Isobel let her head rest against the wall behind her. It felt heavenly to be alone in this peaceful garden, knowing de Roche would not come looking for her. God bless King Henry for giving him a private audience today! It took constant vigilance to avoid being caught alone with de Roche again.
Stephen, on the other hand, she’d barely glimpsed since she sent him from her chamber. How close she had been to succumbing to temptation that day! She should have been insulted by the way Stephen’s gaze moved so blatantly over her body. Instead, his hunger seduced her, made her insides go hot and liquid. Without a single touch, she was his.
Or would have been, but for Linnet. God would punish her for being such a sinful woman.
Stephen had avoided her ever since. When she did chance to see him, he was always occupied. Talking with merchants from the town. Drinking with local noblemen. And there was always a woman nearby—touching his arm, laughing at his jokes, following him with her eyes. It was as if Stephen wanted to show her she did not matter.
Sometimes, though, she felt his eyes upon her. But when she turned to look, his gaze was elsewhere.
“Isobel.”
She looked up, and there he was, so handsome he took her breath away.
“Robert could not come, so he sent me to fetch you.”
“Will you not sit for a while?” she asked, patting the bench beside her. “With the sun out, it almost feels like summer in this sheltered garden.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Are you angry with me?” She was embarrassed by the quaver in her voice, but she pressed ahead. “You almost run when you see me, as if you cannot bear the sight of me.”
To her astonishment, Stephen threw his head back and laughed. He had a wonderful, infectious laugh. It filled the small garden and lightened her heart.
He dropped down beside her. Smiling his most wicked smile, he leaned too close and asked, “You will pretend you do not know why I keep my distance?”
She swallowed and shook her head. “I do not know.”
“You lie, Isobel, but I will tell you all the same.”
She could not breathe with him this near.
“I stay away because whenever I see you”—he kept his eyes fixed on hers as he ran his finger slowly up her forearm—“all I want to do is drag you off to bed, and keep you there for a week.”
A week. Oh, my. Her mouth went dry, and she wet her lips with her tongue. Her stomach tightened at the desire she saw burning in his eyes.
“I cannot be in a room with you,” he said, his voice thick and husky, “without imagining what it would be like to take your clothes off. To feel your bare skin, warm and soft beneath my hands, against my chest. To smell your hair, to taste—”
He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes.
Isobel tried to slow her breathing, but there was nothing she could do about her racing pulse.
He rested his forehead against hers and whispered, “Tell me, what is this between us?”
She had no answer, at least none that she would give him.
She felt weak and liquid as he took her face in his hands.Kiss me. Please. Just once more.
When he pulled away, she felt bereft, wanting.
Stephen fell back against the wall and rocked his head from side to side. “This is more dangerous for you than for me. ’Tis why I tried to stay away.” He rubbed his hands over his face and muttered into them, “What am I to do with her?”
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.She clenched her fists to keep from saying it aloud.
He dropped his hands and asked, “Do you want to marry him?”
She blinked at him, startled by the question.
“Now that you’ve spent time with de Roche,” he persisted, “are you content to be his wife?”