Page 14 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Nine

Will thanked Lady Fortune he’d found an inn that was no more than half a mile from the cottage where he’d left Isobel.

Where he’d left Isobel.He should never have abandoned her in her confused state, for who knew of what she might be capable? She’d grabbed at Edward’s sword as if it were a toy—what if she should find a sharp knife in the cottage or—God forbid—an ax?

Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he scrambled up the maple tree by the wall of the manorial estate. If Isobel had injured herself, he’d need a physician—then awkward questions would be asked. What if she’d decided to climb out through an upstairs window, so she could make her way back to Marston House? He’d find her in a pathetic heap, with her neck broken, and Edward’s ghost would torment him the rest of his days.

Foolish fellow—he’d be jumping at shadows next. He’d left her quietly reading, and had returned as soon as he’d bought provisions, and fed and watered Jennet. Isobel would most likely be asleep and his fears unfounded. But he must take care, and plan more thoroughly next time.

As he pushed through the darkened bushes, struggling not to lose his way in the twilight, a sound made him prick up his ears.

He stopped in his tracks, heart thumping. Music? The resonant notes of—what was it? A harp? Nay, a harpsichord. And the noise was coming from the direction of the cottage.

Jupiter almighty!She’d have the whole countryside roused up—at very least, the servants from the manor house would be able to hear. Forgetful of his injured thigh, he ran the final yards and fought with the lock, cutting his hand in the process.

Bursting into the room, he dragged Isobel’s fingers from the keys and pulled her to her feet.

“What did you do that for?” She slapped at him, growling, so he seized her wrists in one hand, and when she sucked in a breath, clamped the other hand over her mouth. Then he blew out her candle, and stood in the deep shadow behind the door, listening intently.

For several minutes he held his captive inert, exerting his superior strength, answering every wriggle with a tightening of his grip until the message finally sank in.

No sound. With her body still clamped to his, he moved to the door, closed it softly and locked it. All was silence and darkness. Until Isobel sank her teeth into his bleeding hand.

He bit back a yelp and yanked his hand away. Taking her by the shoulders, he hissed, “Listen to me. You must be quiet! Remember the hide-and-seek game? If you make any noise, any sound at all, they’ll find us, and there’ll be Hell to pay. Now, nod your head if you understand.”

His eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom. Every nerve, every sinew was tense, ready to subdue her if she threatened to scream or cry—though he had no wish to hurt her. Closing his eyes, he offered up a silent prayer. And eventually, was rewarded when he felt her nod.

“Splendid. It sounds as if there is no damage done. Now, we may eat. I just need to relight that candle.”

His tinderbox was tucked into his doublet, and he found the candle from the acrid smell of tallow smoke. By its flickering light, he unpacked the basket of vittles he’d obtained from the nearest tavern.

“Sit down, Isobel. Here’s a crock of hogget stew—though I fear I spilled some getting over the wall. We have bread, a leg of ham, and a dish of butter. There’s a costrel of strong ale as well. Feast well—I must return the crocks to the inn come daybreak.”

He watched with satisfaction as she filled her stomach. She ate robustly, more like the countrywomen he’d seen in the Low Countries than an English gentlewoman, but he was certain she hadn’t always been like that. How long had her conniving cousin been feeding her poppy juice and treating her like a drudge?

He took but little, still recovering from the shock of her making enough noise to give away their illicit presence. Speaking of illicit, they would have to spend the night together. He must remain awake and watchful, lest she attempt to escape, or do something else that revealed their presence.

The cottage had two stories. He’d reconnoitered the top floor, finding a bed and a few linens. Isobel must have the bed, of course—but then, where would he go?

Before he’d resolved the issue, she was on her feet, pacing up and down like a caged animal. When he blocked her path to stop her, the look in her eyes sent a shiver down his spine.

“Why do you not sit down, and digest your supper?” He kept his tone calm but firm.

She made a gesture of impatience. “I can’t—I need to move. My body gives me no rest. At times like this, Avice’s nostrum was the only thing that would calm me.”

He set his jaw. “You’ll never touch that foul stuff again. Your body and mind must heal themselves.”

“How can they without the remedy? You have to fetch some from somewhere—there must be an apothecary hereabouts.” She glared at him balefully.

He gentled his tone. “Nay, no more of that. ’Tis for the best, I swear.”

Her expression darkened and he sensed her control starting to slip. “What do you know about it? You’re no doctor. I must have my medicine soon, I tell you, or I shall not sleep this night.”

“Then neither shall I. It will not be pleasant for either of us. But there will be no more poppy juice while you’re under my care.”

“Oh, you hateful man, to make me suffer so! I’ll go and find some if you refuse to.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “You’re going nowhere.” This was harder than he’d imagined. He hated to deny her anything, but the die had been cast the instant he stole her from her garden. He’d always been taught that death would be preferable to defeat, so he was going to be more immovable than the most stubborn of asses. Defeat was not an option.