Just as Isobel opened the bed curtain, Linnet came through the door with a rush of cold air and a tray laden with food. The smell of warm bread made Isobel’s stomach growl. She’d slept through supper last night.
“Thank you, Linnet, that was thoughtful of you.”
Linnet kept her eyes on the tray and did not speak. Isobel sighed and wrapped her robe around herself. Motioning Linnet to join her, she sat down at the small table.
“You must have been frightened when I did not return by nightfall,” she began. “I am sorry for that.”
Linnet lifted eyes swimming with unshed tears. “You did not need to go,” she said, accusation sharp in her voice. “Sir Stephen and Lord FitzAlan would have brought them back.”
“I was too afraid for my brother to think clearly.”
Linnet pressed her lips together. After a long moment, she nodded. “For François, I would do the same.”
Linnet forgot her annoyance as Isobel related the story of the first attack.
Eyes wide, Linnet said, “ ’Tis something to see Sir Stephen and Lord FitzAlan fight, is it not?”
“I forgot you saw them fight in Falaise—”
Someone pounded on the door so hard it shook, startling them both to their feet.
The door swung open and de Roche stood in the doorway, his eyes black with fury. “What kind of fool woman has this English king saddled me with?”
Linnet flew to Isobel’s side and clutched her hand.
De Roche slammed the door, causing them both to jump again.
“Foolishanddisobedient,” he said. “Did I not tell you to wait in your chamber for your brother’s return?”
He strode across the room. When he stood not a foot from her, he asked again. “Did I not tell you?”
As a girl, Isobel had played with the boys. She knew about bullies. Cowering emboldened them.
“Aye, you did,” she said in a clear, unapologetic voice. Anger welled up in her, fast and hard. She opened her mouth to call him a coward for not going after her brother himself.
Just in time, she remembered de Roche would be her husband and bit her tongue. No man could forgive being called a coward, especially if the words were just. If she were to have any hope of a cordial relationship with her husband, she must not say it.
De Roche stared at her tight-lipped. Then, quite suddenly, the anger left his face. She let her shoulders relax. The awful moment was past, thank heaven.
“I begin to see the appeal of a spirited woman,” de Roche said, letting his gaze slide over her.
He pushed Linnet away and slammed Isobel against him. His mouth was hungry on hers, his hips ground against her, his erect shaft pressed against her belly. Beside them, Linnet was shouting and pulling on Isobel’s arm.
De Roche released her just as suddenly.
“Perhaps you are worth the trouble, after all,” he said, smiling. He gave her cheek a hard pinch, then turned and left.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Linnet drew her to the bench under the arrow-slit window. Linnet sat close beside her and held her hand. Isobel could not stop shaking.
“Must you marry him?” Linnet asked in a small voice.
“Aye, ’tis the king’s command,” Isobel said as calmly as she could. “You mustn’t judge him by one angry moment. He had cause to be displeased with me, and he was over it quick enough.”
Isobel cursed her dead husband under her breath. Must she suffer for the rest of her life for Hume’s foolishness? She should be mistress of her own home, living in peace in Northumberland.
“Help me dress,” she said, patting Linnet’s hand. “I must see how Lord FitzAlan fares.”
A short time later, she stood outside the door to Fitz-Alan’s sickroom. She lifted her hand to knock, hoping and dreading she would find Stephen within. The door was ajar. She could hear voices.
