“Not nearly as well as you do,” she said as he eased her out the door.
He bolted it behind her, then turned to face his nephew, who sat on the bed looking shamefaced and disheveled. “Stay away from that woman.”
“I was asleep—she was on me before I knew it,” Jamie fumbled. “She thought I was you, at first. I did not mean to… I… I know she is yours…”
“She is not mine, praise God. Marie has a husband.” He sank onto a nearby stool. Wearily, he pulled his boots off and tried to think of the right words. “You are but fifteen—”
“Nearly sixteen,” Jamie interrupted. “Surely you’ll not tell me I am too young. She would not be my first.”
Stephen lifted his eyes heavenward for help that did not come. “Believe me, you are too young to bed this particular woman,” he said. “And much too good a man.”
He looked at his nephew, trying to see him as the young man he was now, without also seeing the boy who used to toddle after him. Deep blue eyes, dark hair. Too handsome for his own good.
“Many women will want you,” he said at last. “That does not mean you must bed them all.”
“You do.”
Stephen rubbed his temples. “Nay, not all of them.”
God in heaven, he was a fool to think Jamie had been unaware. Forget William’s wrath, Catherine would skin him alive. How many times had she admonished him that Jamie looked up to him? Lately, he had not believed it possible his nephew still did.
“Aye, there have been a lot of women lately,” he admitted, exhaling a long breath. “And I can tell you, there is no lasting satisfaction in meaningless affairs with frivolous women. ’Tis much better to look for what your parents have.”
“Then why do you not seek it for yourself?”
Jamie’s face was so serious Stephen had to fight not to smile. God, he loved this boy.
“For the right woman,” he said, meeting his nephew’s eyes, “I would give up all the others without regret.” He thought it might even be true.
“So, while a man waits for the perfect woman, he is free to waste time on frivolous ones,” Jamie said with a grin. “Then I say, do not hurry, Perfect Woman. Take your time!”
Jamie ducked as Stephen’s boot sailed over his head.
“Move over, you lout!” Stephen said, crawling into the bed.
Long after Jamie’s breathing grew steady, Stephen lay awake, thinking. When Catherine came into his mind, he smiled. The one perfect woman. He missed her.
With an enormous sense of relief, he realized he’d not imagined taking his sister-in-law to bed in years. Not since he was Jamie’s age—and everyone knew what youth of that age were like!
Perhaps he was not as bad as he thought.
His mind drifted to the lady from Northumberland… and to that look she gave him in the first moment they met.
A man might do a lot to see that look again.
Chapter Six
Stephen cursed Sir John Popham as he followed the path along the castle wall to the bailli’s residence. With mist hovering over the ground, the bailey yard was eerie at this hour. Did Popham set their appointments earlier each day just to spite him?
He tried to turn his thoughts to the business of the day, but they kept returning to the more interesting subject of Lady Isobel Hume. The more he saw of her, the more intrigued he became. And he saw her often; he made sure of that.
Flirtation seemed not a part of her social repertoire. Unusual, especially for such a pretty woman.
Her smiles rarely reached her eyes. He’d yet to hear her laugh. As with flirting, his efforts there came to naught. He tried to imagine what her laugh would sound like. A tinkling? A light trill?
Aye, he was intrigued. Almost as much as he was attracted. It was not just that she was beautiful, though she was that. He wanted to know her. And her secrets.
Curiosity had always been his weakness.
A peculiar sound interrupted his musings. Peculiar, at least, to be coming from one of the storerooms built against the wall. He went to the low wooden door and put his ear to it.
Whish! Whish! Whish! The sound was unmistakable. Drawing his sword, he eased the door open to take a look.
“Lady Hume!”
She looked as surprised as he was to catch her alone in a storeroom attacking a sack of grain with a sword.
“The poor thing is defenseless,” he said, cocking his head toward the sack. Grain was seeping onto the dirt floor from several small tears.
“Close the door!” she hissed. “I cannot be seen here.”
And what a sight she was, with her cheeks flushed and strands of dark hair sticking to her face and neck. God preserve me. He stepped inside and firmly closed the door behind him.
“I meant for you to remain outside when you closed it.”
Though she took a step back as she spoke, she kept a firm hand on her sword. As she should.
With her glossy dark hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, she looked even more beautiful than he imagined. And he’d spent hours imagining it. No man saw a grown woman with her hair uncovered unless he was a close family member. Or a lover. The intimacy of it sent his pulse racing.
Aye, the lady had every reason to feel nervous at finding herself alone with a man in this secluded place.
“That sack cannot provide much of a challenge,” he said, trying to put her at ease.
“You make fun of me.” There was resentment in her tone, but he was pleased to see her shoulders relax.
“I believe I would serve as a better partner, though I must warn you”—he paused to glance meaningfully at the sack of grain—“I will not hold still while you poke at me.”
Her sudden smile spilled over him like a burst of sunshine.
“But I wonder,” she said, raising her sword in his direction, “will you squeal like a pig when I do stick you?”
He laughed out loud. “I am shamed to admit this is my first time matching swords with a woman, so please be kind.”
She barely gave him time to take up position before she attacked.
“You have natural skill,” he allowed after a few parries and thrusts. “All you need is more practice.”
“But you, sir, are astonishing,” she said, a little breathless. “Quite the best I’ve seen.”
His chest swelled as if he were a youth of twelve.
“And I thought you excelled only at drinking games.”
Ouch. “So you’ve been watching me. I am flattered.”
The deep flush of her cheeks pleased him to no end. He deflected a determined jab to his heart.
He played with her as he did with the younger squires—hard enough to challenge, but not so hard as to discourage. When she pulled her skirt out of the way with her free hand, though, he missed his footing and very nearly dropped his sword.
She stepped back, her brows furrowed.
“Showing your ankles was a clever move,” he said, giving her a low bow. “A trick I’ve not seen before.”
“It was not my intention to rely on anything other than my skill.” Her tone was as stiff as her spine. “I would not be so dishonorable as to stoop to tricks.”
Good Lord. “If your opponent is both stronger and more skilled than you are,” he said, keeping his voice even, “then you must use what advantages you do have.”
Sword arm extended, he motioned with his other hand for her to come forward. He suppressed a smile when she took up her sword again and came toward him.
“Then, once you have an opening, you must use it,” he said. “Never give up your moment, as you just did. Do not hesitate. Your opponent may not give you a second chance.”
“You do not care how you win, sir, so long as you do?” Her tone was scathing.
He sighed inwardly. How naive could she be?
“Use whatever rules you like when you are playing, Isobel. But if a man less honorable should find you alone as I did today, you will wish you knew how to fight without the rules.”
; She narrowed her eyes at him but did not speak.
“It would be preferable, of course, if you did not wander about alone. You forget you are in dangerous country here.”
“ ’Tis not your place to lecture me.”
Someone should. “Now, do you want to continue playing at sword fighting?” he asked, deliberately baiting her. “Or do you want to learn how to protect yourself from someone who intends you harm?”
Green eyes sparking with fire, she raised her sword and said, “Teach me.”
Oh, what he would love to teach her! God help him, she was breathtaking like this.
“You should carry a short blade, as well,” he instructed as he fended off her attack.
“Why? You think you can knock my sword from my hand?”
“I can.” He saw a half-empty sack on the floor behind her. “But I will not have to. You will drop it.”
She fought better angry, a good quality in a fighter.
Still, he was better. Much better. He forced her to step back, and back, and back again. Once more, and her heel caught on the sack. She threw her hands up, sending the sword clattering against the wall as she tumbled backward.
The next moment, she was lying back on her elbows, her hair loose about her shoulders, skirts askew, chest heaving.
He could not move, could not even breathe.
She looked like a goddess. A wanton Venus, sprawled on the dirt floor at his feet. Then she threw her head back and laughed. Not a light trill, but a full-throated, joyful laugh that made his heart soar.
What he would not do to hear her laugh again!
“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her eyes dancing. She reached her hand up for him to help her to her feet.
He took it and sank to his knees beside her. “Not true, Isobel,” he said in a harsh whisper. “ ’Tis I who am at your mercy.”
His eyes fixed on her lips, full and parted. Well beyond thought now, he gave in to the inexorable pull toward them. The moment their lips touched, fire seared through him.
He tried to hang on to the thin thread of caution tugging at his conscience. But she was kissing him back, mouth open, her tongue seeking his. His ears roared as she put her arms around his neck and pulled him down.
He cushioned the back of her head with his hand before it touched the dirt floor. Leaning over her, he gave himself wholly to kissing her. He splayed his hands into her hair and rained kisses along her jaw and down her throat, then returned to her mouth again.
The sweet taste of her, the smell of her, filled his senses. He was mindless of anything except her mouth, her face, her hair, his burning need to touch her.
He ran his hand down her side to the swell of her hip. When she moaned, he knew he had to feel her beneath him. Beneath him, pressed against him. Skin to skin.
Slowly, he lowered his body until he felt the soft fullness of her breasts against his chest. Sweet heaven! Oh, God, the little sounds she was making. He let himself sink down farther and groaned aloud as his swollen shaft pressed against her hip.
There was a reason he must not do what he wanted to do, but he could not recall it. And did not want to try.
He buried his face in hair that smelled of summer flowers and honey. “Isobel, I want you so much.”
The breath went out of him in a whoosh as he cupped the rounded softness of her breast in his hand. It fit perfectly. And felt so wondrously good he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
He froze the instant he felt the prick of cold steel against his neck. All the reasons they should not be rolling around the floor of an empty storeroom came flooding back to him.
“You are right,” she said so close to his ear that he could feel her breath, “ ’tis wise to carry a short blade.”
“Forgive me.” He breathed in the smell of her skin one more time. Then he made himself get up.
As soon as he set her on her feet, she began to vigorously brush off her clothes. She was quite obviously embarrassed, but did she regret the kisses? He wished she would speak.
“Isobel?” He stepped close and touched her arm, but she would not look at him. “I cannot say I am sorry for kissing you”—kissing seemed hardly to cover it, but he thought it best to leave it at that—“but I do apologize if I have upset you.”
“The blame is not all yours,” she said, face flushed and eyes cast down, “though I might like to pretend otherwise.”
Ah, an honest woman. And a fair one, too.
“You know I am soon to become betrothed.”
“I did forget it for a time,” he said, hoping in vain to draw a smile from her.
“It was very wrong of me,” she said, lifting her chin. “It shall not happen again.”
“If it will never happen again,” he said, “then let me have a last kiss before we part.”
He thought his outrageous request would cause her to either laugh or shout at him. When she did neither, he put his hand against her soft cheek. He leaned down until his lips touched hers. This time, he kept the kiss soft and chaste. He would not upset her again.
But when she leaned into him, he was lost again in deep, mindless kisses. When they finally broke apart, they stared at each other, breathless.
“I must leave now!” she said, backing away.
He caught her arm. “These things happen between men and women,” he told her—though it had never happened quite like this to him before. “Please, Isobel, you must not feel badly or blame yourself.”
The huge eyes she turned on him told him his words had done nothing to reassure her.
“Come, you will want to put this on,” he said, picking up the simple headdress he saw lying on the ground.
She snatched it from his hands, slammed it on her head, and began shoving hair into it.
“ ’Tis a shame to cover such lovely hair.” Unable to keep his hands from her, he helped push loose strands under the headdress. He let his fingers graze her skin as he worked. And tried not to sigh aloud.
“Let me go first to be sure no one is near,” he told her. “Watch for my signal.”
He felt her close behind him as he eased the door open. “I am happy to practice with you whenever you like,” he said as he looked out into the yard. “Sword fighting or kissing.”
He spun around and gave her a quick, hard kiss, looking straight into her open eyes.
Isobel touched her fingers to her lips as she watched him go. Her breasts ached, and her whole body still thrummed with sensation.
What happened to her? She was stunned by her body’s response to his touch and by how it addled her mind. Judgment—indeed, all thought—left her the moment his lips touched hers.
Thank God, the shock of his hand on her breast finally brought her to her senses. She could not fool herself—she knew what path they’d been racing down. And, God help her, she’d been right beside him, matching him step for step.
Out in the yard, Stephen waved for her to follow. As if this were a game! She slipped out the door with her head down and walked as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
So, this must be what it is like to have an affair. Sneaking about, taking pains to be sure no one sees you coming from a place you should not be with someone you should not be with. She swallowed hard. Stephen was so practical about it all. Retrieving her headdress, tucking her hair in, keeping watch for her. So practical. And practiced.
She picked up her pace. ’Twas no comfort to know she was one of many women foolish enough to fall for Stephen Carleton’s charms. No comfort at all to know others had fallen further. Fallen? Nay, jumped.
She put her hand to her chest. At least he had listened when she told him to stop. Aye, she asked him with the point of her blade on his neck. But they both knew he could have taken it from her easily enough.
Another man might have felt justified in taking her. For she was brazen, opening her mouth to him, pulling him down on top of her. Good heavens, she was a woman possessed! Even when he covered her with his body—good as that
felt—she pressed into him, unable to get as close as she wanted.
Her breath quickened as she recalled the feel of his hands moving over her.
Without a speck of doubt, coupling with Stephen Carleton would be an altogether different experience from having Hume sweating and grunting over her. Just his kisses told her that. His kisses! Remembering how their tongues moved against each other, she could almost imagine—
“Isobel.”
She jumped at the sound of Carleton’s voice beside her. “What are you doing here?” Good God, she’d just imagined the man naked and—oh, she would not think of it more!
“You can slow down. No one saw us leave the storeroom,” he said. “Let me escort you back to the keep.”
“Leave me. I can find my way alone.”
“Isobel, you are going the wrong way.”
She looked around and found she was nearing the Porte Saint-Pierre, the main gate into the town. “Thank you,” she said in a tight voice and turned on her heel.
“Truly, it is not safe for you to go about without an escort,” he said, keeping pace with her. “Promise me you’ll not do it again.”
Promise? He had the gall to think he could exact promises from her? She kept her eyes fixed on the keep across the bailey yard and marched ahead.
She knew just what sort of man Stephen Carleton was. Did he think she did not notice how women fawned over him? She was not blind. Even when he was so drunk she was sure he could not tell one woman from another, they looked at him as if he were a gift sent by the angels.
These things happen between men and women. It was as good as saying it was nothing at all. Perhaps “these things” happened to Sir Stephen Carleton all the time, but nothing like it had ever happened to her before.
God’s mercy, the man must think she was one of those widows who will allow a man liberties simply because he is pleasing to the eye. She would never stoop to being one of his many women. Someone he forgot as soon as he dressed and left the room.
Never. Never. Never.
Carleton attempted to engage her in conversation, but she ignored him. Idle chatter was well beyond her now.
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