Hooked. Betina Krahn

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      She kept her head high beneath the gazes of the women of the court. She was grateful when the door closed behind her and she no longer had to endure their hurtful speculation.

      Sir Fredrick paid her little heed other than to clear the hallway for her passage. She did not need to be told that his efforts were more in aid of hurrying to reach her father than any concern for her. He had been with her father for as long as she had memory and made his complete loyalty to the earl known at all times. Though Isabelle was amazed that her cold and distant father could have inspired such devotion in any man, she had come to accept it.

      They moved on to a more sumptuously appointed portion of the castle, finally arriving at a door, which the knight opened without knocking. Still trying to remain impassive, Isabelle moved ahead of him when he stepped aside and motioned her forward.

      What she saw on the other side of the door was a surprise to test the skills of self-possession that she had spent her lifetime perfecting.

      The long narrow chamber bore four occupants. At the far end of the chamber, her father, King John and another man stood with their backs to her. With them was a priest.

      Her gaze went to her father, even as she felt the eyes of the king come to rest upon her face. There was something familiar about the third man, who still stood with his back toward her, his wide shoulders encased in dark-green velvet. There was something about the thick, straight dark hair that brushed the velvet of his collar.

      Her questioning gaze went back to her father. He cast an approving glance over her, assessing her to determine if she was properly representing him, as he always did, but not seeing her. He nodded and said, “Very well, then. Isabelle has arrived. We may begin.”

      Isabelle met the king’s sharp gaze for a brief moment as she asked, “Begin what, Father?” She was pleased at the cool unconcern of her tone. It betrayed none of the agitation that made her heart pound painfully in her chest. Peripherally she became aware that the other man had finally turned around.

      Isabelle’s gaze moved to his face. Her heart stopped, then thumped to life again as she saw, saints above, that it was the very man she had met upon the road the previous day. The very man who had been so much in her thoughts in spite of her wishes to the contrary.

      If the shock on his handsome face was any indication, he was as surprised to see her here as she was him.

      What indeed was he doing here in this chamber with her father, the king and a clergyman? Forcing herself to speak evenly, she asked again, “Begin what, Father?”

      There was a long heavy silence. “Haven’t you even told her?” It was the stranger’s deep voice. His brown eyes met hers. In them she saw resentment.

      Odd. Odder still was her reaction to his expression. The ripples of annoyance and unwanted regret that rolled through her made it difficult to retain her pose of calm. She was not sorry when he turned to glare at her father.

      Her father scowled. “What I tell my daughter is none of your concern.”

      “It is if she is to be my bride.”

      “Bride.” The word was nothing more than a whisper of outgoing breath. She had hope, but…It was so sudden.

      Her shock was lost to the others as her father replied, coldly, “You have me there, Warleigh. But recall as you consider yourself master to my daughter that I am master to you.”

      The man who, if she was hearing aright, was to be her husband, answered with equal lack of warmth. “’Tis only through dastardly doing that it be so. Had you not falsely accused me—”

      Her father blustered. “Dastardly? I’ll have you keep your accusations to—”

      King John halted them with upraised hands. “No more.” He cast her father a warning glance. “You assured me that you could see to this matter. Keep this man in check.”

      Her father bowed. “That I will, Sire.”

      “And you, my lord, you will recall that it is only by my mercy that you have been granted this opportunity to live. You will create no trouble for your father-by-marriage. Is that clear, Warleigh?”

      Warleigh. In all these years she had not forgotten the names of the three fosterlings who had given evidence against her uncle. Shock rolled through her anew. Not only was she to marry one of the ones who had done her such ill, the marriage had clearly been foisted on the angry and resentful Warleigh as a punishment.

      Never had she expected love, or even affection. But she had not thought to be given in such a state of resentment, had even hoped the man she wed might be malleable to her own wishes. Warleigh’s outraged pride told of a strong and commanding will. Heaven help her, it would take every ounce of her self-control to see this through without breaking.

      But that was precisely what she must do.

      Never could she let anyone see how devastated this turn of events had left her. Especially not the man who, for a brief moment yesterday, had made her think about what it would be like to be young and free, to be looked on with favor by a handsome young man.

      From his place beside the priest, Simon watched Isabelle’s impassive and beautiful face.

      So this woman, the one he had met along the road the previous day, was Isabelle, daughter to the Earl of Kelsey. He would never have guessed that she was the one he had been ordered to wed, and had he done so not even a beauty as great as hers could have moved him.

      His gaze raked her face. His faint recollections of the child he had seen a few times so many years ago would never have prepared him for the woman she had become.

      He had much clearer memories of her younger cousin, the scarlet-haired Rosalind, who had died the day Gerard Kelsey attacked the keep. The very thought angered him anew.

      Simon’s lips thinned as he focused on the woman before him again. There was no hint of reaction to her father’s declaration that she was to be married in those astonishing lilac eyes, nor was there any rise of color in the porcelain cheeks. Those perfectly formed pink lips did not thin, nor did they purse. Her slender white hands with their long delicate fingers rested lightly on the skirt of her lavish gown. Her dark head was held at a proud but relaxed angle, further betraying her lack of concern.

      How could she possibly listen to the exchange that had just taken place without reacting in some way? Yet she had.

      He now realized that she was beautiful indeed, but it was more in the way of a marble statue he had seen in Rome. Unbearably lovely but lacking the animation that would fully impassion a man.

      She started toward them, her slender hips drawing his gaze as she moved forward with sensuous grace. In spite of his revelations his body reacted to her grace and beauty with a will of its own. Meanwhile his mind continued to view her lack of emotion with displeasure. He told himself ’twas unnatural for a young woman to be so cold. Even the most obedient of daughters might have hoped to hear of her marriage before the moment was upon her.

      Alas, he reminded himself, he could not expect more from the earl’s daughter. Simon was infinitely conscious of the pale perfection of her face as she came to a halt beside him. And, heaven help him, her slender but enticing form. The gold belt about her slim hips drew his wayward gaze but when he forced it upward he was equally captivated by her long, narrow waist and high, proud СКАЧАТЬ