Lady Isobel's Champion Read Online Free PDF Page B

learned that if they were to succeed they had best obey him. He marched into the sunlit courtyard. It would be the same with Isobel, she would soon learn.
    He felt a momentary pang for the bride he had envisioned—pretty, demure, obedient. Lucien had hoped his second wife would put his wishes first; he had hoped she would quietly take charge of the domestic side of his life, leaving him free to focus on military matters.
    Lucien was honouring the betrothal contract with Isobel of Turenne because it had been his father’s wish. He had long regretted his inability to grant his father that wish, just as he regretted the bitter quarrel that had followed. A quarrel that had never been mended. Finally he was in a position to honour that betrothal contract, and it was a blow to discover that Isobel of Turenne was not the demure lady of his imaginings. She needed schooling.
    He gritted his teeth. She seemed intelligent; she would, he hoped, be a quick learner. She had reached the convent gate. He watched her slight figure whip through it, veil and gown flying, and increased his pace. It was a pity the nuns had not instilled in her the importance of obedience. Clearly, it was up to him to teach her that particular virtue...
    * * *
    Isobel picked up her skirts, raced through the courtyard, and burst into the street. She had no idea why the urge to catch the hooded man had spurred her into such unladylike action, but the thought had been accompanied by an irresistible rush of excitement. He must be caught!
    Her heart was pounding. She had brought the relic with her from the south, and she felt responsible for it. It was only being lent to the Abbey here for the duration of the Winter Fair and if it was lost, the good sisters at St Foye’s in Conques would be seriously impoverished. Pilgrims flocked to pray over it, and their offerings brought in much-needed revenues. Those nuns had looked after her for years. She could not stand by and watch while their precious relic was stolen.
    Brisk footsteps were coming up behind her. Count Lucien. She heard him murmur something to the startled nun at the Abbey gate.
    The relic!
    Ahead, the thief—Isobel had marked his shabby brown cloak and hood—slipped round a corner. She hurtled after him. The street was narrow and the way was all but blocked by wooden stalls. Townsfolk and merchants were haggling over prices. The Winter Fair had not officially begun, so this must be a market area. On either side, tall houses loured overhead, and a line of shop-fronts opened directly on to the road. Isobel skirted a pottery stall and a couple of wine-merchants.
    ‘Excuse me.’
    ‘Watch it! Don’t shove.’
    Ahead, the brown hood bobbed up and down in the press.
    ‘Stop that man!’ Isobel cried, pointing. ‘Stop, thief!’
    The townsfolk turned. Stared. Pulse thudding, Isobel forged on. The brown hood...she could no longer see it. Her chest was tight, and by the time she reached the end of the street, her lungs were aching. The brown hood had gone.
    She was drawing breath at a small crossroads as Lucien ran up. ‘Which way, my lord? You’re taller than me, did you see where he went?’
    A lock of dark hair fell across the jagged scar on Count Lucien’s temple. Strong fingers wrapped round hers. ‘My lady—Isobel—what in blazes are you about?’
    She gestured at the crossroads. ‘Where did he go? Did you see him?’
    Count Lucien’s grip shifted, strong fingers banded like iron about her wrist. ‘It is not wise to run about Troyes unaccompanied at this time of year.’
    ‘But, my lord, the thief...’ Pulling against Lucien’s hold, Isobel peered down a shadowy alley. A pair of lovers were locked in a passionate embrace. The man had lifted the woman’s skirt; Isobel caught a shocking glimpse of white thigh. Flushing, she drew back, and frowned through her embarrassment. ‘My lord, please release me.’
    The look on that woman’s face...she looked as though she were in ecstasy. Ecstasy?