Isobeau turned to look at him;reallylook at him. Seated at the table in his woolen tunic, with the weak sunlight coming in through the window behind him, he had a rather ethereal look. Her heart began to beat faster as her gaze lingered on him, the odd weakness plaguing her body growing worse and better at the same time. There was a certain giddiness to it, something thatseemed to be caused by Atticus. He was an exquisitely handsome man. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him so.
“It was very brave,” she finally said, taking her eyes off him because she had to. Her heart was beating so strongly against her ribs that she could hardly catch her breath. “But you sent one of them away while the other you brought inside. Why did you do that?”
He drained the wine in his cup. “The knight I brought inside is a hostage against any hostile action Norfolk might try to take against Wolfe’s Lair,” he told her. “I would not worry. I do not believe we will have any further trouble from the man, at least not here at Wolfe’s Lair.”
Isobeau looked at him. “But we could have trouble with him elsewhere?”
Atticus nodded, toying with his empty cup. “It is possible,” he said. “But you should not worry overly.”
She shook her head, packing in the last of what she intended to take with her, a lumpy bar of white soap and a comb. “I am not worried,” she said. “But it seems as if Norfolk is going to great lengths to try and gain your loyalty.”
Atticus grunted. “The man is an idiot.”
Isobeau sealed up the satchel. “Mayhap,” she said, leaving the satchel and moving to the table where there was bread and cheese and strips of jerky. She eyed the food, not particularly hungry. “But it seems to me that he is trying to get to the House of de Wolfe somehow. Mayhap Titus was only the beginning. Mayhap he means to destroy the entire house and everyone within it. Must we be looking over our shoulder for the rest of our lives, fearful that he is lurking in the shadows?”
Atticus could hear tension in her voice, not surprising considering the history with de Wolfe versus de Mowbray over the past few weeks. Much like his world, hers had been rocked lately, too. The poor woman had lost everything. She wasstanding near him and instinctively, if only to give reassurance, he reached out to grasp her hand but the moment he did so, it was as if a bolt of fire shot through him.
She was warm, that was true, but it was more than that; it was fire that surged through him like nothing he had ever known. Fire and ice and lust and passion, and everything in between suddenly flashed before his eyes. Instinct told him to drop her hand because the mere contact between them was shattering, but his emotions, those things he kept deeply buried, overcame his instincts and he squeezed her hand more tightly, feeling her flesh against his.
“He will not be lurking,” he said in a strange, husky voice he’d never heard from himself before. “This is war, my lady, and men have many enemies. Norfolk will soon tire of me and find others. We will not live our lives in fear of a man who is not worthy of such regard.”
Isobeau’s focus was riveted to his face as he held her hand, tightly, as if the touch meant something to him. Her heart was racing again, brought on by Atticus’ touch, and her breathing was coming in strange little gasps. It occurred to her that Titus had never brought on such a reaction. He had been kind and gentle, and his kisses sweet, but he had never set her heart to racing the way Atticus did. Part of her wanted to yank her hand away from him but a greater part wanted to grip him as he was gripping her, flesh against flesh, heat against heat. His touch was exhilarating.
“If… if you say so,” she managed to stammer, realizing that she was fixated on the shape of his lush lips. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. “If you say there is nothing to fear, I will believe you.”
Atticus could hear her voice but he almost couldn’t understand her words. She was standing up against him, her hand in his, and he’d never known anything so intoxicating inhis life. His fingers caressed her hand, acquainting himself with the silken texture of her flesh, before he even realized he was doing it. There was something incredibly inviting and alluring about the woman, something that overwhelmed his senses. Before he could stop himself, he brought her hand to his mouth for a gentle kiss.
“Good,” he murmured, kissing her hand again simply because he couldn’t stop himself. “It would make me unhappy if you worried. I would have to ride to Arundel myself and kill de Mowbray simply to ease your mind.”
He said it with a twinkle in his eye and Isobeau broke into a grin. “That seems rather drastic,” she said, breathless.
He shook his head. “Not at all,” he said huskily. “You are my wife. It is my duty and my pleasure to make your life as worry-free as possible.”
Isobeau’s cheeks flushed a dull red at his sweet flattery.You are my wife. Sweet Jesus, she loved hearing those words from his mouth but then in the same breath she felt guilty because she had never felt such joy hearing the same words from Titus’ mouth. Overwhelmed, and thrilled, she averted her gaze because looking into his handsome face had her so giddy that she could scarcely breathe.
“You are too kind,” she managed to say.
Atticus didn’t reply. He was too swept up in her flushed cheeks and coy expression. God, but she was an alluring creature. She seemed to grow more beautiful by the moment. He kissed her hand once more, a final time, before releasing it, mostly because he was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t. He wanted to pull her against him and kiss her in the worst way and he knew, if that happened, that he wouldn’t be able to stop at a mere kiss. She was his wife and he had every right to her luscious body but after what she had been through the day before, it simply wouldn’t do. It was wrong and tasteless on toomany levels. He would be an inappropriate man indeed, filling her womb with his seed so soon after his brother’s child had been lost. Confused, and feeling guilty for his overwhelmingly lustful reaction to her, he stood up from the chair.
“Then I will leave you to your meal and to finish packing,” he said, heading for the door and realizing that his male member was semi-aroused against his breeches. He made sure his tunic was covering the bulge. “I have duties to attend to but I will return for you shortly. Dress warmly; it is cold outside.”
Isobeau, still keeping her head down and her gaze averted because of her red cheeks, nodded. “I will be ready.”
Atticus quit the room with a nod although Isobeau didn’t see it; she wasn’t looking at him. But the moment he shut the door behind him, she let out such a sigh that her entire body nearly deflated. It was relief but it was also a release, and the grin on her lips was unmistakable, a grin only for her, the secret longing for her new husband now fully revealed.
Isobeau was certain it was wrong, feeling as she did so soon after losing Titus, but the truth was that she and Titus had only known each other for two weeks before he departed for Towton. She’d spent much more time away from him than with him, and theirs was a relationship that had never truly developed past the initial stage. Had she loved him? It was possible that what she had felt for him would have developed into love, but as she thought hard on her feelings for Titus, she couldn’t honestly remember feeling anything more than great fondness for him. Titus had been a warm and sensitive man and she admired that a great deal. But Atticus… God help her, Atticus was quickly forging his way into her emotions. He was searing and passionate and exciting. She couldn’t stop him.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to try.
You are only a duty to him, she reminded herself.Only a duty!
Would it be that way forever? She wondered.
With her satchel fully packed, she sat down in the seat that Atticus had vacated, feeling his warmth still on the wood. The realization made silly, giddy thoughts roll through her head. She stared at the cheese and bread in front of her, thinking that she really wasn’t very hungry. She was tired more than anything, exhausted from the eventful past. Her head hurt and the odd weakness had not gone away. Rising from the chair, she made her way over to the bed and lay upon the faded silk coverlet that had once belonged to Atticus’ mother. It was soft and warm and comfortable, and very quickly she fell into a deep sleep.
When she dreamt, it was with vivid images of Atticus.
*
