to accommodate his daughter until Advent at the earliest.’
‘I suspect it’s more than Ravenshold that’s not ready,’ Raoul said softly.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. ‘And what might that mean?’
‘Luc, you did your duty by Morwenna and that is in the past. You deserve better, you deserve a marriage that will give you sons and daughters. You are my friend, I want to see you happy.’
‘You—an unmarried man—equate marriage with happiness? On what basis?’
Raoul gripped his shoulder. ‘You did what you could for Morwenna. Mon Dieu, you did more than anyone else would have done. Go to Troyes, and go today. Meet Lady Isobel and you will see she is not another Morwenna. Far from it, Lady Isobel has grown into a lovely young woman.’
Lucien frowned. ‘How would you know?’
‘I met her last year at the Abbey in Conques. It was before her mother died. They were there to honour St Foye.’
‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’
‘What was the point? I knew you’d never abandon Morwenna.’
Lucien’s thoughts were churning. He did need heirs and despite Raoul’s doubts, he knew himself to be ready for his second marriage. Although he would be the first to admit that he had hoped for more time. Isobel would likely expect an explanation for the length of their betrothal. Nine years! He hadn’t yet thought of a tactful way to explain it. If he told her the truth he would feel as though he were betraying Morwenna. ‘Love is out of the question, of course,’ he said, thinking aloud. Love had betrayed Lucien before, he wasn’t about to let that happen again. ‘I will marry the girl, since my father wished it. I will honour our betrothal agreement, and she will give me heirs. That is as far as it will go.’
‘My guess is she’ll want to see you today,’ Raoul said, watching him.
‘Today? Lord, Morwenna is scarcely in her grave.’
‘It is not too soon.’
‘I have neglected Lady Isobel. I have lied to her.’
‘Make it up to her. You have charm, or, at any rate—’ Raoul grinned ‘—you used to have charm.’
The hoofbeats were close, the merchant’s party was approaching the gate. The merchant had his wife with him, Lucien realised, as he heard a woman laugh. It sounded light. Carefree.
‘Thank you, Pierre,’ the woman said. ‘I enjoyed the ride, very much. It was most invigorating, particularly after Captain Simund refused to let us travel at more than a snail’s pace yesterday.’
There was a brief pause. Then a man, Pierre presumably, murmured a response. ‘You are welcome, my lady.’
My lady? This might not be a merchant and his party then. My lady?
The woman spoke again. ‘This is it? Ravenshold?’
‘Yes, my lady, this is Ravenshold.’
A horse snorted, a bit jangled.
Raoul looked at Lucien. ‘It sounds as though your hospitality is about to be tested.’
‘Not if I can help it, the castle isn’t fit for swine.’
Raoul leaned out through a crenel and flinched.
‘Oh, Lord.’
‘What?’ Squeezing into the next crenel, Lucien craned his neck to follow Raoul’s gaze. There was no sign of any merchant, just a young girl with an escort of four. Four men-at-arms? For one young girl? She must be of some importance. She was examining the curtain wall with such attention, one might think she had never seen one before.
The girl was blonde. A beauty in a burgundy-coloured gown and cloak. She had twisted her veil and wound it round her neck for the ride, but a few strands of yellow hair framed her face. She had rosy cheeks and a delicate profile. Her lips were the colour of ripe cherries. Lucien caught only a glimpse of her eyes. They were green as emeralds and framed with luxuriant eyelashes that were unusually dark for someone so fair. They made him long for more than a glimpse. Her horse—a black mare—had the dust of the road upon her, but she looked as though she had Arab blood-lines.
Raoul caught him by the belt and dragged him back from the crenel. His mouth quivered.
‘Raoul, what the devil …?’
‘If you are not ready for visitors, you had best stay out of sight.’
A line of machicolations was built into the battlements. The one at Lucien’s feet funnelled that bright girl’s voice up to the walkway.
‘Pierre, please ask that guard by the gatehouse if Lord d’Aveyron is here.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
The horses moved off.
Fighting free of Raoul’s grip, Lucien leaned out. The girl was riding astride—she rode easily and naturally, as though born to the saddle. ‘I ordered the guard not to admit visitors,’ he said.
‘Very wise in the circumstances,’ Raoul said. He was struggling, not entirely successfully, to hold back a grin.
‘What’s up?’
Raoul opened his eyes, failing utterly to keep his grin in check. ‘Nothing.’
‘Raoul?’
Raoul’s eyes danced, and when he would not respond, Lucien turned back to the crenel. The girl and her party had finished their exchange with the guard and were back on the road to Troyes. ‘That girl is uncommonly attractive.’ As he spoke, it occurred to him that the most attractive thing about her was that air of innocent enjoyment.
Raoul gave a crack of laughter that sent a pigeon flapping from its roost.
Lucien frowned. ‘You don’t agree?’
‘You don’t recognise her, do you, Luc? You have no idea.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That attractive girl is not just any girl. Or, rather, lady.’
‘You know her, Raoul?’
‘Of course. And so should you.’
A sinking feeling told Lucien that he was not going to like what was coming next.
‘Luc, she’s yours. That is Lady Isobel of Turenne. Your betrothed. I suspected when I met her that she might turn out to be very … direct.’
Luc shoved his head back through the crenel. A small cloud of dust marked the end of the road where it disappeared into the woodland beyond the vineyards. He thought he saw the swirl of a burgundy cloak. ‘Isobel,’ he murmured, under his breath. ‘Hell. Where did you say she was lodging?’
‘The
