One of them was Stephen’s.
After a deep breath, she rapped lightly. The people inside were talking so loudly, no one seemed to hear her. When they broke into laughter, a flood of relief ran through her. FitzAlan must be out of danger. Smiling, she poked her head through the door to ask permission to enter.
She froze as she took in the scene before her. On a stool beside FitzAlan’s bed sat a breathtakingly beautiful woman. The woman leaned over the injured man, holding his hand in both of hers. Lady Catherine FitzAlan. The woman was fair, where Jamie was dark, and she looked far too young to be his mother. Still, Isobel had no doubt that was who the lady was.
The three men in the room leaned toward her like sunflowers toward the sun. The usually stern FitzAlan was beaming up at her like a boy in his first puppy love. Jamie stood behind, a hand resting on her shoulder. Completing the circle, Stephen sat beside her, a hand on her other shoulder.
It was not Stephen’s hand on the woman’s shoulder that made it impossible for Isobel to breathe—though that did not help. It was what she saw in his face as he gazed at the woman.
Bits of what she had overheard Stephen say about his brother’s wife spun through her head.But I adore Catherine. There is no woman like her.Worse still, she remembered the wistful tone of his voice when he spoke of her.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Stephen avoided a betrothal. Why he wasted time with worthless women like Marie de Lisieux. She swallowed against the pain rising in her chest.
Stephen was in love with his brother’s wife.
Though Lady Catherine had to be several years older than Stephen, she was yet a great beauty. Isobel’s heart might hurt less if she could believe physical beauty was all that drew him. But when Stephen spoke of her, it was not of her beauty.
Nay, he loved this woman for herself.
Lady FitzAlan must have felt Isobel’s stare, for she turned and looked at Isobel with eyes as blue as Jamie’s.
“Come in,” she called out. She rose to her feet and held her hands out to Isobel, saying, “You must be Lady Hume.”
Caught like a rat in a trap. Isobel stepped into the room and took the woman’s hands, for she could do naught else.
“I am Catherine,” the woman said, kissing Isobel’s cheeks. “Forgive my familiarity, but I’ve just heard how you saved my husband’s life. God bless you!”
She startled Isobel further by pulling her into a full embrace. Isobel could not recall the last time she was embraced by another woman. She had no sisters, no close aunts or female cousins. It must have been when she was a small child, before her mother lost her warmth and laughter.
Isobel let herself be enveloped in the softness and breathed in Lady FitzAlan’s light, feminine scent. Much as she might want to, she could not hate this woman now.
Lady FitzAlan pulled her into the room and made her sit on the stool Stephen gave up for her. Though Isobel felt Stephen’s eyes on her, she could not look at him.
She sat mute, stunned by her discovery.He loves her. He has always loved her.The words went round and round in her head. She struggled to follow the lively talk in the room but could not.
She tried again to listen, determined to leave at the first break in the conversation. Lady FitzAlan was speaking of a premonition so strong that she sent her children to her mother-in-law. Then she paid the owner of a fishing vessel an exorbitant amount of gold to carry her across the channel between winter storms.
“ ’Twas foolish to risk yourself,” FitzAlan said. He had not once taken his eyes from his wife since Isobel sat down.
“ ’Tis good she came,” Stephen said behind her. “Catherine is the best medicine.”
Isobel could not bear to hear his voice.
When Stephen started to say something about the Fitz-Alans moving into a house in the town, she got to her feet. She had to get out. This very moment.
Murmuring a feeble excuse—she hardly knew what she said—she went out the door before anyone could stop her.
Clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, she hiked up her skirts and ran down the corridor. She did not get far before Stephen caught her arm.
“Isobel, we must talk,” he said, spinning her around. “I am sorry you are upset with me for not speaking to the king yet. I could not leave my brother, and then Catherine came. But I will do it today, now, if the king will see me.”
“The king?” What was he saying?
“If the king insists on questioning you separately,” he said, “I shall ask Catherine to go with you.”
“Why must you speak to the king?” She had to hear him say it to be sure.
“Because of de Ro—” A look of distaste passed over his face, and he began again. “Because the king made other plans for you, ’tis best to obtain his permission before we marry.”