Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  With a sinking feeling, she looked over her shoulder. She was, as she feared, in a bedchamber. She had not heard him close the door behind them. But closed it was. How had she gotten herself into this?

  “You should not have brought me here,” she said and started toward the door.

  De Lisieux tightened his grip on her arm, jerking her back.

  She swallowed back her rising panic. Surely he would not dare—the house was full of people. And Stephen was here. Somewhere.

  “Let me go,” she said as calmly as she could. “Sir Stephen is waiting for me.”

  “Believe me, Carleton is busy elsewhere, my dear.”

  Before she knew it, de Lisieux was on her. Wet lips against her neck, rough hands pulling at her gown. She screamed against the hand clamped over her mouth. As she struggled to get her hand through the fichu of her gown to reach her hidden blade, she could see it in her mind’s eye lying on the chest in her room. Damnation!

  She kicked and clawed as he dragged her toward the bed. At last she managed to sink her teeth into his hand. She had only a moment to savor his howl of pain. The slap was so hard her ears rang, and she saw bright pinpricks of stars.

  As her knees gave way, de Lisieux released his hold, and she fell hard against the floor. She struggled to her hands and knees and scrambled across the room, frantic to get away. A rhythmic smacking sound behind her caused her to look over her shoulder.

  Stephen was here! He had de Lisieux against the side of the high bed, pummeling him. De Lisieux’s head flopped like a child’s rag doll with each punch.

  “Stephen, stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it!”

  Stephen shook his head, as though coming out of a daze. He stepped away, letting de Lisieux slide to the floor.

  Isobel sank back onto her heels and pressed her hands over her mouth. She was dimly aware of hearing high-pitched whimpers before she realized the sounds were coming from her.

  Stephen knelt in front of her and gripped her shoulders. “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  Stephen pulled her hard against him. “Are you sure?” he asked against her hair.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and nodded.

  Abruptly, Stephen pushed her back to arm’s length and fixed scalding eyes on her. “Sweet Lamb of God,” he said, his voice shaking, “what were you doing in here with him?”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” To her dismay, she was very near to tears. “You’ve no need to blashpheme.” Frustrated, she tried again. “Blaphsheme. Blapsheme.”

  “You are drunk?” he said, his eyes wide.

  “You dare to criticize me”—she slapped her chest at the word “me,” to emphasize her outrage—“for too much drink! And ’twas not my fault. Every time I turned my head, de Lisieux poured more wine into my cup and—”

  “Come,” Stephen said, pulling her to her feet. “I cannot bear to be in this vile man’s bedchamber another moment.”

  As he half carried her out of the room, she glanced at de Lisieux’s body slumped on the floor. “Is he…?”

  “He isn’t dead,” Stephen said, his voice hard.

  He led her to the window seat in the solar. After barring the outside door, he sat beside her and took her hand.

  “I am sorry I got angry with you, but you frightened me half to death.” He stared straight ahead, jaw muscles tight, clenching his teeth. Despite his obvious effort to be calm, his voice rose when he spoke again. “What were you thinking, getting drunk and coming to de Lisieux’s bedchamber with him?”

  “He was showing me the house.”

  “Good God, Isobel, you are not a girl of fifteen! How can you be so foolish?”

  “That is so unfair!” She wiped her nose on her sleeve and sniffed.

  His shoulders sagged. “You are right. I should never have left you. I had business to attend to, but that is no excuse.”

  “ ’Tis not your fault.” Even if it had been, what woman could not forgive Stephen when he turned those liquid brown eyes on her? It would be like kicking a dog.

  He gathered her in his arms and rested his chin lightly on the top of her head. Encircled in his arms, her cheek resting against his hard chest, she felt safe. Protected.

  “Why were you so vexed when Robert left me with you?”

  “Because you and I should not be alone.” His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek as he took in a deep breath and let it out. “You see, I am not good at resisting temptation.”

  She leaned back to look at him. Truly, he had a beautiful face—the wide, expressive mouth, the hard planes of cheek and jaw. She put a hand to it, wanting to feel the rough stubble against her palm.

  For a long moment, he looked at her, eyes troubled. Then he whispered, “Sweet, sweet temptation,” as he lowered his mouth to hers. This time they kissed not with the wild passion of that other time, but with a slow melting that made her insides feel like warm honey.

  When he ended it and tucked her head beneath his chin again, she heard his heart pounding in his chest.

  “We should return to the castle now,” he said.

  “Not yet.” She pressed against him to feel the heat of his body through his clothes. “Not yet.”

  He unwound her arms from around his waist and kissed the top of her head. “ ’Tis wrong to take advantage of you when you’ve had a shock and too much to drink…”

  She let her head fall back, hoping for another kiss. “But I hardly feel the wine anymore.”

  “You lie, Isobel,” he said with a grin. “You are drunk as a soldier after a night in town. Come, I must take you back before I forget all sense of honor.”

  Stephen hoisted Isobel up onto his horse and held her there as he swung up behind her. Good Lord, she was soused. She was going to feel wretched in the morning. When she fell back against him, she felt so soft and yielding he had to pray to Saint Peter to give him strength.

  “What about Robert?” she asked without opening her eyes.

  “To hell with Robert.”

  Stephen was going to strangle him. If Robert knew he must leave for one of his clandestine meetings with the king, why in God’s name did he take Isobel with him tonight? And to de Lisieux’s, of all places! The only explanation was that Robert planned to leave Isobel with Stephen all along.

  Now, that was curious.

  Of course, Robert did not anticipate that de Lisieux, that horse’s arse, would attack Isobel under his very roof. But he did know Stephen would be forced to escort Isobel back to the castle alone and late at night.

  Nothing got by Robert. The man had eyes in the back of his head. Despite Stephen’s denials, Robert knew damned well something had happened between Stephen and Isobel the morning he saw them just after… well, just after they rolled around on the floor of the storeroom.

  Was Robert deliberately putting temptation in his way? For the life of him, Stephen could not figure out why.

  He tried to feel virtuous for withstanding the temptation. But what else could he do with Isobel three sheets to the wind? Still, it was not easy with the smell of her hair in his nose and her backside jostling against him with every step of the horse. He was hard as a rock—and desperate for some distraction.

  “When I was little, I used to ride like this with my father.” Isobel’s voice had a plaintive, faraway quality. “He took me everywhere with him.”

  Stephen checked his conscience; taking advantage of her drunkenness to learn her secrets did not trouble him at all.

  He took the opening she gave him. “Was it your father who disappointed you?” he asked softly. “Tell me your story, Isobel; I want to hear it.”

  She was silent so long he thought she had dozed off. When she finally spoke again, she seemed to have forgotten Stephen’s presence altogether.

  “Father told me I was to save the family…”

  Isobel spoke in fits and starts, as if giving voice to only a part of her thoughts.

  As she told her tale, Stephen saw her c
lear as day: a girl on the brink of womanhood, standing in the tall grass with a wooden sword in her hand and laughter in her eyes. A headstrong girl, used to getting her own way.

  Old Hume should have had his member cut off and fed to the pigs for lusting after such a girl. He must have been older than her grandfather.

  When her voice faded into silence, Stephen prompted her. “Your father must have had his reasons for agreeing to the marriage.”

  “Hume gave him the money to buy back our lands,” she said.

  So Isobel was her family’s sacrifice—her virginity sold to satisfy an old man’s lust, her happiness traded for land.

  Isobel’s head rocked softly against Stephen’s chest. Since he’d get no more of her tale tonight, he turned his horse toward the castle gates. Isobel barely stirred as he carried her up the back stairs to her chamber in the keep.

  Would that useless maid never open the damned door? He rapped a second time and a third. When she finally let him in, she giggled at the sight of Isobel, loose-limbed in his arms.

  “Don’t you breathe a word of this to anyone,” he told the maid as he carried Isobel to the bed. He did not like bullying servants, but he had to ensure the woman’s discretion. “If you do, I swear I will have that archer you’re so fond of sent to join Gloucester’s army.”

  He looked down at Isobel and felt a surge of tenderness for the girl she once was, the girl whose father broke her heart.

  When he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, Isobel smiled in her sleep. How he longed to lie beside her! To enfold her in his arms and drift to sleep with his face in her hair. To awaken to that smile in the morning and make love to her. And then to stay in bed with her the whole day through.

  The maid would leave if he told her to…

  He let out a deep sigh. She was not his. And could not be.

  Chapter Ten

  December 1417

  Geoffrey sent word he could not join them for practice, so it would be just her and Jamie. Stephen had not come once since… Isobel shook her head to clear it of the memory of her night of wanton drunkenness.

  She sent her maid back when she reached the storeroom. Though it was not precisely proper to be alone with Jamie, he was still a boy, to her mind.

  As soon as she ducked through the low doorway, she realized her mistake. Stephen stood—quite alone—in the center of the room, sword in his hand. He must have come early to practice on his own. Puffs of steam came from his mouth as his breath hit the cold air. His white shirt clung to his skin.

  Isobel remained by the door, her feet rooted to the ground.

  “Your brother is not coming?” Stephen asked.

  She shook her head. “What—what of Jamie?”

  “He could not come, either,” Stephen said. “Isobel, do stop looking at me as if I were the Green Knight come to cut off your head. I did not know your brother would not be here. Surely you know by now I would not harm you.”

  She knew no such thing. He looked dangerous, casually twirling his sword. His gaze took in every inch of her.

  “Come, let us begin,” he said and went to retrieve her sword from its hiding place. When she hesitated to take it from him, he asked, “Are you afraid that without the others here, you will be unable to keep your hands off me?”

  Not once had Stephen said anything to embarrass her about what happened that night at the de Lisieuxs’. Not one word, not one veiled remark. Nothing at all to remind her of her drunkenness. Or her foolishness in following de Lisieux into his bedchamber. Or how she begged Stephen to kiss her.

  Truly, she was grateful he waited until now, when they were alone, to tease her. That did not mean she liked it.

  “You have quite enough women throwing themselves at you, Stephen Carleton.” She took her sword from his outstretched hand, whipped it through the air, and pointed it at his heart. “ ’Tis my sword, not my hands, that should worry you.”

  They practiced hard. Once again she was struck by his grace and beauty with a sword. His movements were fluid and effortless as he drew her toward him, letting her attack, but always in control.

  “How many women are ‘quite enough’? ” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘quite enough’ threw themselves at me,” he said, all feigned innocence. “I assume you were counting.”

  Stephen seemed not the least bit winded, which only added to her irritation with him.

  “One may as well attempt to count the stars,” she said, attacking once more. “I prefer to devote myself to some useful purpose. Perhaps you should try to do the same.”

  He stepped into her thrust to block it. For a long moment they stood inches apart, the tension of sword pressed against sword between them.

  “To what use would you put me, fair Isobel?” Stephen asked, then waggled his eyebrows at her.

  She laughed and stepped back. “You are impossible!”

  “You should laugh more often.” He wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Come, let us take a rest.”

  He spread his cloak on the dirt floor where they could rest their backs against sacks of grain piled high against the wall.

  “Now,” he said, stretching his legs out, “will you tell me the rest of your story sober, or must I ply you with strong wine to get it?”

  Isobel closed her eyes. “I hoped I had not truly said all those things to you.”

  He picked up a loose straw from the floor and twirled it between his thumb and finger. “What of your mother? Did she argue against the marriage?”

  “My mother could not be bothered to leave her prayers long enough to speak for me.” Hearing the bitterness in her voice, Isobel pressed her lips together.

  Stephen touched her arm. “It might help to speak of it.”

  Would it? She never had anyone she could tell it all to. There was so much she could not share with Geoffrey, even now that he was grown. Why did she feel she could tell Stephen now? She did not understand the reason, but she did.

  “It was for her that he did it,” she said in a whisper.

  Isobel watched bits of dust floating in the air as she tried to recall the laughing mother of her early childhood.

  “After we lost our lands, my mother wanted to escape this life. She devoted herself to prayer, morning to night… until she seemed to forget us altogether.”

  After a time, Stephen asked, “Your father thought regaining your lands and position would restore her?”

  “I knew it would not, but he would not hear me.” In her frustration, she’d screamed at him that he could increase their lands a hundredfold and still she would not change.

  “Did your mother say nothing to you about the marriage?”

  The memory always lay just beneath the surface, scraps of it coming to her unexpectedly and catching her unawares. For the first time, she tried to recall the whole of it.

  She remembered her heart pounding in her ears as she ran across the field and through the castle gate.

  “I found her on her knees in the castle chapel.” Chest heaving from running so hard, she stood waiting for her mother to acknowledge her until she could stand it no longer.

  “You will let him do this to me?” she asked, her voice coming out high-pitched and shaky.

  When her mother’s lips continued moving in silent prayer, Isobel clenched her fists to keep from taking her mother by the shoulders and shaking her.

  Finally, her mother lifted her head and looked at Isobel. Except for the lack of expression, her face was as lovely as ever beneath the plain headdress.

  “I asked your father,” her mother said in a quiet voice, “to delay the marriage until your next birthday.”

  “He would do anything—anything—you ask of him,” Isobel said, her fingernails digging into her palms, “and all you can ask for me is three months!”

  “Your father says Lord Hume will leave you a wealthy widow. That is the most a woman can hope for in this world.”

  “You could save me from this, Mother!” Iso
bel’s words echoed off the stone walls of the small chapel.

  Her mother remained placid, hands folded in her lap.

  “Can you not help me this one time?” Isobel pleaded.

  Her mother turned her head and her gaze grew unfocused. “I am sorry you must pay for my sins.”

  What sins did her pious mother imagine she had committed?

  “Isobel.” Stephen’s voice pierced through the veil of her memories. “Take this,” he said, pressing a kerchief into her hand.

  Only now did she realize tears ran unchecked down her face.

  “I should not have pressed you.” Stephen rubbed his hand up and down her back, soothing her as if she were a child.

  But she was determined to finish it now. “Do you want to hear the last words my mother said to me in this world?”

  “Only if you want to tell me.”

  “She said, ‘We women are born to suffer.’ Then she went back to her prayers.”

  Isobel remembered swallowing back the sobs that threatened to overtake her and turning her back on her mother. Her breath came in hiccups as she marched, stiff-legged, across the bailey yard. With each step, she willed herself to harden her heart.

  “I did not have a choice, of course,” Isobel said to Stephen. “But I told myself I would do it for my brother—and not for that useless, pathetic woman who was my mother.”

  Stephen enfolded her in his arms. After a time he asked, “The marriage was very hard?”

  She nodded against his chest. He tightened his hold; his arms felt good around her.

  “You did not forgive your father.”

  “I refused even to see him.” In that, at least, her husband had indulged her. The only time she saw her father during the years of her marriage was at her mother’s funeral.

  She should not let Stephen comfort her like this. But after the intimate story she shared with him, it seemed ridiculous to fret over his being too familiar. Even his smell—horses and leather and just Stephen—comforted her.

  “You deserve to be happy,” he said.

  “What if de Roche is horrid?” she blurted out. “He does not want me or this marriage, or he would have come by now.”