Knight of Pleasure

by Margaret Mallory

  Sometime later, he once again had her on the edge, just where he wanted her. She was clinging to him like warm honey. He hovered over her, teasing her—and torturing himself. It took all his strength of mind not to plunge into her.

  “Now.” She wrapped her legs more tightly around him, her voice was urgent. “I want you inside me. Now.”

  “Say you will marry me first.”

  She made an indecipherable sound.

  “You must say it, Isobel,” he insisted. “I will not again risk giving you a child unless I have your word.”

  “I cannot!” she half moaned, half cried. “Do not make me, Stephen. Please. Please. Do not make me.”

  Even in the midst of passion, she would not give in to him.

  A man can take only so much. When she lifted her hips to him, he let his shaft slide over her. He closed his eyes and moved against her, again and again, until he spurted his seed over her belly.

  He rolled off her and lay on his back, arms crossed over his face. He’d never felt worse in his life. The humiliation alone might kill him. But it was nothing to this aching hole in his chest where his heart had been. He wanted to crawl off into a corner like a wounded animal. But he could not move with this heavy sadness lying over him like a great weight.

  Though they did not touch, he felt the heat of her body next to him and heard each shallow breath she took. There was one demand he had to make. Though she won all else, he was determined to have his way in this one thing. He gathered his strength and what little pride he had left, and said it.

  “I will not allow another man to raise my child.”

  He let the silence linger to give her time to absorb this before he told her how it would be.

  “ ’Tis unlikely,” she said in a bare whisper. “I have never conceived. I—I may not be able to.”

  He was resolved in this, and he would have her know it. Fixing his eyes on the ceiling, he let the coldness he felt show in his voice.

  “You will find a way to delay your marriage to de Roche until you know for certain,” he said. “If you are with child, I will give you two choices. You can marry me, or you can have the child in secret and give it to me to raise.”

  He got up from the bed. As he pulled on his clothes, his hurt and disappointment turned into something cold and hard within his chest. The silence was thick between them as he sat and methodically put on one boot and then the other.

  He was not going to slink out of Isobel’s bedchamber half dressed. He was not that kind of man anymore. He had tried to do the right thing. He still wanted to.

  Gritting his teeth, he strapped on his belt and sword. Only then did he look at her. She was sitting with the bedclothes clutched to her chest, her hollow eyes fixed on him.

  “Understand me. I will not allow you to pass my child off as de Roche’s,” he told her. “I would kill him with my bare hands before I let that unworthy piece of shit have a child of mine.”

  She nodded.

  It was enough. He turned and left her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Stephen waved aside the guards’ cautions and rode out the gate. Brigands and renegades be damned.

  Lightning liked galloping in the dark. Stephen gave the horse his head, though it risked both their necks. The cold helped clear Stephen’s mind. When Lightning slowed to a walk, he looked up at the star-filled sky and tried to draw hope from it.

  After he left Isobel, he was in such a tangle he awakened Catherine for advice. She showed no surprise at his intention to marry Isobel. Good God, was he so obvious?

  Catherine demanded he tell her all. He was not about to confess he’d just tried to seduce Isobel into agreeing to the marriage. Tried and failed. As it turned out, all Catherine wished to know was what he said to Isobel.

  “You told her you ‘must’ marry?” Catherine said in her most exasperated tone. “Not that you wanted to marry her? That you love her? That you cannot live without her? For God’s sake, Stephen, what were you thinking!”

  Obviously, he had not broached the subject in the best possible way. He should have mentioned how much he cared for her. But how could Isobel not know it?

  Those ugly remarks she made about other women were insulting. He’d not gone to bed with another woman since he met her, for God’s sake. And it was not as if he had no offers.

  The simple truth was he did not want any woman but Isobel. He’d told her he was done with other women… or had he? Surely his determination to marry her said as much?

  Stephen and Lightning rode through most of the night. He did not turn around until he was sure he could speak with Isobel without getting angry again—no matter what foolishness she might say. A storm rolled in with the dawn, soaking him to the skin before he reached the castle gate.

  He rode straight for the keep, hoping to find the king at breakfast in the hall. This time, he meant to talk with the king first. Then, when he spoke with Isobel, he could assure her the king was willing to release her from her promise.

  The king would not like it, but he would approve the marriage. Being a pious man, what else could he do when Stephen told him what they’d done?

  Last night, Linnet had found Isobel naked and weeping on the floor. The girl wrapped her in blankets and frantically pressed her with questions. Distraught as she was, Isobel made the mistake of telling her Stephen wanted to marry her.

  Linnet was still furious with her this morning for her “utter, utter foolishness” in refusing him.

  Was she being foolish?

  What should she have said to Stephen? That she loved him so much her heart ached every moment of every day? That this, more than anything, frightened her? That she wished with all her heart he loved her back?

  Yet even that would not be enough. She wanted the impossible. Unless he loved her always, being his wife would cause her too much pain.

  Isobel felt ill from so much weeping. If she could, she would remain in bed for days with the curtains closed. The king, however, sent a message summoning her to join him for breakfast. Vaguely, she recalled he wished to know about the attackers. She tried to turn her mind to it. But misery engulfed her, leaving her thoughts disjointed and scattered.

  Linnet maintained her stony silence while helping Isobel dress. For spite, the girl chose the green velvet gown Isobel wore on the day of Stephen’s return from Falaise. Blinking back tears, she ran her fingers over the soft fabric.

  When Robert came to escort her, she forced a smile. Taking his arm, she said, “You look well today.”

  “I should. Somehow I managed to sleep all of yesterday.” He frowned at her. “But I can see you have not recovered from your ordeal. You look pale, my dear.”

  “I am sorry I caused you such worry,” she said. “It was thoughtless of me not to leave you a message.”

  Robert laughed. “A message would not have helped, unless you had the good sense to lie to me.”

  “Has the king summoned me to ask about the attackers?”

  “I can think of no other reason,” Robert said with a shrug. “I was supposed to question you yesterday, so he must have grown impatient.”

  When they entered the hall, Isobel took a quick look up and down the tables. Stephen was not here, praise God. She needed time to think. Now, that was odd—de Roche was in the honored place next to the king. Her brother was seated at the far end of the high table, looking anxious.

  After the king acknowledged her and Robert, he gestured for them to sit beside de Roche. Isobel sat without meeting de Roche’s eyes. After his volatile and offensive behavior of late, the prospect of sharing a trencher with him made her queasy.

  Isobel could not think of a single word to say to him. She was relieved when the king rose to speak.

  “This is a happy occasion,” the king said, holding his arms out. “Today we celebrate the symbolic joining of England and Normandy…”

  Isobel barely heard a word the king said. She was startled to attention, though, when Robert leapt to his feet beside he
r.

  “But, my good sire, I must beg you to put off this betrothal a little longer,” Robert said, his voice tense. “We have not yet completed negotiation of the terms of the marriage contract.”

  “Since you proved unable to accomplish this simple task, I took it upon myself to assist her brother,” the king said. “The three of us met an hour ago. Agreement was easily reached.”

  “With your good guidance, I’m sure it was readily done,” Robert said in a clipped voice.

  “Lord de Roche has been exceedingly generous,” the king answered in an even tone. “I assure you, Lady Hume can have nothing to complain of.”

  Isobel felt as if she were watching events unfold from a great distance. Surely this was not happening. Not now.

  She was vaguely aware of Robert cursing under his breath as he sat down. With his hand on her arm he whispered, “I had no notion the king meant to do this today.”

  “Lord de Roche wishes to have the marriage ceremony take place in his home city of Rouen,” the king announced. “The banns will be posted there.”

  “Merde!” Robert hissed beside her.

  Isobel kept her eyes fixed on the untouched food in front of her while the king talked on and on. She flinched each time she heard the word “betrothal” but took in nothing else.

  God help her. It was too late.

  When the king finished speaking, de Roche stood and took his turn. His words flowed like thick honey of the bonding of two great kingdoms, God’s will, the king’s destiny.

  Isobel started at the sudden weight of a hand on her shoulder and looked up into hard gray eyes.

  “ ’Tis time to sign the marriage contract and pledge our troth,” de Roche said.

  To the sound of halfhearted clapping, he pulled her to her feet. Geoffrey walked to her from the far end of the table.

  “I am sorry to surprise you,” he whispered as he laid the marriage contract before her. “The king would brook no delay.”

  She took the quill and signed without reading it.

  De Roche signed with a flourish, then took her hand. His deep voice filled the room as he made his formal promise to her.

  All eyes in the hall turned to her. Panic seized her. She could not do this. Not now. Not yet. Not ever. She took a step back, her eyes on the door.

  King Henry stood before her, blocking her way. She opened her mouth to tell him—

  Tell him what? That she could not do this now? Surely the king would demand a reason.

  I must wait until I know if I am with child. I have committed the sin of fornication, with a man other than the one I agreed to wed.

  She could not tell him that. Not before all these witnesses.

  The king cleared his throat. When she looked into his magnetic hazel eyes, Isobel felt the full force of his will for the first time. Before her was the king who united England, the commander men followed gladly into war. His every aspect exuded utter certainty that he knew what was right.

  King Henry was relentless in pursuing the destiny God set out for him. Every day, he did his duty with all of his being. With his steady gaze, he was telling her that today he expected her to do hers.

  The king prompted her, telling her what she should say. She did as he bade her. She repeated back the simple words of the promise to marry.

  It was done.

  A gush of wind went through the hall, causing the lamps and candles to flicker. Isobel turned and saw a dark figure at the entrance, rain dripping from his cloak. Her heart caught in her throat. Even before he threw his hood back and pushed the wet hair from his face, she knew it was him.

  “Sir Stephen,” the king called out, a smile lighting his face. “Come, we will make room for you here.”

  Stephen strode up to the high table and made his bow to the king. But when he lifted his head, his dark eyes were fixed on Isobel.

  “You are just in time to hear the good news,” the king said, gesturing toward Isobel and de Roche. “Lord de Roche and Lady Isobel Hume are betrothed. They leave today for Rouen.”

  Isobel felt faint under Stephen’s gaze. Though his face was expressionless, she saw the muscles in his jaw working. How angry he must be with her! Only hours since he demanded she delay this marriage, and already she had bound herself. Only hours since she lay naked with him, and she stood beside the man who would be her husband. She wanted to cry out that it was not her fault—the king gave her no choice.

  But none of it mattered. What was done was done.

  “I wish you every happiness,” Stephen said between his teeth. Without another word, he turned on his heel.

  Isobel watched the dark drops of rainwater fall from his cape and hit the gray stone floor as he walked across it. Long after he was gone, she heard the echo of his boots in the silent hall.

  Isobel sat on the bench in her bedchamber, staring blindly out the window slit as Linnet packed her chest. Glancing down, she saw she was dressed in her traveling clothes. She had no memory of changing.

  Now and then, Linnet asked a question about the packing. Isobel could not muster the strength to answer. When she saw Linnet carry her sword to the chest, though, she forced herself to speak.

  “I shall have to give that up.” Her voice came out as a croak. “My new husband will not approve.”

  Linnet glared at her over the top of the chest as she laid the sword inside it. Then she stalked over to Isobel.

  “We shall wear our daggers.” Linnet flipped up the skirt of Isobel’s gown and strapped a dagger to her calf.

  “But we’ll be traveling with twenty of de Roche’s men—”

  “I stole an extra for each of us.” Linnet slapped a second dagger into Isobel’s hand. “Find a place to hide it on you.”

  It was easier to slip the dagger through the fichu of her gown and fasten it to the belt underneath than to argue.

  “You need not come with me,” Isobel said, though the thought of losing the girl, too, brought her to the brink of tears again. “You will want to stay with François.”

  “We are both coming,” Linnet said. “Sir Robert said you will have need of us.”

  Isobel took Linnet’s hand and squeezed it, unable to find words to tell her how grateful she was.

  Linnet jerked her hand away, still furious with her for letting this happen. Isobel leaned her head back against the stone wall and let the tears slide down the sides of her face. She could not seem to stop weeping. Perhaps if she were not so very, very tired.

  Linnet brought a cold, wet cloth for her face. As Isobel took slow, deep breaths through the cloth, she told herself that if she could survive eight years married to Hume, she could survive anything. Even this. She drew in one last deep breath and set the cloth aside.

  “Thank you, Linnet.” She rose to her feet, dry-eyed at last. “I am ready.”

  It was still raining, so they made their good-byes inside the keep. Somehow, she managed to make the expected nods and murmurs as she moved from group to group with de Roche.

  She faltered only twice.

  The first was when she saw Lady Catherine Fitz-Alan. Isobel could not help thinking Stephen would not be happy, either, in love with his brother’s wife. Though Lady Catherine had been kindness itself when they met, she offered no good wishes now. The blue eyes fixed on her, as if asking a burning question.

  Isobel faltered again when she bade farewell to her brother and Robert. How she would miss them! All that kept her from breaking down was Robert’s promise to visit her soon.

  “Do not tell de Roche, but I go in secret to Paris now,” Robert said in a low voice when de Roche turned to speak to someone else. “I shall come see you upon my return.”

  She felt certain Robert knew what was between her and Stephen, though they never spoke of it. When he embraced her for the last time, she could not help whispering in his ear, “He did not come. He did not come.”

  “You will be happy yet, Isobel, I know it.”

  Despite Robert’s effort to hide his worry behind a smi
le, she saw it in his eyes as he waved good-bye to her.

  They had two days’ ride before them, and de Roche was anxious to be gone. With a twin on either side of her, Isobel urged her horse forward with the rest of their party.

  As they crossed the bailey yard, she turned for a last look at the storeroom along the wall where she spent so many happy hours practicing. Where she and Stephen first kissed.

  A movement on top of the wall drew her eye upward. A dark, hooded figure stood against the gray sky, black cape flapping in the wind.

  Stephen had come to see her off, after all.

  Though she could not make out his face, she felt his eyes burning into her long after she rode out the gate.

  God help her, she loved him. Her life was in ruins.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Even with an escort of twenty men, the road to Rouen was dangerous. They rode hard, rarely stopping, except to camp a few hours overnight on the bank of the Seine. Isobel was past exhaustion by the time she saw the towers and church spires of Rouen on the horizon at dusk on the second day.

  A formidable city. The city walls went on forever and had more towers than she could count. Weary as she was, she could not help wondering how King Henry hoped to take it.

  The others must be tired, as well. The entire party slowed to a sluggish pace now that Rouen was within sight. By the time they passed through the city’s massive gates, it was full dark.

  De Roche dropped back to ride beside her. “Follow close behind me,” he told her. “The house is not far now.”

  Isobel fought to stay awake as she followed de Roche’s horse through the narrow, winding streets. Every few yards, she turned to check on the twins, who rode, heads bobbing, just behind her.

  At last they came to a halt before the gate of a massive, walled house. De Roche helped her down. Her legs, stiff from riding all day, gave way as he set her to the ground.

  Strong arms lifted her. The man’s smell was wrong, but she could not summon the strength to open her eyes. She heard hushed voices around her. Then there was nothing but the lulling, rocking motion of being carried upstairs.