“She’ll not mind that I come to visit my brother.”
So, she had not told Isobel. “If I catch you going about alone again, I shall whip you until you beg for mercy.”
Linnet rolled her eyes. “How silly you are! Maids do not require escorts.”
All the same, he would speak to Isobel about it.
“I brought you a treat from the kitchen,” Linnet said, reaching into the cloth bag slung over her shoulder. “Sir Robert told me these are your favorites.”
The smell of the warm apple tarts diverted him from his lecture, just as she intended.
He grabbed François by the shoulder and pointed to the bucket of clean water. “The tarts will taste better after you wash the smell of horse from your hands.”
The three of them sat on a pile of clean straw in the corner to eat their tarts.
“I like Sir Robert,” Linnet said between bites and licking her fingers, “but who is this… this de Roche?” She wrinkled her nose as though smelling dung.
Stephen liked the girl better all the time. “De Roche is the man your mistress is going to marry. He is from Rouen.”
Through a mouth stuffed full of tart, François mumbled his own speculation that de Roche came from hell. These children were wise beyond their years.
Linnet furrowed her brows in a pretty frown. “I cannot go to Rouen and leave François. When is this marriage to take place?”
“I do not know.” Stephen suppressed a sigh. “Let us not worry about that yet.”
“We cannot wait until it is too late,” Linnet objected.
“Perhaps you could marry her instead?” François said.
Stephen laughed and shook his head. “You want me to marry to please the two of you?”
“She is very pretty,” François said, “and I know how much you like her.” The boy leaned forward, mouth hanging open like a half-wit, in what Stephen took as an imitation of himself.
Linnet threw her head back and hooted with laughter.
Stephen rubbed his temples. What had he done to deserve these two demons? “I do wish Lady Hume a better husband, but de Roche is the man King Henry has chosen for her.”
Linnet dismissed the king’s wishes with a very French lift of her narrow shoulder.
“Come,” Stephen said to her. “I shall take you back now.”
He expected an argument, but Linnet jumped to her feet. After bidding adieu to François and Lightning—who withstood her exuberance with uncharacteristic calm—she was ready to go.
When they reached Isobel’s chamber in the keep, Linnet pushed the door open and ran inside. Stephen followed, intent on speaking to Isobel about Linnet.
As he closed the door, he saw Isobel. She was standing before the basin on the table against the wall, as if about to wash her face. Her long, dark hair was in tangles, and she wore just her shift.
The sight left Stephen dry-mouthed. When she turned and met his eyes, heat scorched between them like a fire.
He’d seen countless women rise from bed wearing less, but none stirred him as she did, covered neck to ankle in a plain white shift. The thought came to him, unbidden and unwelcome: He could see her like this every morning and never tire of it.
He remembered the silky feel of her hair in his hands. His fingers itched to touch it, but his feet were fixed like stone weights to the floor.
His eyes traveled down the lovely curve of her neck. He longed to run his tongue along the delicate collarbone just above the edge of her shift. Then, shameless man that he was, he let his gaze drop precipitously to her breasts. They were round and full, the tips pressed against the cloth.
He could not get enough air.
Still, he followed the folds of the white cloth down, pondering the sweet mysteries underneath. He was a drowning man. Down, down, down he went, until he reached slim ankles and bare feet. He wanted to hold her delicate foot in his hand and kiss each toe. And then move up her leg.
