Lady Isobel's Champion

Chapter Four

Inside, smoke gusted from a central fire. The shutters were closed and the air was stale. The stench was overpowering. Candle grease, mutton stew, and human sweat. Customers hunched round the fire, leather mugs in hand. Rushlights guttered, sooty streamers trailed upwards.

‘Hell of a draught,’ someone bellowed.

A boy leaped at the door, and the gloom deepened.

Isobel gripped Lucien’s arm, he had been right to warn her about this place. For all her bravado, she had never been in an inn like this. A full-bosomed woman was leaning through a serving hatch. The cut of her gown would doubtless give the Abbess an apoplexy. Faces turned towards them—unearthly in the fire-glow.

Isobel had lost sight of the thief. Several girls were moving among the customers—bright hair ribbons shone through the murk: yellow, violet, blue. The girls’ clothes were cleverly laced to show off swelling breasts and slender waists. Isobel found herself staring.

A potboy materialised. ‘Drink?’ He looked Isobel up and down. ‘Or is it a bedchamber you are wanting, sir?’

Isobel’s cheeks scorched. When Lucien’s stern expression lightened—he is amused—she avoided his eyes.

‘We would like a cup of your best red, thank you,’ he said. ‘We shall take it over there, in the corner.’

The thief was at a table lit by a cloudy horn lantern, deep in conversation with a woman in a moth-eaten shawl. Lucien handed Isobel to a bench a few feet away.

‘Can’t we get any closer?’ Isobel murmured.

Lucien’s lips curved as he settled next to her. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, and her stomach turned over. His blue eyes were as intent as a lover’s. ‘We can get as close as you wish, my dove.’

Isobel huffed out a breath. Lucien was almost on top of her, the long length of his thigh was warm against hers. She wrenched her hand free and glared at him. ‘My lord, that was not what I meant, and you know it.’

Lucien’s hand—as warm as his thigh—slid round her waist. ‘Try to look more encouraging,’ he murmured, his voice as caressing as his hand. ‘They take us for sweethearts. Scowl like that and they will become suspicious. We will learn nothing. At the moment your presence is tolerated because they hope I will pay for a private chamber.’

Isobel swallowed. Lucien’s smile, though charming, was altogether too practised. She recalled how his skin had darkened before they had entered. Lucien might not have been in this particular inn before, but he is not inexperienced. He … Her heart seemed to stutter, and when she noticed his gaze drop to her mouth, she realised with a jolt what was coming.

‘Oh … no.’

‘Oh, yes. Come here, little dove.’ Pulling her against him, Lucien lowered his lips to hers.

Isobel froze. Her fingers clenched into fists, fists she pressed up against his chest, pushing against him. But not too hard. She was curious. And furious.

How could he!

For years Isobel had lived for some sign of attention from this man. Any sign would have done—a letter sent to the convent in Conques perhaps … even a simple message. He had done nothing. He had ignored her—year, after year, after year.

And then he had the gall to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. She heard a strangled sound and, realising it was coming from her, silenced it. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didn’t want her. Her pulse thudded. She wished he would stop, she couldn’t breathe. She was going to faint. Lord, no, she wasn’t, she liked his kiss.

His mouth softened and he eased back. ‘Relax, Isobel, you will convince no one like that.’

She pushed against his chest with little effect, her strength had deserted her.

When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in his palm, making tiny caressing circles with his fingertips, pleasure shot along every nerve. She bit back a moan. It was fortunate that his hand hid her face from onlookers. She felt hot, and confused, and … her womb seemed to ache. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t know me. In the years she had lived in the south he had not shown the slightest interest in her welfare. I am just another trophy to him. I am a prize. Lucien is marrying me for my inheritance.

And then his mouth was on hers again and her thoughts scattered. Isobel forgot they were in the Black Boar; she forgot why they were here; she forgot everything. The nuns, the relic, the thief—they no longer existed. The world had narrowed down to Lucien, to the arm wound round her waist, to the lips on hers. There was simply nothing else.

Lucien’s scent, musky and mysterious, surrounded her. His touch warmed her blood, her breasts felt heavy. The need to unclench her fists and wind her arms about his neck was irresistible. He was making her want to kiss his cheekbones and that scar on his temple. He was making …

She felt his tongue on hers and gasped. His tongue? She tore her lips from his.

‘Wh … what are you doing?’

His eyes—it must be something to do with the mean light—were almost black. ‘Kissing my betrothed,’ he murmured.

Something thumped on to the table.

‘Your wine,’ the potboy said. He had a distinct snigger in his voice. ‘Are you certain you won’t be wanting that bedchamber, sir?’

Isobel moaned with the shame of it and, even more shaming, found herself wrestling with the impulse to hide her face against Lucien’s chest.

The dark head shook. ‘No, thank you. We are … negotiating terms. Later perhaps.’

‘Negotiating terms?’ Isobel glared at him. ‘I hate you, I really hate you.’

‘No,’ came the soft answer. ‘Thankfully, I don’t think you do.’

He had done kissing her, it seemed. Strong hands were smoothing back hair that had escaped from her veil. He kept her tight against him—the arm encircling her waist felt proprietorial. And so it was, she supposed. I am his betrothed. His heiress. I am his latest trophy.

Lucien leaned against the wall of the inn, taking her with him, making her drape her arm about him. ‘There, isn’t it a relief to have got it out of the way?’

‘Got what out of the way?’ Isobel spoke sharply, hoping to conceal the most unsettling discovery. She liked being tucked against Lucien almost as much as she liked kissing him. It felt as though they belonged together. She was not feeling unalloyed pleasure though. She also felt anger—but whether she was more angry with herself or with him she could not say.

This man ignored me for years. I am nothing to him but a means to an end.

‘Our first kiss.’ Lightly, he touched her nose. ‘On the whole, it was quite enjoyable. Far better than I had hoped.’

She ground her teeth together. On the whole … ‘Lucien, I swear—’

‘Yes, yes, you hate me.’ Leaning towards her, he kissed her ear. Except that he wasn’t really kissing it, he was using the kiss to conceal the jerking of his head towards the next table. ‘Listen … can you hear?’

Isobel fought to ignore the rush of tingling evoked by his kiss and concentrated on the nearby table. Two heads, the shawled and the hooded, were close together.

‘Your man said to tell you that he will be at the next tournament,’ the woman said.

The thief wiped his nose with a ragged sleeve. ‘I take it you don’t mean the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes Castle?’

The woman laughed. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of leaves. ‘Don’t be a fool, that one will be bristling with Count Henry’s Guardians. I am speaking about the All Hallows Tourney at the Field of the Birds. I am told …’ the woman lowered her voice and Isobel barely caught the words ‘… your man has a buyer in mind. He will pay well for a relic that belonged to St Foye.’

‘Better than last time?’

‘Much better. He will meet you at the beginning of the tourney, at the vespers when the young knights run through their paces.’

‘Before the vespers?’

‘Yes.’

Firelight glinted in a shard of broken glass by the thief’s elbow. ‘Where? Where shall I meet him?’

‘He will find you.’ The woman gave a snort of laughter. ‘He ought to know you by now.’ Keeping her shawl firmly about her, she rose and scurried out.

Careful to keep her voice low, Isobel looked at Lucien. ‘Did you see her face?’ Where is the Field of the Birds? Isobel was bursting with other questions, but she bit her tongue on the rest, the hooded man was too close.

Lucien’s hand tightened its hold. ‘No. You?’

‘Not so much as a hair on her head.’ Isobel sighed and tried to put space between them. As she did so, she realised with horror that whilst she had been listening to the conversation on the next table, Lucien had taken possession of her other hand. Their fingers were entwined. How had she not noticed? Under the pretext of picking up her wine, she hastily disentangled herself.

She took a wary sip. The wine was earthy and faintly sour; it had an unpleasant undertone that defied identification. Ordinarily, Isobel wouldn’t dream of drinking it, but she was glad to have the excuse to edge out of Lucien’s arms. He discomposed her. He made her forget herself. Shooting him a glance, she caught his eyes on her, distant, watchful.

‘Must you look at me like that?’ she asked.

‘You are not as I expected.’

‘If you had troubled yourself to visit me at Conques, you would have come to know me.’

His face went hard. ‘It is not necessary to know a woman in order to marry her.’

Isobel stared. ‘You are blunt, my lord.’ Her fingers curled into her palms. ‘You want my lands.’

Lucien leaned in. His eyes were no longer dark as they had been when they had kissed, they gleamed with intent. Ruthless, he is utterly ruthless. Those eyes were the eyes of a man who never took his eyes from his target. ‘I admit your lands will be useful,’ he said quietly. ‘My lady, only a fool would turn down the chance of enlarging his estates. But I am not marrying you solely for your lands. I am marrying you to honour the oath I swore at our betrothal. My father was sorely disappointed at the delay. I did him wrong in the matter of our marriage and that wrong has sat heavy in my mind for years. The time has come to put it right.’

Isobel frowned. ‘Your father died some years ago. Why wait till now to honour your oath to wed me?’

It was as though Lucien had not heard her. That hard gaze shifted to the jug of wine, although she doubted that he saw it.

‘I need an heir.’

Isobel’s hand jerked. Wine slopped on to the table. An heir. He means a male heir, the one thing my mother could not give my father. The one thing Isobel was afraid she would not be able to give him. Lucien’s mouth, the mouth that had stirred such feelings in her, was set in a hard, uncompromising line. When Lucien put his mind to it, he would be relentless. What would happen to her if she failed him as her mother had failed her father? Two great fears twisted together in her mind: I may not be capable of giving him an heir. I may die in the attempt.

He reached for his wine, drank, and gave an eloquent shudder. ‘Mon Dieu, Isobel.’ He prised her cup out of her grasp and dragged her to her feet. ‘Don’t touch that pi—er, swill, else you’ll be joining your maid in the infirmary. We’re leaving.’

As they squeezed past the tables, the thief looked up. His lip curled and he reached for his dagger.

Isobel made a small sound of distress.

Shielding her with his body, Lucien urged her past the fire. ‘As I feared, he noticed you giving chase.’ He pushed a coin into the potboy’s waiting hands. ‘I shall escort you back to the Abbey.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Outside, Isobel heaved in a lungful of fresh air. Lucien took possession of her hand. He didn’t tuck it into his arm in the more formal manner; instead, he held it at his side, as though they were sweethearts. As he wove his fingers with hers, something knotted up inside her. It was very painful. Rather like longing for something one could never have. She was not this man’s sweetheart—he was marrying her to honour the arrangement his father had made. He wanted Turenne. He wanted an heir.

‘My lord?’ Blue eyes glanced her way, as they plunged into a side street. ‘Where is the Field of the Birds?’ The device on Lucien’s shield was a black raven, and the Counts of Aveyron had long been allies with the Counts of Champagne. It struck her that the tourney field must lie on Lucien’s land.

A pulse throbbed near his scar. ‘I hoped you hadn’t heard that.’

They were walking between two rows of houses, and the gutter at the side was full of turnip peelings. Isobel lifted her skirts clear before speaking again. ‘My lord, in the Abbey, you mentioned a tournament on the day after our wedding, I realise this must be the same one. Is the Field of the Birds part of your holding?’

‘Yes.’ His voice was dismissive. ‘In his day, my father was patron of tournaments held at the Field of the Birds. I have had little to do with them.’

It was a puzzling response given Lucien’s enthusiasm for tournaments and his success in the tourney field. And was it her imagination or was he avoiding her gaze? ‘Why ever not?’

‘Some years ago, I put my Champagne holding in the hands of a steward. He was running Ravenshold well enough. Until recently, I had no reason to visit.’

‘There were other tournaments, I suppose.’ She looked hopefully at him, but his face was closed. Unreceptive. ‘I have never been to a tournament, my lord. At Turenne, my father’s minstrel—’

His expression hardened. ‘Isobel, a tournament is more than pretty ladies handing out favours to handsome knights. A tournament is a war-game.’

‘Nevertheless, I should like to see one.’

‘I don’t advise you start at the Field of the Birds. I’ve heard it’s badly regulated these days.’

‘How so?’

‘Since my father’s time it has, so I hear, become … unruly. It will be messy, perhaps bloody. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table it is not.’

Isobel looked uncertainly at him. There was a darkness in this man’s soul she could not account for. ‘My lord?’

‘Well, that is what you are expecting from a tournament, is it not? Deeds of valour. Quests.’ He spoke abruptly. ‘The tournament at the Field of the Birds is—well, it’s war. If you want to play at being Queen Guinevere, you should wait for the Twelfth Night joust at Troyes Castle. That should be more to your taste.’

Lucien’s tone disturbed her. He was trying to put her off going to the All Hallows Tourney, but he would not succeed. It was well known that the Kings of France and England had voiced their disapproval of tournaments, but a champion of Lucien’s status would not balk at the toughest of competitions. Was it possible that he was worried about her?

In truth, the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes sounded as though it would be much more to her taste. Unfortunately, the man who had stolen the relic was going to the All Hallows Tourney, Isobel would have to go too …

‘If you are concerned for me,’ she said softly, ‘you need not be. I can look after myself. My lord, are the tournaments held in the Field of the Birds very dangerous?’

‘So Sir Arthur—my steward—tells me. As I said, I have not attended one there in years.’

‘Will you be competing? I would really like to go.’

Lucien dropped her hand. ‘Isobel, I advise you to consider this discussion closed.’

‘You are taking part!’ She tipped her head back and met his gaze. ‘No champion worth his mettle could fail to relish the challenge of a real tournament. If the competition is fierce, the prize money will be good. Where is the Field of the Birds?’

Blue eyes seemed to bore right through her. ‘My lady, I see where you are heading and I will not have it. The wretch who took that relic will be looking out for you.’

‘He won’t see me. I will be discreet.’

Lucien snorted. ‘I doubt you know the meaning of the word. Isobel, I forbid you to attend. I won’t have time to watch out for you.’