He leaned back, breathing hard. “I beg you, be brief.”
“I am not well.”
He smiled. “Oddly enough, I feel feverish, myself.”
“I’m having my courses.” The lie tumbled out of her mouth before she thought it. Blushing, she added, “They began this morning.”
“I see.” De Roche stepped back and straightened his tunic. “Well, then, we can wait a few days.”
“Aye,” she said in a voice just above a whisper, “we should wait.”
Hume had followed the church’s admonition to abstain from relations during her monthly bleeding. She’d used the excuse as often as she dared. From the expression of distaste on de Roche’s face, she suspected this reprieve was due to a perverse squeamishness rather than a desire to avoid sin.
De Roche marched her back to her rooms, not bothering to hide his displeasure. As if she could help having her courses! She lied, but he did not know that.
Well, she was angry with him, too. And she had good cause! Displeasing him, however, would not serve her well in the long run. The man could make her life a misery in a thousand ways, if he chose.
So why did she lie to put him off? If she carried a child, then bedding de Roche now was the safest and wisest course. The only sensible course. If her husband suspected the child was not his… She closed her eyes. Nothing could be worse.
Still, she could not make herself do it. She could not yet take that final step. A betrothal plus consummation made a marriage, regardless of the formalities.
She would honor Stephen’s demand, as best she could. Though she was not able to delay the betrothal, she would forestall completion of the marriage until she knew if there was a child. Stephen’s child.
’Twas foolish, for Stephen could not save her now. Even if he wanted to, he could not.
Chapter Twenty-seven
As if being punished for her lie, Isobel awoke the next morning with a damp stickiness between her legs.
Nay, it could not be! She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she did not know. But it could mean nothing else. She rolled to her side and hugged her knees to her chest.
There was no baby.
Only now could she admit to herself how much she had wanted it. If she were with child, there would be no way for Stephen to know of it, no way for her to get word to him. Still, she harbored the hope that somehow he would know. And come for her.
It made no difference that he would have married her for the child’s sake. Nor that she would make a pathetic wife, always hoping to make him love her. In her secret heart of hearts, she wanted to be forced to take her chances with him.
Regardless of all else, she wanted this baby. Stephen’s child. A part of him she could love and keep.
Linnet stirred on the bed beside her, bringing her sharply back to the present. There could be no escape from her betrothal now. Her life was here in Normandy. With de Roche.
Isobel was lost in such despair that days and nights blurred together. She did not stir from her rooms, refused to dress, and ate only what Linnet forced down her.
Although she told herself she must gather herself and face her future, she simply could not do it. It took all her strength to drag herself from her bed to sit in her solar. She spent most of her time there, gazing out the window at the tree in the courtyard. It was in blossom now.
She ignored the tug on her arm. When it persisted, she turned her gaze from the tree to find Linnet at her side.
“I’ve been trying to tell you!” Linnet’s voice was urgent, upset.
Isobel tried to make an effort, for the girl’s sake. “What is it?”
“I told them all you have a raging fever, but it has been a week and de Roche is asking for you.”
How could Linnet believe she cared about this?
“Listen to me!” Linnet put her hands on her hips and stamped her foot. “I swear, I shall slap you if you do not quit looking at that damnable tree. François and I need your help.”
Before Isobel could drift off again, Linnet lifted a cup of wine to her mouth and held it there until she drank. She felt the wine hit her stomach and travel down her limbs. With so little in her stomach, she felt light-headed when Linnet hauled her up from her chair.
