This man would be her husband. Soon she would share his bed as often as he wished her to. It seemed silly to protest this small familiarity.
The old hope returned. The hope that her new husband could make her feel the way Stephen did when he kissed her. That he could give her that feeling of being swept away, as if nothing else mattered so long as he touched her.
Was it possible? She needed to know.
“Kiss me,” she said, lifting her face to him. This time, it would be different.
This kiss was different. Softer. Not frightening, like the first time. And not disgusting, like Hume’s. Her mind was cold and clear as she waited for the thrill to seize her. And waited. The kiss felt… pleasant. But no more than that.
She could come up with no explanation. De Roche was handsome, young, healthy. True, the heavy scent he wore gave her a bit of a headache. But his lips were soft and warm. The tickle of his mustache did not bother her.
De Roche ran his hands up and down her sides. Her body began to respond to his caresses. But where was the mindless passion? What she felt was a dim candle to the roaring fire that burned through her when Stephen touched her.
She would try harder. Determined, she moved her hands to the nape of his neck and kissed him back. She opened her mouth to him and slid her tongue over his the way she remembered had brought moans from Stephen.
Before she knew it, she was crushed against him. She felt trapped, unable to move. She was so startled by the suddenness of the assault that it took her a moment to realize de Roche’s hand was like an iron band around her wrist.
She made frantic little cries against his mouth as he forced her hand downward. He was so strong! She felt the hardness of his cock against her palm. Up and down, up and down, he rubbed her hand against it.
She bit his lip and tasted blood. Though he tore his mouth away, he did not release her hand. His breath was coming in horrid gasps against her ear. She was flooded with the memory of Hume’s putrid smell gagging her in the darkness.
With a surge of strength, she wrenched her other arm free and swung at him. He caught her hand midair. They stood inches apart, staring at each other. Both were breathing hard, but she was choking back tears.
“Stop, please.” Her voice was small, barely a whisper.
His eyes were black with rage. “After the way you kissed me, you will pretend you do not want me in your bed tonight?”
“I meant only a kiss,” she stammered, feeling confused and ashamed.
“Ah, you mean to tease me.” His voice was all the more menacing for its softness. “That is not a nice game to play.”
Looking straight into her eyes, he cupped her breasts with his hands. She was too shocked and too frightened to move.
“Once I take you to bed,” he said as he rubbed his thumbs in slow circles over her nipples through the cloth, “you will want to learn the kind of games that will keep me there.”
There was a time when Stephen would have been pleased to be included in the king’s meeting with his commanders. But not tonight. Although King Henry placed considerable importance on the just administration of his new territories, the other men looked bored as Stephen gave his report. And why not? Stephen was bored himself.
In sooth, he was not so much bored as anxious to leave. The moment the king released him, he made his escape. He pretended not to see William’s signal to wait for him. As he ran along the dark path to the keep, he asked himself why he was going to find Isobel.
What would he say when he found her? He had no idea.
This was lunacy, even for him. If he wanted to forget all honor and seduce her, he could have done that already. He recalled the moment when he knew she was his for the asking—and almost forgot to breathe.
What she did to him! He felt better about himself when he was around her. More interesting. More clever. Certainly more virtuous! He wanted to protect her, to drive the sadness from her eyes.
He would not let himself think what that meant now.
He entered the keep and raced up the back stairs, two at a time. As he climbed, he thought of the last time he came here. When she leapt from the bed in her shift. His heart beat so hard now he thought it might burst from his chest.
He ran down the corridor and made the last turn.
And stopped dead in his tracks.
Despite the dim light, he could not fool himself into believing the woman was anyone other than Isobel. He’d spent too many hours studying that profile. And that foolish goatee could belong to none other than de Roche.
When Isobel slid her hands behind de Roche’s neck and pulled him into a deep kiss, she may as well have reached into Stephen’s chest and ripped his heart out. How could she? How could she do this?
Then he saw her hand, covered by de Roche’s, reaching down. Sweet Jesus, he did not want to see this. Not this. When she began stroking de Roche’s crotch, Stephen leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. And still he could hear the little sounds she was making. He had to get out of here. Now.
