Dragon's Dower

Weakness was not tolerated.

Even though Helwys desisted, the sadness and worry did not leave her brown gaze. Feeling as if she would surely explode with the tension of staying calm in the face of her maid’s anxiety Isabelle took up her scarlet cloak, saying, “I am going for a walk before it grows dark.”

Helwys frowned. “But, my lady…”

She took a quick breath through her nose, speaking with barely leashed strain. “If I do not do something, I shall go quite mad.”

The wide-eyed maid said no more in the face of this unaccustomed outburst and Isabelle slipped from the tent. She was afforded a measure of privacy as she hurried into the cover of the tall green pine and yew, as well as the rapidly turning ash and willow that grew close to the nearby stream.

Leaving the sounds of the camp behind, Isabelle took a deep breath, rubbing her hand over the base of her neck. Her cheeks felt hot and flushed. With a sigh she made her way to where the brush was thicker at the edge of the stream, moving forward carefully in order to make certain that the ground was firm beneath her.

It seemed soft and dense with moss but not unsafe. Isabelle knelt down and reached out to dip her hand in the cool water, meaning to bring it up to her heated cheeks.

In the very act of bending over, the sound of a splash came to her. Looking toward the noise, she stopped still. There, in the water just a bit farther downstream was a man. He was standing with his bare back to her in the shallows on the opposite bank as he splashed water over his upper body and over his thick, straight dark hair.

Isabelle jerked back, her hand going to her mouth as she realized that the man was Simon Warleigh. Her husband. The man who had already caused her so much unrest this day.

She knew that she should go away before he saw her. She could not imagine how she would ever live with his knowing that she had seen him this way. But another part of her, one that would not be denied, argued that he would never realize she was here.

And after all, was he not her own husband? It was not unusual that she would wonder about him, wonder about the body that must eventually be joined with hers if a child was to be made. She told herself that seeing him thus would surely help prepare her for the act that must come.

Isabelle had no wish to appear frightened or unsure of herself if he should come to her. And the more prepared she was, the more likely that she would be able to hide any anxiety she might feel from her husband.

Thus having convinced herself, she carefully leaned back out from behind the brush. Her gaze moved over those wide golden shoulders, down his back to his narrow waist and lean hips. When Warleigh raised his arms to scrub at his dark hair she saw the hardness of the muscles as they flexed in his forearms, his shoulders and down his back.

Isabelle frowned thoughtfully. She had not expected him to be so muscular. Simon was a slender man, as her father was, but from what she could see it was obvious that his body was far harder, more masculine.

He was strangely appealing, she realized as a faint tingle of awareness came to her belly. Her gaze grew wide. Now where had that thought come from?

However strong and attractive he might be, Warleigh did not appeal to her. If they came together it would be in the interest of producing a child. Nothing more.

Nonetheless she watched as he dove into the deeper portion of the river, then emerged far closer to her hiding spot than she would have expected. Again Isabelle ducked back behind the brush, while being careful to keep him in sight between the branches. She held her breath as Simon stood, his body glistening in the low-slanting, evening sunlight, his dark hair slicked back from his broad brow.

Her heart thumped in her chest, for he looked like some pagan god of old, risen from the very waters in which he stood. Again came that strange, pleasurable tingling. Quickly Isabelle called herself to task. Such fanciful thoughts were completely foreign to her.

Since early childhood Isabelle had been taught to control her feelings. No unwanted physical sensations or girlish daydreams had ever arisen in a mind that was completely fixed on doing what was expected of her and thus preventing any lessons. But now, with one glimpse of this man, she was entertaining notions that were quite unacceptable to her.

She drew herself up, pulling back as she closed her eyes. It would not serve, however fascinating the man might appear in the glory of his nakedness.

A flash of scarlet amongst the green drew Simon’s eyes. He stopped in the act of reaching for a handful of sand to rub in his wet hair, his gaze searching the bushes along that stretch of river.

Nothing.

Yet he had not imagined what he had seen. And the red was too vivid to be created by a trick of light on water.

Perhaps he told himself, it had been one of Kelsey’s men, sent to watch and make sure he did not try to escape. Yet he did not recall seeing any of the men wearing such a bright color. Then a vivid image of Isabelle entered his mind. She had been dressed in a scarlet cloak this day.

Shock jolted through him.

Why would Isabelle have come here to spy upon him? He could not credit that her father would send her to do so. Surely even Gerard Kelsey had more sensibility toward his own daughter.

Even more unbelievable was the notion that she might have come for her own purposes. The cold beauty had shown no sign of vague curiosity as far as he was concerned. The very thought of her having an interest in him made his body tighten although his will bade it do otherwise.

Isabelle Kelsey seemed to have little care for him.

Yet somehow he knew it had been her. An image of her looking back at him the first time he had seen her flashed through his mind. It made no sense in light of her behavior this day. Other than her defense of his keeping his men with him.

He dressed himself, then quickly made his way to the spot where he had seen the flash of scarlet. In the soft moss near the edge of the water he saw the imprint of two small shoes. It had to be a woman. Even the squires would have bigger feet. The only other woman on the journey besides Isabelle was the maid and she had been garbed in dark colors.

Far from clarifying anything, this further evidence that it had indeed been his wife left him even more at a loss. Again he wondered what possible reason she could have for such behavior.

Thoughtfully Simon made his way back to camp. Scanning the camp, he saw that Isabelle was not amongst those who had gathered around the fire in the growing gloom.

Disappointment made his lips tighten as he moved to sit on a log beside Sir Edmund just a bit apart from the others. Simon greeted him quietly. “All has gone well?”

The knight shrugged, “Well enough, my lord. It seems we will be tolerated for the most part.” Simon knew the knight would not complain lest things were particularly unpleasant. He had been one of his brother’s oldest knights and was much recommended by the steward at Avington.

“Wylie?” he asked, for he was not as certain of the squire’s behavior.

“Down by the stream watering the horses. I told him to have extra care with them.”

Simon nodded. “Well done.” Sir Edmund understood the importance of keeping the squire busy. He raked a hand through his hair, which was drying quickly in the heat of the fire. As he dropped his hand to his side, he caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye.

Isabelle. He swung around to look at her where she stood beside her tent.

That cool lavender gaze slid over him, away, then came back. For a brief moment their eyes locked before she turned away, her face as impassive as ever. Yet he was not blind to the deep rose coloring in her cheekbones.

Again he raked his hair straight back from his forehead. That flush seemed a sign of agitation for the cool beauty. Did it mean that beneath that icy demeanor there beat a passionate heart? Did she perhaps find him more appealing than she wished him to know? Was that why she had been at the stream?

His next thought, that he wished for this to be so, appalled Simon so completely he knew he must find something else to occupy his mind.

His gaze came to rest on Kelsey who now stood before his tent. The dark knight hovered, as ever, just behind him. The earl surveyed the activity of the camp with a disapproving expression. Seeing the degree of efficiency with which the men worked preparing for the coming night Simon was surprised. He knew his own men, many of them trained in haste by the necessity of the battlefield, could not have done better.

Noting Simon’s attention, Gerard Kelsey came toward him, his shadow following. “Well, Warleigh, I hope you are not finding our duty over you too chafing.” His tone said that his true hope was far different from that contained in his words.

Simon shrugged. “I am content, my lord. For the moment.” It did not seem that the knight who had attempted to detain him before he went to bathe had mentioned the matter of their confrontation. Simon felt no need to do so.

He watched as Kelsey smiled at him. “’Twould be best if you stayed content, my lord. I will not tolerate any disregard of the king’s wishes.”

Simon bowed. “Rest easy, sir. I have no wish to trouble the king.” He did not add that he had no such feelings as far as Kelsey himself was concerned.

“Very good.”

Then Kelsey was distracted by something behind Simon and shouted out, “Have you not been reprimanded enough this day? Have a care with that animal do you value your hide.”

Simon swung around to see the young lad who had been violently punished at Windsor, holding the reins of the magnificent black stallion once again. It pranced and fought at the bit, its hooves flashing at everything that came close to foot. Now it was clear the horse’s agitation was clearly caused by poor temperament, rather than improper handling, and that the stallion had been chosen for appearance rather than anything else. The lad had been harshly and unjustly punished.

He failed at keeping the disdain for his host from his voice as he said, “’Tis a beautiful horse.”

Kelsey raked him with an equally disdainful glance. “I would have no less in anything I possess.” He cast an oddly unreadable glance toward Isabelle’s tent.

Simon could not help realizing that he was speaking of Isabelle. He found himself asking, “Including your daughter?”

The older man raised gray brows high in challenge. “Including my daughter.”

How could the man speak of his own child so dispassionately, as if she were no more to him than any other possession and before his man, even though he be a knight? The thought was strangely disturbing and he found himself watching Kelsey’s face for any hint of fatherly affection. He saw none, only conceit.

He felt a tug of sympathy. Perhaps here was a clue to the veiled sarcasm he had heard in her voice when she spoke to her father before leaving Windsor.

Simon gave himself a mental shake. Isabelle would not welcome his pity. She seemed to be more than content with her lot in spite of her apparent sarcasm toward her father. He would do well to expend his energies in thinking how he would get out of this situation, away from this man, while still retaining his lands.

He was distracted from these thoughts by the sudden angry babble of his squire’s voice. Simon sighed, wondering what could have set the lad off this time. Had he known that his journey to court would end in his being in the custody of his most hated enemy, he would never have taken Wylie to Windsor. He had taken him to service under his longtime squire, Martin, who had served him in the Holy Land, because Martin would soon be receiving his spurs and Simon had been impressed with Wylie, who was the son of one of the other knights at Avington. He had noted a quickness of intellect in the lad that he had thought to hone with discipline and training.

Unfortunately the boy was also somewhat impulsive. Simon knew that the lad’s admiration and gratitude toward him was great. All of this complicated things and did not bode well for his hope that Wylie would be able to control himself enough to stay out of trouble until an opportunity to return to Avington presented itself.

Quickly Simon moved to where Wylie was standing with his arms folded over his chest in the midst of the other men who had quickly gathered at the edge of the camp where the horses were tied. Rage radiated from his squire in waves. “What goes on here?” Simon demanded.

Wylie turned from his angry contemplation of one of the other men, another boy really, Simon realized as he took a closer look at the object of Wylie’s displeasure.

His squire exploded. “He says I may not bring our blankets close to the fire, my lord. He says that the best places are for Kelsey’s own men.”

Simon sighed. “I am sure no insult was meant. Of course, as his lord’s squire he would be most concerned with making sure that his lord’s men be given their just due of honor. We are newly come and would not usurp anyone’s position. I am sure there will be comforts aplenty for all at Dragonwick.”

Wylie scowled at the other squire, who smiled slyly.

Simon felt a rush of irritation with Kelsey’s squire himself. At the same time he knew it was unrealistic to expect more from Kelsey’s retainers. A good example must be set in order to receive honorable behavior from underlings.

Kelsey interrupted his thoughts with a gruffly voiced order. “You must keep your men under control.”

Simon knew a tug of resentment, even though he had been thinking much the same thing. He kept it well hidden. “Of course, my lord.” He looked to his squire. “There will be no more problems, will there, Wylie?”

The lad bowed, keeping his head down.

Kelsey seemed to be somewhat mollified by Simon’s lack of resistance to his position of power. But he continued to keep his nose raised to a haughty angle. “I mean to finish attending some matters in my tent. Sir Fredrick, you are to see that there are no more disturbances.”

The shadow nodded, his narrowed eyes sliding over Simon. He slipped a caressing hand to the hilt of his sword as he leaned close to whisper in his master’s ear. The earl shook his head sharply as he whispered, “Not now, my friend. We must remember John’s wishes.”

The knight’s disappointment was obvious and it took no great amount of imagination to guess at the subject of their exchange. Simon realized he must watch his back with this one, though it seemed he would heed his master as far as an open attack was concerned. There was no doubt in Simon’s mind that he had naught to thank for his continued good health but Kelsey’s determination to hold him for the crown. From that whispered phrase it seemed he would not be averse to changing his mind.

Sir Fredrick continued to study Simon as he took up a rigid stance outside the ring of the fire. Simon dismissed him, focusing on the arrogant earl as he strode away with no concern whatsoever for the fact that the exchange might have been overheard. His back rigid, Simon balled his hands into fists at his sides. He would very much like to change the straight angle of that autocratic nose. He forced his hands to open, for he must remember Avington, and the folk who lived there, were what mattered here not some self-indulgent sense of injured dignity.

If they did mean him ill, they would not find him so very easy to kill.

Through his anger, he heard Wylie whisper, “’Tis a disgrace, my lord, you being held by that blackguard.”

Deliberately, Simon made a greater effort to gain mastery over his feelings. He was certain no one could have heard the exchange but himself, and he would keep it to himself. He put a soothing hand on the squire’s shoulder, a warning hand. “Pray hold your tongue, lad. I am not pleased by events but neither am I uneasy in my mind. All will right itself soon enough.”

The boy raised hopeful eyes to his face. “You are too easy with them, my lord. We should fight our way through this as Martin has told me you were forced to many times in the Holy Land.”

Simon leaned closer, his tone admonishing. “Heed me, boy. What happens here is not the same. There we fought the enemy. Here, the king himself has ordered that I be put under Kelsey’s rule. We would be committing not only a foolish act, but a suicidal one in defying Kelsey and through him the king.” He held that light-blue gaze. “Dost understand me, Wylie? ’Twould be treason. You must keep your head till I devise a way to make the king see that I have no desire to plot against him.” Which was a true enough statement. He did sympathize with the other nobles but he had no intention beyond that at this moment.

It was Kelsey he wished to see brought low. Yet that anticipated outcome must wait. Hate him though Simon did, he would not risk Avington.

Simon was not completely reassured when the boy said, “Aye, my lord,” for his lips were set in a stubborn line as his resentful gaze flicked over the earl’s men, lingering longest on the prideful countenance of the squire who had so offended him.

That grudgingly muttered acquiescence was all he would get and would have to do, in these circumstances. Simon need simply keep ahead of the willful boy.

Kelsey must be lulled into believing he posed no threat no matter how difficult that feat might prove, no matter how hotly his anger and resentment burned inside him. Simon only hoped that he would begin to ease his vigilant eyes ere long. He did not wish to resort to accepting Jarrod’s wild notion of laying in wait for the earl and killing him even though the situation had become dire enough to warrant casting chivalry aside. Not whilst he was the one most likely to be suspect.

If they could only garner the support of the other nobles to petition for his release he might still find a way out.

He must find a way.

And he must do this in the midst of trying to understand his own unwanted awareness of his enemy’s daughter. He could not afford himself the self-indulgence of giving in to his attraction for her, not if he meant to be free of her and her supercilious and reprehensible sire.

Chapter Four

Isabelle lingered far from the camp for as long as she dared to avoid meeting Simon. When she returned night had nearly fallen.

She made every effort to avoid looking for her husband amongst the men. Yet she found him near the blaze of the fire, his dark hair dry, his powerful body hidden by the fine garments he wore. That did not prevent a vision of how he had appeared in the stream from coming into her mind. Simon did not seem to notice her at all, let alone her discomfiture. She could not but be grateful though she knew theirs must be the oddest marriage ever entered into, even amongst arranged marriages. A deep flush heated her face and neck.

She ducked into her tent. The relief on Helwys’s face made her chest tighten with guilt. She opened her lips to apologize when a commotion from without made Helwys look at her with an unvoiced question that mirrored her own.

Isabelle, not wishing to come face-to-face with Simon, said, “Will you go to see what has occurred?”

The maid nodded and hurried out, clearly curious.

Isabelle continued to hear the deep rumble of men’s voices and a slightly higher one that was still distinctly male, but it was impossible to make out the words any of them spoke. Not until Helwys scurried back into the tent was she able to learn what had occurred.

The maid raised clear brown eyes to hers. “It was Lord Warleigh’s squire, my lady. He took issue with your father’s squire telling him that he could not put their blankets beside the fire.”

Isabelle moved to sit on the pile of furs that made up her bed. “Oh.”

The maid’s approving tone brought her gaze back to her. “Your husband acquitted himself most fairly, my lady. He smoothed all over by saying that my lord Kelsey’s men must have first choice as he had no wish to displace any man. He seems bent on trying to make peace betwixt the men. His manner in the incident was naught as your—” Helwys blanched and Isabelle knew she been about to refer to her father in a derogatory manner. She continued carefully, “Your lord husband behaved in a way that was quite admirable. ’Tis a good sign, for I do hope he will be kind to you.”

Isabelle was troubled by Helwys’s approval of Simon Warleigh. She had no wish to look for nobility in him. She had never known anything but disappointment in any man other than her uncle Wallace. Thinking of him made her recall that no matter how compelling the sight of Warleigh’s body might be, he had been one of those to condemn her uncle.

Quickly she interjected, “Haps my husband is simply weak.” Isabelle knew this was not true even as the words left her mouth.

Helwys frowned at her. “I would not say so, my lady. He speaks most confidently.”

Isabelle did not wish to discuss this, or to think about Simon, or the sight of his strong body. Yet this conversation had made her do just that.

A male voice intruded on her thoughts, “My lady.”

Isabelle would know that voice anywhere. She moved to the door of the tent and looked out. “Sir Fredrick.”

The knight did not face her as he said, “My lord Kelsey would speak with you in his tent.”

Isabelle nodded. “You may tell him I shall attend him in a moment.”

He bowed even as she ducked back inside. She looked to Helwys, who had begun to wring her hands. “I am going to speak with my father.”

Both of them knew the likely purpose of this summons.

The maid said nothing to this but continued to wring her hands as Isabelle left. At the door of her father’s tent, she faltered, her mouth opening but no sound issuing forth. She wanted nothing so much than to run away.

There was no telling what she might have done had Sir Fredrick, whom she had not noted hovering nearby, not spoken for her. “The lady Isabelle has come, my lord.”

Her sire answered from within, “You may enter, Isabelle.” There was no emotion in his voice from which to gage his intent.

Taking a deep breath Isabelle forced herself to don the mask of cool indifference that served her so well when dealing with her father. She entered the tent with squared shoulders and a deliberately unconcerned expression.

Candles lit the dim interior and she saw that her father was seated on a low stool. He was sipping sparingly from a silver cup, which he lowered as his gaze came to rest on her. Isabelle was rocked by a sense of loneliness in those eyes such as she had never imagined, but it was so fleeting that she told herself it could not have been anything but a trick of the flickering light. For when she looked more closely his eyes were, as she was accustomed to seeing them, without expression. “Isabelle.”

She refrained from sighing and the effort to retain her equilibrium was made doubly difficult by that fleeting impression, no matter how false. “You sent for me, Father?”

He smiled, though there was no warmth in that smile. “I would have you prepare yourself for Warleigh.”

Even though she had known this could be the case, shock rolled through her. She had just met the man this very morn and his resentment of the marriage was more than clear. Her tone was hoarse with surprise and uncertainty as she said, “You mean for me to bed with him?”

Her father watched her closely now. “Would you have me say that I do not, daughter?”

A chill rolled over her at his tone and assessing expression. She had made a terrible mistake in betraying so much. Self-preservation required an immediate recovery of her accustomed pose of indifference. When she was twelve her father had seen her turn away from the sight of him slitting the throat of a deer during hunting. He had forced her to watch each and every time thereafter, telling her she must not shy away from anything, must be strong enough within herself to let nothing disturb her. He must have no reason to feel she had not learned this lesson.