Knight of Pleasure (9 page)

Claudette saw it, of course. There was not much that remarkable woman missed. And Marie de Lisieux, who had none of Claudette’s
subtlety or discretion, was watching the pair like a hawk.

Not for the first time, he wondered which faction Marie was spying for. Tonight, however, a baser motive even than politics
drove Marie. ’Twas a wonder Isobel did not feel the scorch of Marie’s eyes on her skin.

Praise God, William was no more perceptive than the king in such matters. The situation was far too delicate to bring William
into it. A subtle hand was needed, not a storming of the gates.

He might need William’s help. But not yet.

I
sobel dropped her embroidery in her lap, annoyed her thoughts had drifted again to that damn Stephen Carleton. Small wonder,
really. She had little else to occupy herself.

Where was de Roche? She stared out her narrow window, trying to imagine him riding through the keep’s gate with twenty men
behind him. Each day he did not come, she was torn between injury and relief.

She’d been a traitor’s daughter; she did not want to be a traitor’s wife. What would she do if de Roche changed allegiances
after they wed? Caught between duty to husband and king, which would she choose? Either choice would be dangerous for her.

Her attention was caught by a lone rider trotting into the inner bailey yard below. There was something familiar about the
way he sat his horse…

“Geoffrey!” She let her needlework fall to the floor in a tangle and flew to her door. In her hurry, she nearly tumbled down
the stairs, which were built at uneven heights to trip attackers. A moment later, she was out of the keep and running across
the yard to her brother.

“I am filthy,” Geoffrey warned as she leapt into his arms. He held her close and said against her hair, “I came as quickly
as I could.”

“Thank God you are safe,” she said, her eyes stinging. “I have been so worried.”

“You should not fret so over me, Issie, I am a grown man now.” He set her on her feet and took her hands. “Is it possible
my sister has grown still more beautiful?”

“Would you scold me if I said my husband’s death was good for my health?”

“I would,” he said, “though I know you suffered with him.”

As a man, Geoffrey could never understand how much she suffered. She did not want him to.

“Come,” she said, taking his arm, “I will show you the way to the stables. Then I want you to meet Sir Robert, the kind man
who has been looking after me.”

She paused to lean her head against his shoulder and smile up at him. “I am so very glad you are here.”

“He certainly took his time in coming.”

The unexpected voice came from behind them. Isobel whirled around to find Stephen Carleton standing a few feet away, hands
on hips, looking anything but his usual good-humored self.

“What kept you?” Carleton demanded, his eyes hard on Geoffrey. “Your delay has been a grave insult to this lady.”

She’d never seen Carleton angry before. With temper sparking in his eyes, he looked different. Dangerous.

He turned his searing gaze on her. “I did not take you to be such a forgiving woman.”

“I am sorry if I have offended you in some way,” Geoffrey said, drawing Carleton’s attention back to him. “I came as soon
as I received the news my sister was here.”

“Your sister?” The expression on Carleton’s face showed first surprise, then delight.

“I thought you were that unworthy Frenchman of hers,” he said, coming over and clapping Geoffrey on the back. “Welcome to
Caen! I am Stephen Carleton, a friend of your sister’s.”

“You thought he was—” She choked on her words as anger, hot and dark, rose in her chest. “You thought I would embrace a man
I did not know in the middle of the courtyard!”

“Better in a busy courtyard than a quiet place,” Carleton said with a wink. “Luckily, I did not see you embrace him, or your
brother would be dusting off his backside—if he could get up at all.”

She wanted to slap him. “What concern is it of yours?”

Geoffrey, ever the peacemaker, said in a soothing voice, “He was only being chivalrous, trying to protect you.” He took hold
of her arm and began pulling her away. “Come, Issie, it was a hard ride, and I’ve not eaten in hours.”

When she glared at Carleton over her shoulder, he blew her a kiss. The man was maddening.

What madness, Stephen asked himself, had taken hold of him? When he walked through the keep’s gate and saw her clinging to
a stranger’s arm, her face lit by a rare, radiant smile, he stormed across the yard intent on beating the man to a bloody
pulp.

Good God, he could hardly credit it.

Nay. He knew damn well what made him do it. Mindless, raging jealousy. He thought the man was de Roche and that Isobel was
looking at him the way she looked at Stephen the day they met.

And he simply could not bear it.

He did not want to contemplate what that meant. Regardless, he intended to get to know her brother.

Isobel drew her cloak close against the early morning chill. “I was afraid you would forget your promise to practice with
me before breakfast,” she said, squeezing Geoffrey’s arm.

“And risk my big sister’s wrath?”

They walked in companionable silence, their feet crunching on the frozen ground.

When Geoffrey spoke again, his tone was serious. “Have you been going out alone, Isobel?”

There was only one person who could have told him. “Did that Stephen Carleton say something to you?”

“Aye, Sir Stephen gave me quite a lecture on the risks,” he said, “and on my duties as a brother.”

“How dare he!”

“There was no mistaking the man’s message, but he was quite cordial,” Geoffrey said. “He is an engaging fellow. Both he and
his nephew seem to be good men.”

She snorted her disagreement. “Stephen Carleton lacks all seriousness of purpose.”

“He seemed quite serious about wishing to kill me yesterday,” Geoffrey said, fighting a smile.

She remembered how dangerous Stephen had looked. Dangerous, and impossibly handsome.

“A vile temper does not improve a frivolous man.” She sounded insufferable, but she couldn’t stop herself. “He is, by all
accounts, an unrepentant adulterer and drunkard. For all your piety, I am surprised you are willing to overlook his sins.”

“You should not believe all you hear,” Geoffrey said. “And ’tis not your place nor mine to judge. ‘Let he who is without sin
cast the first stone.’ ”

She decided not to test her brother’s grace by telling him that the man he was defending had lain on top of her and kissed
her senseless. That was a secret best not shared.

“What makes you smile, Issie?”

“Nothing.” God help her, but she did not regret those kisses nearly as much as she ought. “Let us speak no more of Stephen
Carleton.”

“But he—”

She held her hand up. “Please, Geoffrey, do not.”

When they reached the storeroom, she ducked through the low entrance and removed her cloak. When she turned to find a place
to lay it down, she was so startled she screamed.

Stephen Carleton sat perched atop a stack of grain sacks.

“Good day, Lady Hume,” he greeted her, as if he were quite used to women shrieking at the sight of him. “You remember my nephew,
Jamie Rayburn?”

Noticing the young man now, she gave him a stiff nod.

“I meant to tell you that Sir Stephen kindly offered to practice with us today.” Ignoring her glare, Geoffrey added, “We are
fortunate, for he is well known for his skill.”

“Please just call me Stephen,” Carleton said, dropping down to the ground. “Your sister does.”

She was going to argue, but this little falsehood was the least of his crimes.

When her brother went to chat with Jamie, Carleton came to stand beside her. “Stop scowling,” he said in a low voice. “You
are safe with both Jamie and your brother here. I promise, you will enjoy yourself.”

She was tense and distracted at first, but after a time she became absorbed in the play. They traded partners frequently,
so she had opportunity to practice with each of them. Stephen—despite herself, she did think of him as Stephen now—was by
far the best swordsman and teacher.

“I’m starving! ’Tis long past time for breakfast.”

Jamie’s announcement caught Isobel by surprise. The hour had passed so quickly.

Jamie sheathed his sword and picked up his cloak from the corner. “Shall we meet again tomorrow?”

Geoffrey gave her a sideways glace and waited.

She smiled and nodded. So long as Geoffrey and Jamie came, too, what could be the harm?

November 1417

A
s Robert helped her into her cloak, Isobel heard the bells of L’Abbaye-aux-Hommes, the great abbey William the Conqueror built
west of town, calling the monks to compline. Geoffrey was there tonight, praying with the monks. He would rise with them twice
in the night, for matins and for lauds, then again at dawn for prime, before returning to the castle.

“How did you persuade me to go with you to one of your social gatherings in the town tonight?” she said. “I am sure I shall
hate it.”

“Who knows? An evening with the rich and dissolute may hold surprises,” Robert said as he opened the door for her. “What do
you say to walking? The night is fine and clear.”

She enjoyed the long walk through the Old Town. By the time they crossed the bridge into the New Town, however, her feet were
frozen. They were nearly to the far wall of the city before Robert stopped at the gate of an enormous house.

“Did I mention,” Robert asked without looking at her, “that our hosts are Lord and Lady de Lisieux?”

“Marie de Lisieux! You know very well I would not have come if you told me.”

“Come, you must admit to some curiosity,” Robert said, giving her a wink. “I promise it will be entertaining.”

As soon as they entered the house, Isobel noted with satisfaction that it was garishly decorated, with costly but unattractive
tapestries and too much furniture.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” Robert said in her ear. “Wait until you meet the husband.”

Isobel had to struggle not to laugh. “You are a wicked man, Robert.”

The food at supper was like the furnishings: rich, but tasteless. The bread was not quite fresh, the fruit green, the meats
undercooked and laden with a heavy gravy with an unusual gray cast to it. Isobel was as hungry when she got up as when she
sat down.

After supper, the guests dispersed into small groups throughout the public rooms of the house. Robert settled with Isobel
on a bench at the back of the largest room and proceeded to tell her unseemly tidbits about the people in the room.

“Do keep your voice down!” she admonished him.

Her laughter caught in her throat when she turned and saw a late guest entering the room.

“You did not tell me Stephen was coming.”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “You need to be warned?”

“Of course not.”

Still, the very last thing she wanted to do was watch Marie de Lisieux drape herself over Stephen all evening. The woman had
her hands on him already.

“You seem tense, my dear,” Robert said.

“You are mistaken.”

Over the weeks, she’d become accustomed to Stephen’s company—and to ignoring the attraction between them. Of course, she’d
not been foolish enough to risk being alone with him again.

Geoffrey and Jamie met her for sword practice every morning, regular as rain. Stephen came less often—no doubt it was difficult
to rise early after a late night of drinking… and God knew what else. Despite her caution, she found herself warming to him
each time he joined them. He was a patient teacher and had charm and wit enough for two.

How could a man of such talent fritter his time away with the most degenerate members of the local nobility? It was such a
waste! And there was always some woman at hand, tittering at his jokes and giving him meaningful glances.

Robert raised his arm and called out, “Stephen, over here!”

Stephen distracted Marie de Lisieux with a blinding smile as he removed her hand from his shoulder and squeezed past.