inn before, but he is not inexperienced. He … Her heart seemed to stutter, and when she noticed his gaze drop to her mouth, she realised with a jolt what was coming.
‘Oh … no.’
‘Oh, yes. Come here, little dove.’ Pulling her against him, Lucien lowered his lips to hers.
Isobel froze. Her fingers clenched into fists, fists she pressed up against his chest, pushing against him. But not too hard. She was curious. And furious.
How could he!
For years Isobel had lived for some sign of attention from this man. Any sign would have done—a letter sent to the convent in Conques perhaps … even a simple message. He had done nothing. He had ignored her—year, after year, after year.
And then he had the gall to wait until they were in a smoky inn to kiss her. In a whorehouse, to be precise. She heard a strangled sound and, realising it was coming from her, silenced it. He was kissing her as a pretence, the devil. He didn’t want her. Her pulse thudded. She wished he would stop, she couldn’t breathe. She was going to faint. Lord, no, she wasn’t, she liked his kiss.
His mouth softened and he eased back. ‘Relax, Isobel, you will convince no one like that.’
She pushed against his chest with little effect, her strength had deserted her.
When a large hand crept to her cheek, cradling it in his palm, making tiny caressing circles with his fingertips, pleasure shot along every nerve. She bit back a moan. It was fortunate that his hand hid her 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 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
