Knight of Pleasure (17 page)

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.

T
he 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.”

This man would be her husband. Soon she would share his bed as often as he wished her to. It seemed silly to protest this
small familiarity.

The old hope returned. The hope that her new husband could make her feel the way Stephen did when he kissed her. That he could
give her that feeling of being swept away, as if nothing else mattered so long as he touched her.

Was it possible? She needed to know.

“Kiss me,” she said, lifting her face to him. This time, it would be different.

This kiss was different. Softer. Not frightening, like the first time. And not disgusting, like Hume’s. Her mind was cold
and clear as she waited for the thrill to seize her. And waited. The kiss felt… pleasant. But no more than that.

She could come up with no explanation. De Roche was handsome, young, healthy. True, the heavy scent he wore gave her a bit
of a headache. But his lips were soft and warm. The tickle of his mustache did not bother her.

De Roche ran his hands up and down her sides. Her body began to respond to his caresses. But where was the mindless passion?
What she felt was a dim candle to the roaring fire that burned through her when Stephen touched her.

She would try harder. Determined, she moved her hands to the nape of his neck and kissed him back. She opened her mouth to
him and slid her tongue over his the way she remembered had brought moans from Stephen.

Before she knew it, she was crushed against him. She felt trapped, unable to move. She was so startled by the suddenness of
the assault that it took her a moment to realize de Roche’s hand was like an iron band around her wrist.

She made frantic little cries against his mouth as he forced her hand downward. He was so strong! She felt the hardness of
his cock against her palm. Up and down, up and down, he rubbed her hand against it.

She bit his lip and tasted blood. Though he tore his mouth away, he did not release her hand. His breath was coming in horrid
gasps against her ear. She was flooded with the memory of Hume’s putrid smell gagging her in the darkness.

With a surge of strength, she wrenched her other arm free and swung at him. He caught her hand midair. They stood inches apart,
staring at each other. Both were breathing hard, but she was choking back tears.

“Stop, please.” Her voice was small, barely a whisper.

His eyes were black with rage. “After the way you kissed me, you will pretend you do not want me in your bed tonight?”

“I meant only a kiss,” she stammered, feeling confused and ashamed.

“Ah, you mean to tease me.” His voice was all the more menacing for its softness. “That is not a nice game to play.”

Looking straight into her eyes, he cupped her breasts with his hands. She was too shocked and too frightened to move.

“Once I take you to bed,” he said as he rubbed his thumbs in slow circles over her nipples through the cloth, “you will want
to learn the kind of games that will keep me there.”

There was a time when Stephen would have been pleased to be included in the king’s meeting with his commanders. But not tonight.
Although King Henry placed considerable importance on the just administration of his new territories, the other men looked
bored as Stephen gave his report. And why not? Stephen was bored himself.

In sooth, he was not so much bored as anxious to leave. The moment the king released him, he made his escape. He pretended
not to see William’s signal to wait for him. As he ran along the dark path to the keep, he asked himself why he was going
to find Isobel.

What would he say when he found her? He had no idea.

This was lunacy, even for him. If he wanted to forget all honor and seduce her, he could have done that already. He recalled
the moment when he knew she was his for the asking—and almost forgot to breathe.

What she did to him! He felt better about himself when he was around her. More interesting. More clever. Certainly more virtuous!
He wanted to protect her, to drive the sadness from her eyes.

He would not let himself think what that meant now.

He entered the keep and raced up the back stairs, two at a time. As he climbed, he thought of the last time he came here.
When she leapt from the bed in her shift. His heart beat so hard now he thought it might burst from his chest.

He ran down the corridor and made the last turn.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Despite the dim light, he could not fool himself into believing the woman was anyone other than Isobel. He’d spent too many
hours studying that profile. And that foolish goatee could belong to none other than de Roche.

When Isobel slid her hands behind de Roche’s neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, she may as well have reached into Stephen’s
chest and ripped his heart out. How could she? How could she do this?

Then he saw her hand, covered by de Roche’s, reaching down. Sweet Jesus, he did not want to see this. Not this. When she began
stroking de Roche’s crotch, Stephen leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. And still he could hear the little
sounds she was making. He had to get out of here. Now.

And yet he looked again. He could not help himself.

The lovers stood apart now, eyes locked. Stephen watched, transfixed, as de Roche covered her breasts with his hands and rubbed
his thumbs over the tips. It was such a blatant show of sexual ownership that Stephen could stand no more.

He turned and fled without a sound.

Stephen drank with a purpose. Though his lips and even his fingertips felt numb, sweet oblivion escaped him. The drink had
yet to loosen the knot of jealousy in his stomach. Nor had it dulled the loss that weighed down every muscle.

The woman was heavy on his lap—he had no idea who she was and how she got there. He wanted her gone, but it would take too
much effort to make her move. The overpowering smell of cloying perfume, sweat, and sex turned his stomach. Even with his
eyes closed, he could not pretend she was Isobel.

Quite suddenly, the weight was off his lap. He heard a sharp exchange of female voices, but he did not feel curious enough
to open his eyes.

“You must be far gone to let that one near you! She’d give you the pox for sure, you fool.”

“Claudette?” He opened his eyes to find her looking down at him, her hands on her hips. “It is you.”

He was so glad to see her he leaned against her and put his arms around her waist. Though he was vaguely aware he should not
have his face buried between her breasts, it felt comforting to be surrounded by all that softness.

Someone was pulling on his shoulders, and he heard a familiar voice behind him. Reluctantly, he released Claudette and fell
back. All this movement was making his head spin.

“Jamie? What are you doing in this den of sin?” he asked. “William will have a fit.”

“He is the one who sent me.”

“William sent a fifteen-year-old to play nursemaid to me?” Stephen’s voice sounded distant to his own ears.

“Aye, that is just what he did,” Jamie said with a grin, “except that I am almost sixteen.”

William sent Jamie with Claudette? More proof the world made no sense. No sense at all.

“How could she prefer de Roche?” he asked.

Jamie gave him a puzzled look, but Claudette—dear, dear Claudette—understood.

“She would be a fool to prefer him,” she said and touched his cheek.

“But I saw her.” The words came out of his mouth of their own accord; he could not stop them. “She was kissing him. And touching
him, for God’s sake. And—”

“Of course she was. She has to marry the man,” Claudette interrupted. “Women must be practical.”

Practical? Did women truly think that way?

“Kissing me was not practical.”

“It certainly was not,” Claudette agreed. “Not for either of you.”

The next thing he knew he was in a carriage, bouncing over cobblestones, his head banging against the side.

Cold air woke him, and he got his feet under him. Snatches of conversation came to him, as if from a long way away: Jamie
saying he could manage alone; the guards’ loud jibes; his own voice suggesting they find Isobel.

When next he opened his eyes, he saw his feet dragging along the floor. Then some kind soul hoisted him onto the bed. He was
sinking, sinking, sinking.

Jamie’s voice brought him back from the land of the dead. “What did Claudette mean about women being ‘practical’? ”

“She means… a woman will bed a man”—he sighed because of the effort it took to respond, but Jamie shook his shoulder again—“because
it makes sense to her… though she has no true feeling for him. They are all heartless, heartless.”

“A virtuous woman would not do that.”

“Virtuous ones are the worst!” God in heaven, even Catherine took a stranger to her bed.