‘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 Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains.’ Raoul’s mouth lifted. ‘Your betrothed is eager to meet you.’ Elbowing Lucien aside, Raoul peered down the road, but the little cavalcade had been swallowed up by the forest. His expression sobered. ‘Forget the guilt, you can claim her with all honour. She has waited a long time.’
Lucien rubbed his hand round the back of his neck. ‘I must say, I’m surprised to see her so early.’
‘Once you had written to her father, I suspect he packed her off in no time. He will be anxious to be rid of her.’
Cold fingers feathered across the back of his neck. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Lord, don’t say I’m to be stuck with another disaster for a wife … another Morwenna.
‘If you had kept in touch with Turenne you would know why Lady Isobel is de trop. Viscount Gautier has remarried. I gather his new lady is keen to have Turenne to herself.’
‘I see.’
‘Poor girl, turfed out by her stepmother.’ Raoul made a clucking sound. ‘And here you are, turning her away at the gate because Ravenshold is a little run-down.’
‘A little run-down?’ Lucien said, exasperated. He had a strong dislike of being cornered, and by arriving early that was exactly what his betrothed had done, she had cornered him.
‘I take it you will be riding into Troyes this afternoon?’
‘Yes, damn you, I shall.’
Count Lucien d’Aveyron turned on his heel and made his way along the battlements and down into the bailey. He did not have to look back to know that Raoul was grinning.
Chapter Two
‘It is not right that you must share my punishment,’ Lady Isobel de Turenne muttered to her companion, Elise. ‘You did not ride out of Troyes without permission.’
Isobel and Elise were sitting in a square of sunlight in the cloisters of the Abbey de Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, repairing a blue altar cloth for Advent. The sewing was intricate, with hundreds of complicated knots and swirls. The Abbess had given it to Isobel because she had wanted her to do penance for wayward behaviour. Isobel couldn’t help but notice that the blue of the cloth was an exact match to the blue field on Count Lucien’s colours. Was that deliberate?
‘You should have sought my permission, Lady Isobel,’ Abbess Ursula had said, on Isobel’s return to the Abbey. ‘And as for you leaving the town itself … well! You must take better care of yourself. Anything might have happened, anything. The Winter Fair is almost upon us—Champagne is bristling with beggars and thieves.’