Good heavens, could she be drunk? Hume’s drinking so disgusted her, she never overimbibed. How—
“Of course.” De Lisieux’s voice was solicitous.
Of course, what? She’d forgotten what she asked him.
“But first, look at the design of this beautiful tapestry.”
It was difficult to make out the pattern in the dim candlelight of the room, but Isobel dutifully put her nose close to it and moved along the wall, squinting. A grimacing face, a horse’s haunch, a woman’s breast… Quite suddenly, she saw it as a whole and for what it was. Too shocked to speak, she stared open-mouthed at the obscene mythological scene of satyrs having intimate relations with human women.
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.