He shook away the memory of that time and turned his thoughts to Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong. It annoyed him that his body hardened when her image appeared in his mind. He was going to have to be very careful about that. Simon wanted to blame the sudden, fierce attraction he felt for her on the fact that he had not had a woman for a long time, but he knew that was a lie. It was something about her, the way she stood firm before his stare, a stare that had made even grown men quiver with fear. Her glorious hair and her beautiful eyes drew him like a wasp to honey. She was dangerous.
Then again, could he resist if she tried to seduce him to influence his decision on her innocence orguilt? Probably not, he decided, but he would still seek the truth. He would just find a little enjoyment and pleasure as he did so. Simon felt certain that, although his body might succumb, nothing she could do would change him from his course. It could be that giving in to his lust for her could clear his mind enough so that she could no longer cloud it with her scent and her husky voice. It was something to consider.
Simon nudged the cat off his lap, stood up and stretched. He would be spending a lot of time in court over the next few days and it was best if he got some sleep. A man needed a sharp mind to weave his way safely through all the intrigues, lies, and betrayals that went on in the king’s court. It was good to have another puzzle to solve, he mused as he strode off to his bedchamber, Bonegnasher and the cat at his heels.
It was not until he was settled into his bed that he realized there was another more subtle reason that he was eager to get started ferreting out the truth. A part of him wanted to prove that Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong was innocent. Worse, to his way of thinking, it was not simply his thirst for justice that made him eager. It was a pair of bright blue eyes and a soft, husky voice that acted like a caress on his skin every time she spoke. Simon cursed. Ilsabeth was definitely trouble and not just because she was caught up in plots, murder, and treason.
Chapter 4
Sir Walter Hepbourn was the type of man most women found very pleasing. Shining fair hair, a flirtatious smile revealing good teeth, and a well-muscled form dressed in the finest court clothing. Simon wondered why all of that irritated him so much. If what Ilsabeth told him was true, it was very daring of the man to come to court so soon after committing the murder of the king’s cousin and throwing around false accusations. He must have left not long after Ilsabeth had. It would have been wiser to stay close to his home until the suspicions against the Armstrongs had hardened.
Simon nearly grimaced in disgust over the way the man played the stunned, embarrassed, and heart-bruised betrothed who had been betrayed and used by his love. It was all an act. Simon was certain of it. Unfortunately, his certainty did not mean the man was guilty of all Ilsabeth said he was. It just meant that Sir Walter knew how to play with the sympathies of the courtiers who clung to the king’s court in the hope of some favor.
One other thing that Simon was now certain of was that Sir Walter Hepbourn thought himself far and above any Armstrong. The man’s distaste for that clan wove around and through every word he spoke. After two days of watching the man, however, that was the only suspicious thing Simon had discovered. Why, if Hepbourn so utterly despised the Armstrongs, had the man betrothed himself to one of the clan’s daughters? Ilsabeth’s explanation was the only one that made sense, but he would not accept that as fact just yet.
It was another puzzle, however. The more Simon sought out the truth, one he now confessed to himself he was eager to find so that his attraction to Ilsabeth was no longer a danger to himself, the more puzzles he came across. He did not find it all that difficult to believe that Hepbourn would do all Ilsabeth said he had and Simon knew that was one small step toward uncovering the truth needed to prove she was innocent.
“Psst! Simon! O’er here.”
As covertly as he was able, Simon moved toward the shadowed alcove that sibilant command had come from. He had the strong feeling that not all the Murrays had disappeared from court. Either that or they had sent a friend and ally few in the court would associate with their clan or the Armstrongs. Yet the man had called him Simon, an informality that implied a close relationship. Once within the alcove, Simon studied the man who had called to him. Even in the deep shadows he could see enough to know who faced him now.
“I dinnae think it is wise for ye to be here now, Tormand,” Simon said, shifting so that he could keep a close eye upon all the other people in the hall.
“How did ye ken it was me?” Tormand asked, his annoyance over the easy recognition clear to hear in his voice. “I thought myself weel disguised.”
“Smearing something white in your beard and hair and wearing ugly clothing isnae a verra good disguise, leastwise nay to one who kens ye as weel as I do. Nor, I suspect, to the many women here who kenned ye verra weel indeed ere ye got married. And how is dear Morainn?”
Tormand cursed softly. “Fine. Healthy. The bairns are healthy. Is Ilsabeth safe?”
“Safe enough. She is secure within my home.”
“Secure as in safe? Or secure as in imprisoned?”
The thread of anger in Tormand’s voice told Simon he was right to think that trying to prove Ilsabeth innocent could become very complicated. He had several close friends amongst the Murrays and they were a very closely bound family, their loyalty and affection stretching out to even the most distant cousin. If he could not save Ilsabeth, or he decided she was guilty, Simon knew he could destroy friendships, even make a few enemies.
“Ye would rather I had sent her to the king?”
“Curse it, Simon, that lass didnae kill that mon nor would Cormac have anything to do with treason.”
“Ye ken Ilsabeth weel, do ye?” “Nay weel, but I do ken her. I also ken Cormac. He has spent his life trying to scrub away the stain his parents left on their name. He wouldnae toss aside a life’s work or endanger his own child.”
Simon did not think so either, but men had done stranger things. Fathers did not always have full control over or knowledge of what their children were doing. The fact that it made no sense for Sir Cormac to plot treason or Ilsabeth to kill a man she did not even know was not enough to declare them innocent, mere victims of someone else’s plots.
“Ye ken weel that I always seek the truth,” Simon said. “Always. My way worked for ye and for your cousin James. If Ilsabeth is innocent, I will prove it and find the guilty one, but allow me to say if until I get that proof.”
Tormand sighed. “As ye wish. Did she tell ye what happened? Did she e’en ken anything at all?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Simon told Tormand all Ilsabeth had told him. “It sounds as if it is the truth.” He caught sight of Hepbourn. “And that man is vain and foolish enough to be a traitor. But I need more than her word and the word of her kin. Proof, nay just my word or belief in her innocence, is what will get her free of this deadly tangle. ‘Tis why her father sent her to me. He trusts me to find that proof.”
“I ken it. I do,” muttered Tormand. “ ‘Tis just that I want this shadow o’er us all to go away. I want an enemy I can get my hands on instead of naught but accusations, lies, and whispers. I want Cormac and his clan to be able to cease running and hiding. God’s tears, if this continues for much longer there could weel be a lot of my clan running right alongside them.”
Simon understood his friend’s frustration. He shared it. Patience was something he had taught himself, learning that finding the truth required slow, tedious work at times. He was finding that patience difficult to cling to now. Simon tried to tell himself that was because the king was in danger, but he knew that was a lie. He wanted to grasp some hard fact, even some hint, of what plot was afoot and who was behind it for one reason only. He did not want to see that flare of hope in a pair of beautiful blue eyes die again, as it did each time he returned home with no news, no answers.
“We need to find David,” he said.
“David? Who is David?”
“Sir Hepbourn’s cousin. If what Ilsabeth tells me is true,” he ignored Tormand’s whispered curse—“this David is part of the plot. He follows Hepbourn, and a follower can often be a weak spot in any plan, easily broken.” Simon could see that some people were beginning to take too much notice of how he remained in the shadows. “Ye cannae be seen here nor can ye be seen to be helping me, but mayhap ye can move about enough to aid me in finding this David. Mayhap Morainn can help, too. I dinnae suppose she has had a vision about all of this.”
