Hooked. Betina Krahn

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      Isabelle chafed inside the small confines of her tent, ever conscious of the watchful and worried gaze of Helwys. She decided to occupy herself and the maid by rearranging her hair. But Helwys’s expression did not ease throughout this familiar activity and she finally broached the subject of the coming night. “Will he come to you, my lady?”

      Isabelle was forced to inform her maid of the dismal truth with as much self-possession as she could muster. “I have no idea what is to happen.” It was true that her father had called a halt to their journey rather early in the evening but he had given no indication of why.

      “Oh, my dear lady.”

      Though Isabelle did love the older woman it was sometimes difficult to deal with her worry and sympathy. It was oftimes displayed when Isabelle could least afford any sign of weakness, any hint of self-pity. Such was the case now. She must retain her equilibrium. “My father will inform me of what he wishes for me to do when he wishes it. And not a moment before, as you well know.”

      Helwys put her plump hands to her bosom. “’Tis unnatural, his treatment of you.”

      Isabelle hushed her with a raised hand. “Do not say so.” She looked about them. “These walls are very poor protection indeed to guard against my father’s many ears and eyes. Were he to think you against him he would send you away…or…” Her voice broke as she recalled the beating Helwys had once received at her father’s command, and all because she had dared question one of Isabelle’s lessons. He did not feel that forcing five-year-old Isabelle to sit at table each evening for a fortnight without eating as a punishment for spilling her cup was cruel. She took a deep breath. “We can not risk angering him.” Though that had not been the last beating Helwys had suffered by his order there had been none in recent years and Isabelle would keep it so.

      The older woman sent Isabelle a glance that told of just how much she understood. They two had been together since Isabelle was a child, but like everything else that had ever meant anything to her, Isabelle hid her love for the serving woman lest her father, who viewed such emotions as weakness, find some way to use it against her.

      Weakness was not tolerated.

      Even though Helwys desisted, the sadness and worry did not leave her brown gaze. Feeling as if she would surely explode with the tension of staying calm in the face of her maid’s anxiety Isabelle took up her scarlet cloak, saying, “I am going for a walk before it grows dark.”

      Helwys frowned. “But, my lady…”

      She took a quick breath through her nose, speaking with barely leashed strain. “If I do not do something, I shall go quite mad.”

      The wide-eyed maid said no more in the face of this unaccustomed outburst and Isabelle slipped from the tent. She was afforded a measure of privacy as she hurried into the cover of the tall green pine and yew, as well as the rapidly turning ash and willow that grew close to the nearby stream.

      Leaving the sounds of the camp behind, Isabelle took a deep breath, rubbing her hand over the base of her neck. Her cheeks felt hot and flushed. With a sigh she made her way to where the brush was thicker at the edge of the stream, moving forward carefully in order to make certain that the ground was firm beneath her.

      It seemed soft and dense with moss but not unsafe. Isabelle knelt down and reached out to dip her hand in the cool water, meaning to bring it up to her heated cheeks.

      In the very act of bending over, the sound of a splash came to her. Looking toward the noise, she stopped still. There, in the water just a bit farther downstream was a man. He was standing with his bare back to her in the shallows on the opposite bank as he splashed water over his upper body and over his thick, straight dark hair.

      Isabelle jerked back, her hand going to her mouth as she realized that the man was Simon Warleigh. Her husband. The man who had already caused her so much unrest this day.

      She knew that she should go away before he saw her. She could not imagine how she would ever live with his knowing that she had seen him this way. But another part of her, one that would not be denied, argued that he would never realize she was here.

      And after all, was he not her own husband? It was not unusual that she would wonder about him, wonder about the body that must eventually be joined with hers if a child was to be made. She told herself that seeing him thus would surely help prepare her for the act that must come.

      Isabelle had no wish to appear frightened or unsure of herself if he should come to her. And the more prepared she was, the more likely that she would be able to hide any anxiety she might feel from her husband.

      Thus having convinced herself, she carefully leaned back out from behind the brush. Her gaze moved over those wide golden shoulders, down his back to his narrow waist and lean hips. When Warleigh raised his arms to scrub at his dark hair she saw the hardness of the muscles as they flexed in his forearms, his shoulders and down his back.

      Isabelle frowned thoughtfully. She had not expected him to be so muscular. Simon was a slender man, as her father was, but from what she could see it was obvious that his body was far harder, more masculine.

      He was strangely appealing, she realized as a faint tingle of awareness came to her belly. Her gaze grew wide. Now where had that thought come from?

      However strong and attractive he might be, Warleigh did not appeal to her. If they came together it would be in the interest of producing a child. Nothing more.

      Nonetheless she watched as he dove into the deeper portion of the river, then emerged far closer to her hiding spot than she would have expected. Again Isabelle ducked back behind the brush, while being careful to keep him in sight between the branches. She held her breath as Simon stood, his body glistening in the low-slanting, evening sunlight, his dark hair slicked back from his broad brow.

      Her heart thumped in her chest, for he looked like some pagan god of old, risen from the very waters in which he stood. Again came that strange, pleasurable tingling. Quickly Isabelle called herself to task. Such fanciful thoughts were completely foreign to her.

      Since early childhood Isabelle had been taught to control her feelings. No unwanted physical sensations or girlish daydreams had ever arisen in a mind that was completely fixed on doing what was expected of her and thus preventing any lessons. But now, with one glimpse of this man, she was entertaining notions that were quite unacceptable to her.

      She drew herself up, pulling back as she closed her eyes. It would not serve, however fascinating the man might appear in the glory of his nakedness.

      A flash of scarlet amongst the green drew Simon’s eyes. He stopped in the act of reaching for a handful of sand to rub in his wet hair, his gaze searching the bushes along that stretch of river.

      Nothing.

      Yet he had not imagined what he had seen. And the red was too vivid to be created by a trick of light on water.

      Perhaps he told himself, it had been one of Kelsey’s men, sent to watch and make sure he did not try to escape. Yet he did not recall seeing any of the men wearing such a bright color. Then a vivid image of Isabelle entered his mind. She had been dressed in a scarlet cloak this day.

      Shock jolted through him.

      Why would Isabelle have come here to spy upon him? He could not credit that her father would send her to do so. Surely even Gerard Kelsey had more sensibility toward his own daughter.

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