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‘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?’
