“We cannot wait until it is too late,” Linnet objected.
“Perhaps you could marry her instead?” François said.
Stephen laughed and shook his head. “You want me to marry to please the two of you?”
“She is very pretty,” François said, “and I know how much you like her.” The boy leaned forward, mouth hanging open like a half-wit, in what Stephen took as an imitation of himself.
Linnet threw her head back and hooted with laughter.
Stephen rubbed his temples. What had he done to deserve these two demons? “I do wish Lady Hume a better husband, but de Roche is the man King Henry has chosen for her.”
Linnet dismissed the king’s wishes with a very French lift of her narrow shoulder.
“Come,” Stephen said to her. “I shall take you back now.”
He expected an argument, but Linnet jumped to her feet. After bidding adieu to François and Lightning—who withstood her exuberance with uncharacteristic calm—she was ready to go.
When they reached Isobel’s chamber in the keep, Linnet pushed the door open and ran inside. Stephen followed, intent on speaking to Isobel about Linnet.
As he closed the door, he saw Isobel. She was standing before the basin on the table against the wall, as if about to wash her face. Her long, dark hair was in tangles, and she wore just her shift.
The sight left Stephen dry-mouthed. When she turned and met his eyes, heat scorched between them like a fire.
He’d seen countless women rise from bed wearing less, but none stirred him as she did, covered neck to ankle in a plain white shift. The thought came to him, unbidden and unwelcome: He could see her like this every morning and never tire of it.
He remembered the silky feel of her hair in his hands. His fingers itched to touch it, but his feet were fixed like stone weights to the floor.
His eyes traveled down the lovely curve of her neck. He longed to run his tongue along the delicate collarbone just above the edge of her shift. Then, shameless man that he was, he let his gaze drop precipitously to her breasts. They were round and full, the tips pressed against the cloth.
He could not get enough air.
Still, he followed the folds of the white cloth down, pondering the sweet mysteries underneath. He was a drowning man. Down, down, down he went, until he reached slim ankles and bare feet. He wanted to hold her delicate foot in his hand and kiss each toe. And then move up her leg.
He dragged his gaze back up, savoring every inch in reverse. When he reached her face again, he thought his heart would stop. Her eyes held that same look of longing he remembered from the first time they met.
Blood pounded in his ears. He wanted her so badly he could taste the salt of her skin. With this fire sparking between them, the first time would be hot and fast. But then he would take her behind those bed curtains and spend the rest of the day making slow love to her. He would run his tongue over every—
“Lady Hume, you must put this on!”
The voice penetrated his reverie. Vaguely, he realized he’d been hearing Linnet’s voice for some time. Whatever was the child doing here?
“Lady Hume!” The girl was tugging on Isobel’s arm. “Isobel!”
This time, Isobel heard her. Before Stephen could cry out in protest, Isobel snatched the robe from Linnet’s hand and whipped it around her shoulders. She looked so beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her hair swept over one shoulder, Stephen could almost forgive Linnet the robe. Almost.
But the girl had to go. Now.
Linnet had to leave so Stephen could gather Isobel in his arms and take her behind those bed curtains—
Just what had Isobel been doing behind those bed curtains? Tousled and in her night shift in the middle of the afternoon?
Was there a man behind those curtains? De Roche? Nay, she would not. She could not. Jealousy settled in his belly like a corrosive poison.
“Are you ill?” he asked, keeping his voice calm with considerable effort. “Is that why you are abed at this hour?”
“I haven’t slept well lately. After Linnet left, I decided to rest awhile,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face. “But why are you here, Stephen?”
“I was returning Linnet.”
“From where?” she asked. “She only went to the kitchen.”
“You were here alone, asleep, with your door unbarred?” Stephen could not control his temper with so much emotion roiling inside him. “And you should not let the girl wander all over the castle on her own. For God’s sake, Isobel, the place is filled with soldiers.”
Isobel took Linnet’s hand and spoke to her in a soft voice. “Sir Stephen is right; you must be careful where you go alone. Most of the castle is safe, but avoid the places where soldiers congregate and other women are unlikely to be about.”
He was relieved Isobel was giving the girl sensible direction, though it was not as restrictive as he would like.
“An isolated area,” Isobel continued, “is even more dangerous.”
“Such as the storerooms along the outer wall,” he could not help putting in.
With her practice partners gone to Falaise, had Isobel taken to going alone to the storeroom? He took her arm to pull her aside and ask. As soon as he felt the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, lust blazed through him again.
Whatever he meant to tell her was gone from his head. All he could think to say was that he wanted to see her naked.
Isobel jerked her arm away as if his touch burned her, too. “Of course, the most dangerous place to be caught with a man is a bedchamber,” she said between clenched teeth. “Stephen, you must leave.”
Ludicrous as it was, he felt pleased that she was calling him just “Stephen” again. He loved to hear her say his name.
He bowed and left, baffled by his loss of control. If Linnet had not been there, he would have had Isobel on the bed before a word passed between them. Nay, they never would have made it to the bed. It would be on the floor, or against the wall—
The saints preserve him, he was light-headed from breathing so hard. He’d be better off lost to drink than lost in lust to a woman he could not have.
That was not quite the truth of it. Isobel was a woman he should not have. She may not know it, but he could have her. He did not mistake the look in her eyes. That made her all the more dangerous.
He truly must stay away from her now. God help them both if he could not.
Chapter Sixteen
March 1418
Stephen managed to avoid Isobel for a full week, though sometimes it seemed as if all the world conspired against him. How Robert found him here in the armory he could not guess.
“You must ask someone else,” Stephen said without looking up from the blade he was sharpening. “I am busy.”
“There is no time,” Robert said. “All I ask is that you go tell Isobel I’ve been called away so she does not sit waiting for me all afternoon.”
“She can wait.”
Robert glanced at the men hammering metal at the far end of the armory and lowered his voice. “The king needs me to come at once, and I cannot just leave her there.”
“I see I shall have to tell you the truth,” Stephen said and slammed the blade down on the bench beside him. “ ’Tis for her own protection I cannot go. The lady is not safe with me.”
Robert’s mouth twitched with amusement, which annoyed Stephen more than he thought possible.
“Surely I can trust you not to attack Isobel in broad daylight in a common area of the castle?” Robert said, widening his eyes in mock horror. He leaned down and whispered, “The king wishes me to listen behind the secret door while he meets with de Roche.”
That did it. Stephen wiped his blade and returned it to his belt. When he looked up, Robert was halfway out the door.
“You will find her,” Robert called over his shoulder, “in the small garden behind the Old Palace.”
The small garden! With tall hedges on three sides and a wall on the fou
rth, that garden was made for liaisons. Stephen should know. He opened his mouth to call Robert back, but his friend was long gone.
Damn, damn, damn. So much for good intentions.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Stephen fought it, but he could not prevent it from spreading into a grin.
A man could fight fate only so long.
Isobel. He could hardly wait to see her.
A rat scrabbled along the secret passageway behind Robert. God’s beard, it was filthy back here! Three hundred and fifty years of royal spies and lovers traipsing through it, and he doubted it had ever seen a broom.
Robert pressed his ear to the hole again.
“I have persuaded my cousin Georges de la Trémoille to do all he can to keep Burgundy on your side.”
Robert remembered the beady-eyed Georges from boyhood—a pompous ass if there ever was one, but a wily one. If Georges was taking the English side, it was for his own reasons.
De Roche droned on about various members of the Burgundy faction, all of whom he claimed he could influence. Not a word passed de Roche’s lips that Robert could use against him. Damn the man.
At long last, the king dismissed de Roche and his guards.
“You were right to suggest I use common soldiers as guards today,” the king said as Robert stepped through the hidden panel. “De Roche assumed they could not understand French and spoke freely.”
The soldiers could not, in fact, follow the conversation. That was Robert’s job.
“He told you nothing we did not know,” Robert pointed out as he brushed a cobweb from his tunic. “He is a slippery one. We cannot know on which side he will land.”
The king slapped his fist against his palm. “Then it is time to force his hand with the betrothal.”
Robert did not believe it would be so easy to flush de Roche out. He would wait to share this insight, however, until the king was ready to hear it.
“At the pace you and de Roche are negotiating this marriage contract,” the king fumed, “I may as well have asked the lawyers to do it.”
Robert was rather proud of how long he’d managed to drag it out. He had to stifle a smile—until he caught the steely glint in the king’s eye.
“I will have this betrothal settled,” the king said, pointing his finger at Robert, “within a sennight.”
Seven days. That did not give him much time to thwart the king’s plans. Rather, it did not give Stephen much time.
He hoped matters were progressing in the garden.
Isobel let her head rest against the wall behind her. It felt heavenly to be alone in this peaceful garden, knowing de Roche would not come looking for her. God bless King Henry for giving him a private audience today! It took constant vigilance to avoid being caught alone with de Roche again.
Stephen, on the other hand, she’d barely glimpsed since she sent him from her chamber. How close she had been to succumbing to temptation that day! She should have been insulted by the way Stephen’s gaze moved so blatantly over her body. Instead, his hunger seduced her, made her insides go hot and liquid. Without a single touch, she was his.
Or would have been, but for Linnet. God would punish her for being such a sinful woman.
Stephen had avoided her ever since. When she did chance to see him, he was always occupied. Talking with merchants from the town. Drinking with local noblemen. And there was always a woman nearby—touching his arm, laughing at his jokes, following him with her eyes. It was as if Stephen wanted to show her she did not matter.
Sometimes, though, she felt his eyes upon her. But when she turned to look, his gaze was elsewhere.
“Isobel.”
She looked up, and there he was, so handsome he took her breath away.
“Robert could not come, so he sent me to fetch you.”
“Will you not sit for a while?” she asked, patting the bench beside her. “With the sun out, it almost feels like summer in this sheltered garden.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Are you angry with me?” She was embarrassed by the quaver in her voice, but she pressed ahead. “You almost run when you see me, as if you cannot bear the sight of me.”
To her astonishment, Stephen threw his head back and laughed. He had a wonderful, infectious laugh. It filled the small garden and lightened her heart.
He dropped down beside her. Smiling his most wicked smile, he leaned too close and asked, “You will pretend you do not know why I keep my distance?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “I do not know.”
“You lie, Isobel, but I will tell you all the same.”
She could not breathe with him this near.
“I stay away because whenever I see you”—he kept his eyes fixed on hers as he ran his finger slowly up her forearm—“all I want to do is drag you off to bed, and keep you there for a week.”
A week. Oh, my. Her mouth went dry, and she wet her lips with her tongue. Her stomach tightened at the desire she saw burning in his eyes.
“I cannot be in a room with you,” he said, his voice thick and husky, “without imagining what it would be like to take your clothes off. To feel your bare skin, warm and soft beneath my hands, against my chest. To smell your hair, to taste—”
He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes.
Isobel tried to slow her breathing, but there was nothing she could do about her racing pulse.
He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “Tell me, what is this between us?”
She had no answer, at least none that she would give him.
She felt weak and liquid as he took her face in his hands. Kiss me. Please. Just once more.
When he pulled away, she felt bereft, wanting.
Stephen fell back against the wall and rocked his head from side to side. “This is more dangerous for you than for me. ’Tis why I tried to stay away.” He rubbed his hands over his face and muttered into them, “What am I to do with her?”
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. She clenched her fists to keep from saying it aloud.
He dropped his hands and asked, “Do you want to marry him?”
She blinked at him, startled by the question.
“Now that you’ve spent time with de Roche,” he persisted, “are you content to be his wife?”
“It does not matter what I wish,” she said, though he should not need to be told. She straightened her spine. “I must do my best to be content with the fate God gives me.”
“That is no answer,” Stephen said.
And not fair to her future husband, either. She felt a wave of guilt for her disloyalty.
“Truly, the king has chosen well for me,” she said. “Philippe de Roche is far above me in both wealth and position. The match exceeds every reasonable hope I could have.”
For a certainty, de Roche would make a better husband than her last. She shuddered to think what sort of man her father would have given her to this time. God forgive her for not being as grateful as she ought. For wanting more.
Stephen took her hand and squeezed it. “You deserve to be happy this time.”
She did not bother telling him that what a woman deserved had very little to do with what she got, at least in this life.
Chapter Seventeen
The noisy clatter and conversation in the Exchequer hall came to an abrupt halt. Isobel barely had time to scramble to her feet before the king and his commanders left their places at the high table and filed out of the hall.
As she sat back down, Isobel risked a sideways glance down the length of the table. No woman sat next to Stephen tonight.
And it could snow in July, too.
What did Stephen mean, asking her those questions this afternoon? One moment he was teasing her, the next acting tormented.
“Isobel?”
She started at the sound of de Roche’s voice beside her.
“I had to say your name three times,” de Roche said. “Who were you looking at?”
&nbs
p; “My brother,” she said, relieved to have an excuse ready. “I worry he spends so much time at L’Abbaye-aux-Hommes.”
That much was true. What was troubling Geoffrey that caused him to keep vigil with the monks so often? And now he was desperate to tell her about a holy relic at some other abbey. What did he say the relic was? A saint’s finger joint? She had promised to meet him later. Heaven help her, he’d probably written a poem about the shriveled finger.
“You can have no objection to your brother’s devotion,” de Roche said, interrupting her thoughts again.
Isobel did not mistake his pronouncement for an invitation to explain her concern. De Roche never asked her questions of a personal nature about her family. She was relieved, and yet… How different he was from Stephen. Stephen would not be content until he wheedled every dark family secret from her.
This time she was jarred from her thoughts by something warm and heavy on her leg.
“For once, your vigilant guardian has left us.” De Roche was looking straight ahead, but his lips were curved up at the corners.
She glanced up and down the table. Both Robert and Stephen had disappeared. Off in search of amusement in the town, no doubt.
She grasped de Roche’s hand to halt its progress up her thigh.
“You are tired, my dear,” de Roche said. “Shall I see you to your chamber?” Without waiting for her answer, he gripped her elbow and hoisted her to her feet.
“I began to wonder if Sir Robert would ever leave your side,” de Roche said in her ear as he whisked her out of the hall. “The man protects you as if you were an innocent virgin.”
She felt uneasy and a little breathless as he marched her purposefully down the steps of the Exchequer and along the path to the keep. The night air was cold. Through the thickness of her cloak, she could feel de Roche’s heat.
Could he not say something to soothe her?
He maintained both his silence and his brisk pace all the way to the keep. By the time they reached the corridor outside her chamber, her heart was slamming in her chest. His teeth gleamed in the rushlight as he spun her toward him. She tensed as de Roche ran his fingers down her throat.
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