Lady Isobel's Champion by Carol Townend

patronised.

Chapter Four
    I nside, smoke gusted from a central fire. The shutters were closed and the air was stale. The stench was overpowering. Candle grease, mutton stew, and human sweat. Customers hunched round the fire, leather mugs in hand. Rushlights guttered, sooty streamers trailed upwards.
    ‘Hell of a draught,’ someone bellowed.
    A boy leaped at the door, and the gloom deepened.
    Isobel gripped Lucien’s arm, he had been right to warn her about this place. For all her bravado, she had never been in an inn like this. A full-bosomed woman was leaning through a serving hatch. The cut of her gown would doubtless give the Abbess an apoplexy. Faces turned towards them—unearthly in the fire-glow.
    Isobel had lost sight of the thief. Several girls were moving among the customers—bright hair ribbons shone through the murk: yellow, violet, blue. The girls’ clothes were cleverly laced to show off swelling breasts and slender waists. Isobel found herself staring.
    A potboy materialised. ‘Drink?’ He looked Isobel up and down. ‘Or is it a bedchamber you are wanting, sir?’
    Isobel’s cheeks scorched. When Lucien’s stern expression lightened— he is amused —she avoided his eyes.
    ‘We would like a cup of your best red, thank you,’ he said. ‘We shall take it over there, in the corner.’
    The thief was at a table lit by a cloudy horn lantern, deep in conversation with a woman in a moth-eaten shawl. Lucien handed Isobel to a bench a few feet away.
    ‘Can’t we get any closer?’ Isobel murmured.
    Lucien’s lips curved as he settled next to her. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, and her stomach turned over. His blue eyes were as intent as a lover’s. ‘We can get as close as you wish, my dove.’
    Isobel huffed out a breath. Lucien was almost on top of her, the long length of his thigh was warm against hers. She wrenched her hand free and glared at him. ‘My lord, that was not what I meant, and you know it.’
    Lucien’s hand—as warm as his thigh—slid round her waist. ‘Try to look more encouraging,’ he murmured, his voice as caressing as his hand. ‘They take us for sweethearts. Scowl like that and they will become suspicious. We will learn nothing. At the moment your presence is tolerated because they hope I will pay for a private chamber.’
    Isobel swallowed. Lucien’s smile, though charming, was altogether too practised. She recalled how his skin had darkened before they had entered. Lucien might not have been in this particular inn before, but he is not inexperienced. He... Her heart seemed to stutter, and when she noticed his gaze drop to her mouth, she realised with a jolt what was coming.
    ‘Oh...no.’
    ‘Oh, yes. Come here, little dove.’ Pulling her against him, Lucien lowered his lips to hers.
    Isobel froze. Her fingers clenched into fists, fists she pressed up against his chest, pushing against him. But not too hard. She was curious. And furious.
    How could he!
    For years Isobel had lived for some sign of attention from this man. Any sign would have done—a letter sent to the convent in Conques perhaps...even a simple message. He had done nothing. He had ignored her—year, after year, after year.
    And then he had the gall to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. She heard a strangled sound and, realising it was coming from her, silenced it. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didn’t want her. Her pulse thudded. She wished he would stop, she couldn’t breathe. She was going to faint. Lord, no, she wasn’t, she liked his kiss.
    His mouth softened and he eased back. ‘Relax, Isobel, you will convince no one like that.’
    She pushed against his chest with little effect, her strength had deserted her.
    When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in his palm, making tiny caressing circles with his fingertips, pleasure shot along every nerve. She bit back a moan. It was fortunate that his hand hid her