happened, she convinced herself to enjoy the day, which was indeed fine. The sky overhead was a deep azure and the air smelled of richness of the recent harvest in spite of the fact that it was quite cool upon her bare cheeks.
Simon set a brisk pace and Isabelle urged her mare after him. She enjoyed the rush of the wind. Riding was one of the few pleasures she allowed herself. Dragonwick was lush with rolling hills and verdant forests that she alone seemed to appreciate. Her father, not caring to partake in riding for enjoyment, never accompanied her.
Yet this day, regardless of her wish to relish the ride, she could not do so. She remained fully conscious of the man who rode beside her. Isabelle simply could not allow herself to completely relax. In spite of Simon’s seeming disregard of her now, his kiss was not easily forgotten. Just thinking of it drew her willful gaze to Simon’s long, lean back and wide shoulders, which she had clung to with such eager abandon.
Simon could not help noting that Isabelle was a very skilled rider. Surreptitiously he watched her, her hood thrown back as she leaned low over the pommel, her slender hand unexpectedly sure on the reins. The journey to Dragonwick had afforded him no opportunity to see her as she was now for they had traveled slowly in her father’s entourage.
He noted the look of pleasure on her lovely face and felt a slight stirring of excitement. He told himself it was simple surprise at learning that she was not indifferent to all things. That there was passion in her. Perhaps it had not been the wine that had made him think she had responded to him.
Searching for something to banish these thoughts from his mind he turned to her and pointed to a patch of forest some distance ahead of them, calling over to her. “Race you to that stand of trees.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Challenge accepted.”
Before Simon could react the mare shot forward. With a rush of exhilaration, he sent his stallion charging after.
For few moments he and the stallion seemed to be gaining on Isabelle and the mare. But Isabelle, after a quick glance to where he was closing in at her side, simply leaned closer to the saddle and appeared to say something to the mare. Seemingly effortlessly she pulled ahead.
Although Simon gave it all he and his mount had, she reached the shelter of the trees ahead of him. Isabelle had, in fact, dismounted and was rubbing a loving hand over the horse’s broad forehead when he came to halt beside her. Seeing the flush of pleasure in her alabaster cheeks, he smiled widely. “Well done, Isabelle.”
Simon slipped to the ground beside her. “Never have I seen a woman who could outride you. And precious few men, with the noted exception of my friend Jarrod.”
Isabelle’s flush deepened and her long black lashes fluttered down to mask the expression in those lavender eyes. “I…You are too generous, my lord.”
For the first time since he had met her, Isabelle seemed like other young women. Yet strangely different from any other he had known. There was a glow of life and excitement in her that Simon found deeply and surprisingly appealing.
Simon took a step closer to her, drawn not only by her incredible beauty, but that spark of life. “Isabelle.” He heard the question, the entreaty in his voice as he said her name.
She looked up at him, her lilac eyes widening. And suddenly there was a strange sparkling current in the air between them. It brought his senses achingly to life. With it came the memory of the kiss they had shared, in his mind and his body.
He found himself asking the question that prodded his mind. “Which is the real you, Isabelle, the soft and, I am beginning to believe, strangely courageous woman who could lie to protect her maid, or the cool, aloof woman you usually present to the rest of us?”
Isabelle shook her head, but her gaze did not leave his as she whispered, “I assure you, my lord, that I am in no part soft.”
He moved closer, his eyes now on her mouth, which seemed to tremble even as she watched. “Methinks you are not so very sure of those words.”
Before he even knew that he would do so, Simon had taken her in his arms. As if in direct defiance of her own declaration, her lips were indeed soft beneath his. Her head tilted back as he deepened the kiss. He felt the quickening of her breathing in the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against his chest.
Simon raised one hand to slide it over the curve of her breast, finding it a perfect fit in his palm. She seemed to press more fully to him as the nipple hardened beneath his hand.
He felt his manhood harden with a longing that had only been banked by his iron will. Simon took his mouth from hers, pressing hot kisses to her temple, felt her tremble in his arms. He spoke in a voice made hoarse by his own desire. “What madness has gripped us? Why do we strive to fight this passion, Isabelle?”
As soon as the words were spoken he wanted to yank them back, for she sucked in a gasping breath, then pushed against him with all her might. Reluctantly he let her go when he saw the panic in her eyes.
She pressed her trembling hands to her cheeks as she took a step backward. “This is madness.” She took another step back. “I can not…I must be getting back to the keep.”
Simon reached toward her. “Isabelle. Speak to me.”
She near leapt out of his reach. “Do not.”
He sighed. “Forgive me for kissing you. It was a mistake. I had meant to talk of your kindness to your maid, to try to understand why you seem an enigma to me.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to discuss. I was but preventing an injustice. Helwys’s fall was no more than an accident. And my father…”
“Is cruel and too proud.”
Isabelle’s confusion and uncertainty turned to anger. She glared at him. “I will not discuss that with you anymore, nor anything else for you continue to pry where you are not wanted.”
Simon stiffened, suddenly outraged in a way he had not expected. “Why would I be wanted in this place that once was filled with joy and life, but now is cold and empty? When The Dragon died all that was g
ood here died with him.”
Isabelle seemed taken aback by his words, her reaction coming with a heat that surprised him. “What fault is that of mine? I but accept the lot that has been cast to me.”
The pain behind her words softened him instantly. “It does not have to be that way, Isabelle. You need not accept your father’s will and treat me as an enemy.”
Her gaze held. “I am content with my father’s will.”
“If you were so contented with your father’s guidance, why would you enact the charade with your maid?”
She glared at him. “I have no reason to explain myself to you, but as you have realized I care for her. She has been loyal to me and I would not see her harmed when she meant none.”
He shook his head, not sure why he was pressing this matter, but unable to stop himself. “Although you can not even say the word I can see the love for her in your eyes.”
She took another step backward. “Leave be, Warleigh. Even if I were dissatisfied with my father’s guidance I would not fall in with you. For you are one of those who have taught me that there is no gain in giving your heart.”
He shook his head. “That is madness, Isabelle. It is your choice to shut off your feelings. I had nothing to do with what you have chosen and have only been brought into this by my own foolishness in trying to avenge myself on your father.”
Her eyes now darkened with sorrow. “You have done me great harm and your lack of understanding in that does you no credit. I lost something that meant a great deal to me because of you.”
Simon was so amazed by this that he did not even try to stop her as she climbed onto the mare without aid. He mounted his own stallion and followed though something told him that she would not have queried him had he simply ridden off in the opposite direction.
Isabelle held her face directly into the chill wind, but it did little to cool her hot cheeks. There was no relief from her rage against Simon Warleigh, which burned like a white-hot spear in her chest. It was not because he was wrong in thinking she had chosen her life. It was a sense of suddenly being afraid that he was not wrong.
Over and over she heard him asking which was the real Isabelle. She felt the immediate ache of longing inside herself as he looked into her eyes. Even now she was affected by the unexpectedness of his compliments on her riding. She could no more have stopped herself from returning his kisses than stop the leaves from falling in the autumn. Nor could she stop the passion that had risen up in such an all-encompassing wave. But most horrifying of all was her own fear that she did not know the answer to his question.
Dear heaven, she wondered silently, which was the real her? The one she assured him knew no softness or the one she had hidden behind that mask? Had she worn the mask for too long to truly know?
Had she hidden her fear and hatred of her father so deeply and for so long that she could no longer find them? Or her other more tender emotions?
Isabelle prodded the horse for another burst of speed. It was ridiculous. She did know which was the real Isabelle. She could indeed love, did in fact love Helwys. She was aware of the cold facade she presented. She had worked hard at perfecting it.
But if she was determined to keep anyone else from ever getting beyond it, what difference did it make? Was pretending to be indifferent the same as being indifferent if no one knew—no one but Helwys, whom she could not be completely free with, either?
This thought was so horrifying that Isabelle was unable to examine it further. She pushed it, along with all the other things that hurt or troubled her, far to the back of her mind.
Protecting herself from vulnerability and pain was what mattered. Simon Warleigh was not going to destroy what she had worked so hard to attain. Safety.
She had already said too much when she’d admitted to lying to her father to protect Helwys. Above all else she must prevent Simon from delving any deeper into her secret world than he already had. Her uncle Wallace had trusted Simon and he had suffered betrayal for that trust. Isabelle could not allow herself to forget that.
Isabelle would continue to live as she had learned to live. She would do as her father told her, while keeping her feelings deep inside. She would even ride with Simon Warleigh, if she was ordered to do so.
Isabelle urged the mare on, hoping the wind would erase the prodding sadness from her aching heart.
Puzzled, Simon stopped in the partially open door. At the far side of the chamber, seemingly oblivious to all but themselves, were his wife and a sobbing Helwys. He did not know what to make of it.
Two days had passed since the ill-fated ride they had taken. In that time Simon had done his utmost to remain too occupied to think about how very maddening a woman he had married. That had proved impossible though he had made ample use of the practice yard.
Isabelle was not easily set aside. The only thing he had to be grateful for was that he had not bedded the willful, beautiful wench.
The nights were nothing but torment, sleeping there on the floor only a few paces away from her. He was not unaware of the fact that she, too, lay awake long into the night, which was evidenced by her restlessness. The very thought that she might be remembering the desire that had flared between them, as he was, near drove him mad.
Yet when they did chance to meet, she had nothing but cool silence to offer him.
So frustrated was he that Simon had even considered going to Kelsey and offering any guarantee to gain his release. Only the certainty that he would be denied were it anything less than the charter to Avington kept him from it.
As he stood there in the doorway and saw her holding her maid in her arms and comforting her while she cried, he was once again aware of the pull of her. Her aloof and unfeeling manner since they had gone out riding had convinced him her mask of indifference was impenetrable.
Yet here again, when he least expected it, was a hint of that deeper softer side Isabelle seemed determined to deny. This time she was going far beyond lying to protect the maid, far beyond preventing an injustice. She was doing something that seemed a completely extraordinary thing—for her. She was actually giving a comfort so sweet and tender it made him ache for something he could not name.
Her hand was gentle on the nurse’s graying head. “I am so very sorry, Helwys. I know how much the little fellow meant to you.”
“But the p-p-poor little b-b-bird was no trouble or harm to anyone. What harm was it to f-f-fly over the lookout tower? Why did they have to s-s-shoot him?”
A bird. Simon recalled the little creature he had seen her feeding the day he had come to comfort her after the mishap in the hall. Obviously it had been killed. He, too, felt a stab of sympathy at her sorrow along with his continued awareness of Isabelle’s gentleness.
Again Simon felt a sense of unease, as if this moment were important in some way he did not yet fully realize.
Quickly he shook his head. What a ridiculous notion. He had only come here to fetch a clean tunic after soiling the one he was wearing in yet another bout of swordplay with the giant, Sir Jack. He had simply come upon Isabelle comforting her servant. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet Simon found himself stepping back and returning the way he had come with deliberate care to keep from making a sound that might alert them to his presence.
Simon went to the great hall.
Sir Edmund was standing at the far wall. Simon approached the older man, though he had nothing to say.
Sir Edmund bowed, “My lord.”
Simon nodded. “How goes it?”
The knight looked at him closely. “You seem ill at ease, my lord. Could it perhaps be because I have seen Lord Kelsey about the keep today?”
Simon shrugged. “I have not spoken with him.” He was not sorry for his distraction to be misunderstood. At the same time he had to admit that the cumulative effects of all that had happened in recent days was pressing upon his mind.
He spoke with deliberate unconcern. “What is my squire about?”
Sir Edmund smiled. “He will
be some time in oiling your saddle, my lord. Long enough to keep him from mischief for a while.”
Simon smiled as well. “That saddle has never been so well kept as since we came here.”
Sir Edmund nodded again.
A deep voice came from just behind Simon. “My lord Warleigh, would you care to play a game of chess?”
Simon swung around to see Jack. He, unlike Simon, had donned a clean garment since the morning’s swordplay. Simon looked at the man with an outwardly easy smile, though he was no closer to understanding the fellow’s obvious interest in himself. Sir Edmund, who was as discreet as Wylie was hotheaded, had made enquiries about Jack amongst the men who populated the keep. He was known for keeping much to himself. None of the other men had mentioned knowing of the intense devotion he still harbored for The Dragon.
This made Simon wonder all the more just what was going on with the fellow. He could understand the devotion. He did not understand why a man so inclined would remain in Kelsey’s service for all these years. A man of his prowess could surely find another position.
Simon bowed. “I would very much like to play chess.”
He was prepared to bide his time in learning why the fellow was so interested in him. If nothing else, the little game gave him something to think on other than the disaster that had become of his life.
Not more than an hour later, Simon was somewhat surprised to look up from his game of chess to see none other than Isabelle standing beside the table.
Simon felt an instantaneous and intense physical awareness at the same time as he was beset by what was now becoming a familiar sense of irritation. For gone was the woman who had so compassionately comforted Helwys, the woman who had taken such pleasure in riding.
In her place was a queen of ice, her head held high, her eyes devoid of any emotion. She addressed him distantly, formally. “My father has instructed me to take you riding again.” Only as she said this did he take note of the fact that she was wearing her heavy velvet cloak.
He sat back. “Has he?”
She frowned. “You do not seem pleased.”
Dragon's Dower Page 11