‘Lances will be blunted, my lord?’
‘Indeed. It is only fair to warn you that Count Henry intends to crown you Queen of his tournament, in honour of our marriage. You will be awarding the prizes.’
‘Me? Goodness, that is an honour.’ Her expression lightened. ‘Thank you, my lord, I should enjoy that. Will you be competing?’
‘Most likely.’ Lucien frowned at the door. ‘Where is that girl? Don’t tell me she’s found a sweetheart already?’
‘Elise? Heavens, I hardly think so.’
‘She had better hurry, I’m not leaving until she returns.’ Lucien moved closer. Close enough to feel her warmth. He had not witnessed what had happened behind his pavilion, but Harry had told him. Had the thief tracked her there? Had Isobel been the real target rather than Geoffrey?
Another possibility, and one that was just as unpalatable, was that Geoffrey had been involved with the thief in some way. Lucien hadn’t discussed this with anyone, not even Raoul. Could Geoffrey have been acting as the thief’s agent?
Until today, Lucien would have taken an oath that Sir Geoffrey of Troyes was honest. Until today, he’d been certain that Geoffrey could no more act dishonourably than fly. True, Geoffrey’s mother was ill and in need of costly medicines, but Lucien would never have imagined that Geoffrey would resort to underhanded means to find money. Not Geoffrey. Not one of my household knights. Lucien could not be sure, but it seemed far more likely that Geoffrey had been killed because he had been barring the way to Isobel.
Isobel is in danger.
He found himself gazing at her, top to toe, as though to memorise her features. He could not fathom it, but the more he saw of her, the more beautiful she seemed to become. She was more wilful than he had expected her to be, more of a handful and yet...
In some inexplicable way, the sight of Isobel seemed to loosen knots inside him that he had not known were there. That direct green gaze, so candid, so intelligent, seemed to offer something he had never looked for in a wife. A true partnership. It was very beguiling.
He checked himself. What was he thinking? He needed no one but himself. He must not forget that he had once found Morwenna beguiling. In those far-off days, he had been an innocent himself and completely inexperienced with women. Morwenna had taken him in. She had flattered him and had bedded him with the intention of making him fall in love with her. Morwenna gulled me. She used my naivety against me. I was a fool then. But I am naïve no longer.
Lucien wasn’t about to be burned twice. Isobel must be kept at arm’s length. That had been, he recalled with a frown, his plan all along. He had thought to marry her and keep her safe at one of his castles while he continued doing the rounds of the tourney circuit. In between tournaments and overseeing his lands, he would visit her and they could go about the pleasurable business of getting an heir...
Yes, life was going to be so much better with Isobel to come home to. My wife. She had grown into the most feminine of women. He let his fingertips explore her cheek, enjoying the way her skin darkened in the candlelight as much as the softness, the warmth. He leaned in and the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses caught at his senses. As long as he guarded his heart, there was no reason why he should not take pleasure in his marriage.
‘I am a lucky man,’ he murmured, dropping a swift, testing kiss on her mouth. Already her beauty was a trial to him. She was irresistible. So very beddable.
Her eyelashes lowered, her blush deepened. He pulled back, caught a slight sigh and...
Irresistible.
‘Oh, the devil,’ he said, gathering her fully into his arms.
He heard another little murmur. His tongue sought the warmth of her mouth as the scent of summer weaved about him, heady as spiced wine. Her eyes were closed, her head was tilted up to his, and that lovely body pressed close. There would be pleasure in his second marriage. As long as he remembered to keep his heart out of it.
She slid her hand up his chest, and wound her arms around his neck. Amazingly, his legs weakened, as they had not done with a woman in years. Yes, it was all very promising.
Except that her veil was in the way. Even though he had sworn not to touch her that way tonight—she was overset—Lucien longed to tear it off and loose her hair. She drew back and he noted with satisfaction how breathless she was, how her breasts strained against her bodice...
Blushing like a rose, she gestured at the bed. ‘My lord, have you changed your mind about tonight?’
If she did but know it, that husky voice was an invitation to sin, but there were shadows under her eyes. The strains of today were showing, only a beast would bed her tonight. He shook his head. ‘You need rest. Sleep well. Elise will be waiting outside, I shall send her in.’
‘Thank you, my l...Lucien.’
Lucien had left his cloak on a chair in the solar. There was no sign of Elise. With a sigh, he retrieved his cloak and softly retraced his steps to the curtained doorway.
Wrapping himself in his cloak, Lucien settled down across the threshold of the bedchamber, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable night guarding his wife. Elise would simply have to step over him when she finally returned from whatever tryst she was keeping. Stupid wench. Isobel deserved better.
* * *
The cold made for a quick disrobing—Isobel had goose-bumps everywhere. Unpinning her veil, she slung it on a hook. She slipped out of her gown and loosened her braid. It was clear that Lucien must harbour some anger against her for disobeying him. Otherwise he would have joined her in bed. She knew he wanted her.
It is lust. He lusts for me.
Was it possible to build a marriage where the husband felt little for his wife but lust?
Lord, she was tired. Too tired to think. Likely it was as well that Lucien had gone, because she doubted she had the energy to pleasure him tonight. Briefly, Isobel wondered whether to remove her undergown before deciding against it. Winter was here and no mistake, the bedchamber was cold. Damp must be seeping into the palace from the canal. No matter. There were plenty of lambswool blankets. When Elise came back, they could warm each other.
Isobel pinched out her candle, left one burning for Elise, and slipped between the sheets. As she did so, she heard a soft thump in the solar. She snuggled under the covers and rubbed her arms to warm them. Elise had returned. She fell into a half-doze.
Time slipped by. And then more time. Elise did not join her.
Muzzy with fatigue, Isobel sat up. ‘Elise? Is that you?’
Something rustled and from the other side of the screen, there came a low, but distinct curse. ‘Hell.’ The voice was male.
Was Lucien still here? Half-asleep, she stumbled out of bed, snatching up a candlestick on her way. It was solid iron, a weapon, if need be. She tiptoed to the entrance. ‘Elise? Lucien?’
The gloom in front of her shifted and took solid form, a man stood between her and the fire. Heart in her mouth, she clutched the candlestick to her breast.
Her eyes adjusted to the firelight. ‘Lucien!’ She sagged with relief. ‘Holy Mother, I thought you’d gone. You scared me.’
He prised the candlestick from her. Lucien’s scar was made sinister by the shadows in the solar, his features looked stark in the firelight. He was all lines and sharp angles. His jet-black hair; the square jaw; that furrow between his brows as he looked down at her—all combined to form the image of a man who made no compromises. His eyes glittered.
I married this man. I must give him children.
‘I intended to, but Elise did not return,’ he said curtly. He looked extremely put out; it could not be comfortable on the floor. And she was keeping him from his business at the castle.
‘I don’t need a nursemaid. You didn’t have to stay.’
He gave her a crooked smile. ‘No?’
Her gaze was held by the scar on his temple, something about it fascinated her. Stepping up to him, she pushed back his hair—thick hair, so thick—and touched it with her fingertips. His eyes darkened,
he went very still.
‘Lucien, where did you get this?’
‘Some witless woman tried to brain me with a candlestick?’
‘No, truly...you didn’t have it when we were betrothed. Is it a battle-scar?’
His smile faded. ‘You might call it that.’
Something in his tone warned Isobel that further questions were not welcome. When his eyes drifted down and his expression turned to one of appreciation, she realised her hair was hanging about her, in some disorder after burrowing under the bedcovers. Hastily bunching it together, she pushed it over her shoulders.
‘No need to do that,’ he said, softly.
Heat washed over her. She was clad only in a light shift, a shift that revealed more than it concealed. And Lucien was smiling at her bare feet.
Hastily she retreated. She did not stop until she was back by the bed and the straw matting was harsh beneath her feet. Lucien came after her. Thank the Lord, there was only one candle, he wouldn’t see her blushes. She was not used to being married and his smile had a distinctly wolfish edge to it...
He replaced the candlestick on a coffer, shed his cloak and pulled her close. ‘Elise is busy trysting; why should we not do the same?’
Isobel’s mouth was dry, and her senses heightened. She was fighting with the urge to lick her lips—afraid he would notice. Lord, no, she wanted him to notice. Holy Virgin, don’t let him see how he attracts me. She could feel so much more of him when clad only in her undershift. His body felt leaner, stronger. More male. It was not frightening but it was disturbing. Tonight there was that about him that was almost predatory. ‘Lucien, please...’
‘Relax. I have told you that I shall spare you my attentions tonight. Tonight, I seek simply to offer you comfort.’ His hand closed possessively over her breast, gently cupping her.
Comfort? Isobel’s breast tightened. She wanted to press herself against his palm. The ache in her belly told her how much she wanted—needed—to intensify the contact.
He nuzzled her cheek. ‘Comfort, and perhaps a few kisses. Isobel, you’re cold. Let me warm you.’
His kiss was as gentle as his hand. As seductive. It was a kiss that made her hunger for more—it had her gripping his shoulders and sliding a hand round the back of his neck. She twisted in the hope that he would see that she was giving him better access to her breasts. Recklessly, part of her wanted him to take advantage of her.
‘That’s it,’ he murmured. ‘Trust me. Show that you trust me.’
The remark struck a jarring note and she drew back. Lucien’s eyes were black in the light of the candle, but the sensual spell was broken. She could never trust him, not completely. What about his mistress?
‘Trust you? What can you mean?’
‘Trust me. Let me into your bed.’ He brought his lips to her ear, warming it with his breath. ‘Tonight, Isobel, we shall simply give each other comfort.’
Isobel hesitated, wondering if it was comfort he sought from his lover. It was painful to think about his belle amie, but she couldn’t help herself. She had meant to ask him about it earlier, but Sir Geoffrey’s death had pushed it from her mind.
‘Lucien, you are my husband,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘You must know I shall never deny you, but there is something...’
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘Yes?’
‘Tell me about your mistress.’ The chamber was poorly lit, but Isobel could see she had caught him off guard.
‘My mistress?’ He looked utterly perplexed, completely bemused. ‘What mistress?’
‘The mistress you keep at Ravenshold. Your belle amie.’
‘There is no mistress at Ravenshold,’ he said.
Isobel stared blindly at the bed. What now? She could hardly accuse him of lying. One did not need the wisdom of Solomon to realise a marriage that began with the wife accusing her husband of keeping a mistress was not going to be easy.
Stupid, stupid. I should have kept my mouth shut.
But Isobel couldn’t keep her mouth shut. It was a flaw in her soul and it had caused much strife with the nuns in Conques as they had tried to eliminate it. Over the years, her inability to hold her tongue had brought her many penances. But however many penances she was given, she remained outspoken. Silence wasn’t her way.
‘Men have mistresses, Lucien. I am not naïve. I have heard you have a belle amie.’
Amazingly, his mouth eased into something that could have been amusement. He leaned a hip against a bedpost and folded his arms. ‘You have? That is passing strange, since I don’t have one.’
She wished she could believe him. There he stood—champion of a thousand tourneys, confidence and arrogance in his every line. The truth hit her like an arrow, and her heart sank. He has had lovers, many lovers, in the years since our betrothal.
‘Some women...’ she waved vaguely in the direction of the streets below ‘...I heard them talking.’
‘Talk,’ he muttered, shaking his head. He gave her a direct look. ‘Aren’t wives taught not to plague a man with mention of his mistress?’
‘I am aware of the conventions, my lord.’ She swallowed. ‘Well-bred ladies are expected to ignore what their husbands get up to outside the marriage bed. And I am sorry if I anger you, but I think I should warn you that in this respect I do not think I am capable of making a good wife.’
‘Oh?’
It was pin-drop quiet in the bedchamber, the only sound Isobel could hear was the slight flurry of her breathing and his. Somewhere on the other side of the canal, a door slammed. In the distance, a man was laughing. She lifted her chin. ‘In fact I think I will be a very bad wife.’
‘How so?’
She clasped her hands together and the words poured out. ‘I was happy to marry you, my lord. Even though you have shown so little interest in me over the years.’ The scar on his temple seemed to stand out more starkly than before, but she swept on. ‘I have always been happy at the thought of marrying you. But I cannot stomach the thought of you having a mistress. I—’
‘Isobel, I don’t know who you heard, but they were mistaken. I don’t have a mistress. I’ve had casual lovers, that I’ll not deny. But no mistress, I swear it.’ Pushing away from the bedpost, he took her hands. ‘Isobel, there is no belle amie at Ravenshold.’
He shifted, and broad shoulders blocked out the candlelight, his dark head was angled towards her. Her husband. Her thoughts twisted round each other in her mind. Conflicted. Uncomfortable.
Lucien could not know it, but since Isobel had been a child and they had been promised to each other, all her girlish longings and desires had been focused on him. She was coming to see that the man she had imagined did not exist. Like a troubadour, she had imagined perfection. She had been hurt and angered at his tardiness in summoning her, but that had not stopped her from fabricating all manner of reasons for the delay.
He had a county to run.
He was set on winning every tournament in Christendom, so he could amass more prizes and trophies than any other knight...
Hurt pride had been her shield. It had prevented her from seeing that the image she had constructed of him might not match reality. She had idealised him, and the anger she had felt at their delayed marriage had blinded her. Lucien might have had another cause for delaying. He has had many mistresses and there is one, perhaps, whom he loves.
There was a bitter taste in her mouth. The man looking down at her was handsome and strong, but he was also real; he had flaws. Was the mismatch between the dream Lucien and the real man large or small? Only time would give her the answer.
He looks to be the soul of honour, but is he lying? Noblemen kept mistresses. The Church did not condone it, though they could not stop it. Isobel’s own father, Viscount Gautier, had a woman in Turenne whom he visited every week.
I should not have idealised him.
Men took lovers. As Isobel understood it, ladies who took lovers were less common. Ladies of breeding were expected to keep themselves for their
husbands for the simple reason that men must know their bloodlines were pure. There must be no cuckoos in the nest.
She imagined that once a bloodline was secure a lady might be free to take a lover, but she had not been out of the convent long enough to know if that was actually the case. The nuns simply avoided uncomfortable topics. There were many frustrating gaps in her education, but one thing was certain. Men didn’t suffer the same constraints as women. It might not be fair, but fairness was beside the point.
The purity of the bloodline was everything.
Minstrels sang of courtly love. In the songs she had heard at her father’s hall, lip-service was given to the idea of equality between the sexes. In the chansons of the trouvères, ladies flirted with their knights, giving them favours to carry with them into the lists. In return the knights would worship their ladies. They would go on quests for them. The relationship would remain chaste and pure. In the ballads.
‘Isobel, what thoughts are going through that head of yours?’
She moistened her lips. ‘I am trying to believe you.’
Lucien says he has no mistress and when he speaks, the truth seems to shine from him. Isobel could be deluding herself; the desire to believe him was agonisingly strong. She did not want him to have a lover—she had never thought about any man but him. Their marriage was scarcely a day old, and the idea that Lucien might take his pleasure elsewhere made her sick with...with what? Dread? Jealousy?
A strange smile was playing about his lips, as though something she said had pleased him. Or amused him.
‘My lord, are you laughing at me?’
His lips curved into one of his rare, heart-stopping smiles. Before she knew it, he had set his hands at her waist and pulled her up against his chest. ‘I find you utterly delightful. Isobel, I never thought to confess this so soon, but I deeply regret the years we have spent apart. Believe me, there is no belle amie at Ravenshold.’ He cupped her cheek with his hand, and the smile was gone. ‘Lord, Isobel, you are freezing. Come along, get into bed.’
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