Free Knight of Pleasure by Margaret Mallory Page A

as she tilted her head to look up at him.
     Why must he be so handsome?
    “Popham, you are boring this lady to death,” Carleton said. “If you truly must talk all evening of barrels of wine and bales
     of wool, let us go off to a corner and spare the others.”
    Isobel was shocked by Carleton’s directness, but Popham laughed.
    “You are right, of course.” Popham stood and said to Isobel, “I don’t know what I would do without him.”
    She had no notion what Popham was talking about.
    Without warning, Stephen leaned down to her. His hair brushed her cheek, making her heart race.
    She felt his breath in her ear as he whispered, “You owe me for this.”
    Before she could recover, he took her hand. She looked at the long, strong fingers and remembered them in her hair. On her
     breast. She swallowed and looked up into Carleton’s face. His eyes went dark; he was not even trying to mask that he was thinking
     the same thoughts as she.
    Heat seared through her body as he pressed his lips to her fingers. He held her hand a trifle too long for courtesy, but she
     did not pull away.

    Robert sat back and watched the pair. Stephen, who was usually so good at maintaining a facade, was no better than Isobel.
     He had never seen Stephen like this over a woman before.
    The two of them were playing with fire, all right. No matter the king’s affection, he would not take it lightly if Stephen
     jeopardized his plans. Stephen would find a cuckolded husband was nothing compared to an angry king.
    Robert suspected things had not gone too far—yet. Still, the two were courting disaster. The fools may as well have been shouting
     it from the rooftops.
    Claudette saw it, of course. There was not much that remarkable woman missed. And Marie de Lisieux, who had none of Claudette’s
     subtlety or discretion, was watching the pair like a hawk.
    Not for the first time, he wondered which faction Marie was spying for. Tonight, however, a baser motive even than politics
     drove Marie. ’Twas a wonder Isobel did not feel the scorch of Marie’s eyes on her skin.
    Praise God, William was no more perceptive than the king in such matters. The situation was far too delicate to bring William
     into it. A subtle hand was needed, not a storming of the gates.
    He might need William’s help. But not yet.

Chapter Eight
    I sobel dropped her embroidery in her lap, annoyed her thoughts had drifted again to that damn Stephen Carleton. Small wonder,
     really. She had little else to occupy herself.
    Where was de Roche? She stared out her narrow window, trying to imagine him riding through the keep’s gate with twenty men
     behind him. Each day he did not come, she was torn between injury and relief.
    She’d been a traitor’s daughter; she did not want to be a traitor’s wife. What would she do if de Roche changed allegiances
     after they wed? Caught between duty to husband and king, which would she choose? Either choice would be dangerous for her.
    Her attention was caught by a lone rider trotting into the inner bailey yard below. There was something familiar about the
     way he sat his horse…
    “Geoffrey!” She let her needlework fall to the floor in a tangle and flew to her door. In her hurry, she nearly tumbled down
     the stairs, which were built at uneven heights to trip attackers. A moment later, she was out of the keep and running across
     the yard to her brother.
    “I am filthy,” Geoffrey warned as she leapt into his arms. He held her close and said against her hair, “I came as quickly
     as I could.”
    “Thank God you are safe,” she said, her eyes stinging. “I have been so worried.”
    “You should not fret so over me, Issie, I am a grown man now.” He set her on her feet and took her hands. “Is it possible
     my sister has grown still more beautiful?”
    “Would you scold me if I said my husband’s death was good for my health?”
    “I would,” he said, “though I know you suffered with him.”
    As a man, Geoffrey