Dragon's Dower

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.

She faced him squarely, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil. “I am only tired from traveling, Father. I have no preference in the matter of Warleigh. I would prepare myself if that is your desire.”