“It does not matter what I wish,” she said, though he should not need to be told. She straightened her spine. “I must do my best to be content with the fate God gives me.”
“That is no answer,” Stephen said.
And not fair to her future husband, either. She felt a wave of guilt for her disloyalty.
“Truly, the king has chosen well for me,” she said. “Philippe de Roche is far above me in both wealth and position. The match exceeds every reasonable hope I could have.”
For a certainty, de Roche would make a better husband than her last. She shuddered to think what sort of man her father would have given her to this time. God forgive her for not being as grateful as she ought. For wanting more.
Stephen took her hand and squeezed it. “You deserve to be happy this time.”
She did not bother telling him that what a woman deserved had very little to do with what she got, at least in this life.
Chapter Seventeen
The noisy clatter and conversation in the Exchequer hall came to an abrupt halt. Isobel barely had time to scramble to her feet before the king and his commanders left their places at the high table and filed out of the hall.
As she sat back down, Isobel risked a sideways glance down the length of the table. No woman sat next to Stephen tonight.
And it could snow in July, too.
What did Stephen mean, asking her those questions this afternoon? One moment he was teasing her, the next acting tormented.
“Isobel?”
She started at the sound of de Roche’s voice beside her.
“I had to say your name three times,” de Roche said. “Who were you looking at?”
“My brother,” she said, relieved to have an excuse ready. “I worry he spends so much time at L’Abbaye-aux-Hommes.”
That much was true. What was troubling Geoffrey that caused him to keep vigil with the monks so often? And now he was desperate to tell her about a holy relic at some other abbey. What did he say the relic was? A saint’s finger joint? She had promised to meet him later. Heaven help her, he’d probably written a poem about the shriveled finger.
“You can have no objection to your brother’s devotion,” de Roche said, interrupting her thoughts again.
Isobel did not mistake his pronouncement for an invitation to explain her concern. De Roche never asked her questions of a personal nature about her family. She was relieved, and yet… How different he was from Stephen. Stephen would not be content until he wheedled every dark family secret from her.
This time she was jarred from her thoughts by something warm and heavy on her leg.
“For once, your vigilant guardian has left us.” De Roche was looking straight ahead, but his lips were curved up at the corners.
She glanced up and down the table. Both Robert and Stephen had disappeared. Off in search of amusement in the town, no doubt.
She grasped de Roche’s hand to halt its progress up her thigh.
“You are tired, my dear,” de Roche said. “Shall I see you to your chamber?” Without waiting for her answer, he gripped her elbow and hoisted her to her feet.
“I began to wonder if Sir Robert would ever leave your side,” de Roche said in her ear as he whisked her out of the hall. “The man protects you as if you were an innocent virgin.”
She felt uneasy and a little breathless as he marched her purposefully down the steps of the Exchequer and along the path to the keep. The night air was cold. Through the thickness of her cloak, she could feel de Roche’s heat.
Could he not say something to soothe her?
He maintained both his silence and his brisk pace all the way to the keep. By the time they reached the corridor outside her chamber, her heart was slamming in her chest. His teeth gleamed in the rushlight as he spun her toward him. She tensed as de Roche ran his fingers down her throat.
When he reached the sensitive skin along the top of her bodice, she grabbed his wrist. “Someone will see us!”
“No one is here.” He dipped a finger into the valley between her breasts. “Besides, we are nearly betrothed.”