The prospect of spending weeks camped out-of-doors in midwinter, bored silly, dampened Stephen’s spirits further.
“Perhaps we shall be gone long enough for you to get back what little sense you once had,” William said. “But I shall put my hope in her new husband taking her away before our return.”
Isobel, gone from Caen? Stephen needed to see her at least once more. Backing her against a wall and very nearly ravishing her was hardly a proper farewell. Proper farewell or no, sweat broke out on his forehead thinking about it.
When he could still smell her hair, her skin, how could he imagine her gone? Or worse, with her new husband. He could imagine that. His jaw began to ache from clenching it.
Yet the Frenchman seemed in no hurry to claim her. Perhaps she would still be there when he returned. Perhaps the fool would never come…
“De Roche will come,” William said, interrupting his thoughts. “Henry has him by the balls.”
Chapter Eleven
January 1418
Isobel controlled her thoughts during the day. But her dreams betrayed her. Some nights, she dreamed of Stephen telling her stories and woke up smiling. Other times, she awoke hot and breathless with the memory of his lips on her mouth, his hands moving over her body.
Last night she had one of those dreams that drove her from her bed. She stared out her window into the darkness and imagined herself in a river, the dark water running over her, until the desire to have him touch her lessened enough for her to sleep again. This morning, wisps of the dream still floated in her head. A vague longing and a heaviness in her heart remained.
Looking out her window in the harsh light of day, she lectured herself on how lucky she was Stephen was gone from Caen. She prayed she would recover from her madness before he returned. For it was madness. Madness to risk angering the king. Madness to risk being sent home to England in disgrace. And where would she have to go but to her father’s household?
Humiliated, dependent, wholly subject to her father’s will. Her father would not even permit her to escape to a nunnery. He would deem it a waste of an asset, however reduced in value. After sullying her reputation and earning the king’s ill will, what sort of marriage would her father broker for her this time?
It was past bearing.
Her father’s treason brought them enough dishonor; she could not add to her family’s shame.
For her to risk so much—ach, and for such a man! It was beyond foolishness. Even if she were a wealthy widow who could choose a man to please herself, she would be wise to stay away from the likes of Stephen Carleton.
She did not hope for a man she could love. Indeed, love would give a man far too much power over her. All she wanted was a man she could respect. A man devoted to honor and duty. Not someone who frittered his talents away on frivolous pursuits—especially the pursuit of beautiful women.
Ha! Stephen did not pursue women—he drew them like flies to a dead fish. She blew out her breath in a huff. Aye, she was just one more fly buzzing, no better than the rest.
What if FitzAlan had come to the storeroom a short time later? She put her hand to her chest. No matter what she told FitzAlan, she and Stephen would have been forced to wed. Stephen seemed no more sensible of the consequences at the time than she. But marriage was like the plague to him. Why, he went so far as to delay claiming his family lands to avoid it. How he would resent her! He would grow to hate her.
And there would always be those other women, buzzing about. She knew infidelity was commonplace among men of her class. Why, then, did imagining Stephen being led off discreetly by one lady or another leave her seething?
What was she doing, wasting her time thinking of Stephen and getting upset? She snapped up her sewing from the table and set to work.
She was diligently stitching when Robert knocked on her chamber door.
“Where is your maid?” he asked when she let him in.
She shrugged. “I do not know half the time.”
“We shall deal with her later,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Isobel, he is here.”
Stephen was back! The smile froze on her face. Robert would not seek her out to tell her Stephen Carleton had returned to Caen. Nay, Robert did not know—could not know—she waited every day, every hour, for Stephen’s return. Foolish, foolish woman that she was.
If not Stephen, then who? Her spirits plummeted further as the answer came to her. “De Roche?”
Robert pressed his lips into a line and nodded. “The king has just come from Falaise to meet with him. You are to join them in the Exchequer hall.”
She dropped her eyes to hide her rising panic and pretended to fuss with her gown. When Robert lifted her chin with his finger, she saw sadness in his face.
“Is—is he so terrible?” she asked.
Robert squeezed her hand and said, “ ’Tis only that I let myself forget you would eventually leave my care.”