“But where is your intended?” the maid asked. “When will he come for you?”
“You know very well Sir Robert has gone to ask for news of him.” So long as her Frenchman was not here, she did not care where he was.Please, God, let him never come.
“Have you ever seen a man so handsome?”
Isobel knew the maid was no longer speaking of her intended, but of Sir Robert. The woman was so agog when he met them at the ship that Isobel had to give her a firm shove to get her down the ship’s ramp.
“He is more beautiful than handsome,” Isobel said, more to herself than the maid. “Like the angel Gabriel.”
“Just so, m’lady!”
He’d been kind as an angel, too. After making sure she was comfortably settled into a chamber in the keep, he devoted the rest of his morning to walking her about the castle grounds.
’Twas odd, though. Bits of song kept coming into her head when he spoke. As she puzzled over it, she gazed at the lovely chapel dedicated to Saint George that stood midway between her bench and the main gate, Porte Saint-Pierre.
Her jaw dropped when she saw Robert striding toward her with three other men. Like the waters of the Red Sea, the crowds of soldiers parted before them, leaving her with a clear view. The four tall, formidable, well-built men looked as if they stepped out of the magical tales of her childhood.
One of them was of an age with Sir Robert and looked precisely as she always imagined King Arthur: dark golden, commanding, grave. Next to him was a dark-haired youth of perhaps sixteen.
She shifted her gaze to the last man, who was talking with great animation. Judging from how the others turned their heads to listen, it was a good story he was telling. All four men were handsome, but there was something about this one that held her attention.
That rich auburn hair, which he wore to his shoulders, must be the envy of every woman who saw it. She liked his long, lithe frame and the way he walked with an easy, catlike grace despite the wild gestures he was making.
“M’lady, could one of these fine men be your intended?”
Isobel turned to stare at her maid. Could it be true? Could he have arrived already? Alarm coursed through her limbs and settled in a knot in her belly.
“One of them is the right age, aye?” the maid persisted.
Sir Robert said her Frenchman was but a few years older than she.
When she turned back to look at the men again, her throat closed in panic. They were nearly upon her!
“See, m’lady, the one on the end with the lovely hair—”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the maid’s arm rising and grabbed it before the woman could point.
She was not ready to meet him, she was not, she was not. She busied herself brushing her gown, trying desperately to calm herself.
With a burst of male laughter, the men surrounded her.
Robert greeted her with a warm smile and helped her to her feet. Tilting his head toward the man who looked like King Arthur, he said, “Lady Hume, let me present Lord William FitzAlan.”
FitzAlan looked as though he slayed dragons for breakfast. But when he greeted her, she saw kindness in his eyes.
“And this is FitzAlan’s son, Jamie Rayburn,” Robert said, turning to the dark-haired youth.
Young Jamie Rayburn seemed unable to keep his eyes from running over her, head to foot, despite the fact that it caused him to blush furiously.
She had no time to wonder how it might be that father and son had different family names before the third man eased the youth aside. All else faded away as she looked into the face of the man she was to marry.
Could it be true? Could this man with the laughing eyes be her new husband?
She’d prayed for a man who did not disgust her. Never did she dare hope for this. The man was so handsome he took her breath away. Every feature was pleasing: the black slash eyebrows; the hard planes of cheek and jaw; the strong, straight nose; the wide, mobile mouth.
But his eyes would always be her favorite part. Amazing how the color almost matched his hair—just a few shades darker and more deep brown than chestnut.
And his voice. So melodic.