fled.
Directly behind Isolde stood the one man whose presence, and duty, blocked her father’s safe return home.
Roland St. Marten.
Chapter Four
E LOISE’S APPREHENSION vanished so swiftly Roland almost doubted his eyesight and instincts. Before he could further contemplate her reaction, she looked away and busied her hands, casually picking up a parchment scroll from near the edge of her bed, then tucking it into the gold-link girdle belting her trim waist.
Her composure now under command, with tilted head and delicately raised brows, Eloise looked askance at his presence in the doorway.
He eased around the maid who blocked his path and entered the bedchamber, a richly appointed and pleasantly scented room appropriate for the woman who inhabited it.
’Twas a cozy chamber. Woven rush mats were scattered about the polished plank floor. Large, colorful tapestries of floral design hung on the whitewashed walls. A deep blue velvet coverlet matched the draperies—tied back with gold cord—adorning her bed. Isolde’s pallet occupied a corner, not far from two high-backed, ornately carved chairs flanking a claw-footed brass brazier.
He caught a glimpse of white porcelain under the bed—a chamber pot, likely—that matched the washbasin on a table strewn with feminine possessions. A silvered glass competed for space with ribbons, combs, and tiny colorful bottles.
A flash of lightning momentarily brightened the room, heralding an approaching storm. A whisper of cool breeze played with the crimson and gold ribbons woven into Eloise’s braid. He smothered the urge to capture them, unwind them until her tresses hung loose and flowing.
Roland knew Hugh had spent time in this bedchamber with his betrothed, insisting the two of them get to know each other better before they wed. He couldn’t help wonder if the couple had done more than talk. To his mortification he envisioned besotted Hugh and his willful bride-to-be, Eloise’s ribbons undone, bodies entwined on the blue velvet coverlet.
Whatever the relationship between Hugh and Eloise, it had ended with Hugh’s death. Still, the erotic vision of Eloise pressed against the mattress beneath Hugh wasn’t easily put aside.
“I wish a word with you, Lady Eloise. You and I must come to an understanding.”
Her expression turned mocking. “An understanding, Sir Roland? You have invaded my home. In return for that offense, you expect me to feed and board you and your minions in grand style. Play the meek maid while you play lord of the castle. Pray tell, good sir, just what is it you believe I do not understand?”
He crossed his arms and summoned his patience, which he hoped would hold out over the next weeks. Dealing with Eloise Hamelin sorely taxed his usually amiable nature.
Keeping his attention on Eloise, he told the maid, “Isolde, you will wait in the passageway. Close the door behind you.”
Eloise’s eyes hardened. “My maid may stay.”
“You forget who is in charge, my lady. ’Twould be a mistake to condone your servant’s disobedience of my orders.”
“A ridiculous order.”
“But an order nonetheless. Isolde?”
With pursed lips Eloise nodded at the maid, and soon he heard Isolde’s distinctive shuffle and the door snicker closed.
Only the flicked tip of her pink tongue over her full bottom lip betrayed her nervousness. “Have your say and be done.”
He wanted nothing more than to quit the room, have no more to do with Eloise than he must.
“Both Sir Simon and I warned you of Kenworth’s volatile nature, yet you risked his wrath by leaving the hall before ’twas proper. I come only to caution you to do nothing more to displease him while he is here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Tell me. Would I have displeased him less had I become violently ill while seated next to him? I should think him gratified I left.”
He saw no sign she suffered. Truth to tell, she appeared the very bloom of good health. “You are ill?”
“No longer.
Directly behind Isolde stood the one man whose presence, and duty, blocked her father’s safe return home.
Roland St. Marten.
Chapter Four
E LOISE’S APPREHENSION vanished so swiftly Roland almost doubted his eyesight and instincts. Before he could further contemplate her reaction, she looked away and busied her hands, casually picking up a parchment scroll from near the edge of her bed, then tucking it into the gold-link girdle belting her trim waist.
Her composure now under command, with tilted head and delicately raised brows, Eloise looked askance at his presence in the doorway.
He eased around the maid who blocked his path and entered the bedchamber, a richly appointed and pleasantly scented room appropriate for the woman who inhabited it.
’Twas a cozy chamber. Woven rush mats were scattered about the polished plank floor. Large, colorful tapestries of floral design hung on the whitewashed walls. A deep blue velvet coverlet matched the draperies—tied back with gold cord—adorning her bed. Isolde’s pallet occupied a corner, not far from two high-backed, ornately carved chairs flanking a claw-footed brass brazier.
He caught a glimpse of white porcelain under the bed—a chamber pot, likely—that matched the washbasin on a table strewn with feminine possessions. A silvered glass competed for space with ribbons, combs, and tiny colorful bottles.
A flash of lightning momentarily brightened the room, heralding an approaching storm. A whisper of cool breeze played with the crimson and gold ribbons woven into Eloise’s braid. He smothered the urge to capture them, unwind them until her tresses hung loose and flowing.
Roland knew Hugh had spent time in this bedchamber with his betrothed, insisting the two of them get to know each other better before they wed. He couldn’t help wonder if the couple had done more than talk. To his mortification he envisioned besotted Hugh and his willful bride-to-be, Eloise’s ribbons undone, bodies entwined on the blue velvet coverlet.
Whatever the relationship between Hugh and Eloise, it had ended with Hugh’s death. Still, the erotic vision of Eloise pressed against the mattress beneath Hugh wasn’t easily put aside.
“I wish a word with you, Lady Eloise. You and I must come to an understanding.”
Her expression turned mocking. “An understanding, Sir Roland? You have invaded my home. In return for that offense, you expect me to feed and board you and your minions in grand style. Play the meek maid while you play lord of the castle. Pray tell, good sir, just what is it you believe I do not understand?”
He crossed his arms and summoned his patience, which he hoped would hold out over the next weeks. Dealing with Eloise Hamelin sorely taxed his usually amiable nature.
Keeping his attention on Eloise, he told the maid, “Isolde, you will wait in the passageway. Close the door behind you.”
Eloise’s eyes hardened. “My maid may stay.”
“You forget who is in charge, my lady. ’Twould be a mistake to condone your servant’s disobedience of my orders.”
“A ridiculous order.”
“But an order nonetheless. Isolde?”
With pursed lips Eloise nodded at the maid, and soon he heard Isolde’s distinctive shuffle and the door snicker closed.
Only the flicked tip of her pink tongue over her full bottom lip betrayed her nervousness. “Have your say and be done.”
He wanted nothing more than to quit the room, have no more to do with Eloise than he must.
“Both Sir Simon and I warned you of Kenworth’s volatile nature, yet you risked his wrath by leaving the hall before ’twas proper. I come only to caution you to do nothing more to displease him while he is here.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Tell me. Would I have displeased him less had I become violently ill while seated next to him? I should think him gratified I left.”
He saw no sign she suffered. Truth to tell, she appeared the very bloom of good health. “You are ill?”
“No longer.
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