“I am well now, thank you. And you, Sir Stephen?”
Her voice. He wanted to listen to it and nothing else. But de Roche was blathering something to him, like a gnat buzzing about his head.
“What?” he snapped. He let his eyes burn over de Roche, letting the man see that Stephen thought he was a worthless sack of horseshit. “The king will be displeased to hear you’ve made little progress with the city leaders. Your failure will bring the people of Rouen to grief.”
De Roche’s face flushed a deep red. When he opened his mouth to speak, Stephen cut him off.
“Lady Hume, you are much missed in Caen,” he said as he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her fingers were trembling and icy cold. “The king sends his warmest greetings.”
Keeping his eyes on hers, he said, “I hope Lord de Roche will permit me to speak with you in private before I leave the city, for I have news of your brother.” Switching to English, he added, “And a question to ask.”
She sent a furtive glance at de Roche, who was staring fixedly at the wall above Stephen’s head. Then she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake. That tiny movement hit Stephen like a heavy blow, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back a step.
“Of course you may speak with her, if time allows,” de Roche said, unaware that Isobel had already given Stephen the only answer that mattered.
There was no child. Stephen watched in a daze as de Roche took Isobel’s arm and led her away.
No child, no child. He’d been so certain.
Somehow he managed to gather himself and pretend the world was not crashing around his ears. He did his duty by his king. But it was the longest evening of his life.
When the reception finally ended, he retired to his room and collapsed upon the bed. He stared at the ceiling. To see her and not touch her. To talk with her and not be able to say the things he needed to say to her. It had nearly killed him.
He was so sure she was with child. Because he needed her to be. It shamed him that he wanted to use the child to force her hand, to make her wed him instead of de Roche. In time, she would have seen it was for the best…
He heaved a sigh. What would he do now?
He could not leave without telling her what was in his heart. If she wanted him, he would find a way. How, he did not know. But he would.
There was a rap on his door. Please, God, make them go away! When the knocking persisted, he rolled off the bed. He opened the door and found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes beneath a head of shaggy blond hair.
“François!” He pulled the boy into the room and closed the door behind him. “ ’Tis good to see you! I swear you’ve grown still more since you left Caen. How is your sister?”
“Truth be told, she is a constant worry to me.”
“Nothing new in that,” Stephen said, slapping the lad on the back. “You are just the man I need. Where is Isobel staying? I need to speak with her.”
François flushed and dropped his gaze to the floor. Unease rolled through Stephen.
In a low voice the boy said, “She stays in de Roche’s house.”
Blindly, Stephen found his way to the nearest chair and fell into it. Isobel was living in the man’s house? He had not expected this. How could she agree to it? A betrothal was difficult enough to break, but a betrothal plus consummation made a marriage.
“ ’Tis a very large house,” François said, stretching his arms wide and speaking in a quick, nervous voice. “Her rooms are in a separate wing, and Linnet stays with her.”
“But he must have family there, some married woman responsible for guarding Isobel’s virtue.”
When the boy dropped his eyes again, Stephen was suddenly so angry he wanted to punch his fist into the stone wall. Good God, it could not be worse.
“What was she thinking, agreeing to this… this… arrangement?” he said, throwing his hands up. Was shetryingto torture him?
Had she done it? Had Isobel slept with the man? This time he did slam his fist against the wall. God’s beard, that hurt!
François’s eyes went wide as Stephen shook his hand out and muttered curses.
“I need to speak to Isobel alone. When is the best time to find de Roche gone?”
“He is often out late,” Francois said with a shrug. “He rarely shows himself in the hall before the midday meal.”
