Knight of Pleasure (25 page)

Since Linnet was close at hand, she would begin with her.

Just as Isobel opened the bed curtain, Linnet came through the door with a rush of cold air and a tray laden with food. The
smell of warm bread made Isobel’s stomach growl. She’d slept through supper last night.

“Thank you, Linnet, that was thoughtful of you.”

Linnet kept her eyes on the tray and did not speak. Isobel sighed and wrapped her robe around herself. Motioning Linnet to
join her, she sat down at the small table.

“You must have been frightened when I did not return by nightfall,” she began. “I am sorry for that.”

Linnet lifted eyes swimming with unshed tears. “You did not need to go,” she said, accusation sharp in her voice. “Sir Stephen
and Lord FitzAlan would have brought them back.”

“I was too afraid for my brother to think clearly.”

Linnet pressed her lips together. After a long moment, she nodded. “For François, I would do the same.”

Linnet forgot her annoyance as Isobel related the story of the first attack.

Eyes wide, Linnet said, “ ’Tis something to see Sir Stephen and Lord FitzAlan fight, is it not?”

“I forgot you saw them fight in Falaise—”

Someone pounded on the door so hard it shook, startling them both to their feet.

The door swung open and de Roche stood in the doorway, his eyes black with fury. “What kind of fool woman has this English
king saddled me with?”

Linnet flew to Isobel’s side and clutched her hand.

De Roche slammed the door, causing them both to jump again.

“Foolish
and
disobedient,” he said. “Did I not tell you to wait in your chamber for your brother’s return?”

He strode across the room. When he stood not a foot from her, he asked again. “Did I not tell you?”

As a girl, Isobel had played with the boys. She knew about bullies. Cowering emboldened them.

“Aye, you did,” she said in a clear, unapologetic voice. Anger welled up in her, fast and hard. She opened her mouth to call
him a coward for not going after her brother himself.

Just in time, she remembered de Roche would be her husband and bit her tongue. No man could forgive being called a coward,
especially if the words were just. If she were to have any hope of a cordial relationship with her husband, she must not say
it.

De Roche stared at her tight-lipped. Then, quite suddenly, the anger left his face. She let her shoulders relax. The awful
moment was past, thank heaven.

“I begin to see the appeal of a spirited woman,” de Roche said, letting his gaze slide over her.

He pushed Linnet away and slammed Isobel against him. His mouth was hungry on hers, his hips ground against her, his erect
shaft pressed against her belly. Beside them, Linnet was shouting and pulling on Isobel’s arm.

De Roche released her just as suddenly.

“Perhaps you are worth the trouble, after all,” he said, smiling. He gave her cheek a hard pinch, then turned and left.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Linnet drew her to the bench under the arrow-slit window. Linnet sat close beside her
and held her hand. Isobel could not stop shaking.

“Must you marry him?” Linnet asked in a small voice.

“Aye, ’tis the king’s command,” Isobel said as calmly as she could. “You mustn’t judge him by one angry moment. He had cause
to be displeased with me, and he was over it quick enough.”

Isobel cursed her dead husband under her breath. Must she suffer for the rest of her life for Hume’s foolishness? She should
be mistress of her own home, living in peace in Northumberland.

“Help me dress,” she said, patting Linnet’s hand. “I must see how Lord FitzAlan fares.”

A short time later, she stood outside the door to Fitz-Alan’s sickroom. She lifted her hand to knock, hoping and dreading
she would find Stephen within. The door was ajar. She could hear voices.

One of them was Stephen’s.

After a deep breath, she rapped lightly. The people inside were talking so loudly, no one seemed to hear her. When they broke
into laughter, a flood of relief ran through her. FitzAlan must be out of danger. Smiling, she poked her head through the
door to ask permission to enter.

She froze as she took in the scene before her. On a stool beside FitzAlan’s bed sat a breathtakingly beautiful woman. The
woman leaned over the injured man, holding his hand in both of hers. Lady Catherine FitzAlan. The woman was fair, where Jamie
was dark, and she looked far too young to be his mother. Still, Isobel had no doubt that was who the lady was.

The three men in the room leaned toward her like sunflowers toward the sun. The usually stern FitzAlan was beaming up at her
like a boy in his first puppy love. Jamie stood behind, a hand resting on her shoulder. Completing the circle, Stephen sat
beside her, a hand on her other shoulder.

It was not Stephen’s hand on the woman’s shoulder that made it impossible for Isobel to breathe—though that did not help.
It was what she saw in his face as he gazed at the woman.

Bits of what she had overheard Stephen say about his brother’s wife spun through her head.
But I adore Catherine. There is no woman like her.
Worse still, she remembered the wistful tone of his voice when he spoke of her.

Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Stephen avoided a betrothal. Why he wasted time with worthless women like Marie de Lisieux.
She swallowed against the pain rising in her chest.

Stephen was in love with his brother’s wife.

Though Lady Catherine had to be several years older than Stephen, she was yet a great beauty. Isobel’s heart might hurt less
if she could believe physical beauty was all that drew him. But when Stephen spoke of her, it was not of her beauty.

Nay, he loved this woman for herself.

Lady FitzAlan must have felt Isobel’s stare, for she turned and looked at Isobel with eyes as blue as Jamie’s.

“Come in,” she called out. She rose to her feet and held her hands out to Isobel, saying, “You must be Lady Hume.”

Caught like a rat in a trap. Isobel stepped into the room and took the woman’s hands, for she could do naught else.

“I am Catherine,” the woman said, kissing Isobel’s cheeks. “Forgive my familiarity, but I’ve just heard how you saved my husband’s
life. God bless you!”

She startled Isobel further by pulling her into a full embrace. Isobel could not recall the last time she was embraced by
another woman. She had no sisters, no close aunts or female cousins. It must have been when she was a small child, before
her mother lost her warmth and laughter.

Isobel let herself be enveloped in the softness and breathed in Lady FitzAlan’s light, feminine scent. Much as she might want
to, she could not hate this woman now.

Lady FitzAlan pulled her into the room and made her sit on the stool Stephen gave up for her. Though Isobel felt Stephen’s
eyes on her, she could not look at him.

She sat mute, stunned by her discovery.
He loves her. He has always loved her.
The words went round and round in her head. She struggled to follow the lively talk in the room but could not.

She tried again to listen, determined to leave at the first break in the conversation. Lady FitzAlan was speaking of a premonition
so strong that she sent her children to her mother-in-law. Then she paid the owner of a fishing vessel an exorbitant amount
of gold to carry her across the channel between winter storms.

“ ’Twas foolish to risk yourself,” FitzAlan said. He had not once taken his eyes from his wife since Isobel sat down.

“ ’Tis good she came,” Stephen said behind her. “Catherine is the best medicine.”

Isobel could not bear to hear his voice.

When Stephen started to say something about the Fitz-Alans moving into a house in the town, she got to her feet. She had to
get out. This very moment.

Murmuring a feeble excuse—she hardly knew what she said—she went out the door before anyone could stop her.

Clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, she hiked up her skirts and ran down the corridor. She did not
get far before Stephen caught her arm.

“Isobel, we must talk,” he said, spinning her around. “I am sorry you are upset with me for not speaking to the king yet.
I could not leave my brother, and then Catherine came. But I will do it today, now, if the king will see me.”

“The king?” What was he saying?

“If the king insists on questioning you separately,” he said, “I shall ask Catherine to go with you.”

“Why must you speak to the king?” She had to hear him say it to be sure.

“Because of de Ro—” A look of distaste passed over his face, and he began again. “Because the king made other plans for you,
’tis best to obtain his permission before we marry.”

“I know you feel honor-bound to do this,” she said, “but I will not let you.”

He was chivalrous enough not to show relief. But perhaps he did not yet believe she meant it.

“Do not fret,” he said, giving her arm a squeeze. “The king will blame me, not you. I’ll not lie to you, he will be angry.
Quite angry, for a time. But all will be well in the end, I promise.”

“You shall not speak to the king about me.”

Stephen drew his brows together. “Isobel, surely you know we
must
marry.”

He did not call her “love” now.

“I know no such thing,” she answered, her voice tight. “If bedding a woman meant you must wed her, then you would have a great
many wives by now.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the easy, familiar Stephen was gone. The man glaring at her was the other Stephen—the
dangerous one who would ride into shooting arrows or throw a blade into a man’s eye.

“We shall marry as soon as—”

Stephen stopped at the sound of someone calling his name. Isobel turned to see François running toward them down the corridor.

“Stephen,” François said between gasps of breath, “Madame de Champdivers says you must come at once. She has something you
want.”

Isobel’s blood turned to ice. She would be a fool to risk all and marry this man. Between his hopeless love for his brother’s
wife and his constant affairs, there would be no end to her suffering. He would crush her heart worse than her father had.

“I shall find you when I return, and we shall talk,” Stephen said, his tone as hard as granite. “And then I shall go to the
king.”

She jerked her arm away and glared at him.

“We shall do what is right here, Isobel.”

I
thought you would never come,” Linnet scolded Stephen as she let him and François into Isobel’s chamber. “You must save her
from that horrid man.”

Stephen sighed. At least the twins were on his side. Isobel had been so angry when he tried to apologize for not yet speaking
to the king. Damn, he should have stayed and talked with her instead of going on that wild-goose chase.

Claudette had sent François to fetch him after overhearing de Roche and Marie de Lisieux having a furious argument. As Claudette
passed by a window in the Old Palace—Stephen did not ask Claudette what she was doing there—she noticed de Roche and Marie
in the garden below. Claudette caught only a few words of the argument, but she heard Marie say both Stephen’s name and “abbey.”

Stephen tried telling Claudette that, by now, everyone in the castle knew of the attack. But Claudette was certain Marie knew
something. And she was equally certain that Stephen was the only one who could worm it out of her.

When he finally tracked Marie down, she was pleased to see him. Too pleased. He did not believe Marie was involved in planning
the attack, but she did know something. He was not willing, however, to go to bed with her to find out what. After all, he
was almost a married man.

Whether his wife-to-be knew it or not.

Where in the hell was Isobel? It was late; they had no more time to waste. His head was throbbing long before he heard voices
outside the door.

The twins ran to meet Isobel at the door.

“François, ’tis nice to see you,” Isobel said as she came in. She sounded tired.

“I must go with François,” Linnet said as she and her brother scurried past Isobel.

“Linnet!” Isobel called as the door closed behind them. Isobel collapsed onto a stool and buried her face in her hands.

Stephen felt himself softening toward her, but he fought it. He must be firm with her.

When he stepped into the circle of light from the lamp on the table next to her, she looked up, startled. She looked so lovely
he could not speak.

“Did you get what you wanted from Madame de Champdivers?” Isobel snapped her mouth closed, as if the words had slipped out
before she could stop them.

Was it possible she was jealous? Of Claudette?

Ridiculous as it was, could that be the reason for her reluctance? The thought cheered him. Much better she be jealous than
indifferent.

“Claudette is a friend, nothing more.”

Isobel made a dismissive snort and looked away.

“We must go talk with William and Catherine about how best to approach the king. ’Tis late, and my brother needs his rest,
so we mustn’t tarry.” He held out his hand to her.

She rose without taking it and stood toe to toe with him. “I will not,” she said flatly.

He sucked in a breath to calm himself before speaking. “We must accept the consequences of our actions. I’d prefer you entered
into this marriage gladly. Regardless, I will try to be a good husband to you. I hope, in time, I can make you happy.”

“I will deny anything happened between us.”

He was stunned. “But why?”

She clamped her lips together and refused to answer.

“You cannot wish to have de Roche as your husband.”

It was bad enough that she was less than enthusiastic about marrying him. But surely she could not prefer that smarmy Frenchman
over him?

“I made a promise to the king,” she said, crossing her arms, “and I will make good on it.”

“And what of our promise to each other?” he asked. “We made a promise by what we did in the old croft at the abbey.”