“I suppose now you know what it means to give me permission to kiss you,” he said, trying to make light of his powerful reaction.
Isobeau was back on the coverlet now, her heart beating so forcefully against her ribs that she was positive it was about to shoot out of her chest and fly across the room. She put a hand on her chest, subconsciously, as if to prevent such a thing.
“I suppose,” she agreed, breathless. “Next time I shall be prepared.”
His eyes glimmered at her. “I hope not,” he said. “I rather like it when you are not prepared.”
All Isobeau could do was grin; a silly, foolish, unrestrained grin. All Atticus could do was mirror her expression. But the physic arrived shortly thereafter and put a stop to all of the foolish grinning, yet the mood, the joy, lingered.
Perhaps there was to be more to this marriage, after all, than just a duty.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ionian scale in C– A Love so Noble
A love so noble
A love so kind
A kiss so delicious,
My heart mingled with thine.
—Isobeau de Shera de Wolfe, 15th c.
1.8 miles southeast of Wolfe’s Lair, near the village of Byrness
Shaun winced whenthe barber-surgeon threw the last stitch into his scalp where Atticus had kicked him and nearly knocked him out cold. When he’d finally returned to the main army encampment, he realized he had a two-inch gash on his scalp that had been bleeding profusely. As he sat in his tent along with three knights, his senior commanders, and the barber-surgeon, all he could manage to feel was rage.
“I have no idea what he did to du Reims,” he told the host of concerned faces around him. “De Wolfe cut him from behind in the legs and the man could not walk, so he entirely severed his knees or cut the back of his legs in general. The last I saw, they were carrying Rik into Wolfe’s Lair because the man was unable to support himself. De Wolfe told me that if our army laid siege to the Lair, he would kill Rik and toss his dead body over the wall. I have no reason not to believe him.”
The three knights facing him were seasoned knights who had served the House of de Mowbray for quite some time. Two of them were a father and son, Sir Ferris Aston and his son, Edmund, and the third knight was a legacy knight with Norfolk, meaning his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all served the House of de Mowbray. Sir Rafael Archer-Phipps was a big man with a crown of curly auburn hair and a rather nasty manner about him. Rik du Reims was his friend and he was greatly displeased with what Summerlin had told them.
“Bastard,” Rafael hissed. “I do not care if he is called The Lion of the North; Atticus de Wolfe has my ire for what he’s done to Rik. He cut him down!”
Summerlin tried to shake his head, made difficult by the barber-surgeon piercing his flesh. “Rik is not dead.”
Rafael was exasperated. “But he was badly injured,” he insisted. “Was there no way to save him? Did you have to leave him behind?”
Summerlin growled, unhappy at the question, unhappy at the barber-surgeon stabbing him in the scalp with a bone needle.
“Do you truly believe I would have left him behind if I’d had a choice?” he barked at Archer-Phipps. “Of course I had no choice. De Wolfe’s archers had taken out the soldiers I brought with me and there was no guarantee that he was not going to take me out as well. Someone had to return to tell you what had happened and that someone happened to be me.”
“We have orders to lay siege to the de Wolfe stronghold if they will not side with Edward,” Ferris Aston spoke softly. The father-figure of the group, he was usually the one the men listened to. “We cannot return to Arundel and tell de Mowbray that we did not carry out his orders because we feared for du Reims’ life. That is not an option.”
The knights knew that, an ominous knowledge of a colleague’s potential death hanging over their heads. No onewanted to send Alrik du Reims to his doom, but a worse option was returning to de Mowbray with the news that they had failed to carry out their orders. That would not be well met. Summerlin, eyeing Ferris as the barber-surgeon put the last stitch in his scalp, sighed heavily.
“Then Rik forfeits his life,” he said simply. “If we have to make a choice between Norfolk’s orders and du Reims’ life, we must choose fealty to our lord over the life of a knight. I, for one, do not want to be known as a commander who disobeys orders. If Norfolk dismisses me, I would never be able to serve another lord. I would have no honor.”
Archer-Phipps nearly exploded. “So you would not trade your honor for a man’s life?” he demanded. “You may as well sink the blade into his chest yourself!”
Ferris held up a hand to Archer-Phipps before the man went on a rampage. “Enough,” he said softly but firmly. “Do you think Shaun wants to do this? Of course he does not. But we do not have a choice. You know what Norfolk will do if we disobey him. Dismissal would be the least of the options. He has been known to flog men who disobey him, or worse, thrown them in the vault. There is no other option here and you know it; we must march on Wolfe’s Lair. We must claim her in the name of Edward. These are Norfolk’s orders and they will be obeyed.”
Archer-Phipps, red in the face, turned away in disgust and worry even though he knew Ferris was right. Ferris was always right. Agitated, he paced the tent for a few moments before coming to a halt. “Why can we not negotiate for du Reims’ release?”
Summerlin looked up at him. “With what?”
Archer-Phipps threw up his arms in exasperation. “I have coinage with me,” he said. “Mayhap if we pool our money, we can buy his release.”
