by Lisa Shea
Eric’s lips turned up. “Perhaps, perhaps. Have your man come around with the details and I will have my secretary check my calendar. With the rebels continuing to operate around London, there are many issues for me to coordinate. As you might imagine.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Lord Belvedere, his eyes never leaving Isabel’s body.
Eric’s smile widened. “And now, if you’ll excuse me. Ah, the Duke of Buckingham. Let me introduce …”
And on it went. At every circle of courtiers it was the same act in a careful play. Eric formally introduced her to each man present, making it clear that she was his woman. He made obvious that she was his to do with as he pleased – including sharing her with his most select friends.
The men’s eyes would roam down her body, soaking her in with hot desire. Their lips would press against her hand as if they wished to eat her alive. They would fall over themselves agreeing to meet with Eric, to arrange conversations and discussions at future dates.
Philip and the others trailed behind them, an attentive guard force, but it was Eric’s fingers which dug into her arm. It was Eric’s eyes which made her feel as if she wore nothing at all.
She clung to her purpose. There had to be some way to expose Eric for the rake he truly was. Some slip of a statement. Some admission. Some –
There was a wave of motion near her, and she turned in alarm.
King John was approaching.
And the way his eyes were drawing down her body, it seemed he might have decided he didn’t need Eric’s support after all.
For his intention seemed to be clear.
To claim Isabel as his own.
Chapter 14
King John’s dark eyes swept over Isabel with heated desire. “It is time. I claim her.”
Isabel’s throat tightened in panic.
She nervously glanced at Philip.
His hand was on his sword, his jaw set. Isabel saw that his men were flanked around her, ready to follow through on whatever action Philip set into motion.
But what could the men do?
The room was ringed with guards. And there were enough men here loyal to the King that, should Philip draw his sword, he would be engaged in an instant. Even if he survived the subsequent melee he would be branded a traitor of the crown. He would be caught, drawn, quartered, and then beheaded.
There was no other choice.
She had to play on Eric’s greed.
She cautiously drew back against Eric. Surely Eric’s plan involved dangling her in front of the King in order to get a wealth of concessions in return. If he simply allowed her to be handed over to the King, all his leverage would be lost. Not only with the King but with every other man in the room.
The King’s eyes took on a sharper look.
Isabel suddenly had a sense that King John was not gentle with the women he … acquired. No, he was a man who had been emasculated by France. Turned on by his own nobles. His only way to prove himself as having strength was in how he handled his women.
How he broke them.
She swallowed, inching further toward Eric. She turned and looked up into those hard eyes. It took all her strength to murmur, “Eric, please ...”
His grin stretched from ear to ear. He stepped away from her and waved a hand. “Of course, your claim is just, my Liege.” His teeth shone. “I look forward to watching how you handle her. For she is indeed a beauty beyond compare, is she not?”
The blood drained from her body.
He was giving her to the King.
King John’s hand closed over hers, and a crazed part of her wanted to wrench it free. To scream for help at the top of her lungs. But this was the King. He had every right to do whatever he wished to every person in this room. He was chosen by God himself. Every action he took was divinely inspired.
His grip was a vise. He turned and began walking toward the main doors.
Isabel’s heart hammered against her ribs. This could not be happening. Not now. Not when her father needed her, not when she had just found Philip, not when life was just starting to come together in a way that lifted her heart and brought her hope.
She closed her eyes and prayed to the Holy Mother Mary for help. She would do anything, anything at all, if only –
The King stopped.
Her eyes popped open in surprise.
They were standing at the center of the parquet floor, the other guests ringed around them at a distance. At the far end the musicians, resplendent in their red-and-white outfits, stood ready, all eyes on the King.
The King nodded.
The lead lute player raised his hand to the others and then swept it down.
The music began.
Isabel nearly fainted in relief. The King was claiming her for his dance. A dance in the open, with all others watching, where she could not be harmed.
Her feet moved automatically through the steps as her mind caught up with the waves of gratitude. The Holy Mother had spared her from who knew what horrors. She would watch for a sign of what she should do to repay the overwhelming gift.
The King gave her fingers a squeeze, his eyes those of a hungry wolf stalking a newborn fawn. “You dance like an angel, Marianne.”
Isabel blushed. Her father had certainly tried his best to raise her well. To supplement her sword lessons and archery practice he had brought in musicians each evening to entertain the household. He had always taken her hand to dance, to ensure she knew some of the gentler pursuits.
“As do you, your Highness. You are every bit the talented nobleman that all speak of.”
He glowed, apparently pleased with the thought that his skills were praised by his court. “As well they should,” he agreed. “My mother raised each of her sons as if he would be the future King of England.”
Isabel held the smile on her face. She had heard enough stories about the powerful Eleanor of Aquitaine. How the woman had, at age thirty-two, left behind her husband the King of France in order to wed the younger, handsome King of England. She bore him five sons and three daughters. Indeed, three of those sons – Henry, Richard, and now John, had each been King for a time. By the time Eleanor died at age eighty-two she had earned the love and respect of the populace.
Isabel nodded her head. “Your mother was a woman well worthy of the honor heaped on her.”
His eyes lit up. “I was always her favorite, you know.”
Isabel didn’t doubt it. She had heard that John had been the doted-on child when he was younger. Compared with Geoffrey’s conniving and Richard’s continual absence at war, John was probably the baby of the family and the apple of his mother’s eye.
But apparently all that spoiling had created a sour result. John’s desire to take everything his eyes landed on had turned his nobles against him. The royal petulance had quickly turned to rage.
Isabel carefully made sure her smile remained steady. “It is well known that your mother adored you,” she assured the King.
His face shone.
It suddenly occurred to Isabel that – despite being surrounded by nearly a hundred courtiers – she had the King’s private ear. None were close enough to hear their conversation, and the turns and movements of the dance would make it challenging for anybody to read lips. It would be a dangerous game to play, but to take down Eric it would be worth it.
She carefully allowed a frown to ease onto her face. “My Liege, you are the chosen of God. It would mean my mortal soul if I were to let any man even slightly blemish your glory.”
A spark lit his eyes. “Who would dare such a thing?”
Isabel thought to the thousands of rebels who, even now, strove to occupy London, but she pushed that thought from her mind. “I hesitate to even say –”
His fingers clenched more tightly on her hand. “I am your Liege. You must tell me immediately.”
Her cheeks tinted. “You see, my Liege, it involves Lord Ingram.”
His lips pressed together. “I knew it. I knew I could n
ot trust that conniving snake.”
“It involves a tragic shipwreck – the destruction of the vessel I rode over from Calais on.”
His eyes lit up – and then faded. “Oh, that. I admit, I had had high hopes that Lord Ingram was somehow responsible for that catastrophe. But my men thoroughly questioned a number of the passengers. In each case my soldiers were told that it was a natural disaster caused by rough weather.”
He leaned forward, his breath hot on her ear. “I will tell you a little secret. I had two trusted messengers on that ship. They were the dolts who were swept out to sea. Now it will take me months to get a fresh response. And by then it could be too late.”
Isabel’s breath caught.
Could there still be hope for her plan?
“What was the message about? Perhaps the men said something that I overheard, that could be of help to you. We were on that ship for quite a while, after all.”
He pressed his lips together. “My messengers were under the strictest orders. They were not to speak or interact with anyone. None should know who they were.”
Apparently Lord Ingram had.
She pressed herself up against the King and fluttered her lashes at him. “Surely you can trust me, My Liege. My heart only thinks of you and your continued prosperity.”
His eyes drew down to her and that wolfish stare intensified. “Perhaps … if we were to talk alone.”
Her heart pounded against her ribs.
Could she risk it?
The moment he got her to himself, he could easily decide that talking about messengers and ships was the least of his interests. And his Royal Right would ensure that there would be no way to stop him … no way at all …
She drew in a breath –
Eric’s hand closed hard on her arm.
The King opened his mouth –
The musicians finished their triumphant flourish, and the dance was ended. The room filled with applause and kudos for the King’s performance, and he reluctantly turned in place, acknowledging their praise.
Eric’s voice was edged with a growl. “I hope you enjoyed your dance, my Liege. Unfortunately, it is now time for me and Marianne to make our departure.”
King John’s face darkened. “So soon? But the night is just beginning.”
Eric held his gaze. “That is certainly true,” he agreed, his sharp smile returning as he drew Isabel closer to him. “And, as that is the case, my Lady now has other, more intimate duties she must perform.” His eyes shone. “And I would not miss a moment of those. Not. One. Moment.”
King John’s lips trembled as if words were clamoring to burst through them and only the tightest of control held them in. His eyes twitched between Isabel and Eric, burning, burning –
He spun on his heel. His eyes swept the crowd and landed on a young blonde courtier, perhaps twenty-two. Clearly the woman was quite experienced with the court – her face was artfully made up to resemble a cupid and her silver tunic exposed more than it hid.
She giggled in delight as the King strode toward her, and she coquettishly brought a fan up to veil her face.
The King was not in the mood for such subtleties. He grabbed her hard on her arm and hauled her behind him toward a massive pair of mahogany doors.
Isabel drew in a deep breath – she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it. Part of her wished the King had stayed, so she could find out more of what was going on. But the other part of her realized she had escaped immense danger by a hair’s breath.
She swung her gaze, looking for Philip –
Eric stepped before her, his gaze smug with satisfaction. “You were perfect, my dear. Absolutely perfect. I saw the way his gaze could not leave you when you danced. The desire building within him to own you. Soon he will do anything at all for one night with you.”
He cast his eyes dismissively toward the departing liege. “Let him try to burn out his passions with that cheap harlot. It won’t work. His need for you will only grow.” His toothy grin sharpened. “And then we will have him.”
His fingers dug tightly into her arm. “Come, it is time we head home. It is clear that our work here tonight is done.”
Her throat closed up. Suddenly the planning and plotting came to a screeching halt as the enormity of his sentence grew in her mind.
“What was that? You are taking me home?”
He barely seemed to hear her. “Come, come. My two carriages are waiting for us out front.”
Philip was at her side, and the others flanked her. It was the only reason her feet went into motion, that she did not resist like a recalcitrant ox as Eric pulled her across that same parquet floor where she had just danced with the King of England. It was the only reason that she made her way down the long, elegant steps to the torch-lined entryway.
Two jet-black carriages waited there, liveried footmen holding open the doors. Eric pointed to the one in back. “Braun, Luigi, and Johann, you shall ride in the back one. Us three will be in the front.” His eyes swept to Philip and his grin grew. “After all, I would not wish for you to miss one moment of what I shall be doing to my beautiful Marianne.”
Philip’s gaze gleamed, but he said nothing. He gave a nod to his three men. Then he turned to Philip. “We had gear stored at the inn.”
Eric gave an absent wave. “Ah, yes. Your clothes and the like. You will find it under your seats. I had everything taken care of.”
Isabel had no doubt that he had.
Eric turned to her and put out a hand. “And now, in you go.”
It took all of her strength to put her hand into his. To ascend those steps into the carriage. It was only the sight of Philip immediately climbing in after her, and sitting opposite her, that slowed her hammering heart.
Eric sat at her side and the footman closed the door. A moment later the carriage was in motion.
Eric put his hand over hers, and a sharp gleam lit his gaze. “You do not know how long I have waited for this day. How many careful series of events had to be laid and executed for this to come about. It almost makes one believe in the power of prayer.”
Isabel had no doubt that it was the power of blackmail which drove most of Eric’s projects, but she pressed her lips together.
Eric nodded in satisfaction. “They are like sheaves of wheat, falling one after another in an ordered line under the care of a farmer’s scythe.”
Isabel leaned forward. Maybe now was her chance to draw more information from him. “I am glad that the plans are working so well. As you have said, the King seems to be right where you wish for him to be. What is the next step?”
He chuckled. “Ah, my dearest Marianne, now is the time for patience. To let those childish emotions of his rise and boil. He has never been a man to show self restraint. Never a man to hold back on something he wanted. It is, after all, why the nobles hate him so.” He shrugged. “So we wait. Wait until he is the kettle nearly ready to steam. And that is when we act.”
Isabel held in her frustration. Eric’s statement was sufficiently vague to mean anything at all. Was he planning to throw his lot in with the King, if offered sufficient wealth and position? Was he aligned with the rebels and hoping to cause the King to overextend himself? “But surely there is something I can do in the meantime, to help further our cause?”
Eric’s eyes shone. “Oh, yes, my darling. There is absolutely something you can do. And, once we reach my home, I will tell you all about it.”
And with that he turned and looked out the window.
Isabel pressed her lips together. She did not want to push him. Not when it seemed he might share everything on his own. She looked across to Philip who was watching her with concern. He gave the slightest of nods. She knew he did not approve of this course they were on, but she felt she was close, so close, to the truth. She had fooled Eric into thinking she was Marianne. As long as she wore the mask and costume she would be safe. Once they had talked, she would find some excuse – any excuse – to separate from him. And then she
was sure Philip and the others could get her to safety.
Eric looked up. “Ah. Here we are.”
The carriage rumbled through massive iron gates, at least ten feet high. The gates were connected to a solid stone wall which circled the house which was more like a fortress. The narrow windows were sealed with iron grates. Guards were posted along the walls and at the gates and doors.
The carriages rumbled to a stop.
The iron gates behind them clanged closed, and a massive bar was lowered in place.
Eric turned to her, his eyes shining with satisfaction.
“And now, my dear, you are mine.”
Chapter 15
The only reason Isabel was not collapsing in panic was Philip’s presence across from her. His steady eyes on her. She knew that he would protect her, whatever happened. After all, Lord Ingram was not the King. He was a mere noble, and one hated by many. An attack on his household might be publicly lamented, but secretly many would rejoice.
Whatever came, no number of guards could match the determination of Philip and his team.
The footmen came around to lower the steps and open the doors. Philip stepped down first, and when Isabel put her hand in his, it was as if he had drawn her into a full embrace. She could almost feel his lips against her forehead, warm and reassuring. His gaze held hers and she knew.
He would protect her at all costs.
Then his men were at their side, and that feeling of security grew and expanded. Isabel could see it in each man’s eyes, that they would be there for her.
Eric descended the steps and looked with satisfaction at the group. “Good, good. All here. Come, let us get some food. I’m sure you’re all hungry after the events of this evening.”
Now that he said it, Isabel realized that she was famished. They had not eaten or drunk anything at all since the few snacks made available at the final costume fitting. Yes, there had been sideboards groaning with food at the party, but not once in the circling had Eric paused in his machinations for something as petty as food.
He swept a hand to her. “After you, my dear.”