Knight of Pleasure (14 page)

Damn that Stephen Carleton! If not for him, she would not even notice de Roche’s lack of humor.

She had every reason to be content. She would be content.

’Twas true, de Roche never made her laugh. But duty weighed heavily upon him. He had an important role to play in the service
of his country; it would gratify her to support him.

“Now, King Henry—there is a man born to lead armies,” de Roche was saying. “A man born to command.”

De Roche sang the king’s praises so often her mind began to wander.

When would he kiss her?

Would his kiss make her feel the way Stephen’s did? She stared at de Roche’s mouth as he talked. Wondering. Longing to find
out. Perhaps, once de Roche kissed her, she could stop thinking about Stephen.

A full month since his arrival, and de Roche had not kissed her once. He often looked at her as if he wanted to. On more than
one occasion, she thought he tried to separate her from her guardian. Robert, however, took his duty more seriously than before,
for he was there at every turn.

The thought niggled at her that de Roche could have found a way around Robert if he wanted to badly enough.

Stephen would have.

A sudden clamor of voices from outside drew her attention toward the hall’s entrance. As she watched, a man burst through
the door and shouted, “The army returns! Falaise has fallen! Falaise has fallen!”

They were back. Praise God! A laugh of relief caught in her throat when she turned and saw de Roche’s face. The man had gone
pale as death.

“Have you taken ill?” she asked. “What is—”

“I must see what has happened,” he cut her off. Without a backward glance, he left her and rushed out of the hall.

The hall was soon flooded with soldiers. After the quiet of the last weeks, it felt chaotic and much too crowded. Servants
scurried about, setting up the tables and carrying great jugs of ale and wine and platters piled high with roasted meats.

Isobel stood, craning her neck. Despite herself, she searched the room for a glint of auburn hair. Hearing her name above
the din, she swung around to see Geoffrey making his way toward her through the throng.

When had her little brother grown into this barrel-chested man, so like their father? He reached her in three long strides
and lifted her into a bear hug.

“You look in such good health!” she said, standing back to drink him in. His skin was as tan as in high summer. Perhaps he
was not ill suited to a soldier’s life, after all.

“You must tell me of your adventures,” she said, pulling him down to sit beside her on the bench.

“I had time to write a great many poems during the siege.”

To her dismay, he pulled a roll of parchment from the pouch at his belt and began at once to recite aloud.

Geoffrey was not a bad poet. But why must he write these dreary poems of martyred saints? After two or three, she caught herself
searching the room again.

“You are usually better at pretending an interest in my poetry,” Geoffrey chided with his usual good nature.

“Of course I want to hear them,” she lied.

“Issie, who are you looking for?”

“De Roche,” she lied again. “I want to introduce you.”

“He is in Caen? Why did you not tell me at once!” Geoffrey leaned forward, face earnest, and took her hands. “Is he a good
man? Can you be happy with him?”

She bit her lip, trying to think what she could tell her brother that would be truthful. De Roche was so much more than she
had dared hope for. But sometimes… well, it mattered naught. And after Hume, she should be happy married to a toad.

“De Roche is a fine man of serious purpose,” she said at last. When the worry did not leave Geoffrey’s face, she gave him
a bright smile. “He is also the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”

De Roche was pleasing to the eye, but it was a third lie, nonetheless.

“Now go and eat,” she said, giving Geoffrey a gentle shove. “You must be as hungry as the rest.”

She let her shoulders slump as she watched Geoffrey’s broad back disappear through the crowd. For the sin of lying to her
brother, she could at least claim good intent. For her sinful thoughts of Stephen, she had no excuse.

She could not even claim repentance.

Stephen kept the reins to the twins’ horse wrapped around his fist as they rode through the streets of Caen. With their striking
fair hair and near identical faces, the two children would draw glances anywhere. The sight of them astride a single horse
in the midst of a line of armored knights caused the townspeople to stop and gape open-mouthed.

Stephen was taking no chances with this wily pair. After an all-too-brief pretense at docility, they tried to escape. Repeatedly.
He would gladly let them go if he thought they would be safe. But no family member came looking for them before he left Falaise.
If there was anyone in the whole of Normandy willing to take responsibility for them, the twins were not telling. They refused
even to give him their names.

Once inside the castle gates, Stephen parted from the other men and rode straight for the keep, twins in tow. He needed to
get this girl off his hands. He smiled to himself, pleased to have a good excuse to seek out Isobel at once.

Now he just had to figure out how to look for Isobel without losing one of these troublemakers. He swung off his horse and
grabbed the girl as her feet touched the ground. Once he had her, the boy came easily.

“You’re hurting me!” the girl whined as he dragged the pair up the steps of the keep.

“If you would quit pulling, it would not hurt,” he said evenly. “Now, I want you to pretend that you are a very good girl
so Lady Hume will agree to take you. Believe me, she is much nicer than I am.”

The girl gave a loud snort to let him know what she thought of his request. A little wistfully, he thought of his gaggle of
nieces and nephews. They could be a handful, but he never had this much trouble with them.

He paused inside the entrance of the busy hall, a twin on either side, and searched the crowd for Isobel. He found her almost
at once, across the room near the hearth. When she looked up and met his eyes, his throat went dry.

Her face glowed, as though she were truly pleased to see him. Suddenly, he had a vision of her as she was the last time he
saw her. Hair loose and tangled, lips swollen from his kisses. He strode across the room, seeing nothing and no one but her.

A sharp tug on his hand saved him from sweeping Isobel into his arms in full view of everyone in the hall. He looked down,
surprised to see he still held the twins. Recalled to his purpose, he turned his attention back to Isobel.

And at once forgot what he meant to say. How could she have grown still lovelier? The green velvet gown made her eyes a deep
forest green.

“I am glad for your safe return, Sir Stephen.”

His stomach tightened at Isobel’s formal greeting.
Sir
Stephen. So that was how it was.

“And who is this lovely girl?” Isobel asked, touching the child’s arm.

To his astonishment, the devil girl gave a graceful curtsy and looked up at Isobel with a beatific smile.

“My name is Linnet. I know you are Lady Hume because Sir Stephen told me Lady Hume is as kind as she is beautiful.”

Isobel gave a musical laugh that made Stephen’s heart do an odd leap in his chest. Though he doubted the girl—
Linnet
—could keep up this pretense of good behavior, he winked at her to show he appreciated the effort.

It seemed unkind to mention the children’s circumstances in front of them. Without thinking, he leaned close to Isobel to
whisper in her ear. The smell of her skin sent him reeling.

When he remembered to speak, he said, “They are orphans in need of protection. I will take the boy as my page, but the girl…”
He lost track of what he was saying. It was so very tempting to run his tongue along that delicate earlobe, to place a kiss
in the hollow just below it.

Isobel jerked her head away before he could say—or do—more.

“Of course I will take her,” she said, looking at him with wide, serious eyes.

She turned to the girl and took her hand. “This is fortunate, indeed! My maid asked leave to marry one of the king’s archers.
I would be so grateful if you would agree to take her place.”

As Linnet looked over Isobel’s fine clothes, her smile brightened. “I would fix your hair and help you dress in pretty gowns?”

Isobel nodded.

“And I could read you all the love poems men send you,” Linnet said, her eyes glowing. “I am sure you have many!”

Many love poems? Or many men sending them? Either way, Stephen did not like it.

“You can read?” Isobel asked, surprise showing in her voice.

“Of course.” Linnet gestured toward her brother. “As does François.”

Stephen watched with sympathy as the boy melted under the warmth of Isobel’s smile. He felt his own insides go soft when she
said, “You are fortunate to serve a knight as skilled as Sir Stephen. Pay attention and you will learn much from him.”

François gave her a solemn nod.

How had Isobel done it? Already she had these two little hellions in the palm of her hand.

Stephen heard a man clear his throat beside him and turned to find cold gray eyes upon him. The dark-haired man they belonged
to inserted himself between Stephen and Isobel and tucked Isobel’s hand into the crook of his arm.

So, this must be Isobel’s delinquent Frenchman.

Stephen let his eyes drift slowly over the man. He knew just how he would take him. Years of practice taught him that. William
had decided that a boy with a sharp wit and a big mouth had better learn how to handle himself in a brawl as well as on a
battlefield. Each day, his brother assigned a different man to fight him. The lessons did not stop until Stephen learned to
assess a man’s strengths and weaknesses at a glance.

The man before him now was cocky, overconfident. He had a powerful build—the kind that would turn to fat as he grew older,
Stephen thought cheerfully. Strong, but not too quick. Stephen would first grab him by the—

These happy contemplations were interrupted by Isobel. “Sir Stephen Carleton, may I present Lord Philippe de Roche.”

Stephen waited, deliberately letting the silence fall between them. If he’d been a cat, his tail would have twitched.

“He is from Rouen,” Isobel added, her voice tense.

Stephen knew damn well where the man was from. Since Isobel had not called him her betrothed, perhaps she was not yet irrevocably
tied to this man with ice in his eyes. The man’s too-perfect features made him look soulless.

Aye, a broken nose would add character to his face.

“You take advantage of my intended’s soft heart,” de Roche said to Stephen, then turned to Isobel. “You need not take some
unknown girl this man has picked up off the streets.”

Isobel put her arm about the girl’s shoulders. “But where shall I find another maid who can read poetry to me?”

Stephen wanted to kiss her.

The muscles of de Roche’s jaw tightened, but he patted Isobel’s hand. “Keep her if it pleases you, my dear.”

The endearment reminded Stephen what this man would be to her. Her husband. Her bedmate. His chest began to ache.

“Come, I will show you my chamber,” Isobel said to Linnet.

Isobel nodded her good-bye to François, but the smile left her face when she turned to take her leave of Stephen. As she looked
at him with those wide, serious eyes, the ache inside him grew until he thought his chest might burst with it.

She seemed to startle when de Roche tugged at her arm. With a quick curtsy, she turned away.

He and François were still watching when Linnet turned to give them a sly wink over her shoulder. Linnet was an ally now,
thanks to de Roche. As twelve-year-old girls went, she was not a bad ally to have.

Ally in what? Stephen took a deep breath and shook his head. What would he do if he won the prize? He wanted to take Isobel
from de Roche, have her leave on his arm instead. And he most definitely wanted her in his bed. Badly. But since he did not
want a wife, this was a battle he had no business trying to win.

He felt a light touch on his arm and turned to find Claudette at his side.

“What a foolish man you are!” she said in a low voice. “Stop staring after her. Do you want everyone to know?” She took his
arm and firmly turned him toward François. “Since it is better to have them think you lose your head over every pretty woman,
try to look at me as this boy does.”

When he looked down and saw the slack-jawed expression on the boy’s face, he laughed and tousled François’s hair. The poor
boy was having quite the day.

“Do you want the king to banish you to the wilds of Ireland?” Claudette said between her teeth. She smiled and batted her
eyes at him. “You do Lady Hume no favors by drawing attention to her.”

Realizing, belatedly, that Claudette was right, he picked up her hand and kissed it. He let his gaze linger on her.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You are a wise woman.”

“Of course you missed me,” she said in a voice just loud enough to be overheard, “but you will make me vain with such compliments!”