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the candle, or rather my sister or daughter will do so on my
behalf, for I have found you again.” He lifted one of her hands off the saddle
pommel and raised it, kissing each finger. “I am mightily glad I have, even if
our reunion was a little unconventional.”
    He has a daughter and he has told her about me . A mingled pleasure and pain lodged in her chest and
she said quickly, “I have a son, Matthew, but he is away for the present. What
is your daughter called?”
    “Joanna, after my mother. She is nine years old.”
Isabella felt Stephen’s long sigh right through her own body. “With being at
the court of the duke I do not see her as often as I would like, but I know she
does well at my sister‘s. How old is your son?”
    “Four years.”
    Stephen started against her and she guessed he was
frowning. “That is young to be away from his mother.”
    “Yes it is.” She could say no more without fear of her
voice cracking. Does he think me a wicked mother? Perhaps I am, for I cannot
have my son with me.
    They were approaching the back yards and gardens of
the goldsmiths’ houses, including that of her own, if she could call where she
dwelt on sufferance a home.
    She twisted about, the collision of their two bodies
sending tiny sparks up and down her arms and legs. “This is the place,” she
said awkwardly, pointing to the stout stone wall around it and the stand of
cherry and apple trees. “I can go in here, by way of the small gate.”
    She tried to dismount but he held her easily in place
by means of an arm, gently but firmly. Instead he stepped down and came by his
horse’s flank to look up at her.
    “This is the back of Richard Martinton’s workshop. So you are his widow? I had heard the fellow was married.”
    She nodded, wondering how Stephen had known Richard
and whether he had liked him. It seemed unlikely from the little he had said
and the tone of his deep voice. Many people had disliked her late husband, who
was apt to be quarrelsome and spiteful, especially when drunk. Or worse,
Richard might have owed Stephen money, or a favour, or betrayed him in some way.
    Please, if this man loathed Richard, let him not
loathe me.
    Stephen was looking at her, studying her for so long
she wondered if she had a smut on her cheek. “That explains it,” he said
cryptically. He stroked his horse’s neck and she wished he might stroke her.
    “You will be safe from here on? I would prefer to see
you right indoors.”
    “Oh no, I will be quite all right,” she said swiftly,
aware that the longer they lingered the more likely a servant would report them
to her mother-in-law. She did not want her “family” questioning Stephen, not
yet. For the moment he was all hers.
    Or is he?
    Her mesh of thoughts broke and scattered as he dropped
his horse’s reins and lifted her straight into his arms. He held her aloft a
moment, then slowly, inch by inch it seemed, he lowered her until they were
face to face. “Then I must let you go,” he said softly, his voice a growl.
    “You should.” When he did not, she tried to move and
her nose softly collided with his but otherwise she could not stir. Trapped in
his iron grip, her feet dangling in the air, she bethought herself of a ruse,
instead. “I think I hear someone come.”
    He grinned at her. “I think you do not and even if you
did, mistress, I would have an answer before I go.” He tightened his hold slightly.
    “To what question?” she asked tartly, praying he would
not notice how comfortable she felt within his arms, even with her feet
dangling.
    “Fool that I am, I forgot to ask!” He kissed her
softly on the cheek. “May I see you again, Isabella?”
    Her spirits leapt up like a blazing fire. She knew
that by all forms and manners she should not do it, but his lips were so close,
so inviting. Feeling reckless, light-headed, her feet dangling, she kissed him
gently on the mouth.
    “I might take that as a yes?” he said, when her lips
left