Love Never Lies (22 page)

 
He pushed the door opened.

The cool smell of mint assailed him as he strode into the chamber.

Isabeau stood by the fire, drawing a comb through her sun streaked hair.

He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her.

Her cheeks glowed pink from her long soak in the tub. ‘Twas not only the color of her skin, but the curves of her body illuminated by the fire through the thin fabric of her white chemise that made his blood rush like a river in spring. Such a tiny waist, the like he had never seen.
Long legs, tapering down from a pert derrière.
His hands ached to reach out and touch every soft curve of her glowing flesh.

Sweet Jesu!

A monk would tear off his robes if faced with such temptation.

How was he to sleep, knowing she lay but an arms length away?

She turned from the fire, comb in hand to offer a pretty smile.
“Many thanks, my lord. ‘Twas pure heaven to bathe at my leisure without fear of discovery.
I’m greatly indebted to you.”

He grunted then strode to the bed. After putting up with Abigail all eventide his patience was sorely tested. The thought of suffering through a night of temptation with Isabeau half naked, an arms length away, fairly put him over the edge. “You’ll have to take your chances at the bath-house in future,” he threw over his shoulder before yanking his tunic off over his head. “Abigail doth tax this household enough with her demands.”

Isabeau sat on the bench to braid her hair, lifting a delicate brow. “You don’t like your step-mother very much, do you?”

“Nay, I do not.”

“Why?”

 
“She isn’t worthy of my father.” Why he was telling her this, he did not know. But her question came so sudden and without guile he let down his guard. It just came out. She could not possibly care what trouble plagued his family. Still, ‘twas safer to answer her queries than become so enraptured by her beauty that he forgot himself and did something he would regret.

“Yet he married her?”

“For her dowry.”
His tone turned cynical. “’Twould have been a sound bargain, had she not come with it.”

Having woven her hair into two smooth plaids, Isabeau rose from the bench to pad to the straw pallet under the window. “Your father appears to dote on her. Mayhap he married her for the dowry, but now it has turned to love.”

“Love?
Ha! He loves how she sates his lust, and looks no further than that.” He sat on the edge of the bed to pry his boots off. “If my father really knew her, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He would have already turned her from his bed.”

Isabeau stretched on her side on the pallet, propping her head in her hand to regard him steadily, her gray eyes glowed soft and luminous in the firelight. “And you won’t tell him.”

“I’ll not be the one to break his heart.” He stood to unlace his braies.

She hastily adjusted her position to face the other way. But he could hear the smile behind her words as she spoke. “So, you’re not as cold-hearted as you would have me think.”

He climbed into bed, jerking the pelts up over him as he went. She would be of a different mind if she knew where his thoughts strayed. The call of her soft womanly form curled upon the pallet below him made his cock swell in answer. ‘Twas all he could do not to leap up, scoop her up in his arms, and throw her down on the bed to bury himself deep within her.

He took a long cleansing breath,
then
let it out slowly to ease the tension in his body.

Just as he felt his limbs relax and was about to close his eyes, she rose from her pallet to add another log to the fire, bending to present a clear view of her sweetly rounded backside.

His breath caught in the back of his throat. “If you’re cold,” he bit out harshly, unable to help himself. “Come and fetch another pelt.”

She spun round so fast at the sound of his voice one side of her chemise slipped off of her shoulder, exposing the round curve of one blushing breast. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched her pad forward, swallowing hard at the sight of her nipples straining against the thin fabric.

Sweet Lord
have
mercy!

Did she know what she was doing to him?

Obviously not, else the knowledge would send her fleeing for the door.

Right now, he would forfeit a hefty purse to ease the ache in his loins. After all, half the ransom was better than none. He had only wanted the dowry in the first place. She was his prisoner, body and soul—his to do with whatever he wished.

Was she not?

“My lord?”

The sound of her voice made him blink. His gaze shifted upward to the bemused look on her face. Remembering what he was about, he grabbed the first pelt his hand came in contact with,
then
shoved it at her. “There.” His voice constricted in a croak. “Now get to sleep. There’s much work to be done on the morrow.”

Though how he would get any, he did not know.

***

The hall boomed with raised voices above the strum of the minstrel’s lute. Isabeau murmured her thanks as Dominic held out her chair at the high table.

Fortin turned his head, fixing his blue gaze on her from where he sat to the right, flanked by Abigail and Darcy.

Beaufort, who sat to the right of Darcy, beamed a big smile her way.

Isabeau slid into the chair, trying to ignore Fortin’s attention, but ‘twas as impossible as a hare ignoring the shadow of a hawk.

When Fortin insisted she dine with them, her first instinct was to laugh. Surely he jested. What business did a prisoner have sitting at the Lord’s Table? But his fierce scowl quickly vanquished her mirth.

‘Twas the night before the tournament and since Lord Beaufort had much coin riding on the event, Fortin hoped she would distract Dominic from drinking himself blind and throwing the competition.

How he proposed she accomplish that, she had no idea.

‘Twas true, Dominic showed great courtesy in her presence, but she did not think it extended past that. In fact, she dearly hoped it didn’t. One Fortin to contend with was quite enough. Her nerves were already stretched taunt sharing Alec’s bedchamber, though her ploy to tempt him had obviously worked since he had not slept in his chamber this past week.

Still, fear that she might have gone too far, that he might appear at any moment, robbed her of sleep.

In a perverse mood, she had chosen to wear the yellow kirtle which was to be her wedding apparel. What better place to display it than at Fortin’s table. It reminded her of why she was there—that she should not trust him or read too much into his kindness of late.

She was no less a prisoner in his spacious bedchamber than the day he captured her in the woods. Her own clothes and a bath in a tub
did little
to change that, nor the sumptuous fare spread out before her on the table.

Still, ‘twas a welcome change from brown bread and cold barley stew.

She meant to enjoy every last bite of it.

Her mouth watered at the sight of apple and pear tarts drizzled with thick honey, flaky meat pies, crusty white bread to dip in rich gravy, sweet red wine, greens of every kind. It made her belly churn. She quivered drinking in the heavenly aromas.

Dominic filled the trencher they shared with juicy bits of roast capon, venison, and cheese, overloading it to such a point she had to laugh.

“’Tis like magic when you do that,” he whispered against her ear. Mischief danced in his eyes. “The more you smile, the more Alec frowns. God’s teeth! What bliss.”

Isabeau peeped out from under her lashes to encounter Fortin’s scowl directed at her from the other end of the table. She hastily lowered her gaze to the goblet in her hand. ‘Twas difficult to play the gay strumpet under the heat of his glowering stares, not to mention Abigail’s hot looks, who had somehow managed to plant herself at Dominic’s other elbow.

 
But what did it matter?

They could squabble and fight until there was nothing left but a big ball of fur.

She was here to fill her belly—to savor every last drop of wine and morsel of food, as ‘twas the first good meal she’d had since her capture.

And why should she not?

After all, Fortin was the one who had forced her to his table.

“Mayhap we should both take Alec’s advice and ignore the censure of others.” Dominic winked. “Come, let us drink a toast.” He reached for his chalice of wine. “Forgive and forget.”

She lifted her chalice to his, thinking that he was almost as handsome as his brother when he smiled.
“’Tis good advice.”
She took a sip of wine, rolling it over on her tongue to savor the sweet taste before finally giving in and swallowing it, “You should share it with your brother.”

“Yea, he’s stubborn—a vile trait passed down in our family for generations. But don’t worry, one day he’ll see the error of his ways.”

Isabeau sobered, her gaze flicking to where Alec sat, tall and dark at the other end of the table. “He’ll never forgive me.”

“Don’t be too certain. He’s not as hard as you think. Have you not seen how he pesters me like a second mother? He’s really an old woman in a man’s skin.”

Isabeau laughed out loud and had to cover her mouth.

“There.” Dominic said, “I made you laugh and Alec frowned again. This is so much fun. The power makes me giddy.”

Isabeau’s mirth faded. “He holds me responsible for what my family did to him.”

Dominic flashed a rueful smile. “Well, that might take awhile. Men in general, not only our family, are especially fond of their manhood.”

Isabeau’s cheeks grew hot, but she could not help but smile at the wicked gleam in Dominic’s eye.

 
“What are you two whispering about down there?” Darcy demanded.
“’Tis rude not to allow us to share in the jest.”
He turned to Alec sitting on his left. “Dominic has a way with the wenches. He’ll cheat you out of half your ransom, if you’re not careful.”

Alec shrugged, appearing not in the least concerned. “He knows better than to waste his strength the eventide before a tournament. You taught him that.”

“I taught you both the importance of restraint,” Darcy declared stoutly. “Had you listened better, Agnew would not have been so eager to geld you I’ll warrant.”

“Yea, but he didn’t.” Beaufort Reached behind Darcy and slapped Fortin on the back. “And now look, he possesses the most winsome prisoner a man could wish for.”

Isabeau’s cheeks grew hot at the turn of their discourse.
Being discussed as though she was not present—as though she was a mere possession, played havoc with her appetite as well as her good temper.

She was about to open her mouth and agree with Darcy that Fortin should have shown more restraint, when Dominic squeezed her hand under the table, whispering against her ear, “Beaufort is right. And one day Alec will admit to it.”

Isabeau did not wish Fortin to admit to anything. She only wished to be set free, so that she might begin to forget everything that had happened, including the feel of his lips—the taste of him, the tingles that ran up her spine each time his eyes met hers.

Isabeau looked up to find Abigail’s green gaze pinned on her. She shivered at the malice lurking there. It sank through her, tightening her skin like a wet sheet hanging in the sun.