Knight of Pleasure (6 page)

Stephen watched, amused, as Jamie gawked helplessly at the dark-haired beauty. His nephew appeared incapable of speech. Before
the poor boy could embarrass himself further, Stephen stepped forward to introduce himself.

He did not anticipate the effect those green eyes would have on him when the lady shifted her gaze to him. God in heaven,
she was looking at him as though he were the answer to her prayers. It made him almost wish he were.

The undisguised longing in her eyes sent a bolt of desire scorching through him. The look was gone so quickly he might have
imagined it.

Except he knew he had not.

Hoping to strike the spark again, he gave her the smile that usually got him what he wanted. Cool as ice, she turned and took
up conversation with Robert.

He found himself behaving as badly as Jamie, taking her in from head to toe. The braids wound in gold mesh attached to her
headdress were dark. She had pale skin and lovely delicate features that made her appear fragile. But there was something
about the way she held herself that told him she did not consider herself weak or in need of protection.

He followed the elegant line of her neck. Breathing hard, he worked his way down her slender, shapely form. He was grateful
for the unseasonably warm weather that had led her to remove her cloak. Grateful, indeed.

His slow, thorough perusal was interrupted by a hard jab to the ribs. When he sent a questioning sideways glance at the offender,
William gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and mouthed, “Nay.”

Stephen almost laughed aloud. Aye, there were many reasons he should not look at Lady Hume like that. That she was to make
a political marriage for the king was reason enough for a wise man to keep his distance.

He bit back a smile, considering the dangers. Catherine always said he was drawn to trouble like a bear to honey. She was
right, of course.

T
ry to remember,” Robert said as they walked down a dark street to yet another gathering, “you want to get the men drunk enough
so they speak freely, while only
pretending
to be drunk yourself.”

Stephen had sipped watered wine like a grandmother all night, but he did not bother to defend himself. He felt restless, despite
the late hour.

“Tell me about this Lady Isobel Hume.” He kept his voice casual, although he’d been thinking about her all day.

“She is virtuous and unmarried,” Robert said. “Not your sort at all.”

Stephen laughed. “Come, Robert, a man can be curious, can he not?”

“So long as you do not attempt to satisfy your ‘curiosity’ with this particular lady.”

Some undeserving Frenchman would have that pleasure. For some reason, that galled Stephen to no end.

“Speaking of women,” Robert said. “By the saints, Stephen, can you not show some discretion in the women you bed?”

This, just after he’d fended off their last host’s buxom and oh-so-willing daughter. “How can you, of all men, lecture me
about women?”

“Who better?” Robert said. “I do not suggest you be celibate, God forbid. Only do try to exercise better judgment.”

“Did William ask you to speak with me about this?”

Robert’s laugh rang out through the empty street. “William would sooner put you in chains as a remedy than have me advise
you about women!”

Stephen sighed. “Not that it is your concern, but I am finished with Marie.” Of course, Marie did not know that yet.

Marie. Good God, he’d forgotten their liaison tonight. Marie was not a woman easily deterred. When he failed to come to their
meeting place, she would seek him out. Even go to his bedchamber—

“St. Wilgefort’s beard!” He abandoned Robert in the middle of the dark street and took off running.

Luckily, the men on duty at the gate were drinking companions of his. With a few ribald shouts, they waved him through. He
raced across the endless expanse of bailey yard to the Old Palace. Breathing hard, he took the steps to the second floor two
at a time and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor to the chamber he shared with Jamie.

If he was too late, William would have his head, for sure.

When he burst into the chamber, two heads popped up from the bed. Marie lay sprawled over Jamie, her gown pushed down below
her breasts. But God was with him; the bedclothes were still between Marie and his nephew.

Jamie bolted upright, sending Marie rolling sideways. With a dramatic sigh, Marie raised herself up on one arm and looked
at Stephen. She did not cover herself.

“He is a bit young for you, Marie,” Stephen said, keeping his tone light. “You must be twice his age.”

A smile twitched at her lips. “I swear, Stephen,” she said, widening her eyes, “he gave every sign he was old enough.”

He closed his eyes briefly. Would this night ever end? “Time to go, Marie.”

She took her time squeezing her breasts back into her tight bodice—a process Jamie followed closely. When she slid down from
the high bed, she made sure her gown rode up high on her thighs.

Stephen picked up her cloak from the floor, draped it around her shoulders, and led her to the door.

“The three of us?” she whispered close to his ear.

He gave his head a firm shake. “How does your husband handle you?”

“Not nearly as well as you do,” she said as he eased her out the door.

He bolted it behind her, then turned to face his nephew, who sat on the bed looking shamefaced and disheveled. “Stay away
from that woman.”

“I was asleep—she was on me before I knew it,” Jamie fumbled. “She thought I was you, at first. I did not mean to… I… I know
she is yours…”

“She is not mine, praise God. Marie has a husband.” He sank onto a nearby stool. Wearily, he pulled his boots off and tried
to think of the right words. “You are but fifteen—”

“Nearly sixteen,” Jamie interrupted. “Surely you’ll not tell me I am too young. She would not be my first.”

Stephen lifted his eyes heavenward for help that did not come. “Believe me, you are too young to bed this particular woman,”
he said. “And much too good a man.”

He looked at his nephew, trying to see him as the young man he was now, without also seeing the boy who used to toddle after
him. Deep blue eyes, dark hair. Too handsome for his own good.

“Many women will want you,” he said at last. “That does not mean you must bed them all.”

“You do.”

Stephen rubbed his temples. “Nay, not all of them.”

God in heaven, he was a fool to think Jamie had been unaware. Forget William’s wrath, Catherine would skin him alive. How
many times had she admonished him that Jamie looked up to him? Lately, he had not believed it possible his nephew still did.

“Aye, there have been a lot of women lately,” he admitted, exhaling a long breath. “And I can tell you, there is no lasting
satisfaction in meaningless affairs with frivolous women. ’Tis much better to look for what your parents have.”

“Then why do you not seek it for yourself?”

Jamie’s face was so serious Stephen had to fight not to smile. God, he loved this boy.

“For the right woman,” he said, meeting his nephew’s eyes, “I would give up all the others without regret.” He thought it
might even be true.

“So, while a man waits for the perfect woman, he is free to waste time on frivolous ones,” Jamie said with a grin. “Then I
say, do not hurry, Perfect Woman. Take your time!”

Jamie ducked as Stephen’s boot sailed over his head.

“Move over, you lout!” Stephen said, crawling into the bed.

Long after Jamie’s breathing grew steady, Stephen lay awake, thinking. When Catherine came into his mind, he smiled. The one
perfect woman. He missed her.

With an enormous sense of relief, he realized he’d not imagined taking his sister-in-law to bed in years. Not since he was
Jamie’s age—and everyone knew what youth of that age were like!

Perhaps he was not as bad as he thought.

His mind drifted to the lady from Northumberland… and to that look she gave him in the first moment they met.

A man might do a lot to see that look again.

S
tephen cursed Sir John Popham as he followed the path along the castle wall to the bailli’s residence. With mist hovering
over the ground, the bailey yard was eerie at this hour. Did Popham set their appointments earlier each day just to spite
him?

He tried to turn his thoughts to the business of the day, but they kept returning to the more interesting subject of Lady
Isobel Hume. The more he saw of her, the more intrigued he became. And he saw her often; he made sure of that.

Flirtation seemed not a part of her social repertoire. Unusual, especially for such a pretty woman.

Her smiles rarely reached her eyes. He’d yet to hear her laugh. As with flirting, his efforts there came to naught. He tried
to imagine what her laugh would sound like. A tinkling? A light trill?

Aye, he was intrigued. Almost as much as he was attracted. It was not just that she was beautiful, though she was that. He
wanted to know her. And her secrets.

Curiosity had always been his weakness.

A peculiar sound interrupted his musings. Peculiar, at least, to be coming from one of the storerooms built against the wall.
He went to the low wooden door and put his ear to it.

Whish! Whish! Whish!
The sound was unmistakable. Drawing his sword, he eased the door open to take a look.

“Lady Hume!”

She looked as surprised as he was to catch her alone in a storeroom attacking a sack of grain with a sword.

“The poor thing is defenseless,” he said, cocking his head toward the sack. Grain was seeping onto the dirt floor from several
small tears.

“Close the door!” she hissed. “I cannot be seen here.”

And what a sight she was, with her cheeks flushed and strands of dark hair sticking to her face and neck.
God preserve me.
He stepped inside and firmly closed the door behind him.

“I meant for you to remain outside when you closed it.”

Though she took a step back as she spoke, she kept a firm hand on her sword. As she should.

With her glossy dark hair in a loose braid over her shoulder, she looked even more beautiful than he imagined. And he’d spent
hours imagining it. No man saw a grown woman with her hair uncovered unless he was a close family member. Or a lover. The
intimacy of it sent his pulse racing.

Aye, the lady had every reason to feel nervous at finding herself alone with a man in this secluded place.

“That sack cannot provide much of a challenge,” he said, trying to put her at ease.

“You make fun of me.” There was resentment in her tone, but he was pleased to see her shoulders relax.

“I believe I would serve as a better partner, though I must warn you”—he paused to glance meaningfully at the sack of grain—“I
will not hold still while you poke at me.”

Her sudden smile spilled over him like a burst of sunshine.

“But I wonder,” she said, raising her sword in his direction, “will you squeal like a pig when I do stick you?”

He laughed out loud. “I am shamed to admit this is my first time matching swords with a woman, so please be kind.”

She barely gave him time to take up position before she attacked.

“You have natural skill,” he allowed after a few parries and thrusts. “All you need is more practice.”

“But you, sir, are astonishing,” she said, a little breathless. “Quite the best I’ve seen.”

His chest swelled as if he were a youth of twelve.

“And I thought you excelled only at drinking games.”

Ouch.
“So you’ve been watching me. I am flattered.”

The deep flush of her cheeks pleased him to no end. He deflected a determined jab to his heart.

He played with her as he did with the younger squires—hard enough to challenge, but not so hard as to discourage. When she
pulled her skirt out of the way with her free hand, though, he missed his footing and very nearly dropped his sword.

She stepped back, her brows furrowed.

“Showing your ankles was a clever move,” he said, giving her a low bow. “A trick I’ve not seen before.”

“It was not my intention to rely on anything other than my skill.” Her tone was as stiff as her spine. “I would not be so
dishonorable as to stoop to tricks.”

Good Lord.
“If your opponent is both stronger and more skilled than you are,” he said, keeping his voice even, “then you must use what
advantages you do have.”

Sword arm extended, he motioned with his other hand for her to come forward. He suppressed a smile when she took up her sword
again and came toward him.

“Then, once you have an opening, you must use it,” he said. “Never give up your moment, as you just did. Do not hesitate.
Your opponent may not give you a second chance.”

“You do not care how you win, sir, so long as you do?” Her tone was scathing.

He sighed inwardly. How naive could she be?

“Use whatever rules you like when you are playing, Isobel. But if a man less honorable should find you alone as I did today,
you will wish you knew how to fight without the rules.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but did not speak.

“It would be preferable, of course, if you did not wander about alone. You forget you are in dangerous country here.”

“ ’Tis not your place to lecture me.”

Someone should.
“Now, do you want to continue playing at sword fighting?” he asked, deliberately baiting her. “Or do you want to learn how
to protect yourself from someone who intends you harm?”

Green eyes sparking with fire, she raised her sword and said, “Teach me.”

Oh, what he would love to teach her! God help him, she was breathtaking like this.

“You should carry a short blade, as well,” he instructed as he fended off her attack.

“Why? You think you can knock my sword from my hand?”

“I can.” He saw a half-empty sack on the floor behind her. “But I will not have to. You will drop it.”

She fought better angry, a good quality in a fighter.