Page 46 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Five

Isobel was devastated by Will’s abrupt dismissal. On her return to bed, her face still burned from his kisses, her body thrummed with the power of his touch—and somewhere deep inside, a void had been opened that now clamored to be filled. Propriety had been ignored—again. Yet even as she’d unbent to Will’s fierce demand, he’d been withdrawing from her. First, he’d enslaved her, then he’d abandoned her, like a grotesque form of punishment.

She’d never imagined a man could wield so much power with a single kiss, a single touch. Kissing was dangerous—he was dangerous. Her virtue was at stake, and her heart in peril. To be revered like a goddess one moment, then summarily dismissed the next was unbearable.

Will knew every inch of her shame, every ounce of her weakness, and could play on that vulnerability for as long as he wanted. It was vital she leave at the earliest opportunity.

Hubert hadn’t returned to Marston House, so that was where she must go. Perhaps, having ascertained the situation there, she would then go north in search of Mistress Hollingsworth. Cecelia was a mature and sensible woman—she could advise on what Isobel should do about Will. If only she didn’t need his help in bringing Hubert to justice! It would be less painful if she could avoid him in the future, but he was far better placed than she to track her cousin down and make him pay for his misdeeds.

There was no possibility of sleep—her mind was in turmoil. By the time a tuneful blackbird proclaimed the arrival of dawn from the gable above her window, she was ready to leave. None of the servants was yet stirring, but she dressed herself, made up the kitchen fire, put some eggs in water to boil, and sought out Will’s bodyguard, Manners.

As expected, he was slumped in a chair in front of the door to Will’s chamber. She gave him a gentle shove.

He awoke with a snort, bit back a blasphemy, then wiped his eyes and stared at her. “Good morrow, Mistress. What’s afoot?”

“Did your master not say? I knew he’d forget. He was too much in his cups last night.” She stood, fists on her hips, glaring fiercely at Will’s closed door. “I’ve a mind to charge in and pour something unsavory over his head, the wretch.”

Manners scratched his head, then got to his feet and executed an awkward bow. “What was he supposed to have said?”

“Why, that you were to accompany me to Hertford. You recall that was where he was going when he was set upon. The purpose of that journey was to find Mistress Hollingsworth and bring her here. But we decided, as his thigh pains him still, ’twould be easier if I were to go to her.”

She allowed Manners time to absorb this information. What would she do if he gave her a blunt refusal, or insisted on waking Will?

“I’ve some eggs cooking, and manchet rolls warming in the kitchen. There’s game pie, too, so we may break our fast before we leave. I arranged it all with Cook on the yester, knowing we’d want an early start.”

Her appeal to his stomach did the trick. He nodded, requested a short time in which to change his linens and make himself presentable, and agreed to meet her in the kitchen.

She decided it best to say as little as possible. One didn’t share one’s plans with servants anyway—Manners was more likely to believe her if she kept herself aloof. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? He wouldn’t hurt her if he perceived her deception—she was under Will’s protection. Most likely, he’d throw her over his shoulder and bring her back here, kicking and screaming, to face Will’s wrath.

It was worth the risk. She had put Will in danger by letting him serve her interests. Now, their relationship had become complicated, and she barely recognized the wanton she’d become in his arms. It was imperative she be Mistress Isobel Marston of Marston House again. Not mad, not sick from the brain fever, not hopelessly in love with a man who had rejected her.

“Shall we ride, or hire a wagon, Mistress?”

Manners’ rough voice brought her back to herself. “I thought we’d walk, first of all, to Marston House. Then find a conveyance to take us to Hertford.”

In response to her companion’s questioning look, she explained, “I don’t want to be beholden to Sir William. If there’s anything of value left in Marston House, I’ll sell it to pay for our travel. I also hope to pick up some clothing there.”

This was a lie, as she meant to go no further than Marston House—at least, not for now. She needed to be at home, in familiar surroundings, and find herself again. The Isobel aching for Will’s kiss last night was not the Isobel she knew—the weeks spent in an opium-induced haze had pushed her to the edge of madness, and she needed to find equilibrium again.

And propriety.

Manners appeared convinced. After all, she wasn’t trying to escape him—she’d made it plain he was to be her protector and companion. Quite how she’d persuade him to leave her at Marston House and return to Will, she had, as yet, no idea.

It took no more than a quarter of an hour for them to eat their fill, leave the house, and step out onto the cobbles in the hazy morning sunshine. Rain had fallen in the early hours—she’d heard it while she lay struggling to sleep. Now, a faint mist arose where the sun struck the stones of the street. It looked inviting, freshly washed, the gutters scoured by the downpour and last night’s gale. The muck would, hopefully, have washed away into one of the culverts that bubbled below the roads and buildings, to flow eventually into the cleansing tide of the Thames.

Isobel stood in front of Will’s house, relishing the first true moment of freedom she’d had in months. She felt bold and daring, the blood fizzing in her veins at her temerity.

She turned to Manners. “Pray, lead the way. I know not how to go thither, but you have been, have you not?”

He nodded and lumbered off. Her satchel bounced beneath her arm, and she clutched it tightly, eager not to become prey to a cutpurse or thief. For in it, she carried the documents she’d snatched from Will’s coffer, including the one with the details of her legacy. He’d be angry when he found she’d taken it, but it was, after all, hers to take.

Her knees creaked from lack of use, and her leg muscles ached as she tramped over the cobbles, but the discomfort soon passed, and she was able to stride out, just about keeping up with Manners as he loped along. There was another pain, however, that could not be eased. The pain of leaving Will.

She shook her head free of the memories, and concentrated on looking around her. Gradually, the streets became more familiar—she recognized an alehouse with a peculiarly carved bear adorning its frontage. There was a costermonger’s, with depictions of rare fruit in raised plasterwork between the timber beams; a butcher’s, issuing forth a familiar stench; and the apothecary her family used to frequent, its dark interior filled with an array of mysterious bottles, pots, and jars.

The streets widened, the gaps between the houses increasing, until finally, there was space for gardens, their high walls protecting vegetable plots, sweet herbs, and fruit trees bowed with ripening plums, quinces, and medlars.

And there it was—Marston House. It brought back memories of her imprisonment, and she couldn’t repress a shudder. How many weeks, months even, had she missed as a result of being drugged? How many friends had she lost as a result of her so-called illness? Her hatred for Hubert increased at the thought of how much of her life he’d stolen, time that could never be regained. If she were a man, she’d have no compunction about running her detestable cousin through.