“Father told me I was to save the family…”
Isobel spoke in fits and starts, as if giving voice to only a part of her thoughts.
As she told her tale, Stephen saw her clear as day: a girl on the brink of womanhood, standing in the tall grass with a wooden sword in her hand and laughter in her eyes. A headstrong girl, used to getting her own way.
Old Hume should have had his member cut off and fed to the pigs for lusting after such a girl. He must have been older than her grandfather.
When her voice faded into silence, Stephen prompted her. “Your father must have had his reasons for agreeing to the marriage.”
“Hume gave him the money to buy back our lands,” she said.
So Isobel was her family’s sacrifice—her virginity sold to satisfy an old man’s lust, her happiness traded for land.
Isobel’s head rocked softly against Stephen’s chest. Since he’d get no more of her tale tonight, he turned his horse toward the castle gates. Isobel barely stirred as he carried her up the back stairs to her chamber in the keep.
Would that useless maid never open the damned door? He rapped a second time and a third. When she finally let him in, she giggled at the sight of Isobel, loose-limbed in his arms.
“Don’t you breathe a word of this to anyone,” he told the maid as he carried Isobel to the bed. He did not like bullying servants, but he had to ensure the woman’s discretion. “If you do, I swear I will have that archer you’re so fond of sent to join Gloucester’s army.”
He looked down at Isobel and felt a surge of tenderness for the girl she once was, the girl whose father broke her heart.
When he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, Isobel smiled in her sleep. How he longed to lie beside her! To enfold her in his arms and drift to sleep with his face in her hair. To awaken to that smile in the morning and make love to her. And then to stay in bed with her the whole day through.
The maid would leave if he told her to…
He let out a deep sigh. She was not his. And could not be.
Chapter Ten
December 1417
Geoffrey sent word he could not join them for practice, so it would be just her and Jamie. Stephen had not come once since… Isobel shook her head to clear it of the memory of her night of wanton drunkenness.
She sent her maid back when she reached the storeroom. Though it was not precisely proper to be alone with Jamie, he was still a boy, to her mind.
As soon as she ducked through the low doorway, she realized her mistake. Stephen stood—quite alone—in the center of the room, sword in his hand. He must have come early to practice on his own. Puffs of steam came from his mouth as his breath hit the cold air. His white shirt clung to his skin.
Isobel remained by the door, her feet rooted to the ground.
“Your brother is not coming?” Stephen asked.
She shook her head. “What—what of Jamie?”
“He could not come, either,” Stephen said. “Isobel, do stop looking at me as if I were the Green Knight come to cut off your head. I did not know your brother would not be here. Surely you know by now I would not harm you.”
She knew no such thing. He looked dangerous, casually twirling his sword. His gaze took in every inch of her.
“Come, let us begin,” he said and went to retrieve her sword from its hiding place. When she hesitated to take it from him, he asked, “Are you afraid that without the others here, you will be unable to keep your hands off me?”
Not once had Stephen said anything to embarrass her about what happened that night at the de Lisieuxs’. Not one word, not one veiled remark. Nothing at all to remind her of her drunkenness. Or her foolishness in following de Lisieux into his bedchamber. Or how she begged Stephen to kiss her.
Truly, she was grateful he waited until now, when they were alone, to tease her. That did not mean she liked it.
“You have quite enough women throwing themselves at you, Stephen Carleton.” She took her sword from his outstretched hand, whipped it through the air, and pointed it at his heart. “ ’Tis my sword, not my hands, that should worry you.”
They practiced hard. Once again she was struck by his grace and beauty with a sword. His movements were fluid and effortless as he drew her toward him, letting her attack, but always in control.
“How many women are ‘quite enough’? ” he asked.