Randolph’s voice was perilously low and thick as if he were fighting the same feelings burning Izzie’s throat and eyes. It was emotion, she realized.Genuineemotion. He wasn’t incapable after all. “I’m certain of it.”
“What do you think, my lady?” Annie asked, glancing over her shoulder at Izzie with a wan smile, the effort alone an exertion.
Both Izzie and Randolph started—Izzie for not realizing she’d been seen, and Randolph for not realizing she was there. Randolph immediately jumped to his feet.
Izzie walked toward them. “I am certain of it as well. Besides, Sir Thomas would know. He’s an earl, and the nephew of the king, which is almost like a prince.”
Laughter lit Annie’s face and for a moment Isabel could see the girl she might have been had life not treated her so cruelly. “Does that mean you shall be a princess when you and Sir Thomas wed, my lady?” Annie mistook the sudden shocked silence that had suddenly filled the garden and explained, “I overheard some of the nuns after you left last time. They said Sir Thomas was to marry one of the ladies, and I knew it had to be you.”
Izzie hoped her expression didn’t show her horror and embarrassment. How could Annie think she and Randolph…? No one who saw them would put them together, especially with her gorgeous cousin around. So why then was she suddenly eager to ask her why she’d thought that?
She glanced at Randolph who seemed to have recovered faster than she. He gave a slight shake of his head, which Izzie understood: don’t make her feel badly.
Izzie forced a smile to her face. “Aye, I suppose I shall—or as close to one as anyone could ever dream to be.” Anyone such as her cousin. Eager to switch the subject, Izzie added, “How long have you been out here?”
“Not very long,” Annie answered quickly.
Randolph gave the young girl a pointed look with an arched brow. “About a quarter of an hour longer than you talked me into. I said a half hour. You shouldn’t be out here much longer than that.”
Annie started to protest. “But I’m plenty warm—”
Randolph stopped her by sweeping her up in his arms. “No arguing, little one. You don’t want to see the lady become angry with me, do you?” He leaned down to say in a low voice that Izzie could still hear. “She’s quite fierce when she’s angry, you know.”
Annie glanced over his shoulder to Izzie, looking skeptical. “I can’t imagine the lady would ever be angry with you, Sir Thomas. You are the most wonderful knight in the kingdom.”
Randolph grinned and looked right at Izzie, daring her to argue. “Did you hear that, Lady Isabel?”
Izzie sighed and shook her head. “I heard it.”
He grinned, and she felt the force of that roguish, I-dare-you-not-to-fall-in-love-with-me smile hit her like a fist in her chest.
Realizing that she didn’t want to take that dare, she followed the famous knight carrying the bundled up young peasant girl back into the building.
Randolph sensed Lady Isabel watching him, but she didn’t say anything until they were leaving the room.
“You gave her your cloak, didn’t you? I saw her try to hand it back to you.”
He shrugged. “I have others. She needs it more than me. The fur will keep her warm.”
“It must have cost a fortune.”
He didn’t say anything. It had, but he could afford another.
“I’m sure she will treasure it for…” Her voice dropped off.
For as long as she lives.
They walked down the stairs together in silence. There was no need to say anything. Whatcouldthey say? It was sad, horrible, wrong, and far too common an occurrence. Randolph had been visiting poor houses and hospitals since he was a child. His mother had insisted that he be raised to have compassion for those less fortunate than himself. It was his duty.
But today hadn’t been just about duty. Something about the very sick young girl had touched him in a way that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
Maybe it was her stoic acceptance of death, and her strength in the face of all the hardship and injustices life had handed her. Or maybe it was because she was being struck down right on the cusp of womanhood—a time when she should be flirting and laughing with the village lads.
Or maybe it was because she reminded him of the older sister he’d lost to a fever a long time ago.
The two looked nothing alike—Annie was skinny, pale, and fair-haired, while Agnes had been dark, round, and brimming with vitality. But she’d been thirteen—probably a year or two younger than Annie—close enough to the same age to remind him.
Even after all these years, he still didn’t like to think about it. He’d cared for his sister with a fierceness he’d never felt since—for anyone. So he pushed the memory aside, returning his attention to the woman beside him.
