Lady Isobel's Champion (10 page)

He draped her veil over the coffer. Cupping her cheek, he drew her close and kissed her. ‘You see? We have done this before,’ he muttered, voice deepening.

With a shy laugh, Isobel took his shoulders, angling her mouth to give him better access. ‘And this,’ she said, speaking into his mouth, ‘we have also done this.’ She could taste spiced wine on his tongue—cinnamon, honey...

Thank goodness I have taken those herbs...

‘But I have not done this in your company,’ Lucien said. Slowly, he reached for her girdle and unfastened it. Her girdle slid to the floor.

Isobel’s breath caught. A large hand enclosed her breast, stroking gently through the fabric of her gown.

‘Nor have I done this, although I have longed to.’

‘You have?’ Isobel pulled back and looked deep into his eyes. Lucien’s pupils had dilated, and his smile was as warm—as
gentle
—as a new bride could wish.

Gentle? She curled her fingers into his tunic as she remembered the day Anna had come running back to St Foye’s Convent after her wedding. She could not forget Anna’s tears as she had spoken about what happened between a man and his wife in the marriage bed. ‘There is much we have not done...’

His lips twitched. ‘True.’

‘Come on then...’ Taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bed. ‘Best get on with it. Quickly, Lucien.’

His eyes were startled. ‘I thought to take it slowly, so as not to alarm you.’

‘You are my husband. Do it quickly, do everything quickly.’

‘Isobel, there may be pain—’

‘So I have been told. All the more reason for you to get it over with swiftly. I will be happier when I know how bad it’s going to be. Doing new things makes me nervous. Especially this. Quickly, Lucien.’

‘You assume it’s going to be bad.’ He shoved his hand through his hair. ‘Isobel, you unman me.’

Pushing bedcovers aside, Isobel lay back against the pillows and held out her hand. ‘I am sorry, Lucien, I have much to learn. I thought you would be pleased to do it quickly. It is just that I am...’ she bit her lip ‘...
very
nervous.’

Lucien braced his arms on either side of her head, and looked down at her. His eyes were soft as a summer sky. ‘My Countess,’ he murmured. ‘My sweet and innocent Countess. Perhaps you will feel better if I enlighten you. Women can enjoy the act of love.’

Isobel looked at him in disbelief. She enjoyed his kisses, but the full act of love? No. Such a possibility had never occurred to her. No one had mentioned enjoyment—not the nuns at Conques, nor her mother, nor Anna. Further, her mother had died in childbirth, which only went to prove that not only was the act of love in itself to be feared, but also the consequences...

Shaking her head, she pushed all thoughts of the sachet of herbs lying in her jewel box to the back of her mind. ‘Men enjoy it, women merely submit.’

The mattress rustled as he took his place beside her. ‘I am telling you the truth, Isobel. Women can enjoy it. You enjoy our kisses, do you not?’

‘Ye-es.’

* * *

Doubt was written all over Isobel’s face. Lucien could see she wanted to believe him; he could see her struggling with whatever nonsense the nuns had stuffed into her head. ‘Some women love it,’ he added.

‘What women? You mean fallen women? Does your mistress love it?’

He sighed, lifted one of her hands and held it in front of her, so she could watch as their fingers interlaced. ‘I have no mistress.’

Her brows snapped together. ‘No?’

‘Isobel, in the past I have been more sinner than saint. I have had lovers. No longer.’

Her frown deepened, and he had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. ‘Did they enjoy it?’

‘So they said.’

Her mouth turned down. ‘Fallen women. Ladies are expected to submit.’

‘That’s the nun in you speaking, it’s not the real you. Isobel, I have to tell you that enjoyment is not confined to fallen women. Women from all walks of life are capable of enjoyment.’

‘But, Lucien, the nuns said—’

‘Were the nuns speaking from experience?’

‘I...no. No, I don’t suppose they were. My friend Anna though... Anna married recently and she told me...’ She hesitated, shaking her head. ‘It sounded dreadful.’

‘Her husband hurt her?’

‘Very much. She hated it, and—’

‘How well did Anna know her husband before they bedded?’

‘Not well. They had a brief betrothal. I doubt she saw him more than I have seen you—’ She broke off, flushing.

‘You must not fear me. I shall be at your command and shall stop the moment you give the word.’

‘On your honour?’

He smiled. ‘On my honour.’ Releasing her hand, he teased out a strand of blonde hair, and drew it across her breast. With the tip of his forefinger, he started at her crown and followed the strand down its length, travelling down the side of her head and neck, over her collarbone and across her breast...

His kept his touch light. Beneath it, her breast tightened. She was understandably nervous. A virgin. But—Lucien did not think he was deluding himself—his new wife desired him. Blood quickening, sensing that she was relaxing, he gradually increased the pressure, closing his hand on her. ‘You like this?’

‘Mmm.’ She tugged at his tunic, pulling at him until he lay half over her.

Given her fears, Isobel could not desire Lucien as much as he desired her. He ached with want. Even more so when she gave a faint moan and her eyes flickered to his mouth.

He cleared his throat. ‘Isobel, I would have you confess it—you are not frightened of me.’

‘I am not afraid of you, Lucien. Only the act. And...’

‘And?’

‘The consequences.’

‘We shall take it one step at a time. Trust me.’

Her hair flashed gold in the candlelight as she nodded. ‘I will. When you have done it, then I will know. Quickly, Lucien. Do it quickly.’

Small hands worked at his belt and threw it aside. They dipped beneath his tunic and undershirt. When they found his skin, Lucien almost lost control. He had not lied to her, in the years since he had married Morwenna he had had lovers. But he had desired none as much as he desired Isobel.

‘My golden girl,’ he murmured.

Then his golden girl did something she had not done before—she shifted and pulled her skirts up over her hips. Lucien’s mouth went dry. She was slim and white, and that smooth, summer-scented flesh inflamed him. Intriguing shadows seemed to promise endless delight. Shared delight. Impatient as she, hard as stone, he fumbled blindly at her skirts, thinking to draw her gown over her head.

‘No time,’ she muttered, arching up to join her mouth with his. ‘Quickly, Lucien, quickly.’

Desire was a dark fire in his veins. Lucien was beyond arguing. He was beyond taking care, beyond anything except the driving need to have her. She wanted him quickly, she could have him. Busy hands were at the ties of his chausses, stoking the fire. Tugging, pulling—pushing aside his chausses and braies. Slender fingers closed over him and he jerked at her touch. She was eager, was his golden girl.

When he returned the compliment, touching her in that intriguing shadowy place, testing, teasing, she whimpered and writhed. After a few strokes, he let out a sigh. Without question, she wanted him.

With a groan of relief, Lucien positioned himself and gave a quick, hard thrust. Her skirts were bunched about her waist, and her eyes were intent on his. A line formed between her eyebrows. He controlled the urge to move and cleared his throat. ‘It hurts?’

She shook her head, and waves of golden hair rippled out over the pillow. ‘It feels rather...strange.’

Carefully, he found a rhythm.

Her eyes closed. ‘Oh, that’s...’ her husky laugh surprised him ‘...different.’

‘Mmm.’

Small fingers dug into his shoulders. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his forearm, a tiny, almost insignificant gesture. It was too small a gesture, surely, to have something shift so powerfully in his chest?

He swallowed. ‘Isobel.’

She looked beautiful beneath him in their marriage bed. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes never left him. Her golden hair lit up the bedchamber.
She
lit up the bedchamber.

‘Lucien,’ she muttered.

Already she was matching his rhythm. It felt so good that at this rate she would soon have her wish—he would not last long. He reached between them.

‘Oh!’
Her shocked, shy moan had the tension winding tighter. ‘That’s...’

‘Different?’

‘Mmm.’ She gave his arm a gentle bite and drew her head back. ‘You can...’ she was panting as much as he ‘...take it more slowly, if you like.’

He did not think he could. Not with her breath coming faster at his every touch. Not with her mouth dotting his arm with kisses.

Suddenly it was over. She tightened around him and her eyes went wide. She gave a fluttering sigh. Capturing her mouth with his own, Lucien’s world convulsed into delight.
Different indeed
.

Their breath steadied. A brief silence fell. Isobel slid her fingers into his hair and let out a slow sigh. ‘That was...’

‘Better than expected?’

A light laugh sent something that felt like joy flooding through him. Joy. Who would have thought it?

‘Very much so.’ She was playing with his hair and his scalp warmed at her touch. ‘Next time you are interested in trying that, Lucien, I think we should take it more slowly.’

‘You do, do you?’ Joy. It was a strong feeling. Unsettling in its unfamiliarity. Confusing. Lucien reminded himself it could have nothing to do with Isobel personally, not when they had yet to become familiar with each other. It was far too soon for him to feel affection for her. He felt this way tonight because...because...this was the first time he had lain with a woman since Morwenna’s death. It was also the first time since his marriage to Morwenna that he had been able to enjoy a woman without the accompanying burden of guilt.

‘Mmm.’

With a grin, Lucien tightened his hold on his wife’s warm, lissom body. Freedom from guilt was as strong as any love potion; he was coming back to life already. He should not be. He ought to control himself. It was the tournament tomorrow and he had undertaken to officiate. He needed rest.

Hell burn it, this was his wedding night...

‘Isobel?’ He kissed her neck, inhaling deeply.
Isobel.

‘Mmm?’

‘If you wish, we could try it more slowly.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

Chapter Nine

D
arkness. Isobel woke slowly. The candles
had blown out, and there was movement on the other side of the wooden
screen.

‘Lucien?’ she called, stretching languorously.

With a rattle of curtain rings, Elise appeared, rushlight in
hand. ‘It’s me, my lady. You asked me to wake you early because of the
tournament. Count Lucien has already left.’

The All Hallows Tourney!
Isobel
bolted upright. How could she have forgotten?

Elise lit the candles, ducked through the curtain, and returned
with a wash-bowl and ewer. She put them on a coffer. ‘You still intend to go, my
lady?’

Isobel felt a pang of guilt. ‘Yes.’ She should feel happy.
Happy and relieved. Lucien had told her that women could take pleasure in the
act of love, and he had proved the truth of his words last night. She had taken
pleasure. More than she had dreamed possible. Why had no one thought to tell her
that losing one’s virginity need not be all pain? Why had no one mentioned that
joining with a man might startle her with its beauty?

She grimaced. All of which made it doubly hard to go against
Lucien’s wishes. She couldn’t forget that the man who had given her pleasure
last night was the same man who had left her languishing in a convent for nine
years. One night of bliss couldn’t put that right. And yet...

I don’t want us to be for ever fighting.
She sighed. Nor did she want a husband who was going to ride roughshod
over her wishes.
Would it have killed him to let me attend
the tourney today?

‘Are you all right, my lady? Do you need assistance?’

‘Assistance?’

‘Did the Count hurt you?’

Isobel drew her head back. Elise’s question verged on
presumptuous, given she was not a trusted family retainer. She reached for her
shawl. ‘My lord did not hurt me in the least.’

‘Not at all?’ Elise’s voice was harsh. ‘You are quite well, my
lady?’

What was wrong with Elise? She looked most put out, as though
Isobel’s reply had disappointed her in some way. ‘Yes, thank you.’

Elise muttered under her breath.

‘Elise, whatever is the matter?’

‘You bedded him,’ Elise said, in a flat voice.

Isobel stiffened. ‘Elise, you are impertinent. Lucien is my
husband.’

Elise did not seem to have heard her. ‘I hoped you might refuse
him. I thought you were angry at the wasted years, and the fear of pregnancy. I
thought the dangers of childbirth weighed heavily on your mind. Have your fears
gone?’

Isobel drew her shawl tightly about her shoulders, attention
arrested by that hard edge in Elise’s voice. Where was the timid girl Isobel had
been so relieved to meet in the Abbey? ‘Elise, whatever’s the matter? You know I
am Lucien’s wife. You know that a wife cannot deny her husband. That’s why we
visited the apothecary.’

Elise stepped right up to the bed. ‘Did he force you?’

‘Force me? Heavens, no,’ Isobel answered, blushing.

Elise stared at her. ‘My lady, you will have to take the herbs
every day.’

‘I know.’ Pushing back the covers, Isobel got out of bed.
Regret swept through her. How could she forget that? She was deliberately
thwarting Lucien, who she knew wanted heirs. But Lucien was not the one who had
to give birth. He might not be so keen on getting heirs if he had attended a
woman’s lying-in. He might not be so keen if he had seen her mother die.

Lucien had relieved her mind on one aspect of marriage, but she
doubted he would ever rid her of her fear of childbirth.

* * *

Shortly after dawn, when the mists were rising from the
surrounding vineyards, Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, rode on to the Field of
the Birds. He was fully armed. Chainmail weighed heavy beneath his blue tunic
and cloak, and his black stallion was tricked out in a blue silk caparison that
swirled with every step. Lucien guided him into position near a cluster of
pavilions at the end of the lists. The pavilions were his and to mark this they,
like Lucien’s tunic and Demon’s caparison, were blue.

Lucien was not taking to the field until later, but already
excitement was coursing through his veins. This time the usual anticipation he
felt at the beginning of every tourney was mingled with not a little
astonishment.

Thoughts of Isobel were hard to chase away, and they were
somewhat distracting. His new wife. His new and very desirable wife. He could
see her in his mind’s eye—she would still be lying in bed at the palace. Her
cheeks would be flushed with sleep, and her hair would be fanning across the
pillows like gold silk...

With an impatient sound, he thrust the image to the back of his
mind.
Focus, Luc, focus.
This was neither the time
nor the place for distraction. Lucien had expended much energy on mastering the
skills necessary to become a successful knight, and much time acquiring the
experience to become a champion. He would not lose focus.

The whole of Champagne was apparently fascinated by his return
to Ravenshold and his marriage to Isobel. Even though Lucien was not the
official patron of this tournament—Lord Glanville now held that privilege—in the
past few days over a dozen knights had ridden up to the Ravenshold gatehouse.
They had begged to join his team—the Blues. They had assumed that Lucien’s
return and his marriage meant that he would be taking up his father’s mantle and
that tournaments held at the Field of the Birds would once again be patronised
by the Count d’Aveyron. After his disastrous first marriage, Lucien had been
happy for Lord Glanville to take over responsibilities as patron. Lucien himself
had visited Ravenshold too rarely to be relied upon. Which was why, until today,
he had never led a team on to the Field of the Birds.

This morning, however, it felt as though the old times had
returned. Hosting the knights at Ravenshold as his father had done. Feeding
them, watering them. After so long fighting on his own account, Lucien had been
startled—and touched—by the support he had received. Perhaps, next year, he
might play the patron in earnest.

He would have a word with Count Henry and see if they might
reach an agreement. It made sense that Count Henry should hold lighter
tournaments in Troyes, whilst Lucien hosted the more testing events at
Ravenshold. As far as most knights were concerned, the more gruelling the
tournament, the better. This wasn’t simply because fighting in the fiercest
tournaments offered more in the way of practice. As he himself knew, for the
seasoned and successful warrior, there were fortunes to be won. Vanquished
knights paid ransoms to their captors.

Not that Lucien fought for the prize money—he had never needed
to. He had fought to forget about Morwenna. He had fought to forget about the
wedge his first marriage had driven between him and his father. It hadn’t
worked. However many honours came his way, however many prizes he won, he had
never been able to rid himself of the guilt. His marriage to Morwenna had driven
his father to his grave.

Focus, Luc, focus
.

Lucien didn’t want deaths today, no one did. This was a
military exercise, not a slaughter. Which was why he had clapped his helmet on
and mounted up even before his blue standard had been hoisted over his pavilion.
He might not be the official patron of this particular tournament, but he would
do his utmost to ensure that lives were not lost.

‘The ground is soft,’ he said, grimacing at Raoul de Courtney.
In light of the sudden forming of the Blues, Sir Raoul was acting as his
second-in-command. Like Lucien, Raoul was up and mounted. His helmet rested on
his pommel. Raoul and Lucien would remain at hand in case tempers flared during
the vespers.

Beneath him, Lucien’s stallion stirred and shook his great
head. Lucien leaned forwards to pat his neck. ‘Steady, boy.’ Demon champed on
his bit, his breath puffing out like dragon smoke in the cool morning air. Demon
relished a tournament as much as Lucien, and he was picking up on the nerves of
the younger knights and squires who were bawling to each other as they ran
hither and yon. Last-minute repairs were being made to harness; spare helms and
mail coats were being unearthed; there was much jostling about the whetstone.
Across the lists, their opponents, the Reds, were making similar
preparations.

Raoul frowned at the field. ‘Too soft?’

‘It’s hardly surprising, given the season. Likely it will pass
muster. Untried knights must be warned to take care. I’m going to make a trial
pass to judge for myself.’ Lucien glanced at the marshal, waiting for the signal
that would send him charging into the lists. ‘I’m glad we’re in the same company
today.’ He put a smile in his voice. ‘Wouldn’t want to unhorse you again.’ Raoul
drew his head back. The two were fast friends, but Lucien knew that memory of
that last tournament rankled.

‘
Mon Dieu
, find another song,
Lucien. You didn’t unhorse me, it was a faulty stirrup.’

Lucien shook his head. ‘Keep saying that, my friend, and maybe
in time you will come to believe it.’

The mist clung like wisps of gossamer to the dips in the land.
Squires milled around the lance-stands, pale-faced and sweaty with dread.
Townsfolk were streaming up the road from Troyes—the stands along the edge of
the field were starting to fill. A furious hammering spoke of a battalion of
carpenters making last-minute alterations to the benches at the far stand. Dogs
barked. Rooks circled overhead. There was a smell of fresh bread and cooked
meat. Vendors were crying their wares—pies and pastries, flasks of wine...

It couldn’t be all play. How could it? Cavalry officers must
try out real lances. They must take part in fights where steel was honed to a
bright edge—in tournaments like this where the jousting was more than mere
theatre to please the ladies. There were still rules, of course, these
out-of-town tournaments followed regulations. None the less, the brutal truth
was that with newly dubbed knights taking to the field, anything could happen.
Tempers might fray. There would be bloodshed. There might even be a death or
two.

Behind his helmet, Lucien grimaced. He wasn’t the official
patron today, but given his family connection to the place, he had taken it upon
himself to ensure there was as little bloodshed as possible. Given that he had
declined to take part in proceedings here since his marriage to Morwenna, he was
surprised at how strongly he felt.
No one must die here
today
.

Lucien hadn’t wanted Isobel here because he found her
distracting. Lord, the woman was distracting even when she was not present.

People were pressing against the rope barriers stretched along
the lists. Merchants and villagers for the most part. A veil fluttered, a child
laughed, and the crowd parted as two girls pushed their way to the front. They
stood out on account of their clothes. People seemed to be deferring to them, as
if they knew they were not ordinary girls. Lucien squinted through the slit in
his helmet and his blood chilled.

Isobel! Elise.
For a moment he was
too taken aback to feel anger, though he knew that would come.
Isobel disobeyed me
. He held Demon steady, alert for
his signal from the marshal. He watched his wife, anger balling into a tight
fist in the pit of his stomach.
How dare she?

Isobel and her maid stood out among the peasants and merchants.
Isobel, hair barely concealed by a delicate wisp of a veil, was gut-wrenchingly
beautiful. Her cloak was dark-green and lined with fur. Beneath the cloak,
Lucien glimpsed a sea-green gown that clung lovingly to every curve. Her body...
Lord, she should not be walking abroad in that gown. He could see why she had
waited to leave the Abbey before wearing it; the fabric hugged every sinuous
curve and showed off her slender waist. In that gown, his wife was, quite
simply, an incitement to sin.

Isobel is my wife!
Does she have no escort?
Lucien couldn’t tear his
eyes from her. She should know better than to flaunt herself in such a way.
People knew exactly who she was. They would wonder why she was not sitting on
his stand. And there she stood, gazing about her with that straightforward,
confident gaze he was coming to know—completely oblivious of the impression she
was giving.
She looks as though she is the plaything of a
prince
.

Lucien swore. Duty held him. At the other end of the lists, the
marshal was speaking to a knight in the Reds, the order for him to test the
ground had not been given. Anger gave way to anxiety. Isobel’s gown and body
might be an incitement to sin, but her face was that of an innocent. She leaned
out against the rope with her usual open, honest expression, and turned to
search the crowd. He shifted his head to keep her in sight through the slit in
his helmet. She was looking for someone.

‘That blasted relic-stealer,’ he muttered. ‘God, but she’s
stubborn.’
Stubborn. Disobedient. Beautiful. And far too
vulnerable.

‘Did you say something?’ Raoul said.

Lucien gestured across the lists towards Isobel. Her maid
looked pale. She seemed conscious of the dangers. However, when did Elise not
look nervous? ‘Over there. Do you see them?’

Raoul made that choking sound that bordered on laughter. ‘I
didn’t think Lady Isobel was planning to attend?’

Lucien grunted. The phrase
lambs to the
slaughter
jumped into his head, and it would not shift. These
out-of-town tournaments were not usually the province of gently bred women.
They should have brought an escort. Where are her
father’s men?

More uneasy by the moment, Lucien wondered if Isobel was
carrying a purse. Not that that signified; her cloak was fit for a queen—a
cut-purse might attack her for the cloak alone.