Carol Townend

by Lady Isobel's Champion

  ‘Aren’t you going back to the barracks?’

  ‘No longer. Into bed with you.’ The wolfish smile was back. ‘Never fear, much as I am tempted, I shall not force myself on you.’

  Isobel shot him a sharp look, read only the truth, and allowed herself to be helped into bed. After she had settled, he pulled the covers over her.

  ‘I shall speak to that woman of yours in the morning,’ he said, walking round to the other side of the bed. ‘She must be made aware of her duties.’

  ‘Elise didn’t train as a maid.’

  ‘That is obvious.’ Lucien sat down and the bed-ropes creaked. He pulled off his boots and tossed them on the matting. It was extraordinary, but his manner was—almost—companionable. When he was lying under the covers at her side, he propped his head on his hand to study her. ‘We shall sleep now, wife. Sleep and...’ smiling, he inched closer ‘...comfort each other.’ Finding her hands, he began to chafe them.

  She glanced towards the entrance.

  ‘Forget about Elise. Your useless maid is busy elsewhere. Relax. We shall sleep, that’s all. Sleep and keep each other warm. Don’t move.’

  He shifted and blew out the candle. Darkness covered them.

  The bed-ropes creaked and his body was back against hers. He guided her head to his shoulder and his arm went round her. After a lifetime of sleeping with other women, she had to confess his large body was blissfully warm.

  Somewhat self-consciously, Isobel rested her hand on Lucien’s waist and tried to relax. Relaxing next to a powerful male body, the one that attracted and intrigued her over all others, was not easy for a convent-bred girl.

  Tentatively, she inhaled his scent. This is Lucien, my husband. He smelt very male—a hint of musk and spices told her the soap he used was costly and likely imported. He smelt of wood-smoke. Mainly, he smelt of warm man. She had enjoyed joining with him yesterday, but none the less, it was reassuring to know they could give each other comfort in this companionable way too. Not that a man like Lucien would ever really need comforting.

  Feeling him press a kiss again to her brow, she smiled into the dark. She liked being held in this way. She liked the warmth. I am with Lucien.

  His belle amie, if he had one, was not here.

  I am with Lucien.

  Her thoughts drifted and blurred one into another.

  * * *

  There was a tightness in the back of Lucien’s throat that he could not account for. He ached with wanting, was ready to take her, but she would not welcome him tonight. Geoffrey’s death was not the first death she had witnessed. Isobel had seen her mother die and today’s events could not but remind her of that.

  He contented himself with stroking her hair. I cannot take her, not tonight.

  Lucien thought—hoped—there was liking between them. He would build on that. Isobel had revealed some resentment at having been, as she thought, ignored for so long. It was hardly surprising. Now they were married he could explain everything. He would tell her about his disastrous marriage to Morwenna. He would explain why he had not set Morwenna aside despite repeated demands from his father that he do so. His first marriage had been disastrous. His second—the marriage his father had planned for—had to be better. We shall have children.

  Lucien’s mind was at war with itself. It was not a feeling that he was familiar with. From the moment Isobel had walked into the convent lodge, his instinct had been to be open with her. However, circumspection was necessary. It would not have been wise to make a clean breast of things until after their marriage. And now?

  Isobel might have accepted him in her bed, but the trust between them was wafer thin. Trust. He must build on that. He would—the thought was intriguing—woo his wife.

  If he made his confession about Morwenna too early, Isobel might refuse to give him heirs. He had not behaved honourably. A noblewoman of Isobel’s standing would be deeply insulted to learn that her betrothed had been married at the time of their betrothal. As for Isobel’s father—Viscount Gautier would be outraged. If the news didn’t kill him, he would be well within his rights to order Isobel back to Turenne and that would be the end of their marriage.

  No, it was best he delayed confessing about his dubious past until after he had wooed her.

  I want her. Lucien shifted uncomfortably. He was throbbing. Hard with desire. He had wanted her since the day she rode to Ravenshold. Isobel would drive any man into a frenzy of need. Need? Lucien felt a prickle of unease, and dismissed it. Not need. This was desire, plain and simple.

  Morwenna had taught him that beauty was only skin deep. It was not—he fingered the scar at his temple—a lesson he was likely to forget. What attracted him most to Isobel, what made him want to keep her, was when she had so artlessly confessed that she did not think she would find it easy to stomach him having a lover.

  Isobel doesn’t want me to have lovers. Her admission warmed him. Why that should be, Lucien had no idea. Morwenna couldn’t have given a fig what he did. Isobel was turning out to be very different.

  Isobel doesn’t want me to take lovers. It was a pity she had heard the gossips, though he only had himself to blame for that. He had kept his shameful marriage so quiet, what was the world to assume but that the woman he had kept at Ravenshold had been his mistress? Very few people knew the truth. Raoul. Poor Geoffrey. Joris. A handful of others.

  Isobel gave a quiet sigh as he stroked her hair. Roses and honeysuckle. Mon Dieu, it was going to be a long night.

  He was going to woo her. Then, when he knew he had truly won her, he would tell her about Morwenna. Isobel was worth hanging on to.

  He smiled into the dark. Besides, who knew what would happen if his wooing proved successful? If he won her, Isobel’s behaviour might change. She might become the easy-going, biddable wife he had hoped for.

  Isobel? Biddable? His smile faded. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the idea of him having a biddable wife was not as desirable as it had been. No matter. It surely wouldn’t hurt to woo her a little.

  But one thing he would never do was open his heart to her. Not even when he had told her about Morwenna.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron, had been running from dawn to dusk. In the morning he had led conferences—war councils, of a sort—with Count Henry’s Guardian Knights. He organised patrols. He briefed knights on the importance of finding Geoffrey’s murderer and of bringing him to justice. In the afternoon, he had ridden out to Ravenshold with his recently appointed steward, Sir Gawain. The castle must be restored to its former glory as speedily as possible.

  * * *

  Lucien had planned to be back in Troyes by mid-afternoon, but by the time he and Joris rode through the city gates, the shopkeepers were lowering their shutters for the night. Torches and lanterns were lit, and along the way, yellow light was seeping through cracks in windows and walls.

  Trotting smartly through the town, Lucien drew rein outside a goldsmith’s. The shutters were fast, but this particular goldsmith—Joseph—had an excellent reputation for honesty and fair dealing. If Lucien could buy from him, he would.

  ‘Wait here with Demon, Joris.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Lucien rapped on the door. ‘Joseph? Joseph Goldsmith? Open up, will you?’ He feared it might be some days before he was free to see his wife, but when he did see her, he did not wish to be empty-handed.

  The shutter opened a crack, a shadow moved inside. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Lucien Vernon.’

  ‘Count d’Aveyron?’

  ‘The same.’

  Bolts grated and the door opened. ‘Welcome, my lord.’ Beaming, the goldsmith gestured him inside. ‘I heard you had married. May I wish you a long and happy marriage.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Lucien found himself returning Joseph’s smile as he bent his head and entered the darkened workroom. Through a half-open door, firelight glinted in the room beyond. Lucien had been smiling all day and he could not account
for it. No, that was a lie; he could account for it. He was smiling because of his wife. Because of Isobel. The wife who, despite his apparent neglect of her, valued him enough to want him to be faithful to her.

  ‘You wish to buy something for Countess Isobel?’

  At Lucien’s nod, Joseph lifted a strongbox on to the counter and set a lantern next to it. He gave Lucien a measuring glance. ‘Your wife makes you happy, my lord. You will want a special gift.’

  ‘No doubt. Have you anything that might suit?’

  Joseph unhooked a bunch of keys from his waist and unlocked the strongbox. ‘You are in luck, my lord. One of my best traders came in yesterday. He has contacts in the East, and he tells me that this belonged to an Indian princess.’

  The pouch Joseph extracted from the strongbox fit easily into his palm. It was made of rose silk. Placing it reverently on the table, Joseph untied the drawstring and inched the lantern closer.

  ‘If you wish, you are welcome to examine it outside, my lord. Although I do not think there is much daylight left.’

  * * *

  Isobel did not see her husband for some days. Each day Joris brought word-of-mouth messages—excuses for Lucien’s continuing absence. The excuses varied:

  My lord is in late conference with the Guardian Knights tonight. He asks me to tell you he will be sleeping in his quarters at the barracks.

  My lord has business at Ravenshold. He sends his apologies, but he will be back too late to sup with you.

  My lord is meeting with Count Henry...

  The messages might vary but the outcome was the same.

  Lucien is avoiding me.

  Isobel had liked to think that they had reached some measure of understanding. Thanks to the passion that had flared between them on her wedding night, she had thought to bind him to her by giving him an heir. But if Lucien was never with her, how was that to happen?

  Days shortened and the nights grew longer, and Lucien kept his distance. Isobel bitterly regretted attending the All Hallows Tourney. He holds me responsible for Geoffrey’s death. Will he ever forgive me?

  While Isobel waited for her elusive husband to honour her with his presence, she prayed for her father’s health. She prayed for her stepmother, that she should be brought to bed of a healthy child. She tried not to dwell on her own fears of childbirth; they served no purpose. Particularly since, if Lucien deigned to approach her again, her duty was clear.

  * * *

  There had been no message on the day that Lucien finally appeared—Isobel had given up hope of seeing him this side of Christmas. It was late and she was abed watching Elise unlace her gown, when she heard the clack of the solar door. Quick footsteps crossed the solar and someone rapped on the carved screen.

  Lucien pushed through the curtain, and her heart gave a little leap. His blue surcoat was blazoned with his black raven, which told her he had likely been closeted with Count Henry. Striding to the bed, he took her hand and kissed it. Elise reached for her cloak and scuttled out.

  ‘My apologies for not sending a message today, my lady,’ he said, shoving his hand through his hair. ‘I expected to be here sooner.’

  Turning away, he began to strip himself. Belt, surcoat, tunic, shirt, boots...

  Isobel lay back on the pillows, and willed herself to relax. I must not expect miracles, Lucien will not be an easy man to win. She watched Lucien disrobe, and tried to judge his mood. He had a very fine form—her gaze was transfixed by the way his arm muscles flexed as he moved. The moment he caught her eyes on him, his skin darkened.

  Hiding a smile, she folded her hands primly on the bedcovers. If he didn’t want her to look at him, he could always put out the candles. She was glad though that he had not. There had been no opportunities to study a man’s body at St Foye’s Convent, and Lucien’s intrigued her.

  He had the perfect knight’s body. And to her eyes, the perfect body for a lover. One glance and you knew you were looking at a champion. He carried no excess flesh. The skin of his back was burnished by candlelight, light which revealed the play of strong shoulder muscles as he shed his clothes. And one or two scars she had not noticed before. His clothes piled up messily on the floor.

  Why did the width of Lucien’s shoulders make such a fascinating contrast with his narrow waist, with his long legs?

  When he was naked, he turned to face her, smiling crookedly. Her cheeks burned. Lucien might never mouth the pretty sentiments of the knights in the chansons but, thank Heaven, he was eager to bed with her again. If he harboured any resentment against her, it did not look as though it was going to affect his performance as a lover.

  He cleared his throat, extracted something from the jumble of clothes, and joined her in bed.

  A warm hand caught her chin. His kiss was light and gentle. She smothered a moan as more kisses were feathered across her face. His kisses had kept the glamour of their wedding night, her body was melting—she ached to be one with him. When his tongue slid over her lips, she pressed closer, opening her mouth on a murmur of pleasure she could not have suppressed if she tried.

  He broke the kiss, eyes dark, hair rumpled. The rumpled hair was her fault, she realised, somewhat belatedly. She had been running her fingers through the thick, dark strands. I love his hair.

  ‘I brought you a gift,’ he muttered, pressing something into her hand. ‘Wanted to give it to you days ago, but I...’ He shrugged and leaned back on an elbow. ‘No matter. I hope it pleases you.’

  A rose-coloured pouch? Smiling, Isobel made a show of feeling it. It was round in shape—no, not round...

  Fingers trembling, she loosed the ties. A brooch! Her mouth fell open. A crescent moon lay in the palm of her hand, a crescent moon that had more sparkle and shine than a winter morning. If she was not mistaken, those starry stones were diamonds, tiny gems which contained every colour of the rainbow.

  She looked up to see him frowning at her.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  He had seen her surprise and misinterpreted it as dislike. ‘Lucien, it’s exquisite. I love it.’ Resting her hand on his arm, she pressed a kiss to a lean cheek. ‘This must be worth a king’s ransom.’

  Strong arms reached for her and drew her to his chest. ‘I can afford it, little dove.’

  ‘You must have done well at the tourneys this year.’

  ‘Well enough.’ Blue eyes looked into hers. ‘Isobel, I am not short of revenues. If I were, there is no way I would be contemplating hosting half the knights of Christendom at next summer’s tourney. The Field of the Birds must be made safer, and that will come at no little cost.’ He gave her a puzzled look. ‘The Ravenshold estate is but one of my holdings. Surely your father has told you? I have lands in Normandy and the Auvergne...I am not a pauper.’

  Isobel gazed up at him, as an unwelcome thought lodged in her mind. Naturally, she knew Lucien had extensive lands, but by his own admission Ravenshold had been badly neglected. She had wondered if poor revenues had been the cause. If her assumption was wrong, it must mean that Lucien was a poor overlord. Was the neglect at Ravenshold due to its lord having turned his back on his responsibilities?

  Have I married a wastrel? A man who only has thoughts for what happens on the tourney field? Can he not see that a neglected holding would soon lead to reduced revenues? To disgruntled retainers and unhappy tenants?

  Lucien kissed her nose and that musky masculine scent—already beguilingly familiar—wound through her senses. It seduced her into silence, but it did not stop the thoughts. If Lucien was a wastrel, she would soon discover it. If he was so obsessed with tournaments that little else mattered, that might work in her favour. He would surely welcome a wife who could handle the day-to-day running of his estates. If I do not conceive, I can at least help run his estates...

  He was nuzzling her neck, measuring her breast with his palm, absently toying with a nipple. ‘If you don’t like the brooch, I shall get something else.’

  Isobel closed her fingers over his gift.
‘I love it.’ A sensuous warmth was transferring itself from Lucien’s body to hers, a warmth which worked insidiously at her thoughts, blurring them one into another. He is so handsome. I want him. It is too soon to judge him.

  He nibbled her ear. ‘The goldsmith tells me it comes from India. It belonged to a princess.’

  Isobel stroked his shoulder. ‘Where’s India?’

  ‘In the East, far beyond Byzantium. I am not certain, but I think India is beyond Persia.’

  Drawing back, Isobel opened her fingers and stared at the brooch. ‘It glitters so.’

  He grunted and shifted. The bed-ropes creaked.

  Reaching out to put the brooch on the side-table, Isobel blew out her candle. When she turned back, strong arms were waiting for her and it was all too easy to slide into them. It was all too easy to dismiss unwanted thoughts about a husband who was obsessed with tourneying. It was even easy to stop worrying about whether or not she would be able to give him an heir...

  This attraction may not last for ever. While it does, I want to enjoy it.

  * * *

  Lucien was not in the habit of changing his mind. Habits, however, were not set in stone. In the morning, as he eased himself out of bed so as not to disturb his wife, he paused to gaze down at her and found himself contemplating a change of plan.

  She looks like an angel.

  The thought had his chest squeezing painfully. Isobel was no angel. Reaching out, he touched a strand of golden hair. Isobel was impulsive. Isobel was proud and disobedient and wilful. She talked too much. She knew what she wanted and had no qualms about going after it. And she expected faithfulness in her husband.

  Moving to the window, he looped back the curtain and a shaft of early light fell softly on to the bed. On the side-table, the brooch glistened. Lucien was pleased she liked it—he had never spent so much on a woman in his life. And until Joseph had shown him the brooch, he had no thought of doing so. He gave a rueful smile. Joseph knew his business. No sooner had Lucien set eyes on it than he knew it was Isobel’s.

  Absently, Lucien rubbed his breastbone with the heel of his hand and reached for his clothing. He had changed his mind about waking his wife. Just as he had changed his mind about not wanting her at Ravenshold until it had been properly restored.