Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  When he reached the sensitive skin along the top of her bodice, she grabbed his wrist. “Someone will see us!”

  “No one is here.” He dipped a finger into the valley between her breasts. “Besides, we are nearly betrothed.”

  This man would be her husband. Soon she would share his bed as often as he wished her to. It seemed silly to protest this small familiarity.

  The old hope returned. The hope that her new husband could make her feel the way Stephen did when he kissed her. That he could give her that feeling of being swept away, as if nothing else mattered so long as he touched her.

  Was it possible? She needed to know.

  “Kiss me,” she said, lifting her face to him. This time, it would be different.

  This kiss was different. Softer. Not frightening, like the first time. And not disgusting, like Hume’s. Her mind was cold and clear as she waited for the thrill to seize her. And waited. The kiss felt… pleasant. But no more than that.

  She could come up with no explanation. De Roche was handsome, young, healthy. True, the heavy scent he wore gave her a bit of a headache. But his lips were soft and warm. The tickle of his mustache did not bother her.

  De Roche ran his hands up and down her sides. Her body began to respond to his caresses. But where was the mindless passion? What she felt was a dim candle to the roaring fire that burned through her when Stephen touched her.

  She would try harder. Determined, she moved her hands to the nape of his neck and kissed him back. She opened her mouth to him and slid her tongue over his the way she remembered had brought moans from Stephen.

  Before she knew it, she was crushed against him. She felt trapped, unable to move. She was so startled by the suddenness of the assault that it took her a moment to realize de Roche’s hand was like an iron band around her wrist.

  She made frantic little cries against his mouth as he forced her hand downward. He was so strong! She felt the hardness of his cock against her palm. Up and down, up and down, he rubbed her hand against it.

  She bit his lip and tasted blood. Though he tore his mouth away, he did not release her hand. His breath was coming in horrid gasps against her ear. She was flooded with the memory of Hume’s putrid smell gagging her in the darkness.

  With a surge of strength, she wrenched her other arm free and swung at him. He caught her hand midair. They stood inches apart, staring at each other. Both were breathing hard, but she was choking back tears.

  “Stop, please.” Her voice was small, barely a whisper.

  His eyes were black with rage. “After the way you kissed me, you will pretend you do not want me in your bed tonight?”

  “I meant only a kiss,” she stammered, feeling confused and ashamed.

  “Ah, you mean to tease me.” His voice was all the more menacing for its softness. “That is not a nice game to play.”

  Looking straight into her eyes, he cupped her breasts with his hands. She was too shocked and too frightened to move.

  “Once I take you to bed,” he said as he rubbed his thumbs in slow circles over her nipples through the cloth, “you will want to learn the kind of games that will keep me there.”

  There was a time when Stephen would have been pleased to be included in the king’s meeting with his commanders. But not tonight. Although King Henry placed considerable importance on the just administration of his new territories, the other men looked bored as Stephen gave his report. And why not? Stephen was bored himself.

  In sooth, he was not so much bored as anxious to leave. The moment the king released him, he made his escape. He pretended not to see William’s signal to wait for him. As he ran along the dark path to the keep, he asked himself why he was going to find Isobel.

  What would he say when he found her? He had no idea.

  This was lunacy, even for him. If he wanted to forget all honor and seduce her, he could have done that already. He recalled the moment when he knew she was his for the asking—and almost forgot to breathe.

  What she did to him! He felt better about himself when he was around her. More interesting. More clever. Certainly more virtuous! He wanted to protect her, to drive the sadness from her eyes.

  He would not let himself think what that meant now.

  He entered the keep and raced up the back stairs, two at a time. As he climbed, he thought of the last time he came here. When she leapt from the bed in her shift. His heart beat so hard now he thought it might burst from his chest.

  He ran down the corridor and made the last turn.

  And stopped dead in his tracks.

  Despite the dim light, he could not fool himself into believing the woman was anyone other than Isobel. He’d spent too many hours studying that profile. And that foolish goatee could belong to none other than de Roche.

  When Isobel slid her hands behind de Roche’s neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, she may as well have reached into Stephen’s chest and ripped his heart out. How could she? How could she do this?

  Then he saw her hand, covered by de Roche’s, reaching down. Sweet Jesus, he did not want to see this. Not this. When she began stroking de Roche’s crotch, Stephen leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. And still he could hear the little sounds she was making. He had to get out of here. Now.

  And yet he looked again. He could not help himself.

  The lovers stood apart now, eyes locked. Stephen watched, transfixed, as de Roche covered her breasts with his hands and rubbed his thumbs over the tips. It was such a blatant show of sexual ownership that Stephen could stand no more.

  He turned and fled without a sound.

  Stephen drank with a purpose. Though his lips and even his fingertips felt numb, sweet oblivion escaped him. The drink had yet to loosen the knot of jealousy in his stomach. Nor had it dulled the loss that weighed down every muscle.

  The woman was heavy on his lap—he had no idea who she was and how she got there. He wanted her gone, but it would take too much effort to make her move. The overpowering smell of cloying perfume, sweat, and sex turned his stomach. Even with his eyes closed, he could not pretend she was Isobel.

  Quite suddenly, the weight was off his lap. He heard a sharp exchange of female voices, but he did not feel curious enough to open his eyes.

  “You must be far gone to let that one near you! She’d give you the pox for sure, you fool.”

  “Claudette?” He opened his eyes to find her looking down at him, her hands on her hips. “It is you.”

  He was so glad to see her he leaned against her and put his arms around her waist. Though he was vaguely aware he should not have his face buried between her breasts, it felt comforting to be surrounded by all that softness.

  Someone was pulling on his shoulders, and he heard a familiar voice behind him. Reluctantly, he released Claudette and fell back. All this movement was making his head spin.

  “Jamie? What are you doing in this den of sin?” he asked. “William will have a fit.”

  “He is the one who sent me.”

  “William sent a fifteen-year-old to play nursemaid to me?” Stephen’s voice sounded distant to his own ears.

  “Aye, that is just what he did,” Jamie said with a grin, “except that I am almost sixteen.”

  William sent Jamie with Claudette? More proof the world made no sense. No sense at all.

  “How could she prefer de Roche?” he asked.

  Jamie gave him a puzzled look, but Claudette—dear, dear Claudette—understood.

  “She would be a fool to prefer him,” she said and touched his cheek.

  “But I saw her.” The words came out of his mouth of their own accord; he could not stop them. “She was kissing him. And touching him, for God’s sake. And—”

  “Of course she was. She has to marry the man,” Claudette interrupted. “Women must be practical.”

  Practical? Did women truly think that way?

  “Kissing me was not practical.”

  “It certainly was not,” Claudette agreed. “Not
for either of you.”

  The next thing he knew he was in a carriage, bouncing over cobblestones, his head banging against the side.

  Cold air woke him, and he got his feet under him. Snatches of conversation came to him, as if from a long way away: Jamie saying he could manage alone; the guards’ loud jibes; his own voice suggesting they find Isobel.

  When next he opened his eyes, he saw his feet dragging along the floor. Then some kind soul hoisted him onto the bed. He was sinking, sinking, sinking.

  Jamie’s voice brought him back from the land of the dead. “What did Claudette mean about women being ‘practical’? ”

  “She means… a woman will bed a man”—he sighed because of the effort it took to respond, but Jamie shook his shoulder again—“because it makes sense to her… though she has no true feeling for him. They are all heartless, heartless.”

  “A virtuous woman would not do that.”

  “Virtuous ones are the worst!” God in heaven, even Catherine took a stranger to her bed.

  Had he said that last part aloud? Nay, he’d never tell.

  “You are drunk. She would never do that. No one could be a more devoted wife.”

  “Shhhe would neber do that to William. Nebber, nebber, nebber.” But even Catherine… even she was practical once. Took a stranger to bed. A stranger.

  “What did you say?” The voice seemed to be coming from inside his head. But it was damned persistent.

  “Who was it? What happened?”

  Stephen wanted the questions to stop so he could sleep.

  “He could not get her with child. Her other husband. That cursed first one. So shhhe let someone else do the job. Thasss how she got ssweet little Jamie. Big sssecret. Shhh.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stephen awoke with a bad feeling that had nothing to do with his hangover. A very bad feeling. Beneath the pounding headache, lurching stomach, and dry mouth, something more sinister lurked. He had the uneasy feeling he’d crossed a line. Committed some grave, unpardonable wrong.

  Had he gone to bed with someone he shouldn’t have? He turned his head, careful not to move too quickly, and let his breath out. If that was what he’d done, at least she was gone.

  But he did not think that was it.

  He crawled out of bed, poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin, and splashed his face.

  What was it? He tried to piece together what happened after… The image of de Roche with his hands on Isobel was all too clear. His rising pulse caused his head to throb violently. He leaned over the basin and poured the rest of the pitcher over his head.

  First he went to the public house nearest the castle gate. Then to the one near the old church. Sometime later, he ended up in the seamiest part of town. He remembered the smell of cloying perfume. Then Claudette appearing like an angel of mercy. And Jamie.

  A carriage ride. Jamie dragging him to bed. Someone asking endless questions. About women being practical…

  He squeezed his eyes shut. God help him, had he said those things about Catherine aloud? And to Jamie? He could not have. He had wheedled the secret out of an old servant years ago and never told a living soul. Never would.

  He turned and looked about the empty bedchamber. Where was Jamie now? Trying not to panic, he threw on his clothes, grabbed his cloak and sword, and tore out of the room.

  He had to find Jamie. God help him if he’d told Catherine’s secret to her son last night. If he had, he would have to explain it to Jamie, try to make him understand.

  And then he would have to tell William what he’d done.

  Isobel looked everywhere for her brother. When she could not find him, she began to worry. Last night he said he had something important to tell her. Why did she not make him tell her at once? Of course, she did not expect de Roche to take her off so suddenly. And then, after what happened—she would not think of that now—she forgot completely about her brother.

  Linnet’s fair hair whipped about her face as they raced across the bailey yard. “We have not tried the stables yet,” she shouted against the wind. “If his horse is there, you will know he has not gone far.”

  “You are a bright one,” Isobel said, forcing a smile. She could not say why she was so worried.

  Halfway to the stables, they saw François running toward them.

  “Lady Hume, I’ve been looking for you,” he called out as he drew near. He was as breathless as she. “Your brother asked me to give you a message.”

  “A message? What is it?”

  François screwed his face up as if he were concentrating to be sure he got it right. “He and Jamie Rayburn have gone to an abbey two hours’ ride from here to see a holy relic.”

  “You saw Geoffrey leave?” she said, fighting to sound calm. “With Jamie?”

  “At first he was going to go alone,” François said. “I told him it was too dangerous with all the brigands and renegades roaming the countryside. But he said, ‘God will protect me.’ I swear, that is just what he said.”

  Good Lord, she would kill him for taking such a risk! Even this child knew it was foolish to travel alone here.

  “Then Jamie came tearing into the stable in such a state,” the boy said, his eyes wide. “Your brother pulled him into a corner where I could not hear. Next thing I know, your brother gives me this message—and they ride off!”

  “How long ago was this?”

  François shrugged. “An hour? I looked a long time for you.”

  She must find someone quickly to ride after them and bring them back. By now, people would be gathered in the hall for breakfast. She ran headlong for the keep, the twins dogging her steps.

  “Jamie is a good fighter,” François called out in a valiant attempt to reassure her.

  She would find de Roche. He came to Caen with a large contingent of armed men. Surely he could gather enough of them quickly to go after Geoffrey and Jamie.

  She barely slowed to a walk as she entered the keep. “Wait here,” she told the twins as she went through the great arched doorway to the keep’s hall. She spotted de Roche at once and made straight for him.

  “Philippe, help me!” she called out when she was close enough to be heard. She ignored the disapproval on his face; he would understand as soon as he heard what happened.

  He held up his hand. With a laugh, he said to the man next to him, “My bride is anxious to see me.”

  “Geoffrey has gone off!” she cried. “You must go after him and bring him back.”

  “Calm yourself, my dear. Tell me you have not been running. You are quite out of breath.”

  “My brother is gone,” she said between gasps. “You must go at once, or he’ll come to harm, I know it.”

  “If you will excuse us,” he said to the man. He took her arm in a bruising grip and led her to a corner.

  “You should have asked to speak to me in private,” he said, his eyes flaring with anger. “How dare you approach me in public making demands, telling me I must do this, I must do that!”

  “I am sorry, but my brother—”

  “Your brother is a grown man. He can make his own decisions and live with the consequences.”

  “But can you not go after him? He does not understand—”

  “Good God, Isobel, do you think I have nothing better to do than chase after your foolish brother?”

  “Do you?” As far as she could tell, he had nothing to do in Caen but negotiate the marriage contract with Robert—and that was going so slowly he could not be giving much time to it.

  “I do not need to explain myself to you,” he said. “Your brother is bound to think better of his actions and return. I suggest you go to your chamber and wait for him.”

  What sort of man was he? How could he refuse to help her? She had no time to argue. He would not be moved, in any case.

  She rose up on her tiptoes to look over his shoulder for someone else she could ask. When she saw Lord Fitz-Alan, she shouted his name and waved her arms.

 
“Stop that at once,” de Roche said. “You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

  FitzAlan was already striding toward her. Praise God! And that was Stephen, right behind him.

  “Lord FitzAlan, Sir Stephen,” de Roche greeted them as they approached.

  FitzAlan ignored him. “What is it, Lady Hume? You seem distressed.”

  “François says my brother and Jamie have ridden out of the city alone,” she said, trying to keep her voice under control.

  Stephen gripped her arm. “Does François know their destination, or in what direction they rode?”

  “To an abbey, two hours east.” A fragment from one of Geoffrey’s poems came to her. Something about a finger of a martyred saint and… “L’Abbaye de Saint Michele, could that be it?”

  “I’ll meet you at the stables,” FitzAlan said to Stephen. “I must leave word for the king that I’ve gone.”

  “We shall find them,” Stephen said and gave her arm a quick squeeze as they turned to go.

  “Wait,” she called after them. “I will come with you.”

  “Don’t be foolish—” de Roche began, but FitzAlan cut him off.

  “Keep her here,” FitzAlan commanded, pointing his outstretched arm at de Roche.

  Then they were gone.

  Dropping her eyes on the floor, Isobel said, “I will wait in my chamber, as you suggested.” She dipped a quick curtsy and left before he could say a word.

  Linnet caught up with her on the stairs. As soon as they reached her chamber, Isobel opened her trunk and took out the clothes she had been mending for Geoffrey.

  “Cut six inches from the sleeves and leggings, and help me change,” she ordered Linnet. “Quickly now.”

  She brushed aside Linnet’s objections. The voice in the back of her head told her what she was doing was foolish; she ignored that, as well.

  Geoffrey was all she had in the world.

  She could not sit here and wait. From the time Geoffrey was little, she was the one who protected him—from their father’s criticisms, their mother’s indifference, his own blindness to the world around him.