Knight of Pleasure (7 page)

Still, he was better. Much better. He forced her to step back, and back, and back again. Once more, and her heel caught on
the sack. She threw her hands up, sending the sword clattering against the wall as she tumbled backward.

The next moment, she was lying back on her elbows, her hair loose about her shoulders, skirts askew, chest heaving.

He could not move, could not even breathe.

She looked like a goddess. A wanton Venus, sprawled on the dirt floor at his feet. Then she threw her head back and laughed.
Not a light trill, but a full-throated, joyful laugh that made his heart soar.

What he would not do to hear her laugh again!

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me,” she said, her eyes dancing. She reached her hand up for him to help her to her
feet.

He took it and sank to his knees beside her. “Not true, Isobel,” he said in a harsh whisper. “ ’Tis I who am at your mercy.”

His eyes fixed on her lips, full and parted. Well beyond thought now, he gave in to the inexorable pull toward them. The moment
their lips touched, fire seared through him.

He tried to hang on to the thin thread of caution tugging at his conscience. But she was kissing him back, mouth open, her
tongue seeking his. His ears roared as she put her arms around his neck and pulled him down.

He cushioned the back of her head with his hand before it touched the dirt floor. Leaning over her, he gave himself wholly
to kissing her. He splayed his hands into her hair and rained kisses along her jaw and down her throat, then returned to her
mouth again.

The sweet taste of her, the smell of her, filled his senses. He was mindless of anything except her mouth, her face, her hair,
his burning need to touch her.

He ran his hand down her side to the swell of her hip. When she moaned, he knew he had to feel her beneath him. Beneath him,
pressed against him. Skin to skin.

Slowly, he lowered his body until he felt the soft fullness of her breasts against his chest. Sweet heaven! Oh, God, the little
sounds she was making. He let himself sink down farther and groaned aloud as his swollen shaft pressed against her hip.

There was a reason he must not do what he wanted to do, but he could not recall it. And did not want to try.

He buried his face in hair that smelled of summer flowers and honey. “Isobel, I want you so much.”

The breath went out of him in a whoosh as he cupped the rounded softness of her breast in his hand. It fit perfectly. And
felt so wondrously good he had to squeeze his eyes shut.

He froze the instant he felt the prick of cold steel against his neck. All the reasons they should not be rolling around the
floor of an empty storeroom came flooding back to him.

“You are right,” she said so close to his ear that he could feel her breath, “ ’tis wise to carry a short blade.”

“Forgive me.” He breathed in the smell of her skin one more time. Then he made himself get up.

As soon as he set her on her feet, she began to vigorously brush off her clothes. She was quite obviously embarrassed, but
did she regret the kisses? He wished she would speak.

“Isobel?” He stepped close and touched her arm, but she would not look at him. “I cannot say I am sorry for kissing you”—
kissing
seemed hardly to cover it, but he thought it best to leave it at that—“but I do apologize if I have upset you.”

“The blame is not all yours,” she said, face flushed and eyes cast down, “though I might like to pretend otherwise.”

Ah, an honest woman. And a fair one, too.

“You know I am soon to become betrothed.”

“I did forget it for a time,” he said, hoping in vain to draw a smile from her.

“It was very wrong of me,” she said, lifting her chin. “It shall not happen again.”

“If it will never happen again,” he said, “then let me have a last kiss before we part.”

He thought his outrageous request would cause her to either laugh or shout at him. When she did neither, he put his hand against
her soft cheek. He leaned down until his lips touched hers. This time, he kept the kiss soft and chaste. He would not upset
her again.

But when she leaned into him, he was lost again in deep, mindless kisses. When they finally broke apart, they stared at each
other, breathless.

“I must leave now!” she said, backing away.

He caught her arm. “These things happen between men and women,” he told her—though it had never happened quite like this to
him before. “Please, Isobel, you must not feel badly or blame yourself.”

The huge eyes she turned on him told him his words had done nothing to reassure her.

“Come, you will want to put this on,” he said, picking up the simple headdress he saw lying on the ground.

She snatched it from his hands, slammed it on her head, and began shoving hair into it.

“ ’Tis a shame to cover such lovely hair.” Unable to keep his hands from her, he helped push loose strands under the headdress.
He let his fingers graze her skin as he worked. And tried not to sigh aloud.

“Let me go first to be sure no one is near,” he told her. “Watch for my signal.”

He felt her close behind him as he eased the door open. “I am happy to practice with you whenever you like,” he said as he
looked out into the yard. “Sword fighting or kissing.”

He spun around and gave her a quick, hard kiss, looking straight into her open eyes.

Isobel touched her fingers to her lips as she watched him go. Her breasts ached, and her whole body still thrummed with sensation.

What happened to her? She was stunned by her body’s response to his touch and by how it addled her mind. Judgment—indeed,
all thought—left her the moment his lips touched hers.

Thank God, the shock of his hand on her breast finally brought her to her senses. She could not fool herself—she knew what
path they’d been racing down. And, God help her, she’d been right beside him, matching him step for step.

Out in the yard, Stephen waved for her to follow. As if this were a game! She slipped out the door with her head down and
walked as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

So, this must be what it is like to have an affair. Sneaking about, taking pains to be sure no one sees you coming from a
place you should not be with someone you should not be with. She swallowed hard. Stephen was so practical about it all. Retrieving
her headdress, tucking her hair in, keeping watch for her. So practical. And practiced.

She picked up her pace. ’Twas no comfort to know she was one of many women foolish enough to fall for Stephen Carleton’s charms.
No comfort at all to know others had fallen further. Fallen? Nay, jumped.

She put her hand to her chest. At least he had listened when she told him to stop. Aye, she asked him with the point of her
blade on his neck. But they both knew he could have taken it from her easily enough.

Another man might have felt justified in taking her. For she was brazen, opening her mouth to him, pulling him down on top
of her. Good heavens, she was a woman possessed! Even when he covered her with his body—good as that felt—she pressed into
him, unable to get as close as she wanted.

Her breath quickened as she recalled the feel of his hands moving over her.

Without a speck of doubt, coupling with Stephen Carleton would be an altogether different experience from having Hume sweating
and grunting over her. Just his kisses told her that. His kisses! Remembering how their tongues moved against each other,
she could almost imagine—

“Isobel.”

She jumped at the sound of Carleton’s voice beside her. “What are you doing here?” Good God, she’d just imagined the man naked
and—oh, she would not think of it more!

“You can slow down. No one saw us leave the storeroom,” he said. “Let me escort you back to the keep.”

“Leave me. I can find my way alone.”

“Isobel, you are going the wrong way.”

She looked around and found she was nearing the Porte Saint-Pierre, the main gate into the town. “Thank you,” she said in
a tight voice and turned on her heel.

“Truly, it is not safe for you to go about without an escort,” he said, keeping pace with her. “Promise me you’ll not do it
again.”

Promise? He had the gall to think he could exact promises from her? She kept her eyes fixed on the keep across the bailey
yard and marched ahead.

She knew just what sort of man Stephen Carleton was. Did he think she did not notice how women fawned over him? She was not
blind. Even when he was so drunk she was sure he could not tell one woman from another, they looked at him as if he were a
gift sent by the angels.

These things happen between men and women.
It was as good as saying it was nothing at all. Perhaps “these things” happened to Sir Stephen Carleton all the time, but
nothing like it had ever happened to her before.

God’s mercy, the man must think she was one of those widows who will allow a man liberties simply because he is pleasing to
the eye. She would never stoop to being one of his many women. Someone he forgot as soon as he dressed and left the room.

Never. Never. Never.

Carleton attempted to engage her in conversation, but she ignored him. Idle chatter was well beyond her now.

They were passing the Exchequer, nearly to the keep. Escape was within her reach.

“Good morning, Robert,” Carleton called out beside her.

She turned to see Robert bounding down the steps. Damnation! Robert’s eyebrow went up a bare fraction as he looked from her
to Carleton and back again. It took an act of will not to check her clothes again for bits of dirt and straw.

“I was just coming for you, Isobel,” he said. “The king wishes you to serve attendance upon him.”

The king? Although she saw King Henry every day in the hall, she’d yet to have a private audience with him.

“When shall I come?”
Please, please, not today.

“He awaits you now.”

“Now?” This time, she did look down at herself. Her cloak was clean, but God knew what her gown looked like underneath.

“You haven’t time to change,” Robert said, interrupting her harried thoughts, “and you look lovely as you are.”

She colored, almost certain Robert guessed the cause of her dishevelment. Yet his eyes showed nothing but kind concern as
he reached up and gave her headdress a firm tug to the left.

“There, now you are perfect.”

Robert, of course, was as practiced as Carleton at helping a lady with her headdress.

“I very much enjoyed our walk,” Carleton said and turned so Robert would not see his wink. “I look forward to the next time.”

If Robert were not there, she would have kicked him.

“The king wishes to see you alone,” Robert said.

“Alone? But I thought you would—”

“Believe me, this will be no more difficult than your meeting with Bishop Beaufort.” Robert took her arm and turned her toward
the steps. “You do know Beaufort was his tutor?”

No comfort there! She wanted to protest, but she could hardly tell Robert she was not yet recovered from an early-morning
fit of madness.

“Best not keep the king waiting,” Robert said, his hand at her back.

Above her, a guard held the door open. She took a deep breath and went up the steps to face the lion. Before going through
the door, she glanced back just as Carleton turned to leave. She gaped in astonishment as Robert grabbed Carleton’s arm and
spun him back around. With no trace of his usual bonhomie, Robert poked a finger into Carleton’s chest.

“Lady Hume?”

She dragged her gaze from the scene below and nodded to the guard. God help her, but she hoped Stephen Carleton was a good
liar. Very likely, he was exceptional.

She had no time to dwell on it. After passing through a second set of doors, she was in the hall where King Henry held court
in Normandy. A man in a simple brown cloak stood looking out one of the tall windows that faced the Old Palace. A monk?

She expected to find the hall full of people, with the king on the dais, dressed in his bright gold, red, and blue tunic emblazoned
with row upon row of lions and fleurs-de-lis. She glanced up and down the enormous room. Not a soul was here, save for her
and this monk.

Her breath caught. This was no monk, but the king himself.

Her hands shook as she sank into her curtsy. Only thirty years old, and he was legend. At thirteen he led men into battle.
At sixteen he commanded entire armies. After being crowned at twenty-six, he unified the nobles and brought an end to the
years of chaos and rebellion.

He created a common link among the classes by making English the language of his court in England. For the first time since
before the Conqueror, royal edicts were in the language of the common people.

All of England lauded Henry for his skill at governing and admired him for his piety. But what they loved him for were his
victories. He was their young warrior king. England was strong again and ready to face her enemies.

“You may rise,” the king said.

His cheerful countenance reassured her.

“Caen Castle was the favorite residence of my ancestor, William the Conqueror,” he said, letting his eyes travel along the
beams overhead. “He built it more than three and a half centuries ago, not long before he crossed the channel to conquer England.”