her smooth white flesh, wondering how the bend of her waist would smell, and the curve of her knee. He would like to unwind that mass of hair and spread it over her naked skin.
Death seemed a small price to pay for such a pleasure.
Idly, he wondered if he could bed her. A widow past the first blush of youth, she might not be unwilling. He'd seen the teasing glint in her eye, and was not unaware of the way she looked at him.
When he was a boy, his mother had told him over and over to keep his eye on the women of the world. Men would ever be called to challenge him for his size, else they'd stew in silent jealousy and seek to bring him down in other ways. Better, she said, to remember it was with women that true power lay. A power quiet and subtle, to be sure, but never to be ignored.
For the first time, he felt he had seen a hint of that quiet power. It lay in the straight proud spine of Lady Elizabeth, in the cool strength of her chin, even in the real grief he'd seen when she'd spoken of her difficult choice to flee Woodell and leave the villagers behind.
She moved him, and she was powerful, and he had much to hide. To keep his head clear and sharp, he must not bed her. It was too dangerous.
In her dark chamber, Isobel lay next to Nurse, listening to the heavy tenor of her snores. Not long now and Isobel could make her escape. Through the shuttered window came the sound of drums, pounding in her veins, calling to her. Pressure built in her limbs and loins, a restlessness she could not name, but she forced herself to remain still just a little longer.
The snores fell into a grunting wheeze at last. Carefully, Isobel slipped from the bed and gathered her tunic and slippers from the bench where she had left them, and Nurse's plain black cloak from the hook on the wall. With practiced slowness, she lifted the latch on the door and eased it open, wincing in terror when the hinges creaked. She froze, listening, but the old woman's snores continued unabated. Isobel, clutching her bundle to her chest, slipped into the dimly lit passageway beyond.
She closed the door with care and hurriedly dressed, then tied her betraying hair into a tight knot at the back of her head and donned the dull, black cloak. When she pulled up the hood to cover her head and shadow her face, none would look twice at her.
Stealthily, she crept through the passages and down the steps in the west tower, and through the deserted buttery into the night. A hidden gate in the castle wall was never locked; Isobel had tested it earlier to be sure. She used it now to escape to freedom, and ran nimbly for music and the fire on the hill.
The peasants were well into their cups and noticed not a single hooded figure joining in their revels and feasting. Up close, the drums and pipes cast a wild spell over her senses, and Isobel felt the cloying sense of panic ease from her for the first time in months. With a light step and eager laughter, she danced around the bonfire, and drank deeply, and danced some more.
Ever she was careful to keep herself hooded and cloaked, her face in shadow so none should know her. Even so, a youth from the village, flushed with drink, made a grab for her when she rounded the fire, and Isobel laughed, tumbling with him to the grass. He was a strapping, handsome youth, and if he smelled of hay and garlic, all the better to stimulate her senses. His kiss was wet and fierce, his hands clasped tight on her shoulders. His body was a welcome weight against her aching breasts and the thickness in her belly, and she liked the rounds of his shoulders, the thrust of his tongue, the way his back dipped low, only to swell again.
When he would have moved his hands to explore her body as she explored his, Isobel laughed and captured his fingers. "Not here," she whispered. "Come into the forest with me."
In a trice, he was on his feet, taking her hand to lead her into the deep shadows below the trees. Isobel followed, laughing breathlessly. Her
Douglas E. Schoen, Melik Kaylan