Lady Isobel's Champion. Carol Townend
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seriously impoverished. Pilgrims flocked to pray over it, and their offerings brought in much-needed revenues. Those nuns had looked after her for years. She could not stand by and watch while their precious relic was stolen.
Brisk footsteps were coming up behind her. Count Lucien. She heard him murmur something to the startled nun at the Abbey gate.
The relic!
Ahead, the thief—Isobel had marked his shabby brown cloak and hood—slipped round a corner. She hurtled after him. The street was narrow and the way was all but blocked by wooden stalls. Townsfolk and merchants were haggling over prices. The Winter Fair had not officially begun, so this must be a market area. On either side, tall houses loured overhead, and a line of shop-fronts opened directly on to the road. Isobel skirted a pottery stall and a couple of wine-merchants.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Watch it! Don’t shove.’
Ahead, the brown hood bobbed up and down in the press.
‘Stop that man!’ Isobel cried, pointing. ‘Stop, thief!’
The townsfolk turned. Stared. Pulse thudding, Isobel forged on. The brown hood … she could no longer see it. Her chest was tight, and by the time she reached the end of the street, her lungs were aching. The brown hood had gone.
She was drawing breath at a small crossroads as Lucien ran up. ‘Which way, my lord? You’re taller than me, did you see where he went?’
A lock of dark hair fell across the jagged scar on Count Lucien’s temple. Strong fingers wrapped round hers. ‘My lady—Isobel—what in blazes are you about?’
She gestured at the crossroads. ‘Where did he go? Did you see him?’
Count Lucien’s grip shifted, strong fingers banded like iron about her wrist. ‘It is not wise to run about Troyes unaccompanied at this time of year.’
‘But, my lord, the thief …’ Pulling against Lucien’s hold, Isobel peered down a shadowy alley. A pair of lovers were locked in a passionate embrace. The man had lifted the woman’s skirt; Isobel caught a shocking glimpse of white thigh. Flushing, she drew back, and frowned through her embarrassment. ‘My lord, please release me.’
The look on that woman’s face … she looked as though she were in ecstasy. Ecstasy? That did not tally with anything the nuns or her mother had told her. Or Anna for that matter …
‘I shall release you when you understand that it is not safe to be running about the town like this. Lord, have the nuns taught you nothing? You ought to take more care of yourself. As you have already seen, the town fills with thieves at this time of year.’
Isobel twisted her wrist, but her betrothed had not finished.
‘My lady, the Winter Fair attracts men of all stamps. I would have your promise that you will take care. Further, I would have your assurance that in future when I say you nay, that you heed me.’
Her heart lurched. ‘Luc—my lord?’
‘Did you not hear me back in the church? You are to be my countess. It is not your place to catch thieves.’
‘My apologies, my lord.’ Isobel bit her lip. Those blue eyes were boring into her, hard as sapphires. She had heard him, but in the rush of excitement her one thought had been to keep sight of the thief. Holy Mother, don’t tell me Lucien is going to turn out to be an arrogant boor like poor Anna’s husband. In her mind, Lucien was a tourney champion, not an arrogant boor.
Avoiding that hard, accusing gaze, Isobel risked a glance down another alley. There was no sign of the brown hood. ‘He got away.’
‘Isobel, leave it. Count Henry’s knights will deal with him.’
‘But, my lord, there must be something we can do. St Foye’s is not as rich as the Abbey, they cannot afford to lose their relic.’
Lucien felt a pang such as he had not felt in years. His anger began to dissipate and he could not account for it, save to conclude that Isobel’s green eyes were altogether too appealing. Her chest was still heaving from her race through the streets. Her cheeks were flushed and several blonde wisps had escaped her plait and were curling about her face. She looked more human than she had done in the convent lodge. And doubly attractive. He became conscious of a strong feeling of possessiveness, akin to pride. She is mine. When slightly dishevelled, Isobel de Turenne was extraordinarily desirable. He could imagine just how she might look after an encounter with a lover …
The shiver that ran through him was easy to place. Desire. It had been surprisingly invigorating chasing after her. It was as though she had awoken something primitive in him, something that had been sleeping for far too long. She is very beautiful. How many years had it been since Lucien had allowed himself the luxury of feeling this sort of desire? Without wanting to analyse it, it had been far too long. Lucien was somewhat put out to find that the desire he felt for Isobel was not entirely comfortable. It was mixed with regret. With uncertainty. How will she react when she learns about Morwenna?
‘My lady, there are officers in Troyes responsible for maintaining order. It is their duty to catch the thief, not yours. You …’ Lucien paused for emphasis ‘… are a lady, not one of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights.’
‘Guardian Knights?’
‘The Count of Champagne has established a conroi of knights to maintain law and order at the time of the Fairs. He would be most offended to hear that you were taking on their duties. As would his knights.’
Those great green eyes lowered, she appeared to be studying the wall of the house behind him. ‘Yes, my lord.’
Slowly Lucien released her, and when she did not dart off again down a side street he let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding. What a sight she had made though, tearing through the town! Lucien had had no idea that a girl, hampered by trailing skirts, could run so fast. She is as fleet as a doe.
‘You really want to catch that man.’
‘As I said, St Foye’s is not a wealthy convent, my lord. There is no treasury filled with silver and gold as there is at the monastery. The nuns need that relic, it’s almost all they have.’
Lucien leaned his shoulder against the oak frame of one of the houses. She really seemed to care. It was possible she was using the theft as an excuse to escape the Abbey. Likely, she had spent too much of her life penned up in a convent. Lucien pushed back the guilt, although he couldn’t blame her if she felt that way, it would drive him mad to be so cooped up. ‘I am told you have only just arrived in Troyes,’ he said.
‘That is so, we arrived at the Abbey yesterday.’
‘And before that? How much time did you spend at St Foye’s Convent and how much in Turenne?’
‘Mostly I was with the nuns, my lord. Although, I did come home occasionally …’ her face clouded ‘… when my mother needed me.’
Yes, there is no doubt of it. Isobel is using the theft as a means to escape the confines of the Abbey. I would do the same in her place. And she mourns her mother, deeply.
Lucien could not help her over her grief for her mother, but he could offer her assistance elsewhere. He crooked his arm at her. ‘Since we seem to have lost our quarry, perhaps you would permit me to show you the town?’
Her answering smile was bright and innocent. It should not have set off a disturbing ache in Lucien’s belly. Desire.
‘Thank you, my lord. I should enjoy that very much.’
Lucien tucked her arm into his. He had surprised himself with his offer to show her around Troyes. I like her. I like Isobel de Turenne. Of course, she must learn the value of obedience, but after nine years of hell, maybe his luck was turning. I will teach her to behave with decorum. Outside the bedchamber. Inside, however …
He