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.

And now he had the impudence to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didn’t want her. Her pulse thudded. She liked his kiss.

When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in its palm, making tiny caressing circles with its 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. 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 were scattered.

Duty, Honour, Truth, Valour

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting new Medieval series by Carol Townend.

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colours flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too. Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these three knights stand in their way. But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in

Carol Townend’s

Knights of Champagne

Three Swordsmen for Three Ladies

About the Author

CAROL TOWNEND has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…

Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon®) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk

Previous novels by the same author:

 THE NOVICE BRIDE

 AN HONOURABLE ROGUE

 HIS CAPTIVE LADY

 RUNAWAY LADY, CONQUERING LORD

 HER BANISHED LORD

 BOUND TO THE BARBARIAN*

 CHAINED TO THE BARBARIAN*

 BETROTHED TO THE BARBARIAN*

 *Palace Brides trilogy

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks?

Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Lady Isobel’s Champion
Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

AUTHOR NOTE

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honour—and sometimes lose honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France, and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the women a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from a brief glimpse of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval city to create my Troyes, but these books are first and foremost fictional.

DEDICATION

To Karen, with love

Chapter One

October 1173—in the east tower of Ravenshold, in the County of Champagne

With the tip of his dagger, Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, prodded what looked suspiciously like a dead sparrow. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He grimaced as he surveyed a table littered with leavings. There was a handful of tiny bones; any number of butterflies’ wings in a clay pot; and a mortar holding a gnarled fragment of bark that Lucien was pretty certain would never be seen in either kitchen or infirmary. The pestle was chipped, and the surface of the table was lost beneath a dusting of dead flies, leaf mast, beech nuts and acorns.

‘Dried bat?’ his friend Sir Raoul de Courtney suggested. ‘Or perhaps a toad?’ Raoul was examining a stoppered glass jar filled with cloudy liquid, his expression finely balanced between intense curiosity and disgust. Daylight was squeezing past a frill of cobwebs hanging in the lancet window. Holding the jar to the light, Raoul eyed the contents. ‘Mon Dieu!’ He dropped the jar on to the table with a thump that sent up a haze of dust. His lip curled, disgust had won out over curiosity. ‘Holy hell, Luc, haven’t you seen enough? Let’s get out of here.’

Lucien scrubbed at his face, fingers lingering for a moment on the ragged scar on his left temple. The scar was throbbing, as it had been since he had learned of Morwenna’s untimely death, as it always did when he thought of her. ‘My apologies, Raoul, I thought I might find something here, some explanation as to why Morwenna died. Did I tell you I had to bribe Father Thomas before he would permit her to be buried in the graveyard?’

Raoul shook his head, his eyes were sympathetic. ‘I heard that rumours of witchcraft were doing the rounds. Who started them this time, any idea?’

‘No. I had hoped to find answers here but …’ Lucien shook his head. A wave of regret swept through him—if only things could have turned out differently. He hadn’t seen Morwenna in what—two years?—and now she was gone. Guilt clawed his insides; regret was bitter in his mouth. He jerked his head at the table. ‘Despite all you see here, she was no witch.’

‘I know that.’

‘She was just … she was obsessed.’ Lucien dragged in air. The place smelt musty. It smelt of death. It was as though time had stopped at the top of the east tower—everything was frozen at the point of dissolution. ‘Morwenna wasn’t obsessed in the early days …’

‘She was beautiful then?’

‘A goddess. Raoul, if you could have seen her before we married …’

‘I know you don’t hold with witchcraft, Luc, but it strikes me she bewitched you.’

Lucien’s laugh was curt. ‘I was fifteen.’ He stared at the glass jar on the table and grimaced. ‘Many young men are bewitched at that age. You, I seem to recall—’

Raoul held up his hand. ‘Point taken. There’s no need to drag my past into this.’ He eyed a mouldering heap of chestnuts and shuddered. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll learn nothing here. My advice to you is to burn everything in this room. It wouldn’t do for Lady Isobel to see it.’

‘There’s no rush,’ Lucien said. ‘Lady Isobel’s not due for another month.’

‘Ah, Luc … about that …’ Raoul’s nostrils flared. ‘Never mind, I’ll tell you outside.’

‘My priorities are the hall and bedchambers,’ Lucien said, reviewing all that needed to be done before his betrothed arrived. ‘Then there are the stables …’

‘Don’t forget the kitchens,’ Raoul put in. ‘Let’s go, the air in here is fetid. Burn all this, that’s what I say.’

Lucien shook his head. ‘Not until I have reassured myself that Morwenna’s death was no accident.’

‘It was an accident, Arthur was clear on that. Luc, it might be better if you accept that sometimes there are no answers. Search through this tower all you like, but you’ll find nothing more substantial than Morwenna’s dreams.’ Raoul reached for the door latch. ‘As you say, there’s plenty to get your teeth into elsewhere.’

Lucien nodded, Raoul was in the right. His betrothed, Lady Isobel of Turenne, would be here within the month, and Ravenshold wasn’t fit for a beggar, never mind its future mistress. The armoury and tack room needed restocking; the Great Hall needed scouring from rafters to floor; the stables were infested with rats; the kitchen garden had run to seed; the orchard needed pruning … Lucien hadn’t got as far as the cellars. He shuddered to think what else he would find. Chaos and neglect were everywhere. Domestic duties had not ranked highly among Morwenna’s priorities.

Lucien took a last look round the tower room. His dead wife had called it her workroom. Plaster was peeling from the walls; there was a pile of debris under the table; a broken stool; a curl of yellowing parchment …

‘This is not a happy place.’ Lucien pulled the door shut with a decisive click. ‘Morwenna certainly held on to her dreams. It’s a pity they didn’t extend beyond this chamber.’ It’s a pity they weren’t based on reality.

Raoul was in full retreat, hurrying down the twisting stairs that led to the bailey. After a moment, his voice floated up. ‘Let’s take a turn along the curtain wall, Luc. I need fresh air.’

‘Amen to that, but I’ve yet to inspect the kitchen and cellar.’

‘Check your wine stocks later.’

In the bailey, Lucien was met with a dazzle of autumn sun, and he took a deep, cleansing breath. A momentary diversion would be a relief after the atmosphere of sadness in the tower. Unfortunately the autumn sun revealed more neglect outside. There were cracks in the water troughs. Drifts of leaves in every corner. In the forecourt there were ruts in an area he would swear had been paved on his last visit.

Raoul was talking to Sergeant Gregor up on the walkway, and Lucien climbed the steps to join them. From the top, most of Lucien’s Champagne holdings were visible. He let his eyes slide past the church and village, moving over the tidy vineyards and neat fields beyond. What a blessing that he had given Morwenna no influence beyond the castle. The contrast between the air of desolation within the walls and the orderliness without was marked. In the fields, the crops had recently been harvested and sheep were grazing on the stubble. The grapes had been gathered from the vines.

Rooks were flying round a nearby stand of trees. In the distance, he caught the tell-tale gleam of the sun bouncing off a helmet. A small party of horsemen was approaching on the road from Troyes. It was probably a merchant come in the hope of selling his wares. Resting a shoulder against the cold stone of a merlon, Lucien nodded at Sergeant Gregor as he saluted and returned to his post. Raoul looked very serious. Too serious. Lucien folded his arms and lifted a brow. ‘You’ve something to say?’

Raoul hesitated.

‘Don’t tell me, the smith couldn’t mend your helmet and you want to borrow one of mine for the tournament?’

‘No, that’s not it.’

His stance was guarded enough to give Lucien a prickling of concern. ‘Raoul?’

‘Sergeant Gregor has just confirmed some news from Troyes.’

‘Oh?’

‘She’s here, Luc.’

Lucien felt himself go still. ‘She? Who?’

‘Lady Isobel of Turenne. Your betrothed.’

In a heartbeat, Lucien was back in the shadowy cool of the Abbey at Conques. He was a lad of fifteen, and he was shaking in his boots at the enormity of the lie his father was forcing him to tell. Lady Isobel de Turenne had been eleven, as he recalled. Lucien had been so ashamed, so guilty, that he had barely looked at her. She had been slim. A child. And he had been forced to swear a sacred oath to marry her, an oath he had never been sure he would be able to keep.

‘Isobel? In Troyes?’ He shoved his hand through hair that was as black as night. ‘What the devil do you mean? She’s not expected until next month.’

‘She rode into town last eve,’ Raoul murmured. ‘It’s my guess she’ll want to see you as soon as she may.’

Lucien swore under his breath. No! This was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t ready to greet his betrothed—Ravenshold simply wasn’t fit to be seen. He gestured at the leaf-strewn bailey; at the hall and towers that were all but lost behind great swags of ivy. The jingling of bits and the clopping of hoofs told him that the merchant and his party had almost reached the gatehouse. ‘She can’t come here, look at the place.’

‘That’s up to you, of course. But I thought you should know that Lady Isobel and her party have taken lodgings in the Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains.’

Lucien stared at his friend, knots pulling at his guts. ‘Blast the woman, she’s far too early.’

Raoul gave him a puzzled look. ‘You sent for her after Morwenna’s death. What difference can a month make?’

‘I made it plain when I wrote to Viscount Gautier that Ravenshold would not be ready to accommodate his daughter until Advent at the earliest.’

‘I suspect it’s more than Ravenshold that’s not ready,’ Raoul said softly.

Lucien narrowed his eyes. ‘And what might that mean?’

‘Luc, you did your duty by Morwenna and that is in the past. You deserve better, you deserve a marriage that will give you sons and daughters. You are my friend, I want to see you happy.’

‘You—an unmarried man—equate marriage with happiness? On what basis?’

Raoul gripped his shoulder. ‘You did what you could for Morwenna. Mon Dieu, you did more than anyone else would have done. Go to Troyes, and go today. Meet Lady Isobel and you will see she is not another Morwenna. Far from it, Lady Isobel has grown into a lovely young woman.’

Lucien frowned. ‘How would you know?’

‘I met her last year at the Abbey in Conques. It was before her mother died. They were there to honour St Foye.’

‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’

‘What was the point? I knew you’d never abandon Morwenna.’

Lucien’s thoughts were churning. He did need heirs and despite Raoul’s doubts, he knew himself to be ready for his second marriage. Although he would be the first to admit that he had hoped for more time. Isobel would likely expect an explanation for the length of their betrothal. Nine years! He hadn’t yet thought of a tactful way to explain it. If he told her the truth he would feel as though he were betraying Morwenna. ‘Love is out of the question, of course,’ he said, thinking aloud. Love had betrayed Lucien before, he wasn’t about to let that happen again. ‘I will marry the girl, since my father wished it. I will honour our betrothal agreement, and she will give me heirs. That is as far as it will go.’

‘My guess is she’ll want to see you today,’ Raoul said, watching him.

‘Today? Lord, Morwenna is scarcely in her grave.’

‘It is not too soon.’

‘I have neglected Lady Isobel. I have lied to her.’

‘Make it up to her. You have charm, or, at any rate—’ Raoul grinned ‘—you used to have charm.’

The hoofbeats were close, the merchant’s party was approaching the gate. The merchant had his wife with him, Lucien realised, as he heard a woman laugh. It sounded light. Carefree.

‘Thank you, Pierre,’ the woman said. ‘I enjoyed the ride, very much. It was most invigorating, particularly after Captain Simund refused to let us travel at more than a snail’s pace yesterday.’

There was a brief pause. Then a man, Pierre presumably, murmured a response. ‘You are welcome, my lady.’

My lady? This might not be a merchant and his party then. My lady?

The woman spoke again. ‘This is it? Ravenshold?’

‘Yes, my lady, this is Ravenshold.’

A horse snorted, a bit jangled.

Raoul looked at Lucien. ‘It sounds as though your hospitality is about to be tested.’

‘Not if I can help it, the castle isn’t fit for swine.’

Raoul leaned out through a crenel and flinched.

‘Oh, Lord.’

‘What?’ Squeezing into the next crenel, Lucien craned his neck to follow Raoul’s gaze. There was no sign of any merchant, just a young girl with an escort of four. Four men-at-arms? For one young girl? She must be of some importance. She was examining the curtain wall with such attention, one might think she had never seen one before.

The girl was blonde. A beauty in a burgundy-coloured gown and cloak. She had twisted her veil and wound it round her neck for the ride, but a few strands of yellow hair framed her face. She had rosy cheeks and a delicate profile. Her lips were the colour of ripe cherries. Lucien caught only a glimpse of her eyes. They were green as emeralds and framed with luxuriant eyelashes that were unusually dark for someone so fair. They made him long for more than a glimpse. Her horse—a black mare—had the dust of the road upon her, but she looked as though she had Arab blood-lines.

Raoul caught him by the belt and dragged him back from the crenel. His mouth quivered.

‘Raoul, what the devil …?’

‘If you are not ready for visitors, you had best stay out of sight.’

A line of machicolations was built into the battlements. The one at Lucien’s feet funnelled that bright girl’s voice up to the walkway.

‘Pierre, please ask that guard by the gatehouse if Lord d’Aveyron is here.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

The horses moved off.

Fighting free of Raoul’s grip, Lucien leaned out. The girl was riding astride—she rode easily and naturally, as though born to the saddle. ‘I ordered the guard not to admit visitors,’ he said.

‘Very wise in the circumstances,’ Raoul said. He was struggling, not entirely successfully, to hold back a grin.

‘What’s up?’

Raoul opened his eyes, failing utterly to keep his grin in check. ‘Nothing.’

‘Raoul?’

Raoul’s eyes danced, and when he would not respond, Lucien turned back to the crenel. The girl and her party had finished their exchange with the guard and were back on the road to Troyes. ‘That girl is uncommonly attractive.’ As he spoke, it occurred to him that the most attractive thing about her was that air of innocent enjoyment.

Raoul gave a crack of laughter that sent a pigeon flapping from its roost.

Lucien frowned. ‘You don’t agree?’

‘You don’t recognise her, do you, Luc? You have no idea.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That attractive girl is not just any girl. Or, rather, lady.’

‘You know her, Raoul?’

‘Of course. And so should you.’

A sinking feeling told Lucien that he was not going to like what was coming next.

‘Luc, she’s yours. That is Lady Isobel of Turenne. Your betrothed. I suspected when I met her that she might turn out to be very … direct.’

Luc shoved his head back through the crenel. A small cloud of dust marked the end of the road where it disappeared into the woodland beyond the vineyards. He thought he saw the swirl of a burgundy cloak. ‘Isobel,’ he murmured, under his breath. ‘Hell. Where did you say she was lodging?’

‘The Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains.’ Raoul’s mouth lifted. ‘Your betrothed is eager to meet you.’ Elbowing Lucien aside, Raoul peered down the road, but the little cavalcade had been swallowed up by the forest. His expression sobered. ‘Forget the guilt, you can claim her with all honour. She has waited a long time.’

Lucien rubbed his hand round the back of his neck. ‘I must say, I’m surprised to see her so early.’

‘Once you had written to her father, I suspect he packed her off in no time. He will be anxious to be rid of her.’

Cold fingers feathered across the back of his neck. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Lord, don’t say I’m to be stuck with another disaster for a wife … another Morwenna.

‘If you had kept in touch with Turenne you would know why Lady Isobel is de trop. Viscount Gautier has remarried. I gather his new lady is keen to have Turenne to herself.’

‘I see.’

‘Poor girl, turfed out by her stepmother.’ Raoul made a clucking sound. ‘And here you are, turning her away at the gate because Ravenshold is a little run-down.’

‘A little run-down?’ Lucien said, exasperated. He had a strong dislike of being cornered, and by arriving early that was exactly what his betrothed had done, she had cornered him.

‘I take it you will be riding into Troyes this afternoon?’

‘Yes, damn you, I shall.’

Count Lucien d’Aveyron turned on his heel and made his way along the battlements and down into the bailey. He did not have to look back to know that Raoul was grinning.

Chapter Two

‘It is not right that you must share my punishment,’ Lady Isobel de Turenne muttered to her companion, Elise. ‘You did not ride out of Troyes without permission.’

Isobel and Elise were sitting in a square of sunlight in the cloisters of the Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, repairing a blue altar cloth for Advent. The sewing was intricate, with hundreds of complicated knots and swirls. The Abbess had given it to Isobel because she had wanted her to do penance for wayward behaviour. Isobel couldn’t help but notice that the blue of the cloth was an exact match to the blue field on Count Lucien’s colours. Was that deliberate?

‘You should have sought my permission, Lady Isobel,’ Abbess Ursula had said, on Isobel’s return to the Abbey. ‘And as for you leaving the town itself … well! You must take better care of yourself. Anything might have happened, anything. The Winter Fair is almost upon us—Champagne is bristling with beggars and thieves.’

No matter that Isobel had reassured the Abbess that she had been quite safe with her escort. No matter that she had reassured the Abbess there had been no sighting of any beggar or thief. Privately, Isobel found it hard to see that riding out to Ravenshold had been so great a sin—she had come to Troyes as a result of Count Lucien’s summons.

She’d wanted to meet him. She’d wanted to see Ravenshold. But Abbess Ursula thought she should wait until the Count came to claim her. The Abbess ran the Abbey’s school for young ladies and disciplining her charges came to her as easily as breathing. Isobel’s behaviour had been unladylike, and penance must be made.

Isobel and Elise had been sewing for hours. However, it was a mystery as to why poor Elise, who had the misfortune to seek shelter at the Abbey shortly after Isobel’s arrival, must join Isobel in her penance. Isobel couldn’t deny that she was glad of her company since her maid Girande was languishing in the infirmary with a malady picked up en route to Troyes.

‘I am sorry, Elise,’ she said. ‘I wish you didn’t have to pick up a needle to expiate my sins.’

‘I like sewing, my lady. I find it restful.’

Isobel had no response to that. Elise might find sewing restful, but Isobel’s fingers were cramped from hours of needlework. She hated sitting still.

Abbess Ursula had instructed Isobel to use the time to reflect on the duties Count Lucien would expect her to undertake when she became his wife. Instead, Isobel found herself reflecting on the character of her fiancé, and on why he had taken so many years to summon her. Nine years. I have waited nine years for this man. Why? Did he loathe me on sight? However many times Isobel told herself that, since she and her betrothed had hardly spoken to each other nine years ago, it was extremely unlikely that he disliked her on sight but doubts remained.

The guard at the gatehouse denied Count Lucien was there, but I saw movement up on the battlements. Of course, it might well have been another guard, but Count Lucien is here in Champagne. When will he come for me, when …?

Doubts swirled through her mind, twisting and turning like the swirls on the altar cloth. Has he no feeling for what it is like to be betrothed to a man who ignores one so completely? Did word reach him of Mother’s difficulty in bearing a son? Was it in his mind to reject me because I may not be able to give him an heir?

‘Did you see Lord d’Aveyron, my lady?’ Elise murmured.

The sunlight flashed briefly on Isobel’s needle as she formed a silver knot and drew the thread clear of the silk. ‘No, I haven’t seen him in years.’

‘You and the Count were betrothed as children?’

‘I was eleven when we were betrothed.’

Elise’s head bent over the altar cloth. ‘Were you pleased to have been chosen by so great a tourney champion?’

‘The match was made by our fathers. Count Lucien wasn’t a great champion then—that came later.’ Isobel sighed and wriggled her fingers to ease the cramp. ‘But, yes, I was pleased. At the time.’

Elise made another of those encouraging noises as Isobel remembered. She was reluctant to give voice to all she felt for Lucien Vernon, Count d’Aveyron. Shortly after their betrothal, she had been sent to St Foye’s Convent to be schooled to be his wife. Over the course of the years her feelings towards him had evolved. Isobel lived in an age when girls were married young. And though there were aspects of married life she was uncertain about, she wanted her marriage to take place.

‘My friend Lady Jeanne de Maurs married when she was twelve,’ Isobel murmured.

‘Madame?’

‘She left St Foye’s shortly after. Another friend, Lady Nicola, was wed at thirteen. The marriages were not consummated until later, but they were married. They had status. Helena and Constance left at fifteen, Anna at sixteen …’

‘Count Lucien kept you waiting.’

Isobel focused on the sunlight sliding over the stones between the fluted pillars. ‘I am twenty, Elise. It was a great shame to be the oldest girl at St Foye’s who was not destined for the Church.’ Isobel fell silent. She felt far more than shame, she felt forgotten. Unwanted. Unloved. What is wrong with me? Why did he not call for me sooner?

Someone coughed. ‘My pardon. Lady Isobel?’

Sister Christine had entered the cloisters and was standing by a pillar.

‘Sister?’

‘You have a visitor. He is waiting to greet you in the Portress’s Lodge.’

A visitor? He? Isobel felt Elise’s gaze on her. ‘Who? Who is it?’ she asked, though the sharp jolt in her belly told her the answer.

‘Count Lucien d’Aveyron, my lady. Your betrothed.’

Mouth suddenly dry, Isobel handed her end of the altar cloth to Elise. At last! She was surprised to note her hands were steady. In her mind’s eye she could see a pair of vivid blue eyes. She had always remembered his eyes.

She cleared her throat. ‘Elise, would you care to accompany me?’

Elise hesitated. ‘Sister Christine will be with you. Do you need me to come too?’

‘I would welcome your support.’

‘Then of course I shall accompany you.’ Elise folded the Advent cloth, and placed it carefully in the workbox.

In the corridor outside the Portress’s Lodge, a quatrefoil was cut into the wall. ‘One moment, Sister,’ Isobel said, pausing briefly to glance through it as she straightened her veil.

Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, was stalking the length of the lodge, boots sounding loud on the stone-flagged floor. Light from a narrow lancet fell directly on him, giving Isobel an impression of long limbs and hair that gleamed as black as jet. One look and she sensed impatience in him. Here was a man who was not used to waiting for anyone.

Isobel recognised the square jaw and regular features, but not the ragged scar on his left temple. Count Lucien must have received that at a tournament, for there was no scar on the day of our betrothal. Oddly, the scar did not detract from his looks, if anything it enhanced them. This was no callow youth, but a man of experience. A powerful and handsome man.

‘Lady Isobel.’ Sister Christine urged her into the lodge, and before Isobel knew it she was facing him. Lucien Vernon, Comte d’Aveyron, champion of tournaments beyond counting. Her betrothed.

She dropped into a curtsy. ‘Lord d’Aveyron.’

Taking two swift strides, the Count lifted her hand in a firm grasp. As he bowed over it and kissed it, a tremor shot through her. At last. Count Lucien might not be used to being kept waiting, but he hadn’t hesitated to make her wait. I have waited nine years for this moment.

‘My guard mentioned that you rode to Ravenshold this morning,’ he said. ‘I apologise that you were turned away, but I didn’t look to see you until Advent.’

Hearing censure in his tone, Isobel felt herself flush. ‘Once my father received your letter, he was anxious that I should come without delay.’

Blue eyes studied her. ‘I trust your journey was not too taxing? You are recovered?’

‘Yes, thank you, my lord. I enjoy riding.’ Had Count Lucien always been so tall? For a moment he was a complete stranger rather than the man Isobel had been betrothed to so long ago. His eyes met hers and then she knew it was he. She had never forgotten that he had the bluest eyes, they were warm as a summer sky. The colour was unexpected in someone whose features were otherwise so dark. Unforgettable. As for the warmth—that had faded from her mind with the slow turn of the years. Seeing it again, she was emboldened to add, ‘It has been a long time.’

‘It has been too long. I know it, and am sorry for it. However, I am delighted to see you again.’ He led her towards the light, holding her at arm’s length while he continued his appraisal of her. ‘I would have come for you sooner, but …’

‘You were occupied with your lands, with tournaments.’ Isobel kept her head high, appalled to feel herself flushing as he ran his gaze up and down—hair, mouth, breasts … This was her betrothed of many years, yet he was making her feel nervous—edgy in a way she didn’t understand. Why did his gaze make her feel so self-conscious? She wished she could read him. What was he thinking?

And why was Elise hovering out in the corridor when she had made a point of stressing that she would welcome some support?

‘You have grown into a strikingly beautiful woman,’ Count Lucien said, softly. ‘I find myself regretting the duties that have kept us apart for so long.’

Isobel sent him a direct look. It had been a relief when she had heard that finally Lord d’Aveyron’s summons had arrived at Turenne, and she wanted him to know that she had not enjoyed the wait. He ought to know. ‘Duties, my lord?’ Conscious of Sister Christine hovering by the door, she lowered her voice. ‘It has been nine years. My lord, I know you have become a great tourney champion, but must you attend every tournament in Christendom?’

She caught a slight grimace, quickly concealed.

‘A thousand apologies, my lady. King Henry and King Louis disapprove of tournaments, which means that sometimes one must travel long distances to find the best of them.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘The prize money can be good.’

Isobel stared at him. Lucien Vernon held so much land it was hard to believe that he struggled to raise revenues. He had estates in Champagne, Normandy and the Auvergne—plenty of resources, surely? Something felt wrong. Was he so ambitious—so avaricious—that he must win every prize in Christendom? And if so, why had he not married her sooner? She was an heiress.

Later, I will go into this with him later. I cannot ask revealing questions with Sister Christine hanging on our every word.

Count Lucien smiled and she felt it in her toes. His eyes were not pure blue, they had black and grey flecks in them and they were very penetrating. Disturbing. Isobel did not remember them being quite so disturbing nine years ago.

She steeled herself against him. It stung to look into those thick-lashed eyes and recall that he had not cared to visit her in nine years. Their match might have been arranged by their fathers, but from the moment Isobel had met him she had been drawn to him. Once the delays had started and she had realised that he did not feel the same way about her, she knew that when she next faced him, she must conceal the attraction she felt. An attraction that was still there, despite the years of silence.

Even then, there had been a hint of the devil about Count Lucien d’Aveyron. Today, it was strong. She could feel it in his touch—in the way a smile or a glance weakened her self-containment. The nuns had never mentioned that men possessed such power. It was … unsettling in an exciting, shivery way.

Such power was dangerous. Such power was to be resisted. Particularly when she found it in the man who had shamed her. He ignored me for years! I will not grant him power over me.

Count Lucien was her betrothed, that much was set in stone. Isobel had never wished to escape their marriage, but if she wanted to keep her self-respect, she must guard her heart. This man would soon be claiming her body. It was a husband’s right and she was realistic enough to know that even if she wanted to she would not be able to hold him at bay. But he would never touch her soul.

Nine years, he ignored me for nine years …

‘My lady, as you are doubtless aware, I sent for you because it is time for our marriage. It will be soon.’ His fingers squeezed hers, warming her inside all over again.

There was movement behind her. Abbess Ursula had entered the lodge—the ruby at the centre of her silver cross was glowing like an ember. Elise trailed in behind the Abbess, moving unobtrusively in the shadows behind her.

‘Count Lucien.’ Abbess Ursula inclined her head. ‘I assume you have come to arrange your wedding. Did you have a particular day in mind? I take it some time after the turn of the year will be convenient?’

‘The turn of the year? Lord, no. Since Lady Isobel is here I see no reason to delay.’

The Abbess drew her head back. ‘Count Lucien, Advent is almost upon us. You are doubtless aware there can be no weddings in Advent, and it will be hard to arrange it before then. I realise Lady Isobel is already chafing at her confinement here, but her early arrival has thrown us into disarray and—’

‘I am aware of all that,’ the Count said, voice dry. ‘And I intend to take responsibility for Lady Isobel’s care as soon as possible. Our marriage will take place before Advent begins.’ He looked at Isobel. ‘Do you care to choose the day, my lady?’

Isobel thought quickly. ‘I should like to marry on Winter’s Eve,’ she said, picking a day at random.

‘Winter’s Eve?’ His blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’m taking part in a local tournament the following day, but I imagine that might be arranged.’

The Abbess frowned. ‘But my lord, Winter’s Eve … that doesn’t give us long to prepare.’

‘I am sure the bishop will accommodate us. And should he prove difficult, I expect you, Abbess Ursula, as cousin to King Louis, to use your influence.’

Isobel’s mind was awhirl. In truth, she was in a state of shock. Not once in all that time had he shown the slightest interest in her. She had grown used to his neglect. But thankfully it seemed he really did intend to marry her. Of course, she would feel happier if he hadn’t made it plain he would be squeezing the ceremony in before one of his all-important tournaments …

The Abbess sighed. ‘Winter’s Eve is not the best of days for a wedding, my lord. You may not recall, but in some quarters it is known as Witches’ Eve.’

‘Is it?’ the Count said, stiffening.

It might be wishful thinking on Isobel’s part, but it was as though he disliked the way the Abbess was so dismissive of her suggestion. Is he to take my part against the Abbess? Is he to be my champion? It was a novel feeling. Isobel felt herself begin to soften towards him.

You fool, have the long years taught you nothing? You mean nothing to him.

‘Reverend Mother, are weddings actually forbidden on Winter’s Eve?’ he asked.

Abbess Ursula shook her head. ‘No, my lord, but—’

‘Then Winter’s Eve it is.’

The Abbess gave a curt nod. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

Blue eyes held Isobel’s. ‘My lady, you realise our marriage will take place before word reaches your father? Viscount Gautier will not be witnessing our wedding.’

‘I am reconciled to that,’ Isobel said. ‘I realised some while ago that my father would not be attending the ceremony.’

‘Oh?’

‘He no longer enjoys full health.’

Count Lucien’s expression was sympathetic. ‘I was saddened to hear of your mother’s death in the summer, I didn’t know Viscount Gautier was also in poor health.’

Isobel nodded, and jerked her gaze away. Grief welled up and the narrow window behind Count Lucien was lost in a mist of tears. Her wounds were too raw for her to speak about her poor mother. ‘Father has remarried. I am sure he will have mentioned this in your exchange of letters.’

‘Yes, so I recall.’

In her heart, Isobel felt her father had betrayed her mother by remarrying so soon. The words caught in her throat.

It irked her that after prevaricating for so long, Count Lucien had merely to snap his fingers and she must come running. Her new stepmother, Lady Angelina, must have been thrilled when his summons had arrived, for she had wasted no time in packing Isobel off. Isobel could have remained at St Foye’s, but the convent was clearly too close to Turenne for Lady Angelina’s comfort. Notwithstanding this, Isobel would have felt she was betraying her father if she complained at being so easily dismissed.

If only her father had ridden to St Foye’s to bid her farewell. Conques was not far from Turenne. Isobel understood that his illness had probably prevented it, but she would have liked a private message of Godspeed. Instead, her father had simply forwarded Lucien’s summons to Mother Edina. And Mother Edina had duly relayed it to Isobel along with the news that her escort awaited outside the convent gates, and would she please pack up her belongings without delay.

She cleared her throat. ‘My lord, despite his marriage, Father is not in good health. He will remain in Turenne.’

‘I hope he recovers swiftly,’ the Count said.

He looked so sombre, Isobel had a depressing thought. If her father and Angelina had a son, and despite her father’s ill health that was possible, then Isobel would no longer be an heiress. Was Count Lucien regretting arranging a marriage with a woman who might never come into an inheritance?

I want Count Lucien to want me! I don’t want him to reject me because he considers me a poor prospect.

How lowering to feel this way.

‘Count Lucien, a word if you please?’ The Abbess gestured him to one side. They went to stand under the window and although Abbess Ursula’s tone became confidential, she had a carrying voice. ‘I cannot help but notice that Lady Isobel is in need of … discipline. I fear her father gave her too much licence at Turenne.’

The Count drew his head back. ‘Lady Isobel has spent much of her time in St Foye’s Convent—I would venture that the good nuns there, rather than Viscount Gautier, are responsible for her upbringing. She will not prevail on your hospitality for long. I am making arrangements for her to lodge at Count Henry’s palace.’

‘Lady Isobel’s maid is sick, my lord. Lady Isobel will have to remain here until the girl has recovered.’

Before she knew it, Isobel had stepped forwards. ‘I am perfectly capable of packing my belongings myself, Reverend Mother.’

‘And I should be pleased to help,’ Elise said, from her place in the shadows.

The Abbess lifted an eyebrow. ‘Very well. I suppose I should expect nothing less.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Lady Isobel, from the moment you have arrived, you have shown little sense of propriety.’ She huffed out a breath and frowned at the Count. ‘Your betrothed needs a firm bridle, my lord. This morning she left the convent without permission. It grieves me to confess that she has been wandering about the county like a pedlar’s daughter.’

Lucien watched a flush run into Isobel’s cheeks. She was staring stolidly at a cross on the wall. She came to find me. She might have arrived in Troyes a month before she was expected, but Abbess Ursula was not going to be permitted to bully her. ‘Lady Isobel rode to Ravenshold,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, I had given my men orders to admit no one and she was turned away.’

‘Be that as it may, Lady Isobel should not have left the Abbey without my leave.’

Isobel stepped forwards. ‘I took an escort.’ Large green eyes turned towards him. ‘My father’s men-at-arms escorted me from Turenne. They did not leave my side for a moment.’

Abbess Ursula made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Lady Isobel should not have gone without my permission. Such disobedience. Such wilfulness. I am sorry to have to tell you, Lord d’Aveyron, but you will find Lady Isobel needs a very firm bridle.’

‘I am certain you exaggerate.’ Thus far, Lucien was surprisingly pleased with the way his betrothed had turned out. So much so, that he was beginning to think that his luck might have turned. It seemed that way.

Isobel was pretty, nay, pretty was too pallid a word for Isobel’s golden beauty. She was beautiful. And she had a demure look to her—that neat figure, that simple gown—that gave the lie to the warnings the Abbess was giving about her character. Isobel looked to be precisely the sort of good, biddable wife he wanted. A lady. Someone who—unlike Morwenna—had been bred to duty and obedience. Isobel of Turenne would give him children and she would look after them. And Lucien would be free to manage his life and his estates as he always did. Just look at her. The golden hair concealed by that veil was, he suspected, more soft and fair than that of Queen Guinevere. Were those cherry-coloured lips as sweet as they looked?

‘I do not exaggerate, my lord, I assure you,’ the Abbess said. ‘At any rate, you will be pleased to hear I have put a stop to such behaviour. I have dismissed her escort.’

Lucien felt himself go still. Isobel was no longer a child, and she would shortly be his bride. It was one thing for the Abbess to chastise Lady Isobel whilst she was in her charge, but that she should take it upon herself to dismiss Viscount Gautier’s escort was unthinkable. ‘You did what?’

‘I sent them to Troyes Castle.’

‘You did not have that right, Reverend Mother,’ Lucien said, softly. ‘Viscount Gautier sent that escort for Lady Isobel’s protection.’

‘My Abbey is a house of God, not a barracks!’

‘None the less, you should not have dismissed Lady Isobel’s escort. I am confident that if Viscount Gautier trusts his men to accompany his daughter from Turenne, they are more than competent to protect her whilst she explores Champagne.’

Abbess Ursula looked sourly at his betrothed. ‘Have it as you will, my lord. Since Lady Isobel promises to be rather too lively a guest for my Abbey, I am happy to wash my hands of her. It would not do for her to disrupt my other ladies.’ Her breast heaved and she swept to the door. ‘Count Lucien, never say I did not warn you how wilful she is. I wish you joy. Come along, Sister, I want to discuss your idea for the sisters’ stall at the Winter Fair.’

Lucien watched her go. ‘What a dragon,’ he murmured.

Isobel could not be sure she had heard him correctly. ‘My lord?’

‘We shall be married in little over a week. I would be honoured if you would call me Lucien. And I should like to call you Isobel, if that is acceptable?’

‘I … yes, of course,’ Isobel said, bemused to be granted this privilege after years of being forgotten. Many wives were never given permission to dispense with the formalities. He ignores me for years, and suddenly I am free to call him Lucien? It made no sense.

He turned to Elise who seemed struck with shyness and would not look at him. ‘Who is this?’

‘A friend. My lo—Lucien, this is Elise … Elise, this is my betrothed, Count Lucien d’Aveyron.’

Head rigidly down, Elise made her curtsy. ‘Good day, mon seigneur.’

‘Good day, Elise.’ The Count—Lucien—glanced through the door and back at Isobel. ‘Is your maid very sick?’

‘I don’t think it is serious, but she’s been put in the infirmary.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I am not sure. I suspect she ate something that disagreed with her. She has been most violently ill.’

‘Can she be moved? If not, I will send someone back to fetch her when she is recovered.’

Isobel’s heart lifted. ‘I’m leaving before our wedding?’

‘If you are in agreement, I see no reason why you should not leave today. But Ravenshold is … unprepared for your arrival. I have asked Count Henry if you may stay at his palace here in town. I am waiting to hear if there is space for you.’

Isobel felt a flutter of excitement and found herself smiling. She had not wanted to show pleasure that Lucien had at last come to greet her. She had meant to be cool, but he had caught her unawares with his offer to remove her from the Abbey that day.

Today! All my life I have been shifted from convent to convent and now …

Freedom!

I must be calm. I must not let him see how I have longed for this day. Yet I must not alienate him either. I shall have to do my best to please him.

Abruptly, her mood darkened. She could not forget that her mother had died in childbirth. Unless I want Mother’s fate to be mine, how can I welcome him into my bed?

Crowding into her mind came another memory, that of her friend Lady Anna. Scarcely a month after a smiling and happy Anna had left St Foye’s Convent for her wedding, she had come racing back. Anna had been pale. She had lost weight. She had taken Isobel aside and started muttering darkly about the horrors—yes, horrors had been the word she had used—of the wedding bed. Anna had only just started when there had been a fearful clamour at the convent gates. Anna’s irate bridegroom had come to claim her.

A blink of an eye later, Anna had left St Foye’s a second time. Isobel never heard from her again. A year later, she learned that Anna had died in childbed. Exactly as her mother had done.

I may never be able to give him an heir. Mother tried again and again to give Father a boy. She died trying. Am I to die in like manner?

‘I shall send word to Count Henry’s steward, and see how swiftly arrangements may be made for you.’ Lucien sent Elise a charming smile. ‘If your friend agrees to accompany you, the proprieties may still be observed. Even the Abbess could not cavil at the arrangements. Well, my lady, what do you say?’

Isobel had opened her mouth to reply, when a novice hurtled into the lodge.

‘Where’s the Abbess?’ the novice gasped. Her face was the image of distress.

‘Talking to one of the sisters,’ Lucien said. ‘Why?’

‘The relic!’ The novice was shaking from head to toe. ‘My lady, the relic’s been stolen!’

Isobel froze. ‘I beg your pardon?’ When she had come from the convent in Conques, she had brought a relic with her—a scrap of cloth reputed to have come from St Foye’s gown. The relic was highly treasured by the nuns in the south, and it was a great honour to have been entrusted with transporting it.

‘The altar’s been smashed in the Lady Chapel and …’ the novice bobbed a curtsy ‘… excuse me, my lady, I must find the Abbess.’ She vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

Lucien looked questioningly at Isobel. ‘Relic?’

‘A fragment of cloth that belonged to St Foye.’

‘You brought it with you?’

Isobel nodded. ‘The relic is lent to this Abbey until the end of the Winter Fair. Since Father gave me an escort and I wanted to return the nuns’ hospitality, I offered to bring it. It brings pilgrims—’

‘And revenues,’ Lucien put in, drily.

‘I suppose it does bring money, but …’ Isobel looked earnestly at him. ‘Excuse me, my lord, I feel some responsibility for that relic.’ Without another word, she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the lodge.

Lucien followed, somewhat bemused at the interest his betrothed was showing in the theft of a fragment of material that might or might not have belonged to some long-dead saint. She had largely been brought up by nuns, that must explain it. He followed her into a paved yard and past a series of columns—the cloisters that adjoined the Abbey Church. She moved with grace, giving him a chance to see that her figure was most pleasing. As the sunlight lifted the edge of her veil, he glimpsed a thick plait, burnished to gold by the afternoon sun.

The little novice had run off into the cloisters, in search of the Abbess. Lucien followed Isobel into the cool shade of the church where a wooden screen separated a series of side-chapels from the main nave. Eyes round with shock, she had paused at the entrance to one of the chapels, and was absently resting her hand on a carved angel. Her hand was delicate, fine-boned and ladylike. Lucien had never before thought of a hand as being pretty, but Isobel’s was.

Several people must have been at their devotions in the Abbey Church when the thief had struck. A number of townsfolk and a handful of sisters were standing with their noses pressed against the carved screen, watching what was going on in the chapel.

Reaching Isobel as she stood in the chapel entrance, Lucien was startled by an impulse to cover that pretty hand with his. He was in God’s house, and the nuns would definitely disapprove. Experimentally, he placed his fingers on the back of her hand.

Instantly, Isobel was tense, taut as a bow. Her green eyes flickered, and slowly—it was the subtlest of movements—she shifted her hand so that it lay alongside his on the wooden screen. Almost touching, but not quite. As a rebuttal it was subtle, but it gave him a jolt. It made him realise that Isobel of Turenne might not find it easy to forgive him for their much-delayed marriage. Wooing this woman might not be easy. She is hiding much anger.

Dark-robed nuns stood like statues around the edge of the side chapel, stunned by the sacrilege. Peering past them, Lucien saw a brightly painted slice of sandstone with several trefoils cut into it. The altar frontal. Someone had hacked away the border between two trefoils, leaving a ragged black hole. On the tiled floor lay a rope, a crowbar, and a number of sandstone shards.

Skirts sweeping though the shards, Isobel crossed to the altar and the nuns parted to let her through. She bent and took a closer look. The relic must have been housed in the darkness behind the altar.

Isobel straightened, turning to look at him. ‘The reliquary is gone,’ she said. Her gaze went past him, focusing on one of the bystanders. She stiffened. ‘My lord, look!’

A hooded man in a shabby brown tunic was struggling to lace up a pouch. Incredibly, Lucien caught the rich gleam of gold and the sharp shine of blue enamel. A Limoges reliquary box. A box that in itself would almost be as priceless as the relic within it. The man sidled to the church door and nipped through it.

‘Did you see?’ Isobel breathed, brushing past him.

Lucien nodded. ‘Limoges reliquary.’

‘The nerve of the man, pretending to be a pilgrim.’ Isobel was already halfway across the nave. ‘I have to catch him.’

Striding after her, Lucien frowned. He caught her hand. ‘You? It is not your place to catch thieves.’ When her green eyes flashed, he tightened his grip. ‘Isobel—’

Wrenching her hand free, Isobel dived into the sunlight.

Chapter Three

Lucien stared after her. She disobeyed me! It was rare that Lucien’s orders were disobeyed, but it did happen. He sometimes had trouble with young squires when they first joined him, but they soon learned that if they were to succeed they had best obey him. He marched into the sunlit courtyard. It would be the same with Isobel, she would soon learn.

He felt a momentary pang for the bride he had envisioned—pretty, demure, obedient. Lucien had hoped his second wife would put his wishes first; he had hoped she would quietly take charge of the domestic side of his life, leaving him free to focus on military matters.

Lucien was honouring the betrothal contract with Isobel of Turenne because it had been his father’s wish. He had long regretted his inability to grant his father that wish, just as he regretted the bitter quarrel that had followed. A quarrel that had never been mended. Finally he was in a position to honour that betrothal contract, and it was a blow to discover that Isobel of Turenne was not the demure lady of his imaginings. She needed schooling.

He gritted his teeth. She seemed intelligent; she would, he hoped, be a quick learner. She had reached the convent gate. He watched her slight figure whip through it, veil and gown flying, and increased his pace. It was a pity the nuns had not instilled in her the importance of obedience. Clearly, it was up to him to teach her that particular virtue …

Isobel picked up her skirts, raced through the courtyard, and burst into the street. She had no idea why the urge to catch the hooded man had spurred her into such unladylike action, but the thought had been accompanied by an irresistible rush of excitement. He must be caught!

Her heart was pounding. She had brought the relic with her from the south, and she felt responsible for it. It was only being lent to the Abbey here for the duration of the Winter Fair and if it was lost, the good sisters at St Foye’s in Conques would be seriously impoverished. Pilgrims flocked to pray over it, and their offerings brought in much-needed revenues. Those nuns had looked after her for years. She could not stand by and watch while their precious relic was stolen.

Brisk footsteps were coming up behind her. Count Lucien. She heard him murmur something to the startled nun at the Abbey gate.

The relic!

Ahead, the thief—Isobel had marked his shabby brown cloak and hood—slipped round a corner. She hurtled after him. The street was narrow and the way was all but blocked by wooden stalls. Townsfolk and merchants were haggling over prices. The Winter Fair had not officially begun, so this must be a market area. On either side, tall houses loured overhead, and a line of shop-fronts opened directly on to the road. Isobel skirted a pottery stall and a couple of wine-merchants.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Watch it! Don’t shove.’

Ahead, the brown hood bobbed up and down in the press.

‘Stop that man!’ Isobel cried, pointing. ‘Stop, thief!’

The townsfolk turned. Stared. Pulse thudding, Isobel forged on. The brown hood … she could no longer see it. Her chest was tight, and by the time she reached the end of the street, her lungs were aching. The brown hood had gone.

She was drawing breath at a small crossroads as Lucien ran up. ‘Which way, my lord? You’re taller than me, did you see where he went?’

A lock of dark hair fell across the jagged scar on Count Lucien’s temple. Strong fingers wrapped round hers. ‘My lady—Isobel—what in blazes are you about?’

She gestured at the crossroads. ‘Where did he go? Did you see him?’

Count Lucien’s grip shifted, strong fingers banded like iron about her wrist. ‘It is not wise to run about Troyes unaccompanied at this time of year.’

‘But, my lord, the thief …’ Pulling against Lucien’s hold, Isobel peered down a shadowy alley. A pair of lovers were locked in a passionate embrace. The man had lifted the woman’s skirt; Isobel caught a shocking glimpse of white thigh. Flushing, she drew back, and frowned through her embarrassment. ‘My lord, please release me.’

The look on that woman’s face … she looked as though she were in ecstasy. Ecstasy? That did not tally with anything the nuns or her mother had told her. Or Anna for that matter …

‘I shall release you when you understand that it is not safe to be running about the town like this. Lord, have the nuns taught you nothing? You ought to take more care of yourself. As you have already seen, the town fills with thieves at this time of year.’

Isobel twisted her wrist, but her betrothed had not finished.

‘My lady, the Winter Fair attracts men of all stamps. I would have your promise that you will take care. Further, I would have your assurance that in future when I say you nay, that you heed me.’

Her heart lurched. ‘Luc—my lord?’

‘Did you not hear me back in the church? You are to be my countess. It is not your place to catch thieves.’

‘My apologies, my lord.’ Isobel bit her lip. Those blue eyes were boring into her, hard as sapphires. She had heard him, but in the rush of excitement her one thought had been to keep sight of the thief. Holy Mother, don’t tell me Lucien is going to turn out to be an arrogant boor like poor Anna’s husband. In her mind, Lucien was a tourney champion, not an arrogant boor.

Avoiding that hard, accusing gaze, Isobel risked a glance down another alley. There was no sign of the brown hood. ‘He got away.’

‘Isobel, leave it. Count Henry’s knights will deal with him.’

‘But, my lord, there must be something we can do. St Foye’s is not as rich as the Abbey, they cannot afford to lose their relic.’

Lucien felt a pang such as he had not felt in years. His anger began to dissipate and he could not account for it, save to conclude that Isobel’s green eyes were altogether too appealing. Her chest was still heaving from her race through the streets. Her cheeks were flushed and several blonde wisps had escaped her plait and were curling about her face. She looked more human than she had done in the convent lodge. And doubly attractive. He became conscious of a strong feeling of possessiveness, akin to pride. She is mine. When slightly dishevelled, Isobel de Turenne was extraordinarily desirable. He could imagine just how she might look after an encounter with a lover …

The shiver that ran through him was easy to place. Desire. It had been surprisingly invigorating chasing after her. It was as though she had awoken something primitive in him, something that had been sleeping for far too long. She is very beautiful. How many years had it been since Lucien had allowed himself the luxury of feeling this sort of desire? Without wanting to analyse it, it had been far too long. Lucien was somewhat put out to find that the desire he felt for Isobel was not entirely comfortable. It was mixed with regret. With uncertainty. How will she react when she learns about Morwenna?

‘My lady, there are officers in Troyes responsible for maintaining order. It is their duty to catch the thief, not yours. You …’ Lucien paused for emphasis ‘… are a lady, not one of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights.’

‘Guardian Knights?’

‘The Count of Champagne has established a conroi of knights to maintain law and order at the time of the Fairs. He would be most offended to hear that you were taking on their duties. As would his knights.’

Those great green eyes lowered, she appeared to be studying the wall of the house behind him. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Slowly Lucien released her, and when she did not dart off again down a side street he let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding. What a sight she had made though, tearing through the town! Lucien had had no idea that a girl, hampered by trailing skirts, could run so fast. She is as fleet as a doe.

‘You really want to catch that man.’

‘As I said, St Foye’s is not a wealthy convent, my lord. There is no treasury filled with silver and gold as there is at the monastery. The nuns need that relic, it’s almost all they have.’

Lucien leaned his shoulder against the oak frame of one of the houses. She really seemed to care. It was possible she was using the theft as an excuse to escape the Abbey. Likely, she had spent too much of her life penned up in a convent. Lucien pushed back the guilt, although he couldn’t blame her if she felt that way, it would drive him mad to be so cooped up. ‘I am told you have only just arrived in Troyes,’ he said.

‘That is so, we arrived at the Abbey yesterday.’

‘And before that? How much time did you spend at St Foye’s Convent and how much in Turenne?’

‘Mostly I was with the nuns, my lord. Although, I did come home occasionally …’ her face clouded ‘… when my mother needed me.’

Yes, there is no doubt of it. Isobel is using the theft as a means to escape the confines of the Abbey. I would do the same in her place. And she mourns her mother, deeply.

Lucien could not help her over her grief for her mother, but he could offer her assistance elsewhere. He crooked his arm at her. ‘Since we seem to have lost our quarry, perhaps you would permit me to show you the town?’

Her answering smile was bright and innocent. It should not have set off a disturbing ache in Lucien’s belly. Desire.

‘Thank you, my lord. I should enjoy that very much.’

Lucien tucked her arm into his. He had surprised himself with his offer to show her around Troyes. I like her. I like Isobel de Turenne. Of course, she must learn the value of obedience, but after nine years of hell, maybe his luck was turning. I will teach her to behave with decorum. Outside the bedchamber. Inside, however …

He shot her a look. She was walking demurely at his side, every inch the lady again, which was promising. If the memory of their frantic hunt through the streets had not been so vivid, he would think he had dreamed it. A tell-tale curl, freed at some point during the chase, curled down her breast. There was a wildness about her. Lady Isobel de Turenne had learned to look demure, but not so far beneath the surface there was a hint of the wild, a lack of artifice. He rather liked it.

They walked slowly to the end of the alley and arrived in a square near one of the canals.

‘These canals power the water mills, there are several in Troyes,’ he told her. ‘And, of course you must see Count Henry’s palace.’

‘I’d love to. I’ve seen so little.’

That twist of hair rippled and gleamed like spun gold. And her lips—they truly were the colour of ripe cherries.

‘Abbess Ursula was going to confine me to the Abbey precincts after I …’ she flushed ‘… rode out to Ravenshold.’

‘Oh?’

‘I didn’t have leave to go.’ The flush deepened. ‘Truth to tell, I knew she would withhold permission, so I didn’t ask. I only saw Ravenshold from the road. I should have liked to see inside.’

Lucien murmured something non-committal about how he would have been there to greet her if he had known she was planning to arrive so soon. He led her on to the bridge over the canal. ‘I take it that was when the Abbess dismissed your escort?’

‘When we returned to the Abbey, she packed them off to the barracks at Troyes Castle. Two of them have never left Turenne before, I hope they are all right. Pierre is sure to be missing Turenne.’

‘And you? Will you miss Turenne?’

Her look was impenetrable. ‘Me? No, my lord.’ She paused, adding softly. ‘I have been trained to be your wife, my home is with you.’

However softly she uttered it, it remained a rebuke. Lucien felt his face stiffen, he was not used to criticism. Particularly since she had every right to be aggrieved. He had kept her waiting.

Searching for a less contentious topic, Lucien leaned on the guardrail at the centre of the bridge, and directed her attention to Count Henry’s palace. This was a long, three-storied residence lying alongside the canal. The lower windows had old-fashioned Roman arches, but the stonework above the upper windows flowed in curves that were distinctly arabesque, mirroring a design Lucien had seen in the Aquitaine. The higher windows were glazed.

‘There’s Count Henry’s palace, where you will lodge until our wedding.’

Intelligent green eyes fixed on the palace. ‘There’s a landing stage.’

‘I don’t expect it’s much used, except for delivering supplies to the kitchens and so forth.’ He watched her study the palace … the landing stage … the canal, and was taken with an impulse to run his finger down the line of her nose. He wanted to turn her face to his, to taste those tantalising cherry-coloured lips …

‘Thank you for showing me, my lord. I look forward to moving in.’

Lucien cleared his throat. ‘As I mentioned, I have asked if there is space for you today, but with the Winter Fair about to begin, the town is bursting at the seams. We may have to wait a few days for an apartment to fall vacant.’

‘There’s no need to bespeak an entire apartment, my lord, I know I arrived earlier than expected. I am happy to share a chamber with other ladies. I am used to it.’

‘I shall bear that in mind. Come, let me take you to the garrison, it’s not far from here.’

‘I can see my men? You are thoughtful, my lord. Although I should be returning to the Abbey soon. The Abbess will—’

‘The Abbess can hardly object to my squiring you about town. I am your betrothed.’

‘I wish we had found the relic,’ she said. ‘Did you know it works miracles?’

Lucien went cold. Isobel’s remark, innocent though it seemed, had him instantly on his guard. He couldn’t stomach a second wife who believed in miracles. Morwenna had given him a lifelong aversion to such nonsense …

‘Yesterday a young woman was brought into the church,’ she was saying. ‘Her legs were paralysed. When she lowered her scarf through the aperture in the altar, it touched the reliquary and her paralysis left her.’

Lucien felt a prickling of unease. ‘You believe that?’

She glanced at him, observed the way he was watching her, and a small line appeared on her brow. His betrothed was clearly more sensitive to subtle shifts of mood than Morwenna had been.

‘I believe the young woman believed it, my lord. And I know she walked from the church, because I saw her myself. As to whether it was a genuine miracle …’ she lifted her shoulders ‘… who can say? I do know the relic brings revenues to the nuns, revenues they use to do many good works. Why, the sisters at St Foye’s …’

Lucien hid his unease and they strolled towards Troyes Castle with Isobel earnestly listing the many good works the nuns undertook in Conques. Lucien found himself torn. Isobel de Turenne was, on the surface, everything a man could want. She had poise, beauty, breeding. And that tantalising hint of the wild. He would not have been surprised to learn that Lady Isobel de Turenne was the subject of many a chanson. Knights would be happy to wear her favour and fulfil quests for her.

However, this mention of miracles worried him.

‘I do not hold with miracles,’ he said, carefully. ‘It seems to me that belief in miracles is a poisonous combination of delusion and wishful thinking.’

‘Poisonous?’ Green eyes fixed on his. ‘Sometimes delusion can be a good thing, my lord.’

‘Can it?’

‘You are too cynical, my lord. You forget, I saw that young woman walk with my own eyes. Before yesterday, she hadn’t walked for years.’

Lucien shook his head. Isobel’s convent innocence was refreshing, but such naivety could be dangerous. ‘I cannot help but wonder how you knew the young woman had not walked for so long.’

‘I asked her.’

‘And you believe everything you are told?’

Isobel’s brow wrinkled. ‘Not everything, but I believe the young woman was telling the truth. You will doubtless say her paralysis was caused by a paralysis of spirit. I saw someone find her feet again. Delusion?’

‘Probably.’

She gripped his sleeve. ‘My lord, does it matter what caused that young woman’s paralysis? Does it matter what cured her? If a scrap of cloth helped in any way, I cannot see the wrong in it. One way or another, faith cured her.’

The moat and drawbridge of Troyes Castle were at the end of the street. Covering her hand with his, Lucien led her towards it. ‘My lady, do you not think there are those in the Church who might take advantage of the credulous with all this talk of faith and miracles?’

Her veil shifted as she tipped her head on one side and considered his question. And then she was smiling up at him, and the world seemed to shift beneath his feet. She is so lovely. So innocent. He almost missed a step. At one time, Morwenna had been his pattern of perfection, which was doubtless why Isobel’s golden hair and striking green eyes brought an unwelcome question to the forefront of his mind.

Do Isobel’s heart and spirit mirror her external beauty?

‘Yes, my lord, that has occurred to me, but I truly do not think it matters.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She spoke with calm certainty. ‘If someone uses a relic as a means of thinking themselves into health, in my view that is all to the good.’

‘We are back to faith again, I see.’

She smiled. ‘So we are.’

‘My lady, will you not agree that if someone can think herself into health, then the opposite may also be true? She could think herself ill.’

‘Possibly, I am not sure. These matters are too deep for me. All I know is that I saw that woman walk again.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘I can’t help feeling responsible for the relic since it was I who brought it from Conques. I owe a debt of gratitude to those nuns. Is it so wrong to want it returned to them?’

He stiffened. ‘I advise you to leave it to the Guardians.’

The castle portcullis and barbican stood a few yards away on the other side of the drawbridge, they had almost reached the barracks. Lucien guided her on to the drawbridge, noticing that his rebuke had hit home, she was avoiding his eyes. ‘I am wise to you, my lady,’ he said, lightening his tone. ‘If you are completely honest, you will admit that catching the thief was not all you wished to do when you ran into the streets.’

White teeth bit into a full lower lip. ‘Oh?’

Lucien leaned in and a delicate cloud of scent enfolded him. It was like a breath of summer air. Honeysuckle and roses. ‘You wanted to explore.’

Her sudden, deep flush told him that he had struck a nerve. ‘My lord, I …’

‘There’s no need to dissemble. You are not a woman to be kept in a cage, not even a gilded one. Your loyalty to the sisters in the south is admirable, and I do not blame you for seizing the chance to snatch a breath of freedom.’ He gestured at the barbican. ‘This is where we shall find your men. Come, allow me the pleasure of continuing to escort you.’

As they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, Lucien realised that he was not simply giving lip-service to the usual courtesies. It was indeed a pleasure to escort her.

After years of being cloistered, Isobel found it something of a novelty to be on the arm of a man with Lucien Vernon’s influence. At the garrison, a quick word from her betrothed had them swiftly ushered across whispering rushes into a hall larger than any Isobel had seen in the south. In size it rivalled the Cathedral in Conques.

Wide-eyed, she looked about her. Without question, this was a hall for soldiers, but she had never seen such splendour. Rank on rank of knights’ pennants hung from the beams, their colours—red, green, gold, blue, silver—were brightened by light filtering through traceried windows. Flames flared in a cavernous fireplace. Antique arms gleamed on the walls. The table on the raised dais at the end was covered in a damask cloth so dazzlingly white it almost blinded. Stacks of wooden serving dishes were piled on side-tables; there were rows of wine-jugs; trays of clay goblets …

‘The Countess of Champagne is the daughter of King Louis, is she not?’ she asked.

‘She’s his daughter by his first wife, Queen Eleanor.’

Lucien answered absently, his attention had been snared by a man drinking ale at a side-table. The man’s clothes and spurs proclaimed him to be a knight. As Lucien went to join him, Isobel heard her name.

‘Lady Isobel!’ Her father’s man, Captain Simund, was bowing at her side. ‘It is a pleasure to see you, my lady.’

‘Thank you, Captain, I am glad to see you. I wanted to apologise for your dismissal from the Abbey.’

‘Do not fret, my lady, I understand.’ Captain Simund’s gaze fastened on Lucien. ‘Is that Count Lucien, my lady?’

Isobel nodded. ‘When he has finished talking to his acquaintance, I shall introduce you. Tell me, Captain, are your billets acceptable?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

‘And the others—are they well? I was particularly concerned for Pierre.’

‘We are in good spirits, my lady. If I may be so bold …’ Captain Simund hesitated ‘… the men are happier here than they would be at the Abbey. We don’t have to tiptoe around. We don’t—begging your pardon, my lady—have to watch our tongues every moment of every day.’

‘Captain, I am glad to hear it,’ Isobel said, warmly. ‘I feared Pierre might miss Turenne.’

‘Not a bit of it, my lady.’

After Isobel had introduced Captain Simund to her betrothed, she and Lucien left the garrison.

‘I shall show you more of Troyes, you will feel at ease if you know your way about,’ Lucien said.

‘Thank you, my lord, so I will.’

Thus it was that a word from her betrothed to a guard on the city walls gained admittance to the boardwalk ringing the town. On one hand, out across the dry moat, the County of Champagne stretched away to the horizon. On the other lay the town—it was like looking down at a vast parchment map of Troyes. Inky smoke trails wafted heavenwards through a dozen tiled roofs. If the streets had once followed a plan, they no longer did so. Wooden houses were crammed in higgledy-piggledy, no two were the same.

‘The roof tiles are a safeguard against fire,’ Lucien told her.

‘What about that one?’ Isobel asked, seeing thatch among the tiles.

Lucien shrugged. ‘Not everyone keeps to the rules. I expect Count Henry will fine whoever lives there.’

There were straight roofs and sagging roofs—some green with moss, others black with mildew. Every now and then a tree poked up from a garden or square. Alleys and side streets ran every which way. The place was a maze.

‘From here you can see that the barracks are inside the old Roman walls,’ Lucien said, pointing. ‘As is St Peter’s Cathedral, we shall be married in the porch. Look, there’s the Bishop’s palace….’

As Lucien talked, they promenaded slowly around the walls. He had covered her hand with his own. Isobel did not think he was aware of what he was doing, though she was very much aware of him. He ran his thumb softly over her knuckles and she felt him quietly taking measure of her wrist.

Something inside her trembled and her cheeks were hot. Lucien flustered her. Why had no one warned her she might react in this way? In truth, he had done little, merely stroke her wrist with those long fingers … was her response normal? She had no way of knowing. Nuns—sworn to a life of celibacy—never spoke of such things.

Isobel stared across the city roofs, hoping Lucien would think she was attending to his every word rather than wondering at sensations such as she had never felt before. Such disturbing sensations …

‘And this quarter here …’ Lucien’s voice changed, and when she steeled herself to meet his gaze, she caught the tail end of a smile and her gut clenched. He should smile more often, it takes years from him. His nose wrinkled. ‘I wouldn’t recommend you venture into those particular streets.’

Isobel couldn’t help notice that Lucien’s eyes were lingering on her mouth. ‘Those streets are dangerous?’ she asked, thoughts beginning to whirl as she came to a realisation. Lucien is attracted to me. Perhaps he is as attracted to me as I am to him …

How am I to keep him at bay if there is an attraction on both sides? With Mama’s history, I can’t risk a pregnancy. Her mother’s pain-filled cries echoed through her mind, she had fought so valiantly to give birth to an heir. That will not be my fate.

‘They are dangerous if you have a sensitive nose.’ Lucien grimaced. ‘That’s where you’ll find the tanneries.’

A pungent smell proved the truth of his words. They hurried past holding their breath, and came down from the walls by a grain market. After crossing a square containing a handful of market stalls, they entered a shadowy street where the upper storeys of the houses leaned to within inches of their neighbours opposite.

Isobel’s gaze fell on a man weaving his way through the townsfolk. It was only a glimpse—an unshaven face peering out from beneath a brown hood—but it was enough. She gripped Lucien’s arm. ‘My lord!’

Lucien narrowed his gaze as he scoured the street. Children and dogs were racing in and out of the crowded alleyways, blocking his view.

‘There, my lord, by that tavern.’

Vivid blue eyes met hers. ‘Isobel, I warn you—’

‘He’s going inside!’

The door shut. Isobel released Lucien’s sleeve and picked up her skirts.

‘A moment, my lady.’ A firm hand held her in place. ‘That’s the Black Boar, you weren’t thinking of challenging him in there?’

‘He shall not have that relic.’

She took a step, but Lucien blocked her, shaking his head.

‘My lady, I should not have to remind you—it is not your place to chase him.’

Isobel opened her mouth to object, but disapproval was large in his eyes and the words froze on her lips.

He swept on. ‘Firstly, the man would have to be insane to have kept the relic on him, he will have passed it to someone else. Secondly, it will be dangerous for you to approach him. You must take more care. It’s likely he saw you run out of the Abbey—you weren’t particularly discreet.’

‘But—’

‘And thirdly, it’s entirely possible the women inside will tear you to pieces.’ Lucien ran his hand round the back of his neck. ‘My lady, the Black Boar is not a place for ladies of gentle birth.’

Isobel did not know how it was, but in an instant she understood what he was saying. ‘It’s a brothel?’

‘My lady!’

She put up her chin. ‘You are shocked. I may have lived much of my life in a convent, but I have heard of such places. And you have no need to worry that I shall ask how you know it’s a brothel. I have been well schooled.’

‘Well schooled?’ He looked at her. ‘That I would seriously question.’

Her chin inched higher; she knew her cheeks must be aflame. ‘I have learned enough to know that ladies must never question their menfolk on such matters.’

Dark colour ran into Lucien’s cheeks.

‘My lady, I assure you I have never set foot in the Black Boar.’

Isobel gave him a considering look. His tone—and the earnest expression in those blue eyes—told her he was speaking the truth. ‘I admit, that is a relief.’

She tucked her arm into his, and smiled up at him. Once again, he was looking at her mouth, his expression unreadable. Her stomach tightened. It could be her imagination, but she rather thought his mouth was edging into a reluctant smile. ‘My lord, I am no faintheart. If you are with me, I am certain all will be well …’

He shook his head, even as Isobel saw—yes, it was a definite smile. The man really should smile more often.

‘I will be your champion, of course.’

I amuse him. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Lucien pushed at the inn door and they stepped over the threshold. It was a relief to know that Lucien had never patronised it, but Isobel could not help but wonder whether there were other, similar, establishments that he had patronised.

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.’

‘But, my lord—’

‘Isobel, I do not wish you to attend. Do I make myself clear?’

Isobel heard obduracy in his voice, but she had met male obduracy before and knew what to do. She dealt with it in the way that she dealt with it when encountering it in her father. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, giving him a limpid look. ‘Perfectly clear.’

Sister Christine met her at the convent gate. ‘Lady Isobel, what were you thinking, tearing out into the town like that?’

With a bow and a thin smile, Lucien turned on his heel. The gate clanged shut and he was lost to sight. I hope he sends for me soon. Isobel had seen enough of the inside of a convent for one lifetime, and even the company of an obdurate man was preferable to a life lived behind convent walls.

The nun’s silver cross was bright against her dark habit. ‘My lady, I should warn you, the Abbess is most displeased.’

Isobel bit her lip—she liked Sister Christine, and it wasn’t pleasant to realise that she had caused her trouble. ‘Sister, please don’t tell me you have been waiting here all this time?’

‘Of course—I had to miss Office.’

‘Oh, Sister, I am truly sorry.’

Sister Christine tucked her hands into the sleeves of her habit. ‘You were out a long time; I cannot think what you were doing.’

Isobel opened her mouth to explain that Lucien had been with her every moment, but the nun shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me, tell Reverend Mother.’ She gestured towards the Abbey church. ‘You will find her in the Lady Chapel.’

Swallowing down a sigh, Isobel went into the church, pausing by the wooden screen that separated the Lady Chapel from the nave. The Abbess was sweeping up damaged fragments of stone, along with Elise and a couple of novices, and when she noticed Isobel, she thrust her broom at a novice.

‘Lady Isobel, I realise you were shocked at the loss of the relic, but you went into the town without your cloak. Without a maid. What were you thinking?’

‘I am sorry, Reverend Mother, there was no time to fetch my cloak. And Count Lucien did act as my escort.’

‘Apparently, you ran off at such a pace, you did not wait to see whether the Count had followed you or not. It is your good fortune that he did, although I am sure he must have been appalled by such unseemliness. Lady Isobel, you must learn to curb these impulses, and comport yourself with decorum. You cannot forget your status for a moment. Soon you will be the Countess d’Aveyron—you should not be running about Troyes like an unruly child. And most certainly you should not rely on Lord d’Aveyron to chase after you and see you safe.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘I trust you are unharmed.’

‘I am.’

‘Praise be. You are fortunate that Count Lucien is an honourable man. A less scrupulous one might have seized the opportunity to take advantage of you.’

Isobel stared at the cross on the Abbess’s breast. What would she say if she knew we followed the thief into a brothel? What would she say if she knew that Lucien—this honourable man—had seized on the chance to kiss me? In public. In the Black Boar.

Isobel caught Elise’s sympathetic gaze on her and resisted sending her a smile. Abbess Ursula was treating her like a naughty child, but she refused to be cowed. As the Abbess had said, she would soon be the Countess d’Aveyron.

‘Reverend Mother, I ran from church because I saw the thief. I hoped to catch him.’ The words tumbled out. ‘He was lurking by the north door—stuffing something into his pouch. I swear it was the Limoges reliquary—I saw blue enamel, gold—’

‘Be that as it may, it is not your concern. You should not have run out in so unladylike a manner.’ Abbess Ursula turned to Elise. ‘And as for you, you should have known better. Why did you not stop her?’

‘My actions are my own, please do not blame Elise,’ Isobel said. ‘Reverend Mother, I am sorry if you think my behaviour was wrong.’

‘You thought to catch the thief yourself.’ The Abbess raised an eyebrow in so supercilious a manner that Isobel recalled her royal ancestry. She looked very regal. ‘What if Count Lucien had not followed you? What if you had met with violence?’

‘I was trying to help. Your Order has been good to me, I am especially grateful for the care I received at St Foye’s.’

‘You do not repay us by placing yourself in harm’s way. Viscount Gautier sent you here so we could keep you safe until your marriage. If anything should happen to you in the meantime, the reputation of our Order would be tarnished, perhaps irreparably. Who would send their daughters to us, if they came to harm?’

‘My apologies, Reverend Mother.’

‘And there are other concerns that in your haste you did not take account of …’

Isobel clenched her teeth. ‘Yes?’

‘By running off in so wild a manner you risked alienating Count Lucien. Did you see any sign that he was put off by your recklessness?’

Isobel did not know how it was, but Abbess Ursula’s question evoked a vivid memory of a sensuous mouth pressing against hers, of a masculine arm winding possessively about her waist …

‘Count Lucien gave no sign that he was alienated,’ she murmured. We crossed swords a little, but I do not think I alienated him.

‘You are blessed.’ The Abbess made a sound of intense disapproval. ‘The town fills with felons every year because of the fair. Which is why the Guardian Knights have been established. It is their duty to deal with miscreants, not yours.’

‘Yes, Reverend Mother, I know. Count Lucien has explained this to me.’

‘Has he? That is all to the good. We shall leave this folly behind us. In future, I trust you will think twice before indulging in such impulses. If God wills it, the relics will be returned. I have faith that He will also deal with the man who committed this sacrilege.’ Abbess Ursula frowned at the ruined altar frontal, and turned for the nave. ‘Sisters, follow me. Lady Isobel and Elise can finish the sweeping. And after that there is a yard or so of border on the altar cloth to be worked.’ She held Isobel’s gaze. ‘I should like it as much as possible to be finished before you leave the Abbey.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.