“Lady Hume is past exhaustion,” Stephen said, ignoring William’s signal to be quiet. “Please, sire, can this wait until tomorrow, when she is rested?”
The king gave Stephen a curt nod.
“Thank you, sire,” Stephen said.
He made a quick bow and helped Isobel to her feet. As he half carried her out of the hall, he tried to speak to her. She made no response to his entreaties.
William caught up with them at the bottom of the steps. “Lady Hume,” he said in a gentle voice as he took her arm. “My wife and I want you to stay with us at our house in the town.”
Catherine appeared behind them and pushed Stephen aside to take Isobel’s other arm. Without a word to him, husband and wife walked away with the now-placid Isobel between them.
William turned to give Stephen an exasperated look over his shoulder. As if the scene inside had been his fault! Stephen clenched his fists in frustration.
He felt a hard thump on his back and turned to find Robert standing beside him on the steps.
“That did not go as well as we had hoped,” Robert said. “Did you not realize the king has chosen you to be her husband?”
“I guessed as much.” Stephen sank to the bottom step and rested his head on his arms. It was all too much. He was bone weary. “But I could not take her like that.”
“Come, come,” Robert said, settling down next to him. “Isobel thought the king was marrying her off to another scum like Hume or de Roche. Who could blame her for objecting?”
“She does not want to marry me.”
“Isobel will come around, once she realizes how much she cares for you.”
“She says she loves me,” Stephen said without lifting his head from his arms. “It does not help my cause.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Isobel could not breathe! De Roche’s hands were around her throat, squeezing with a ferocious strength as he leaned her backward over the bed.
“You! You!” he croaked, his eyes bulging.
Panic surged through her, giving her the strength to do what she should have done before. With one sweep of her arm, she brought the double-edged blade across his throat.
For one horrifying moment, de Roche hovered above her, gushing blood like a fountain. Blood splattered her face, soaked her shirt, and ran in rivulets down the sides of her neck. Then de Roche collapsed against her, trapping her against the bed. He was so heavy! Gagging convulsively, she fought to push him off.
Isobel sat up in bed, her heart racing.
A dream. This time, it was a dream.
Gingerly, she touched her fingertips to her chest to be sure. The cloth was dry. She looked down and let her breath out when she saw the clean white shift.
De Roche and LeFevre were dead. She was safe.
She heard a door scrape, and her hand flew to her throat.
“Lady Hume?” a cheerful voice called out. “Are you awake?”
Isobel pulled the bed curtain back as a plump older woman entered the room carrying a steaming tray.
“Feeling better today?” the maid asked over her shoulder as she set the tray on a table near the door.
“I am, thank you,” Isobel answered. “Did I sleep long?”
“A full night and day, m’lady,” the maid said with a laugh. As she came toward the bed, she pinched her brows together. “Tsk, tsk, those are nasty bruises.”
Isobel dropped her hand from her throat.
