Carol Townend - Lady Isobel's Champion

‘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.

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 .