fire and talking to Dornei's priest, ignoring all about him—the noise, the aromas, the occasion. It was his wedding supper, and he had left his bride to sit alone. Yet, though Isabel sat in the place of power, of rank, and of might, it was Richard who emanated all the power felt in the Hall. He did not act as if he knew it; nay, he behaved for all the world like a monk seeking spiritual counsel from his priest. And perhaps that was all he was.
Nicholas smirked away that notion. No man could ignore the weight of power when it rested so upon him, just as no man could ignore the desirability of Isabel, sitting at the high table, waiting in feminine submission for the Lord of Dornei to sit beside her in his rightful place. But Richard did. Or seemed to.
A whispered word from the priest, a subtle gesture, and Richard obeyed, moving across the floor to join his wife. He did not appear an eager husband, to have to rely on a priest to guide him to his mate. Adam watched avidly and said nothing.
Smiling, Adam left his brother knights behind and made his bold way to Isabel. Being closer, he reached Isabel before her tardy husband.
"Lady Isabel," he said, kissing her hand, "I have not yet expressed my sorrow over the death of your father and my lord, Baron Bernard. How do you fare in your grief? Know it is shared to the fullest. Perhaps it will ease your burden to know that I carry an equal measure of grief in my own heart."
"Thank you, Adam," she said, smiling up at him. "Your words are as sweet as my gratitude."
She was beguiling, smiling up at him, her eyes shining and her pale cheeks smooth as pearl. She was wasted on the Benedictine.
"You fled away early, Lady; I would have ridden with you on your journey to the abbey. There was no need to ride alone to find comfort. As to that, there was comfort enough for you within these walls," he said. Within my arms.
"I thank you again," she said with a slight dimming of her smile. "Yet I needed the solace, and the quiet, of abbey walls. It is a true gift to have the Benedictines within call when the need is great, is it not?"
"I cannot disagree," he murmured with a gentle smile. "We are a noisome bunch when it comes to that. And did they ease you of your grief?"
"Time alone will tell that tale, Adam. I—"
"God's mercy and loving kindness are more than sufficient for each day's burdens, Adam. Isabel is in the hands of God; what misery... or harm... within His grasp?" Richard said, intruding upon them.
He stood behind Isabel, his hands upon her shoulders, his words a barrier to flirtation as firm as any shield. He was acting very much like a husband. He spoke like a monk. Adam smiled; a man could not be both, and Richard, for all his growling protection of Isabel, was a man who clearly wanted to remain a monk.
"None at all, my lord," Adam answered calmly. "My lady." He bowed briefly and found a seat at the table. Yet, he watched them.
Richard of Warefeld had been monkish as a squire, according to the whispers of Nicholas. He would hardly be less so after a year of monastery life. Richard might well want his newly acquired wife charmed away from him before things went as far as consummation. Looking at them now, Richard towering over Isabel, his dark hair a perfect match for hers, Adam felt a moment of doubt. Richard seemed to be standing so that Isabel was shielded from his gaze, a bulwark against male eyes and male thoughts. Perhaps Richard was less monkish than Nicholas had suggested. But in the end, it did not matter; Isabel was too sweet a prize to let fall without a tumble to catch her.
Adam smiled and then buried it in a long swallow of ale. Yea, tumbling was just the thing. And with a message sent to his uncle, who was an established ally of Lord Robert's... why, he could find himself the possessor of his own betrothal contract, with Isabel as his bride. If only Isabel were free and unclaimed—but he had a plan to make her so. Adam pulled deeply of his drink, hiding
Nicholas smirked away that notion. No man could ignore the weight of power when it rested so upon him, just as no man could ignore the desirability of Isabel, sitting at the high table, waiting in feminine submission for the Lord of Dornei to sit beside her in his rightful place. But Richard did. Or seemed to.
A whispered word from the priest, a subtle gesture, and Richard obeyed, moving across the floor to join his wife. He did not appear an eager husband, to have to rely on a priest to guide him to his mate. Adam watched avidly and said nothing.
Smiling, Adam left his brother knights behind and made his bold way to Isabel. Being closer, he reached Isabel before her tardy husband.
"Lady Isabel," he said, kissing her hand, "I have not yet expressed my sorrow over the death of your father and my lord, Baron Bernard. How do you fare in your grief? Know it is shared to the fullest. Perhaps it will ease your burden to know that I carry an equal measure of grief in my own heart."
"Thank you, Adam," she said, smiling up at him. "Your words are as sweet as my gratitude."
She was beguiling, smiling up at him, her eyes shining and her pale cheeks smooth as pearl. She was wasted on the Benedictine.
"You fled away early, Lady; I would have ridden with you on your journey to the abbey. There was no need to ride alone to find comfort. As to that, there was comfort enough for you within these walls," he said. Within my arms.
"I thank you again," she said with a slight dimming of her smile. "Yet I needed the solace, and the quiet, of abbey walls. It is a true gift to have the Benedictines within call when the need is great, is it not?"
"I cannot disagree," he murmured with a gentle smile. "We are a noisome bunch when it comes to that. And did they ease you of your grief?"
"Time alone will tell that tale, Adam. I—"
"God's mercy and loving kindness are more than sufficient for each day's burdens, Adam. Isabel is in the hands of God; what misery... or harm... within His grasp?" Richard said, intruding upon them.
He stood behind Isabel, his hands upon her shoulders, his words a barrier to flirtation as firm as any shield. He was acting very much like a husband. He spoke like a monk. Adam smiled; a man could not be both, and Richard, for all his growling protection of Isabel, was a man who clearly wanted to remain a monk.
"None at all, my lord," Adam answered calmly. "My lady." He bowed briefly and found a seat at the table. Yet, he watched them.
Richard of Warefeld had been monkish as a squire, according to the whispers of Nicholas. He would hardly be less so after a year of monastery life. Richard might well want his newly acquired wife charmed away from him before things went as far as consummation. Looking at them now, Richard towering over Isabel, his dark hair a perfect match for hers, Adam felt a moment of doubt. Richard seemed to be standing so that Isabel was shielded from his gaze, a bulwark against male eyes and male thoughts. Perhaps Richard was less monkish than Nicholas had suggested. But in the end, it did not matter; Isabel was too sweet a prize to let fall without a tumble to catch her.
Adam smiled and then buried it in a long swallow of ale. Yea, tumbling was just the thing. And with a message sent to his uncle, who was an established ally of Lord Robert's... why, he could find himself the possessor of his own betrothal contract, with Isabel as his bride. If only Isabel were free and unclaimed—but he had a plan to make her so. Adam pulled deeply of his drink, hiding
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