Simon shrugged, knowing that he was not pleased but not wishing to divulge his feelings to his wife. “I am playing chess.” He could feel Jack watching him.
Isabelle inclined that regal head with its burgundy streaked black tresses. “I will leave you to it then.”
Her relief was more than obvious and Simon was beset by a sudden urge to bring some measure of discomfort to this woman who had managed to plague him so much. He stood. “Nay, do not go. You have made yourself ready. Jack will not find fault with my attending you. Will you Jack?”
The other man shook his head quickly. “Nay, my lord. We may continue later.” He stood, bowed and left them.
Isabelle’s displeasure was obvious and she frowned deeply as she stared after the knight. “I did not mean to intrude. My father had made it sound most urgent.”
“You did not,” Simon informed her. He frowned, “I made no request to ride.”
Isabelle, too, frowned. “But my father said…” She flushed deeply and glanced back toward the doorway that led to the upper floor. There was a trace of concern, in her gaze and he knew she was thinking of the sorrowful maid.
Simon found himself speaking gently, even as he wondered why her father would send her to him. “Have no concern for me. I would not have him trouble you. If you have aught else to see to, then by all means do so.”
Sighing she looked into his eyes, hers searching. “The matter has been seen to. What little I can do.”
The regret in her was palpable and again he felt himself drawn to this mysterious woman. “I am grateful that you would take time to attend me.” Again he heard the softness in his own voice and wondered at it even as he noted that Isabelle was now watching him closely. Not willing to meet that gaze, he said, “I will ready our horses. You may await me at the entrance of the keep, if you will. I will be quick about it.”
Chapter Eight
It was not until they had ridden out from the keep, Isabelle remaining noticeably silent, that Simon saw the heavy dark clouds gathering in the sky. He was not surprised by the threatening rain. It was autumn. What did surprise him was his failure to note it earlier.
He had, as was becoming usual, been too preoccupied with Isabelle. Simon turned around to face her, pointing up into the sky. “It looks as if it might rain. Perhaps we should delay our ride until the morrow.”
She looked at him, then in the direction he indicated. Though she tried to hide it he saw the disappointment in her lavender eyes. “If that is your will.”
He found himself asking, “What is your will? I am for risking the drenching if you are. I spent many years in the Holy Land. There the sun is a constant companion. It bakes everything, the buildings, the land, the people. There is a feeling of the ancient, of the eternal. Though it is beautiful I have found in the last months here in England that the rain seems to encourage the new and growing, not only in the land but in its folk.”
Curiosity tinged her voice. “What did you there?”
“Fought. First for Richard, which sometimes seems strange, for it was because of Richard’s father’s belief that The Dragon had been in league with Richard so much harm was done.” He shrugged, “My foster father joined the crusade and Jarrod and Christian were being sent, as well. We were there at Acre…” His stomach tightened as he recalled that horrible day when so many had been killed. Perhaps disillusionment over that had made the three of them stay on when the king left. She was still watching him. “We stayed on when Richard left. The Knight’s Templar have a constant need of men to help them hold the Holy City.”
Simon looked away. He didn’t want to talk anymore. There had been nothing that merited staying away for so long and missing so much of life here.
She seemed to sense his withdrawal and asked no more questions. “The rain matters naught to me. If you would prefer to ride then I would prefer to ride.”
Strangely Simon was both relieved and disappointed. He reminded himself that she was not truly interested in him. Isabelle was only doing as her father bid.
Simon knew he was mad to allow this to plague him. Telling himself to think only of his relief in being out of the keep for a time, he spoke levelly, “Then we will ride.”
He set an invigorating pace and for a short while Simon was able to put all other thoughts aside—almost. It was indeed good to be out of the keep, to forget his frustration over languishing here when there was so much to be done at Avington.
But Isabelle’s presence could not be ignored indefinitely. Casting her a quick glance where she rode just behind him on his left side, he saw that she seemed to be completely absorbed in her own concerns.
He, on the other hand, found himself once more taken with thoughts of her. The briskness in the air had brought a flush of rosy color to her pale cheeks. Her hood had fallen back to allow the wind, which was heavy with moisture, to tug at the dark hair at her temples and she held her delicately lovely face straight into it. Forcing himself to look away, Simon rode on, oblivious to all else but his own lack-witted fascination with a woman whose loyalty belonged to her undeserving sire.
When a fat drop of rain fell upon the back of his hand, Simon looked up. The clouds overhead had lowered and thickened, taking on the color of old steel, and the wind gusted through the tops of the trees ahead. He frowned as two drops more fell on his face.
Casting another glance at Isabelle he saw that she, too, had raised her gaze to the sky, even as it lit up with a flash of lightning that was followed by a crash of thunder. Instantaneously the clouds let go their bounty and on a shocking rush of chill wind the drops became a deluge.
Isabelle reached back to pull her hood up over her head. He was quite certain she had no more envisioned such rain as this than he had. Simon knew that the heavy velvet of her cloak would not protect her from becoming drenched within moments.
Overwhelmed by a sense of protectiveness, he wanted to see to her well-being with all haste. He told himself his emotion was perfectly reasonable, as it was his fault they were out riding in this. The shelter of the castle first came into his mind but he dismissed it immediately. It would take some time to return to the keep. It was long enough to become completely soaked.
Casting his eyes about quickly, Simon remembered something he had not thought of since his residence at Dragonwick as a boy. There was a lodge used by hunters in the wood. If he recalled correctly, it was very nearby.
Simon called to her as he turned in what he hoped was the right direction. “Come. I believe I know where we might find shelter.”
Isabelle rode after him without hesitation.
Simon rode into the trees, finding the trail fairly quickly. He, Jarrod and Christian had thoroughly explored every inch of Dragonwick as boys. Yet he still was surprised how well he remembered the trail.
The lodge was in good condition. He pulled his horse up and dismounted, turning to Isabelle to find she had already dismounted as well.
He took the reins of her horse. “I will put the horses in the shed.” He was assuming when he said it that it was still behind the larger wooden structure of the lodge. Inside the shed he found some edible hay amongst the musty pile against the wall. When he returned to the low front door, Isabelle was no longer in sight. He went inside.
The structure, though clearly unused for some time, was very much as he recalled it, with a low ceiling, packed earthen floor and large stone fireplace. The same heavy oak bed rested against the outside wall. Although Simon could not recall anyone having slept in it, he supposed it was there in case a hunter might not wish to return to the keep at night. Without conscious thought his eyes swung to where Isabelle was kneeling before the hearth.
She was attempting to build a fire from the dry wood that had been laid by for just that purpose. Simon moved to her side. “I will do it.”
It was good to have something to do, something to think about besides that bed. Something to think about besides the fact that they were alone here.
The fire did not take nea
r enough time to coax into a cheery blaze. When he could no longer pretend to be busy with it, Simon stood and turned to Isabelle where she shivered in the middle of the room.
He spoke hurriedly, “Take off your cloak and we will lay it out to dry.”
She did so and Simon pulled the bench from beside the small table, which bore a single dusty glass, nearer to the fire and draped the sodden velvet over it. “Come. Stand closer to the flames where they can warm you.”
Isabelle moved forward slowly, holding out her slim fingers. She did not look at him.
Simon noted that she cast a speculative glance toward the bed. He spoke ruefully. “I did not bring you here in order to…”
She looked at him in obvious surprise. “Oh…I did not think you had done so, my lord.” She colored as she went on, looking around the dusty and musty-smelling cabin. “My father has expressly forbidden anyone but himself to come here, though it appears not even he has done so for a very long time.” She took a deep breath. “It is strange to think of him here. So isolated, so…”
Simon could see that she was disturbed by these realizations. For that one glass, the hard bench, the very air of the place, all bespoke a sense of loneliness that was at odds with the extremely controlled and controlling man Kelsey presented to the world.
Feeling somehow responsible for her discomfort, he spoke softly. “I am sorry for having brought you here.”
Her next words shocked him. “I am not. It makes him seem somewhat less…” Again she halted suddenly, those lavender eyes revealing her uncertainty, her vulnerability.
He wondered what indeed she had been about to say. Was it an echo of his own thoughts that there was a side to the earl that he did not allow others to see? He spoke before he could stop himself, “Less what, Isabelle?”
Somehow he knew that if she would talk to him of this, a bridge would be crossed between them. Though why he wished for her to cross that bridge he was not sure.
Isabelle did not wish to look at Simon. She felt exposed and uncertain of her ability to mask her emotions. She knew there was an underlying texture to his question that went far beyond the words.
Some part of her wanted to answer him, to reveal the way she felt about herself, her life, her father. For there was a sense of melancholy to this place that brought visions of her father, a different father than the one she knew, sitting here alone and lonely.
Isabelle resisted this impulse, for it could not be anything but delusion. There was no weakness in her father. He was ruthless and omnipotent as he had proved time after time. He had, this very day, nearly caught her comforting poor Helwys after some cruel knave had put an arrow through her little pet. She had only been grateful that he had seemed too intent on making sure she went riding with Simon to notice. She had assumed Simon had made the request, and though she had wondered what her father could be about when she learned it was not Simon’s idea, she knew not to ask.
Even as she told herself this, she wondered how Simon Warleigh, with a smile and a kind tone, nearly succeeded in penetrating her armor when none of her father’s small cruelties ever had? What was it about him that moved her?
She suddenly realized how little she knew of this man, of the life he had lived. The things he had said to her of the Holy Land, his pleasure in being back in England made her wonder what drove him. She had seen he did not wish to speak of himself, had honored that. His questions to her now left him open to her own probing. “What is it you want, Simon? Why did you agree to marry me?”
He shrugged. “The truth does not flatter me. But you know that I agreed in order to save my head.”
She shook her head, “Nay, beyond that. You were in the Holy Land for many years and could have escaped the king’s wrath by returning. It could not have been the rain.” She paused as he looked at her in surprise. “Why would you allow yourself to be manipulated into doing something you clearly had no desire to do? It seems…at odds with your demeanor. You could have left if you sought only to save your head, as you put it.”
She watched him closely as he shrugged those wide shoulders. “If you know so much of me then you know I have inherited Avington and all the other holdings that come with the title. The king has made it clear that he would confiscate them if I did not wed as he bid me.”
Ah, she thought, he was willing to forgo a surfeit of pride as great as his own in order to hold the lands. This she could understand, having seen her father commit the most despicable of acts to gain lands. Yet as Simon went on and she heard the sadness coupled with determination in his voice, she wondered if she might have been too quick in her judgment of his motive. “I would do anything to ensure the future of Avington. My brother Arthur was so like our father. Being twelve years older than me, I never thought of him as anything but strong and invincible, in the same way I did Father. They were ever occupied with the difficulties of running the lands, but they did try to spend time with me, to explain how things worked, or how to use a weapon properly. Both of them were fascinated with the workings of mechanical devices.” His voice broke. “’Twas such a shock to learn I had inherited Avington, my father and brother both gone.”
“Yet you stayed away for so very long.”
“I had no notion that I was needed here. They were both so busy with the lands. I was…I know they had no notion of leaving me to my own devices. They were simply so much alike and when Christian, Jarrod and I went to the Holy Land I was barely fifteen.” He took a deep breath. “As a lad I had no real notion that all would not remain as I had left it. In the East, the days seemed to run together, with no real seasons to help to mark the time. One day simply becomes the next. More than twelve years had passed when I received word that my father was ill. The journey home is not accomplished in days but months.” Again his voice grew husky, “Finding both my father and my brother gone made me realize my life was more than the moment, that I had need to think on how my days—years—would be spent.”
The depth of emotion in his voice could not have been feigned. For reasons she did not understand, it moved her more than she could say. Isabelle took a step toward him. “I am sorry, Simon, for your loss. I had not thought…had not expected you to have such…”
Simon understood her obvious surprise. He had not known how much he hurt until this very moment. Feeling the ache of loneliness uncoiling like a snake inside him he was utterly exposed as he looked down at her, replying with irony in an attempt to cover his vulnerability. “Isabelle, did you think me immune to sorrow?”
Her lavender eyes held his. She continued to study him as his gaze then moved to her mouth. She whispered, her tone revealing a depth of empathy that her words did not, “Pray forgive me, I did not think…”
Her gentleness only further weakened his defenses, leaving the door inside him open to both his pain and, yes, his desire for her. As she flicked her tongue out to dampen those lips of berry pink, Simon knew he had lost the battle of self-control. “Sometimes it is best not to think.” His mouth found hers as he succumbed to the promise of comfort in her lovely eyes.
As a shaft of pure sweet longing spiraled up inside her, Isabelle could not but agree. She slanted her head to better receive him.
Simon pulled Isabelle close against him, enjoying the softness of her. Then as she kissed him back with a heat that surprised him just as it had the first time he kissed her, his reactions made a subtle but definite shift. Passion, as intense and fiery as it was delicate and fragile, awakened in him. Just the feel of her, so very pliant and eager against him, made his body ache with longing to do more than gain comfort.
Seeming to sense his need she reached up her arms, twining them around his neck. At the same time she pressed herself more fully to him. He wanted to touch—to taste—to awaken her desire. The thought of Isabelle eager with a yearning that he had brought on made his breathing quicken, his mouth soften.
Her lips opened and his tongue flicked out to slide over hers. She sucked in a breath, her arms tightening on his nec
k. When her tongue danced after his, he groaned, feeling an ache of intense need building in his belly.
Simon reached up, resting his hand on her breast and Isabelle’s heart stopped. It thudded back to life even as the nipple hardened and she felt a melting warmth gather in her lower belly. When his other hand slipped to the lace of her kirtle she leaned closer to the hardness of his chest to give him better access.
Simon kissed her again, deeply, insistently and Isabelle gave him measure for measure as something inside her seemed to swell and burst to aching life. She put her hand to the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his thick dark hair as she held him to her.
He felt the urgency of her hands and pushed back from Isabelle to ease her dress forward on her slender shoulders. As he did so he watched her face. Her eyes were heavy with desire, unfocused and dark. His gaze dipped lower, across the pulse in her long white neck, down to where her damp shift clung to the curves of her breasts, revealing the deep berry tips. His manhood stirred anew and he dipped his head to tease the nub of one with his tongue.
Isabelle was drowning in sensation, her body aching with each touch. Simon’s hot tongue touched the tip of her breast and she moaned, arching into that sweet pleasure.
Passionate, beautiful Isabelle, he was awash in the softness of her body, the heat of her reactions to his caresses, the delicate and womanly scent of her. Simon was trembling himself as he laid her down upon the rug before the warmth of the fire that blazed no hotter than the fire in his blood. He would take her, make her his in reality. His hand slipped down to raise the hem of her gown, sliding over the velvet flesh of her legs, and onward to the moist curls at their joining.
“Oh, Simon, make me your wife in truth.” It was this soft cry of encouragement that brought Simon to his senses.
What was he doing here? If he were to do what she wished—what they both wished—there would be no going back. Isabelle would be his wife in truth.
He could not betray his father’s memory by giving in to the passion that had left him weak with longing. It had nearly made him forget that he would be putting the well-being of his lands and all who called them home in jeopardy by irrevocably binding himself to Kelsey. For that was what he would be doing with Isabelle’s obedience and loyalty so irrevocably given to her father. He could not possibly do this because of his desire for this woman, no matter how deeply that desire ran.
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