‘Oh!’ Her shocked, shy moan had the tension winding tighter. ‘That’s...’
‘Different?’
‘Mmm.’ She gave his arm a gentle bite and drew her head back. ‘You can...’ she was panting as much as he ‘...take it more slowly, if you like.’
He did not think he could. Not with her breath coming faster at his every touch. Not with her mouth dotting his arm with kisses.
Suddenly it was over. She tightened around him and her eyes went wide. She gave a fluttering sigh. Capturing her mouth with his own, Lucien’s world convulsed into delight. Different indeed.
Their breath steadied. A brief silence fell. Isobel slid her fingers into his hair and let out a slow sigh. ‘That was...’
‘Better than expected?’
A light laugh sent something that felt like joy flooding through him. Joy. Who would have thought it?
‘Very much so.’ She was playing with his hair and his scalp warmed at her touch. ‘Next time you are interested in trying that, Lucien, I think we should take it more slowly.’
‘You do, do you?’ Joy. It was a strong feeling. Unsettling in its unfamiliarity. Confusing. Lucien reminded himself it could have nothing to do with Isobel personally, not when they had yet to become familiar with each other. It was far too soon for him to feel affection for her. He felt this way tonight because...because...this was the first time he had lain with a woman since Morwenna’s death. It was also the first time since his marriage to Morwenna that he had been able to enjoy a woman without the accompanying burden of guilt.
‘Mmm.’
With a grin, Lucien tightened his hold on his wife’s warm, lissom body. Freedom from guilt was as strong as any love potion; he was coming back to life already. He should not be. He ought to control himself. It was the tournament tomorrow and he had undertaken to officiate. He needed rest.
Hell burn it, this was his wedding night...
‘Isobel?’ He kissed her neck, inhaling deeply. Isobel.
‘Mmm?’
‘If you wish, we could try it more slowly.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
Chapter Nine
Darkness. Isobel woke slowly. The candles had blown out, and there was movement on the other side of the wooden screen.
‘Lucien?’ she called, stretching languorously.
With a rattle of curtain rings, Elise appeared, rushlight in hand. ‘It’s me, my lady. You asked me to wake you early because of the tournament. Count Lucien has already left.’
The All Hallows Tourney! Isobel bolted upright. How could she have forgotten?
Elise lit the candles, ducked through the curtain, and returned with a wash-bowl and ewer. She put them on a coffer. ‘You still intend to go, my lady?’
Isobel felt a pang of guilt. ‘Yes.’ She should feel happy. Happy and relieved. Lucien had told her that women could take pleasure in the act of love, and he had proved the truth of his words last night. She had taken pleasure. More than she had dreamed possible. Why had no one thought to tell her that losing one’s virginity need not be all pain? Why had no one mentioned that joining with a man might startle her with its beauty?
She grimaced. All of which made it doubly hard to go against Lucien’s wishes. She couldn’t forget that the man who had given her pleasure last night was the same man who had left her languishing in a convent for nine years. One night of bliss couldn’t put that right. And yet...
I don’t want us to be for ever fighting. She sighed. Nor did she want a husband who was going to ride roughshod over her wishes. Would it have killed him to let me attend the tourney today?
‘Are you all right, my lady? Do you need assistance?’
‘Assistance?’
‘Did the Count hurt you?’
Isobel drew her head back. Elise’s question verged on presumptuous, given she was not a trusted family retainer. She reached for her shawl. ‘My lord did not hurt me in the least.’
‘Not at all?’ Elise’s voice was harsh. ‘You are quite well, my lady?’
What was wrong with Elise? She looked most put out, as though Isobel’s reply had disappointed her in some way. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Elise muttered under her breath.
‘Elise, whatever is the matter?’
‘You bedded him,’ Elise said, in a flat voice.
Isobel stiffened. ‘Elise, you are impertinent. Lucien is my husband.’
Elise did not seem to have heard her. ‘I hoped you might refuse him. I thought you were angry at the wasted years, and the fear of pregnancy. I thought the dangers of childbirth weighed heavily on your mind. Have your fears gone?’
Isobel drew her shawl tightly about her shoulders, attention arrested by that hard edge in Elise’s voice. Where was the timid girl Isobel had been so relieved to meet in the Abbey? ‘Elise, whatever’s the matter? You know I am Lucien’s wife. You know that a wife cannot deny her husband. That’s why we visited the apothecary.’
Elise stepped right up to the bed. ‘Did he force you?’
‘Force me? Heavens, no,’ Isobel answered, blushing.
Elise stared at her. ‘My lady, you will have to take the herbs every day.’
‘I know.’ Pushing back the covers, Isobel got out of bed. Regret swept through her. How could she forget that? She was deliberately thwarting Lucien, who she knew wanted heirs. But Lucien was not the one who had to give birth. He might not be so keen on getting heirs if he had attended a woman’s lying-in. He might not be so keen if he had seen her mother die.
Lucien had relieved her mind on one aspect of marriage, but she doubted he would ever rid her of her fear of childbirth.
* * *
Shortly after dawn, when the mists were rising from the surrounding vineyards, Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, rode on to the Field of the Birds. He was fully armed. Chainmail weighed heavy beneath his blue tunic and cloak, and his black stallion was tricked out in a blue silk caparison that swirled with every step. Lucien guided him into position near a cluster of pavilions at the end of the lists. The pavilions were his and to mark this they, like Lucien’s tunic and Demon’s caparison, were blue.
Lucien was not taking to the field until later, but already excitement was coursing through his veins. This time the usual anticipation he felt at the beginning of every tourney was mingled with not a little astonishment.
Thoughts of Isobel were hard to chase away, and they were somewhat distracting. His new wife. His new and very desirable wife. He could see her in his mind’s eye—she would still be lying in bed at the palace. Her cheeks would be flushed with sleep, and her hair would be fanning across the pillows like gold silk...
With an impatient sound, he thrust the image to the back of his mind. Focus, Luc, focus. This was neither the time nor the place for distraction. Lucien had expended much energy on mastering the skills necessary to become a successful knight, and much time acquiring the experience to become a champion. He would not lose focus.
The whole of Champagne was apparently fascinated by his return to Ravenshold and his marriage to Isobel. Even though Lucien was not the official patron of this tournament—Lord Glanville now held that privilege—in the past few days over a dozen knights had ridden up to the Ravenshold gatehouse. They had begged to join his team—the Blues. They had assumed that Lucien’s return and his marriage meant that he would be taking up his father’s mantle and that tournaments held at the Field of the Birds would once again be patronised by the Count d’Aveyron. After his disastrous first marriage, Lucien had been happy for Lord Glanville to take over responsibilities as patron. Lucien himself had visited Ravenshold too rarely to be relied upon. Which was why, until today, he had never led a team on to the Field of the Birds.
This morning, however, it felt as though the old times had returned. Hosting the knights at Ravenshold as his father had done. Feeding them, watering them. After so long fighting on his own account, Lucien had been startled—and touched—by the support he had received. Perhaps, next ye
ar, he might play the patron in earnest.
He would have a word with Count Henry and see if they might reach an agreement. It made sense that Count Henry should hold lighter tournaments in Troyes, whilst Lucien hosted the more testing events at Ravenshold. As far as most knights were concerned, the more gruelling the tournament, the better. This wasn’t simply because fighting in the fiercest tournaments offered more in the way of practice. As he himself knew, for the seasoned and successful warrior, there were fortunes to be won. Vanquished knights paid ransoms to their captors.
Not that Lucien fought for the prize money—he had never needed to. He had fought to forget about Morwenna. He had fought to forget about the wedge his first marriage had driven between him and his father. It hadn’t worked. However many honours came his way, however many prizes he won, he had never been able to rid himself of the guilt. His marriage to Morwenna had driven his father to his grave.
Focus, Luc, focus.
Lucien didn’t want deaths today, no one did. This was a military exercise, not a slaughter. Which was why he had clapped his helmet on and mounted up even before his blue standard had been hoisted over his pavilion. He might not be the official patron of this particular tournament, but he would do his utmost to ensure that lives were not lost.
‘The ground is soft,’ he said, grimacing at Raoul de Courtney. In light of the sudden forming of the Blues, Sir Raoul was acting as his second-in-command. Like Lucien, Raoul was up and mounted. His helmet rested on his pommel. Raoul and Lucien would remain at hand in case tempers flared during the vespers.
Beneath him, Lucien’s stallion stirred and shook his great head. Lucien leaned forwards to pat his neck. ‘Steady, boy.’ Demon champed on his bit, his breath puffing out like dragon smoke in the cool morning air. Demon relished a tournament as much as Lucien, and he was picking up on the nerves of the younger knights and squires who were bawling to each other as they ran hither and yon. Last-minute repairs were being made to harness; spare helms and mail coats were being unearthed; there was much jostling about the whetstone. Across the lists, their opponents, the Reds, were making similar preparations.
Raoul frowned at the field. ‘Too soft?’
‘It’s hardly surprising, given the season. Likely it will pass muster. Untried knights must be warned to take care. I’m going to make a trial pass to judge for myself.’ Lucien glanced at the marshal, waiting for the signal that would send him charging into the lists. ‘I’m glad we’re in the same company today.’ He put a smile in his voice. ‘Wouldn’t want to unhorse you again.’ Raoul drew his head back. The two were fast friends, but Lucien knew that memory of that last tournament rankled.
‘Mon Dieu, find another song, Lucien. You didn’t unhorse me, it was a faulty stirrup.’
Lucien shook his head. ‘Keep saying that, my friend, and maybe in time you will come to believe it.’
The mist clung like wisps of gossamer to the dips in the land. Squires milled around the lance-stands, pale-faced and sweaty with dread. Townsfolk were streaming up the road from Troyes—the stands along the edge of the field were starting to fill. A furious hammering spoke of a battalion of carpenters making last-minute alterations to the benches at the far stand. Dogs barked. Rooks circled overhead. There was a smell of fresh bread and cooked meat. Vendors were crying their wares—pies and pastries, flasks of wine...
It couldn’t be all play. How could it? Cavalry officers must try out real lances. They must take part in fights where steel was honed to a bright edge—in tournaments like this where the jousting was more than mere theatre to please the ladies. There were still rules, of course, these out-of-town tournaments followed regulations. None the less, the brutal truth was that with newly dubbed knights taking to the field, anything could happen. Tempers might fray. There would be bloodshed. There might even be a death or two.
Behind his helmet, Lucien grimaced. He wasn’t the official patron today, but given his family connection to the place, he had taken it upon himself to ensure there was as little bloodshed as possible. Given that he had declined to take part in proceedings here since his marriage to Morwenna, he was surprised at how strongly he felt. No one must die here today.
Lucien hadn’t wanted Isobel here because he found her distracting. Lord, the woman was distracting even when she was not present.
People were pressing against the rope barriers stretched along the lists. Merchants and villagers for the most part. A veil fluttered, a child laughed, and the crowd parted as two girls pushed their way to the front. They stood out on account of their clothes. People seemed to be deferring to them, as if they knew they were not ordinary girls. Lucien squinted through the slit in his helmet and his blood chilled.
Isobel! Elise. For a moment he was too taken aback to feel anger, though he knew that would come. Isobel disobeyed me. He held Demon steady, alert for his signal from the marshal. He watched his wife, anger balling into a tight fist in the pit of his stomach. How dare she?
Isobel and her maid stood out among the peasants and merchants. Isobel, hair barely concealed by a delicate wisp of a veil, was gut-wrenchingly beautiful. Her cloak was dark-green and lined with fur. Beneath the cloak, Lucien glimpsed a sea-green gown that clung lovingly to every curve. Her body... Lord, she should not be walking abroad in that gown. He could see why she had waited to leave the Abbey before wearing it; the fabric hugged every sinuous curve and showed off her slender waist. In that gown, his wife was, quite simply, an incitement to sin.
Isobel is my wife! Does she have no escort? Lucien couldn’t tear his eyes from her. She should know better than to flaunt herself in such a way. People knew exactly who she was. They would wonder why she was not sitting on his stand. And there she stood, gazing about her with that straightforward, confident gaze he was coming to know—completely oblivious of the impression she was giving. She looks as though she is the plaything of a prince.
Lucien swore. Duty held him. At the other end of the lists, the marshal was speaking to a knight in the Reds, the order for him to test the ground had not been given. Anger gave way to anxiety. Isobel’s gown and body might be an incitement to sin, but her face was that of an innocent. She leaned out against the rope with her usual open, honest expression, and turned to search the crowd. He shifted his head to keep her in sight through the slit in his helmet. She was looking for someone.
‘That blasted relic-stealer,’ he muttered. ‘God, but she’s stubborn.’ Stubborn. Disobedient. Beautiful. And far too vulnerable.
‘Did you say something?’ Raoul said.
Lucien gestured across the lists towards Isobel. Her maid looked pale. She seemed conscious of the dangers. However, when did Elise not look nervous? ‘Over there. Do you see them?’
Raoul made that choking sound that bordered on laughter. ‘I didn’t think Lady Isobel was planning to attend?’
Lucien grunted. The phrase lambs to the slaughter jumped into his head, and it would not shift. These out-of-town tournaments were not usually the province of gently bred women. They should have brought an escort. Where are her father’s men?
More uneasy by the moment, Lucien wondered if Isobel was carrying a purse. Not that that signified; her cloak was fit for a queen—a cut-purse might attack her for the cloak alone.
And she imagined she was hunting a thief?
Elise frowned at Isobel. Across the lists, Lucien watched her lips move.
* * *
‘My lady, we ought to leave,’ Elise said for the tenth time.
‘I can’t see him, do you think he’s changed his mind about coming?’
‘Thieves are not known for their reliability, my lady.’
Isobel flung Elise a look of exasperation. ‘The man is here, I know it; we just have to find him. I gave the potboy in the Black Boar a handful of silver and he swore the thief would be here. That boy would have betrayed his mother for less.’ She huffed out a breath. ‘Our luck might change if we work our way round to the other side of the lists. The thief will be despera
te to get the relic off his hands, and where better to find a buyer? Half the nobility of Champagne is here. Let’s look nearer the pavilions.’
Elise linked arms with her, as though to pin her in place. ‘It’s not safe. My lady, it’s bad enough that you have flouted Count Lucien’s wishes, but to be chasing after a thief—I know you have been bored and restless at the Abbey, but this—it’s sheer folly!’ She paused, eyes clouded with concern. ‘We ought to go back to the palace. If Count Lucien sees you...’
Isobel stiffened. ‘Count Lucien cannot command my every move.’
‘Can he not? He might strike you—’
‘Strike me?’ Isobel gave Elise a startled look. ‘Why on earth should you think that?’
Elise gave her an odd look. ‘How much do you know about him, my lady? Count Lucien is a warrior, trained to get his way by force of arms. Now you are married, he is within his rights to punish you. Many men hit their wives.’
‘This is nonsense, Elise. I am confident Count Lucien will do me no harm.’
‘Are you?’
Isobel held down a flare of irritation. ‘Yes, I am.’ With a sigh, she caught Elise’s hand and ducked back into the crowd. Too many people were blocking her view, she was determined to work her way round to the red pavilions. ‘Have you seen his lordship?’
‘Not yet.’
Since Lucien’s device was a black raven on a blue field it followed that the blue pavilions would be his. Isobel would leave those till last. Her gaze wandered back to the knights gathered under Lucien’s colours. The wind was in the wrong direction, and the raven on his standard was lost in the folds of the cloth. She couldn’t see him. Ah! There he was in the middle of the field, next to Sir Raoul. She would give that area a wide berth...
She pointed. ‘He’s over there.’
‘Look the other way, my lady! He’ll see you!’
‘Elise, please be calm. No one has seen us, we were only at the rope for a moment.’ She lightened her tone. ‘Just think how pleased the nuns will be when the relic is returned.’
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