Lady Isobel's Champion by Carol Townend Page B

vespers?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Firelight glinted in a shard of broken glass by the thief’s elbow. ‘Where? Where shall I meet him?’
    ‘He will find you.’ The woman gave a snort of laughter. ‘He ought to know you by now.’ Keeping her shawl firmly about her, she rose and scurried out.
    Careful to keep her voice low, Isobel looked at Lucien. ‘Did you see her face?’ Where is the Field of the Birds? Isobel was bursting with other questions, but she bit her tongue on the rest, the hooded man was too close.
    Lucien’s hand tightened its hold. ‘No. You?’
    ‘Not so much as a hair on her head.’ Isobel sighed and tried to put space between them. As she did so, she realised with horror that whilst she had been listening to the conversation on the next table, Lucien had taken possession of her other hand. Their fingers were entwined. How had she not noticed? Under the pretext of picking up her wine, she hastily disentangled herself.
    She took a wary sip. The wine was earthy and faintly sour; it had an unpleasant undertone that defied identification. Ordinarily, Isobel wouldn’t dream of drinking it, but she was glad to have the excuse to edge out of Lucien’s arms. He discomposed her. He made her forget herself. Shooting him a glance, she caught his eyes on her, distant, watchful.
    ‘Must you look at me like that?’ she asked.
    ‘You are not as I expected.’
    ‘If you had troubled yourself to visit me at Conques, you would have come to know me.’
    His face went hard. ‘It is not necessary to know a woman in order to marry her.’
    Isobel stared. ‘You are blunt, my lord.’ Her fingers curled into her palms. ‘You want my lands.’
    Lucien leaned in. His eyes were no longer dark as they had been when they had kissed, they gleamed with intent. Ruthless, he is utterly ruthless. Those eyes were the eyes of a man who never took his eyes from his target. ‘I admit your lands will be useful,’ he said quietly. ‘My lady, only a fool would turn down the chance of enlarging his estates. But I am not marrying you solely for your lands. I am marrying you to honour the oath I swore at our betrothal. My father was sorely disappointed at the delay. I did him wrong in the matter of our marriage and that wrong has sat heavy in my mind for years. The time has come to put it right.’
    Isobel frowned. ‘Your father died some years ago. Why wait till now to honour your oath to wed me?’
    It was as though Lucien had not heard her. That hard gaze shifted to the jug of wine, although she doubted that he saw it.
    ‘I need an heir.’
    Isobel’s hand jerked. Wine slopped on to the table. An heir. He means a male heir, the one thing my mother could not give my father. The one thing Isobel was afraid she would not be able to give him. Lucien’s mouth, the mouth that had stirred such feelings in her, was set in a hard, uncompromising line. When Lucien put his mind to it, he would be relentless. What would happen to her if she failed him as her mother had failed her father? Two great fears twisted together in her mind: I may not be capable of giving him an heir. I may die in the attempt.
    He reached for his wine, drank, and gave an eloquent shudder. ‘ Mon Dieu , Isobel.’ He prised her cup out of her grasp and dragged her to her feet. ‘Don’t touch that pi—er, swill, else you’ll be joining your maid in the infirmary. We’re leaving.’
    As they squeezed past the tables, the thief looked up. His lip curled and he reached for his dagger.
    Isobel made a small sound of distress.
    Shielding her with his body, Lucien urged her past the fire. ‘As I feared, he noticed you giving chase.’ He pushed a coin into the potboy’s waiting hands. ‘I shall escort you back to the Abbey.’
    ‘Thank you, my lord.’
    Outside, Isobel heaved in a lungful of fresh air. Lucien took possession of her hand. He didn’t tuck it into his arm in the more formal manner; instead, he held it at his side, as though they were sweethearts. As he