face from onlookers. She felt hot, and confused, and...her womb seemed to ache. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t know me. In the years she had lived in the south he had not shown the slightest interest in her welfare . I am just another trophy to him. I am a prize. Lucien is marrying me for my inheritance.
And then his mouth was on hers again and her thoughts scattered. Isobel forgot they were in the Black Boar; she forgot why they were here; she forgot everything. The nuns, the relic, the thief—they no longer existed. The world had narrowed down to Lucien, to the arm wound round her waist, to the lips on hers. There was simply nothing else.
Lucien’s scent, musky and mysterious, surrounded her. His touch warmed her blood, her breasts felt heavy. The need to unclench her fists and wind her arms about his neck was irresistible. He was making her want to kiss his cheekbones and that scar on his temple. He was making...
She felt his tongue on hers and gasped. His tongue? She tore her lips from his.
‘Wh...what are you doing?’
His eyes—it must be something to do with the mean light—were almost black. ‘Kissing my betrothed,’ he murmured.
Something thumped on to the table.
‘Your wine,’ the potboy said. He had a distinct snigger in his voice. ‘Are you certain you won’t be wanting that bedchamber, sir?’
Isobel moaned with the shame of it and, even more shaming, found herself wrestling with the impulse to hide her face against Lucien’s chest.
The dark head shook. ‘No, thank you. We are...negotiating terms. Later perhaps.’
‘Negotiating terms?’ Isobel glared at him. ‘I hate you, I really hate you.’
‘No,’ came the soft answer. ‘Thankfully, I don’t think you do.’
He had done kissing her, it seemed. Strong hands were smoothing back hair that had escaped from her veil. He kept her tight against him—the arm encircling her waist felt proprietorial. And so it was, she supposed. I am his betrothed. His heiress. I am his latest trophy.
Lucien leaned against the wall of the inn, taking her with him, making her drape her arm about him. ‘There, isn’t it a relief to have got it out of the way?’
‘Got what out of the way?’ Isobel spoke sharply, hoping to conceal the most unsettling discovery. She liked being tucked against Lucien almost as much as she liked kissing him. It felt as though they belonged together. She was not feeling unalloyed pleasure though. She also felt anger—but whether she was more angry with herself or with him she could not say.
This man ignored me for years. I am nothing to him but a means to an end.
‘Our first kiss.’ Lightly, he touched her nose. ‘On the whole, it was quite enjoyable. Far better than I had hoped.’
She ground her teeth together. On the whole... ‘Lucien, I swear—’
‘Yes, yes, you hate me.’ Leaning towards her, he kissed her ear. Except that he wasn’t really kissing it, he was using the kiss to conceal the jerking of his head towards the next table. ‘Listen...can you hear?’
Isobel fought to ignore the rush of tingling evoked by his kiss and concentrated on the nearby table. Two heads, the shawled and the hooded, were close together.
‘Your man said to tell you that he will be at the next tournament,’ the woman said.
The thief wiped his nose with a ragged sleeve. ‘I take it you don’t mean the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes Castle?’
The woman laughed. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of leaves. ‘Don’t be a fool, that one will be bristling with Count Henry’s Guardians. I am speaking about the All Hallows Tourney at the Field of the Birds. I am told...’ the woman lowered her voice and Isobel barely caught the words ‘...your man has a buyer in mind. He will pay well for a relic that belonged to St Foye.’
‘Better than last time?’
‘ Much better. He will meet you at the beginning of the tourney, at the vespers when the young knights run through their paces.’
‘ Before the
And then his mouth was on hers again and her thoughts scattered. Isobel forgot they were in the Black Boar; she forgot why they were here; she forgot everything. The nuns, the relic, the thief—they no longer existed. The world had narrowed down to Lucien, to the arm wound round her waist, to the lips on hers. There was simply nothing else.
Lucien’s scent, musky and mysterious, surrounded her. His touch warmed her blood, her breasts felt heavy. The need to unclench her fists and wind her arms about his neck was irresistible. He was making her want to kiss his cheekbones and that scar on his temple. He was making...
She felt his tongue on hers and gasped. His tongue? She tore her lips from his.
‘Wh...what are you doing?’
His eyes—it must be something to do with the mean light—were almost black. ‘Kissing my betrothed,’ he murmured.
Something thumped on to the table.
‘Your wine,’ the potboy said. He had a distinct snigger in his voice. ‘Are you certain you won’t be wanting that bedchamber, sir?’
Isobel moaned with the shame of it and, even more shaming, found herself wrestling with the impulse to hide her face against Lucien’s chest.
The dark head shook. ‘No, thank you. We are...negotiating terms. Later perhaps.’
‘Negotiating terms?’ Isobel glared at him. ‘I hate you, I really hate you.’
‘No,’ came the soft answer. ‘Thankfully, I don’t think you do.’
He had done kissing her, it seemed. Strong hands were smoothing back hair that had escaped from her veil. He kept her tight against him—the arm encircling her waist felt proprietorial. And so it was, she supposed. I am his betrothed. His heiress. I am his latest trophy.
Lucien leaned against the wall of the inn, taking her with him, making her drape her arm about him. ‘There, isn’t it a relief to have got it out of the way?’
‘Got what out of the way?’ Isobel spoke sharply, hoping to conceal the most unsettling discovery. She liked being tucked against Lucien almost as much as she liked kissing him. It felt as though they belonged together. She was not feeling unalloyed pleasure though. She also felt anger—but whether she was more angry with herself or with him she could not say.
This man ignored me for years. I am nothing to him but a means to an end.
‘Our first kiss.’ Lightly, he touched her nose. ‘On the whole, it was quite enjoyable. Far better than I had hoped.’
She ground her teeth together. On the whole... ‘Lucien, I swear—’
‘Yes, yes, you hate me.’ Leaning towards her, he kissed her ear. Except that he wasn’t really kissing it, he was using the kiss to conceal the jerking of his head towards the next table. ‘Listen...can you hear?’
Isobel fought to ignore the rush of tingling evoked by his kiss and concentrated on the nearby table. Two heads, the shawled and the hooded, were close together.
‘Your man said to tell you that he will be at the next tournament,’ the woman said.
The thief wiped his nose with a ragged sleeve. ‘I take it you don’t mean the Twelfth Night joust in Troyes Castle?’
The woman laughed. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of leaves. ‘Don’t be a fool, that one will be bristling with Count Henry’s Guardians. I am speaking about the All Hallows Tourney at the Field of the Birds. I am told...’ the woman lowered her voice and Isobel barely caught the words ‘...your man has a buyer in mind. He will pay well for a relic that belonged to St Foye.’
‘Better than last time?’
‘ Much better. He will meet you at the beginning of the tourney, at the vespers when the young knights run through their paces.’
‘ Before the
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