Lady Isobel's Champion (19 page)

The mist was writhing about the ramparts like a living thing. Gripping the torch, Lucien forced himself through it. The woman must be beyond the next turn in the walls. It was not Morwenna; this was no wraith from his past. There had to be a rational explanation. Notwithstanding, ice filled his veins. He dreaded taking that step round the corner, dreaded what he would find.
God help me. It is not Morwenna.

Thoughts do not follow time’s rules. Dozens can pass through a man’s head while he braces himself. And there on the walkway, with the love-song from his past bleeding gently into the fog-bound night, Lucien’s thoughts all but unmanned him.
It is not Morwenna. It is not.
That was the truth, it had to be, because if it was Morwenna singing...

His marriage to Isobel was invalid.
His chest seized up. His heart was in his mouth, as hard and cold as the stones in the parapet wall. Morwenna was dead.
Has there been a hideous mistake?

His marriage to Isobel was the truest thing he had ever known. It was not a lie. Grasping the torch so tightly his knuckles gleamed white, Lucien stepped round the corner.

‘Who is there?’

The woman stood by a sentry post, cloak gleaming bright as blood through the mist. Her face was white, a blur.

The song cut off. ‘My lord?’

‘Who is that?’

The torch flared, tendrils of smoke were swallowed by the January night. The cloak flickered—a dying ember in the dark—and was gone.

Lucien flung himself after her. He was fast, but the woman had wings. By the time he reached the next bend in the walkway, she was gone. She was not in the bailey—no one could have got down those steps so quickly. He leaned through a crenel, straining his eyes for the road below. Nothing. Only darkness and mist. No swirling red cloak.
No Morwenna
.

Briefly, he shut his eyes. He was not a superstitious man. Father Thomas had told him Morwenna was dead. She was dead. So why in God’s name did he feel this doubt? Why was dread gnawing at his innards? His heart was pounding so loudly he could hear it. Why?

Isobel is my soul-mate. Isobel is my wife.

Across the bailey, lights winked through the windows of the hall and keep. Isobel would be wondering where he was. He must join her.

As Lucien reached the head of the steps, he frowned. The dread had not left him. He couldn’t understand how he felt, but he wanted to try.
Isobel is mine.
Even the possibility that Morwenna might still be alive and his marriage to Isobel might be invalid was not to be borne. His lips twisted.
Who would have thought it? Such a ridiculous notion, and it all but unmans me!

Isobel is mine
. The thought of losing her was extraordinarily painful, far too painful to contemplate. Lucien increased his pace as he crossed the bailey and went into the keep to find her.

* * *

He caught up with her as she was leaving the cookhouse.

‘There you are.’ Taking Isobel’s hand, he pulled her close. He only intended to give her a light kiss; he hadn’t bargained for the sense of rightness that flooded through him the instant their lips touched. The smell of her—of Isobel, warm and womanly—brought every sense to life. He pulled her close, deepening the kiss.
Mine.

A serving girl edged past them. Dimly, Lucien heard her smothered giggle. He ignored the giggle and the kiss went on. When he touched his tongue to Isobel’s, his loins tightened. He fought with the impulse to stroke her breasts.

‘My lord!’ She broke free, smiling. Blushing like a rose. ‘Anyone might see us.’

With difficulty he eased back. He had forgotten himself. There was only Isobel. His mind was filled with desire—its hot, fiery pulse was fierce in his veins.

She cleared her throat. ‘I have been checking on the dough for tomorrow’s baking. We shall be eating soon, are you hungry?’

‘Mmm.’ He shifted closer. ‘But not for food.’

The serving girl emerged from the cookhouse with a batch of loaves for supper. Lucien heard another giggle and Isobel’s blush deepened to scarlet.

Tightening his hold on Isobel, Lucien steered her towards the twisting stairs that led to their bedchamber. He would tell her about finding Geoffrey’s killer later. First, he must communicate with her in an altogether different way...

‘Come along, little dove, we can send for food later.’

* * *

Lying on the bed afterwards, Lucien wove a tress of golden hair round his fingers and wondered why his heart ached. Isobel was dozing, a smile on her lips. Once he had convinced her that his most urgent need was not for food, her response had been as satisfactory as a man could wish.

I have lost all honour.

He felt he ought to have told Isobel what he had seen—what he
imagined
he had seen—up on the battlements. He should have told her before they had made love. Which was quite ridiculous, because his fear that he had seen Morwenna was completely unfounded. Just as his fear that his marriage to Isobel might be bigamous. He was being illogical. Neither Arthur nor Father Thomas would lie to him. It was ridiculous the way the woman on the battlements had lowered his spirits.

Isobel’s hair was soft as silk, fragrant with her scent. He lay at her side, head pillowed on one hand and studied her.
Isobel.
Other than Isobel, Lucien had never lain long enough with a woman to watch her lying in a doze. Something in his chest twisted.

Mine.

* * *

Feeling a tug on her hair, Isobel opened her eyes.

‘Will you sleep till dawn?’ Lucien’s broad shoulders were silhouetted by candlelight as he looked down at her. ‘We’ve not eaten. I’m hungry.’

‘We could ring for Girande. She can bring us a tray.’

‘No, there’s something you must see. After that we can eat in the hall.’ Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

* * *

As they dressed, the imprint of his kiss lingered on Isobel’s brow. There had been nothing sexual about it—it had felt like a kiss of affection. Of tenderness. Glancing sidelong at him, Isobel found herself smiling. Lucien was sparing with gestures of affection. He usually only gave them when he was intent on seduction. Was her cynical, martial husband learning to love her?

‘What must I see?’ she asked.

In the act of buckling on his belt, he looked across, eyes shadowed. ‘It concerns Morwenna.’

Isobel felt her face fall. ‘Oh?’

‘I thought I saw...never mind, I will sound like a madman. There’s a chest of Morwenna’s clothes somewhere. I must find it.’

‘What colour is it?’

‘It is plain oak. Unpainted, but carved.’

‘The design of the carving?’

‘Roundels, I think.’

Isobel had a vague memory of Elise sorting through a coffer with roundels on the sides. She had assumed it was full of bedlinen awaiting repair. ‘I think it is in the storage chamber below the chapel.’

* * *

The coffer was in the lower chamber. Isobel watched, tense with worry, as Lucien knelt in front of it and threw back the lid. Gowns and veils were dragged out and thrown to one side. A pair of shoes followed, then another pair. Some boots. A couple of girdles. A sturdy black cloak. As though in a dream, Isobel snatched them up again, shaking them out, folding them.
What does Lucien want with Morwenna’s clothes?

‘It’s not here,’ he said, leaning back on his heels.

‘What? What is not here?’

‘Her scarlet cloak. It’s gone.’

‘Elise was tidying these things,’ Isobel told him, holding Morwenna’s gowns to her chest. Until she knew what this was about, she was reluctant to confess that Elise had been doing more than that, that she had turned out the entire chest. ‘I shall ask her if she has seen a red cloak.’

‘Elise? Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ Scowling, Lucien shoved his hand through his hair and came to his feet. He noticed her holding the clothes. ‘Lord, Isobel, there’s no need to do that,’ he said. He took them and dropped them carelessly into the coffer.

‘Lucien, whatever is the matter?’

‘Nothing. I...’ Heaving a great sigh, he jerked his head at the coffer. ‘I want these burned.’

‘Burned?’ Isobel was shocked. ‘I can understand you might not like reminders of Morwenna lying about, but to burn them—it is pure waste. There’s good cloth there. Her things should go to charity; someone in the village will be glad of them.’

His eyes glittered, hard as glass. ‘Very well, do what you will...as long as I don’t have to see them again.’

She looked thoughtfully at him. ‘Lucien, please tell me what is troubling you.’

He gave a short laugh, though he looked anything but amused. ‘She’s haunting me.’

‘Morwenna?’

‘Who else? There was a woman on the battlements when I rode in. Singing. Whoever she was, her voice was the echo of Morwenna’s. It drew me like a siren’s.’

‘And...?’

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I would swear she heard me hail her, but the blasted woman vanished. I tried to find her, but—well, you’ll have seen the mist tonight—it swallowed her. I didn’t see her face, just the red cloak.’

Isobel stared at him. ‘Lucien, Elise was definitely sorting through this chest. I think we should go and speak to her.’

Chapter Eighteen

T
hey had missed supper. Servants were clearing away cups and serving platters when they reached the hall. Elise was not there. Isobel and Lucien took their places at a deserted table and wine was placed before them. A lad darted off to fetch food.

Lucien was heaping braised rabbit on to their trencher, when Isobel saw Solène at the other end of the hall. She waved her over. ‘Solène, where is Elise?’

Solène’s gaze fixed with apparent fascination at a neat darn in the tablecloth. ‘Oh, my lady, please don’t ask. I’m not supposed to say anything until morning.’

Lucien’s head shot up. Isobel laid a hand on his thigh. ‘Allow me, my lord.’ She smiled at Solène. ‘Solène? We are waiting...’

Solène shifted, she was looking anywhere but at Lucien. ‘My lady, I swore not to say anything tonight, but...but...Elise has gone.’

‘Gone? Where? What do you mean, she has gone?’

Solène clasped her hands. They were honest hands, gardener’s hands worn down by toiling in the castle garden.

‘Elise has left Ravenshold. My lady, I would have told you tomorrow, she was most anxious that I should convey her thanks to you. She told me you have helped her beyond measure. She is most grateful and said to wish you well.’

‘Elise has gone away?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘But why? I thought she was happy here. I thought you and she shared an interest and—’

Solène shook her head. ‘Elise did not come to Ravenshold by chance, my lady. She came to find out about her sister.’

Lucien put down his knife. ‘Her
sister
?’

Finally, Solène looked at him, she was quivering from head to toe.

‘Yes, my lord, her sister.’ Solène lifted her chin. ‘Elise came to Ravenshold to learn whether her sister—your first Countess—had been murdered.’

Isobel gasped. White about the mouth, Lucien came slowly to his feet.

‘I told her how it was, my lord,’ Solène said, speaking in a rush. ‘I told her how...troubled Countess Morwenna had been. At first she refused to believe me.’

After a moment’s silence, Lucien glanced shrewdly at Isobel. ‘Do you recall? Elise wriggled out of telling us her full name. I realise why. It is Elise Chantier.’

‘Yes, my lord, that is so.’ Solène plucked at her skirts. ‘My lord, I swear I never said anything amiss. All I did was try to lead her to the truth.’

‘Before I married her, Morwenna was known as Morwenna Chantier,’ Lucien said. ‘Think, Isobel, how Elise took pains to avoid me. Whenever I saw her, she was skulking in the shadows. That shyness is affected. She didn’t want to be noticed, she must have been afraid I would see a family resemblance.’

Elise is Morwenna’s sister.
Isobel’s mind raced.
That is why she attached herself to me at the Abbey—it was a ploy to gain access to Ravenshold!
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Elise found the east tower so terrifying she took to her heels rather than stay in it. I couldn’t understand why, but this explains it. She was overwhelmed by evidence of her sister’s fragility.’

‘Yes, my lady,’ Solène said. ‘Elise was hit hard by what she saw in the east tower. Although initially she refused to accept that Countess Morwenna had become so very ill.’

‘Elise told you she is Morwenna’s sister.’ Lucien gave Solène a penetrating look. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Not much, my lord. We discussed Countess Morwenna’s interest in herbs; she revealed nothing of herself. Her main concern was that I should convey her thanks to Countess Isobel. Oh—she did mention a cloak, a red one. She has taken it as a remembrance of her sister. She asked me to make it plain she has taken nothing else.’ Solène gave a small bob of a curtsy. ‘Will that be all, my lord? I hope I set her straight. I did not think it was my place to prevent her from leaving.’

‘I understand. And you are right—you could not have prevented her leaving.’ Lucien’s mouth twisted. ‘Thank you, Solène.’

‘You are welcome, my lord.’ Solène moved away.

Lucien exchanged glances with Isobel, and heaved a great sigh. ‘It was Elise singing on the battlements.’

‘It would seem so.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘I cannot tell you how much that relieves my mind.’

‘You did not truly think that Morwenna had come back to life?’

‘No, but it gave me pause.’ Reaching for her hand, he kissed it. ‘You are infinitely precious to me, Isobel. I would not want to lose you.’

Wild joy rushed through her.
Lucien loves me. I am infinitely precious to him.

‘It made me realise what would happen if our marriage had to be annulled,’ he added.

‘Oh?’

‘Think.’ His voice became confidential. ‘Isobel, if our marriage was declared unlawful, any child I may have given you would be illegitimate. You could stay with me, of course, but you would be my mistress, not my wife.’

Joy left her. Of course. The legality of their marriage was not his main concern. Lucien must have been wondering if he had got her with child. His priority was that his child should be legitimate. Something of her inner turmoil must have shown on her face, for his gaze sharpened.

‘Isobel? Are you unwell?’

He does not love me.
She pinned on a bright smile. ‘I am well, my lord,’ she said, searching for words to hide her distress. ‘My lord, in light of what Solène has told us, perhaps we should not give Morwenna’s belongings away. Elise might come back. She might want them.’

He picked up his knife with a frown. ‘Very well. They may stay in storage. As long as I don’t have to look at them.’

Isobel had lost her appetite. All through Christmas guilt had been a lead weight inside her. The holly clusters were losing their freshness—Twelfth Night would be upon them before they could blink. Soon, the festive greenery would be burned. January was here.

It seemed to have rushed at her.
Angelina may have had her child. I should have told Lucien.
Sick with dread, sick with waiting to hear from Turenne, Isobel picked at the rabbit. For the sake of appearances, she forced down a sliver or two. She knew the news would come soon, she just knew it
. I shall tell him tonight
.

* * *

Lucien was working his way through a spiced cream pie when Sir Gawain entered. He came directly to the table. ‘A messenger has arrived, from Turenne, Lady Isobel. I have taken the liberty of asking him to come in.’

‘Thank you, Sir Gawain,’ Isobel heard herself saying. Miracle of miracles, her voice was steady.

A messenger from Turenne. Angelina has had her baby.
If it is a girl, everything will go on as before. But if it is a boy, Turenne is no longer mine. I will have brought Lucien nothing but a chest of silver pennies.

She looked at Lucien. ‘I should like to greet my stepmother’s envoy in private, my lord.’ If she was about to be humiliated, she did not want the entire castle to witness it.

Lucien pushed the cream pie aside. ‘We’ll greet him together. In the solar.’

* * *

Eager for his supper, Angelina’s envoy said little. Before you could blink, he had handed Isobel a scroll and bowed himself out.

Isobel moved under the light of a cresset, and snapped the seal. Brown letters swam before her...

My dear daughter in marriage,

God send that this missive finds you and Lord d’Aveyron in good health. It is my pleasure to inform you that yesterday I was brought to bed of a son. He is thriving and, God willing, will continue to do so. He is named Gautier, in honour of your dear father. He...

The letter ran on, most of it in praise of the new heir to Turenne. Isobel let it curl back on itself, she would finish it later. She was pleased to have a brother, she had always wanted one but—

Lucien tossed a log into the fire, poking it with his boot. ‘Isobel?’

Isobel’s throat closed up, she could not speak. Avoiding his eyes, she handed him the letter.

He stared down at it, following the lines of ink with his finger as he read. ‘A son? Angelina has a son?’

Lucien’s voice sounded perfectly normal, one might imagine that he was no more than mildly surprised. One might think from his tone that it was nothing to him that his wife—the heiress of Turenne—had brought him not even an acre.

Angelina’s triumph—a male heir for Turenne—is my downfall. I am not an heiress, Lucien will no longer want me.
Sick to her bones, she glanced up at him and caught the tail end of a smile.

‘Well? Who would have thought it? Gautier finally produced a son. You have been displaced, Isobel. Displaced.’

Lucien’s smile was a puzzle. He did not seem remotely upset. Beyond speech, Isobel could only stare. Which was why she saw the moment he realised. Those blue eyes searched hers. Curiosity was followed by realisation, and it was as though shutters had slammed down between them.

‘You knew,’ he said. His voice was flat. Dead. ‘You knew Angelina was with child and you did not tell me.’

‘Lucien, I—’

‘You knew and you said nothing.’

His eyes were so bleak, she couldn’t meet his gaze. ‘Lucien, I’m sorry. I should have told you.’

‘You should.
Mon Dieu
, what were you thinking? I am your husband and this—’ he waved the scroll in front of her ‘—this concerns me as much as you.’

‘Forgive me, Lucien, I was wrong. I bitterly regret not telling you. I hoped Angelina would have a girl. I wanted to bring you lands. I wanted to be the heiress you hoped for.’

He thrust the scroll at her, his face set in stone. ‘Say no more, my lady. You damn me with your every word. I trust you will have the sense to bed down with your ladies tonight.’ With a bow, he stalked from the solar.

‘Lucien, wait...’ But Isobel spoke to the air, Lucien had gone.

* * *

Lucien stormed into the bedchamber. The bitter taste in his mouth was as nothing compared to the bitterness of his feelings.
She deceived me. She thinks all I care for is her father’s land. Lord, she must loathe me.

He paced the chamber, and the candlelight shook in the draught. On the wall, his shadow did an ugly, wavering dance. Isobel’s belief that he cared only for land was like a blow to the heart. She thought him mercenary. She didn’t trust him.

Despite my first marriage, I was prepared to trust her. Yet she does not accord me the same honour.

Absently, he rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand. His chest hurt; Lord, he could feel real physical pain. It was probably indigestion. He sank on to the bed with a sigh. Reaching for her pillow, he brought it to his nose and inhaled. Roses. Honeysuckle.
Isobel.
The pain intensified. God help him, it was not indigestion. He hurt because of Isobel.
I love her.

Throwing the pillow aside, disgusted with himself, he put his head in his hands. For the second time in his life he had fallen in love with a deceitful woman.
She should have told me about Angelina. She should think better of me than to judge me purely mercenary.

On the floor, something caught the light. It was the brooch, the diamond moon that he had given her. Going over, he picked it up and went to put it in her jewel box. Searching the jewel box for the rose silk pouch, he pushed a sackcloth sachet aside. Some dried leaves spilled out and his stomach fell away.

Herbs? Why the devil does Isobel keep herbs in her jewel box?

Lucien ripped open the sachet, rubbing the herbs between his fingers. It was a blend, he could smell rosemary and sage, but there were other ingredients he could not identify. A russet-coloured residue clung to his fingers.
Mon Dieu
, what witch’s concoction was this?

Was his second marriage turning into the mirror of his first? Was she dosing herself? If so, she must stop. A few days since, Lucien had wondered whether Morwenna’s habit of testing various remedies on herself might have been the cause of her worsening malaise. Had Morwenna brought her illness upon herself by trying out so many pills and potions? It was too late to know the truth of what had happened to Morwenna, but he wasn’t prepared to take the risk with Isobel. Not with Isobel.

Someone tapped lightly on the door.

He wrenched it open. Isobel. The candle in her hand made her eyes glow like green fire. They were huge. Anxious.

‘May I come in?’

‘Please do. I wish to speak to you.’

She put the candle on a coffer. ‘I came to apologise. I—’

‘Never mind that.’ He held up the sachet. ‘What the devil is this?’

She flinched. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Isobel?’

Her eyelashes fell. She stared at the sachet, chewing her lip. ‘I am sorry, Lucien. I can see that tonight is going to be a night of apologies.’

‘You’ve been dosing yourself with this stuff?’

‘Yes, but I stopped, when—’

‘Lord, Isobel. What’s in it? What’s it for?’

‘Lucien, please forgive me. It...it is a blend of herbs to prevent conception.’

* * *

Isobel braced herself for an explosion of fury.

Lucien twisted away and stared into the fire, shoulders lifting and falling with each breath. Several moments slipped by. But for the faint popping of the fire, all was quiet. Tonight, the wind had died and all of Champagne was muffled in mist.

He turned. His brow was creased, his mouth tight. He dangled the pouch in front of her, and she caught a whiff of rosemary.

‘Isobel, it grieves me to hear you do not want my child—’

‘Lucien...that’s not true—’

‘Let us set that aside for now.’ The muscle beneath his scar flickered. ‘Are you taking these herbs? I want this quite plain—I do not wish you to take them.’

‘They are everyday herbs, and I no longer take them,’ she said, watching him warily. Hopefully. Lucien seemed more concerned about the herbs than about her lack of trust in him. Keeping news of Angelina’s baby from him had been a grave error, but he was definitely more concerned about the herbs.

‘Thank God.’ He tossed the pouch onto the fire. ‘You are not to take them again.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good.’

Isobel’s pulse thudded, crazy with hope. He really did not want her to take them—anger at her attempts to prevent conception was not uppermost in his mind.
Lucien cares about me. He doesn’t want to admit it, but I am more to him than the means of acquiring lands. He cares for me, I know he does.
‘The same herbs are used in the kitchens.’