“Help me dress,” she said, patting Linnet’s hand. “I must see how Lord FitzAlan fares.”
A short time later, she stood outside the door to Fitz-Alan’s sickroom. She lifted her hand to knock, hoping and dreading she would find Stephen within. The door was ajar. She could hear voices.
One of them was Stephen’s.
After a deep breath, she rapped lightly. The people inside were talking so loudly, no one seemed to hear her. When they broke into laughter, a flood of relief ran through her. FitzAlan must be out of danger. Smiling, she poked her head through the door to ask permission to enter.
She froze as she took in the scene before her. On a stool beside FitzAlan’s bed sat a breathtakingly beautiful woman. The woman leaned over the injured man, holding his hand in both of hers. Lady Catherine FitzAlan. The woman was fair, where Jamie was dark, and she looked far too young to be his mother. Still, Isobel had no doubt that was who the lady was.
The three men in the room leaned toward her like sunflowers toward the sun. The usually stern FitzAlan was beaming up at her like a boy in his first puppy love. Jamie stood behind, a hand resting on her shoulder. Completing the circle, Stephen sat beside her, a hand on her other shoulder.
It was not Stephen’s hand on the woman’s shoulder that made it impossible for Isobel to breathe—though that did not help. It was what she saw in his face as he gazed at the woman.
Bits of what she had overheard Stephen say about his brother’s wife spun through her head. But I adore Catherine. There is no woman like her. Worse still, she remembered the wistful tone of his voice when he spoke of her.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Stephen avoided a betrothal. Why he wasted time with worthless women like Marie de Lisieux. She swallowed against the pain rising in her chest.
Stephen was in love with his brother’s wife.
Though Lady Catherine had to be several years older than Stephen, she was yet a great beauty. Isobel’s heart might hurt less if she could believe physical beauty was all that drew him. But when Stephen spoke of her, it was not of her beauty.
Nay, he loved this woman for herself.
Lady FitzAlan must have felt Isobel’s stare, for she turned and looked at Isobel with eyes as blue as Jamie’s.
“Come in,” she called out. She rose to her feet and held her hands out to Isobel, saying, “You must be Lady Hume.”
Caught like a rat in a trap. Isobel stepped into the room and took the woman’s hands, for she could do naught else.
“I am Catherine,” the woman said, kissing Isobel’s cheeks. “Forgive my familiarity, but I’ve just heard how you saved my husband’s life. God bless you!”
She startled Isobel further by pulling her into a full embrace. Isobel could not recall the last time she was embraced by another woman. She had no sisters, no close aunts or female cousins. It must have been when she was a small child, before her mother lost her warmth and laughter.
Isobel let herself be enveloped in the softness and breathed in Lady FitzAlan’s light, feminine scent. Much as she might want to, she could not hate this woman now.
Lady FitzAlan pulled her into the room and made her sit on the stool Stephen gave up for her. Though Isobel felt Stephen’s eyes on her, she could not look at him.
She sat mute, stunned by her discovery. He loves her. He has always loved her. The words went round and round in her head. She struggled to follow the lively talk in the room but could not.
She tried again to listen, determined to leave at the first break in the conversation. Lady FitzAlan was speaking of a premonition so strong that she sent her children to her mother-in-law. Then she paid the owner of a fishing vessel an exorbitant amount of gold to carry her across the channel between winter storms.
“ ’Twas foolish to risk yourself,” FitzAlan said. He had not once taken his eyes from his wife since Isobel sat down.
“ ’Tis good she came,” Stephen said behind her. “Catherine is the best medicine.”
Isobel could not bear to hear his voice.
When Stephen started to say something about the Fitz-Alans moving into a house in the town, she got to her feet. She had to get out. This very moment.
Murmuring a feeble excuse—she hardly knew what she said—she went out the door before anyone could stop her.
Clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, she hiked up her skirts and ran down the corridor. She did not get far before Stephen caught her arm.
“Isobel, we must talk,” he said, spinning her around. “I am sorry you are upset with me for not speaking to the king yet. I could not leave my brother, and then Catherine came. But I will do it today, now, if the king will see me.”
“The king?” What was he saying?
“If the king insists on questioning you separately,” he said, “I shall ask Catherine to go with you.”
“Why must you speak to the king?” She had to hear him say it to be sure.
“Because of de Ro—” A look of distaste passed over his face, and he began again. “Because the king made other plans for you, ’tis best to obtain his permission before we marry.”
“I know you feel honor-bound to do this,” she said, “but I will not let you.”
He was chivalrous enough not to show relief. But perhaps he did not yet believe she meant it.
“Do not fret,” he said, giving her arm a squeeze. “The king will blame me, not you. I’ll not lie to you, he will be angry. Quite angry, for a time. But all will be well in the end, I promise.”
“You shall not speak to the king about me.”
Stephen drew his brows together. “Isobel, surely you know we must marry.”
He did not call her “love” now.
“I know no such thing,” she answered, her voice tight. “If bedding a woman meant you must wed her, then you would have a great many wives by now.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the easy, familiar Stephen was gone. The man glaring at her was the other Stephen—the dangerous one who would ride into shooting arrows or throw a blade into a man’s eye.
“We shall marry as soon as—”
Stephen stopped at the sound of someone calling his name. Isobel turned to see François running toward them down the corridor.
“Stephen,” François said between gasps of breath, “Madame de Champdivers says you must come at once. She has something you want.”
Isobel’s blood turned to ice. She would be a fool to risk all and marry this man. Between his hopeless love for his brother’s wife and his constant affairs, there would be no end to her suffering. He would crush her heart worse than her father had.
“I shall find you when I return, and we shall talk,” Stephen said, his tone as hard as granite. “And then I shall go to the king.”
She jerked her arm away and glared at him.
“We shall do what is right here, Isobel.”
Chapter Twenty-four
I thought you would never come,” Linnet scolded Stephen as she let him and François into Isobel’s chamber. “You must save her from that horrid man.”
Stephen sighed. At least the twins were on his side. Isobel had been so angry when he tried to apologize for not yet speaking to the king. Damn, he should have stayed and talked with her instead of going on that wild-goose chase.
Claudette had sent François to fetch him after overhearing de Roche and Marie de Lisieux having a furious argument. As Claudette passed by a window in the Old Palace—Stephen did not ask Claudette what she was doing there—she noticed de Roche and Marie in the garden below. Claudette caught only a few words of the argument, but she heard Marie say both Stephen’s name and “abbey.”
Stephen tried telling Claudette that, by now, everyone in the castle knew of the attack. But Claudette was certain Marie knew something. And she was equally certain that Stephen was the only one who could worm it out of her.
When he finally tracked Marie down, she was pleased to see him. Too pleased. He did not believe Marie was invol
ved in planning the attack, but she did know something. He was not willing, however, to go to bed with her to find out what. After all, he was almost a married man.
Whether his wife-to-be knew it or not.
Where in the hell was Isobel? It was late; they had no more time to waste. His head was throbbing long before he heard voices outside the door.
The twins ran to meet Isobel at the door.
“François, ’tis nice to see you,” Isobel said as she came in. She sounded tired.
“I must go with François,” Linnet said as she and her brother scurried past Isobel.
“Linnet!” Isobel called as the door closed behind them. Isobel collapsed onto a stool and buried her face in her hands.
Stephen felt himself softening toward her, but he fought it. He must be firm with her.
When he stepped into the circle of light from the lamp on the table next to her, she looked up, startled. She looked so lovely he could not speak.
“Did you get what you wanted from Madame de Champdivers?” Isobel snapped her mouth closed, as if the words had slipped out before she could stop them.
Was it possible she was jealous? Of Claudette?
Ridiculous as it was, could that be the reason for her reluctance? The thought cheered him. Much better she be jealous than indifferent.
“Claudette is a friend, nothing more.”
Isobel made a dismissive snort and looked away.
“We must go talk with William and Catherine about how best to approach the king. ’Tis late, and my brother needs his rest, so we mustn’t tarry.” He held out his hand to her.
She rose without taking it and stood toe to toe with him. “I will not,” she said flatly.
He sucked in a breath to calm himself before speaking. “We must accept the consequences of our actions. I’d prefer you entered into this marriage gladly. Regardless, I will try to be a good husband to you. I hope, in time, I can make you happy.”
“I will deny anything happened between us.”
He was stunned. “But why?”
She clamped her lips together and refused to answer.
“You cannot wish to have de Roche as your husband.”
It was bad enough that she was less than enthusiastic about marrying him. But surely she could not prefer that smarmy Frenchman over him?
“I made a promise to the king,” she said, crossing her arms, “and I will make good on it.”
“And what of our promise to each other?” he asked. “We made a promise by what we did in the old croft at the abbey.”
“From what I hear, Stephen Carleton, you give such ‘promises’ to women all the time.”
“Those women were different.”
“How?” she demanded, giving him a hard look.
Why did he need to explain this to her? “Those women took me to their beds for pleasure only. It was understood between us. I misled none of them. Most were not even free to marry.”
“Then I am no different,” she said. “I took you for pleasure, and I am not free to marry.”
Her words were like a knife to his heart. Had she really used him like that? Had he been so mistaken in believing what happened between them meant as much to her as it did to him?
At least he knew how to play it now. This was a game he was good at. He would take his own advice. In a fight for your life, you must use the advantage you have, not the one you wished you had.
He pulled her roughly against him and slowly, deliberately, ran his thumb over her full bottom lip.
“De Roche would disappoint you.”
She looked up at him with wide green eyes and blinked once, twice. Already, her breathing changed.
“I want you naked.” He held her gaze and let her see how much he meant it. He did want her that way, he just wanted her heart more.
Her lips parted, and her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I… I…” She tried to speak, but her words drifted off as he ran his finger along the side of her neck and down her throat.
When he reached the top of her gown, her breath hitched. He could almost hear her thoughts, they were so plain on her face. She was telling herself she should back away, but she wanted his touch too much to listen.
He would make sure of it.
He brushed his finger ever so slowly along the delicate skin at the edge of her bodice, across the rise and fall of her breasts. Like warm beeswax, she melted against him.
“You want to be kissed?” He tried to hang on to his cool calculation, but it was hard with her looking at him like that.
When she rose onto her tiptoes to meet him, his heart leapt in his chest. What kind of fool was he? Who was seducing whom? Who would be vanquished? He feared it would be him again.
Stephen never suffered from a lack of courage. Truth be told, he threw himself into danger with nary a thought. But his knees trembled as he leaned down to take this gamble.
As soon as his lips touched hers, there was fire. As there was every time they kissed. He let it envelop him, lap all around him, as he sank into her. He wanted to touch all the places he loved: her face, the enticing curve of her back, the long line of her thigh. Her hair, he had to have his hands in it. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he began pulling the pins that held her headdress.
“Let me,” she gasped, breaking the kiss.
While her hands were busy with pins and coils, he moved down her body. He pressed his lips to the soft skin above her bodice, then dropped to his knees to kiss her breasts through the cloth of her gown. When her hair fell over his hands, he sighed with pleasure and rested his head against her.
But he could not afford to let her catch her breath and reconsider. He rose to his feet and spun her around to unfasten her gown.
“We should not…,” she began, but her voice trailed off as he reached around and cupped her breasts. Soft and full, they fit perfectly in his hands. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, making little sighs and moans.
He kissed her neck, then whispered into her ear, “I want to feel your skin against mine again.”
This time, she made no pretense of objecting. As soon as he unfastened her gown, she pushed it off her shoulders and let it fall in a pool at her feet. As she turned around to face him, he pulled his tunic and shirt over his head. He drew in a sharp breath when she put her arms around his waist and he felt her breasts against his chest.
She looked up at him, eyes dark and serious. “I know it is wrong, but I cannot help myself.”
“There is no wrong in it, if we are to marry.”
“I would rather sin than suffer every day—” Her voice broke in a sob.
He could not begin to understand her. What could she mean? “We would have joy between us, can you not see that?”
She shook her head violently from side to side. With the passion broken, he could feel her slipping away from him. Before she could change her mind, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
This was no time for fighting fair.
He began by kissing her senseless.
When she slipped a hand under the top of his leggings, he grabbed her wrist. Holding both her hands over her head, he nipped at her ear and ran his tongue along her collarbone. By the time he reached her breasts, she was squirming and arching her back.
Slowly, he circled her nipples with his tongue. Round and round, then flicking with his tongue until she slammed her fist against the bed.
Good. He ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh, inch by inch, as he continued teasing her nipple with his tongue. When he reached her center, she was hot and wet and he wanted her so badly he nearly forgot his purpose.
With renewed determination to control himself, he drew her breast into his mouth and pleasured her with his hand. Every sigh and moan made him want her more.
When he stopped to run his hand along the inside of her thigh again, she opened her eyes.
“Good things come to her who waits,” he said, grinning down at her. He set to teasing her, moving his fing
ers in circles ever closer to her center until he brushed it with each turn with a feather touch.
The saints preserve him, she had beautiful breasts! He kissed the one closest to him. She made a little high-pitched sound when he took the nipple between his teeth. As he increased the pressure between her legs, her breathing grew ragged.
“Stephen, don’t stop,” she said, her voice urgent as she tried to pull him down to her.
When she cried out, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his head in her neck. He felt overpowered by emotions so strong he did not know what to do with them.
He squeezed his eyes shut as she ran her fingers along the side of his face. He was tight as a bowstring. When she turned in to him to kiss him, the tips of her breasts touched his chest. This was the way to ruin. He let himself enjoy a painfully languid kiss before he broke away.
“On your stomach,” he told her and sat up.
Giving him an uncertain look, she turned. He gathered her mass of dark hair and swept it to the side. As he kissed her neck, her lips curved up. He leaned back and let his eyes travel down the graceful line of her spine. To let her know how much he wanted her, he rubbed his cock against her buttocks.
In truth, that was just for him.
It did get her attention. She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes wide and lips parted. She looked so beautiful he had to fight the urge to part her legs and enter her right then.
Whoa! He shook his head.
He gave her buttocks little bites that made her laugh, even while they aroused her. Then he turned her over to kiss her breasts again. How did she smell so good?
He played with her nipples as he worked his way down. He paused to stick his tongue in her belly button. As he moved lower, he felt her tense. He rose up to kiss her for a long while, his hand between her legs.
“You will like this, I promise,” he said next to her ear before he moved back down to show her.
She did. Her release was so exciting he thought he would have his own against the bedclothes. Sweet Jesus, she was going to kill him.
Knight of Pleasure Page 19
