“No!” they both yelled at once. Arthur tried to grab her, but she was already slipping away back into the castle. He should have held tight to her hand.
“What now, sir?”
“She will confront Mordred. ’Tis in her nature, James. She is the type to want to know everything. She is, what one would call . . .” A word would not come to him.
Nosy? Protective? Caring?
Arthur knew not where these thoughts were coming from, but they all seemed to be accurate. Although he had no idea what the word nosy meant.
Arthur, if you do not protect Isabel, Merlin cannot live.
Merlin? What know you of Merlin? And who are you, speaking in my head?
Figure it out. Just go protect Isabel. If you haven’t noticed, she is able to raise hell.
“Do I not know that,” Arthur muttered.
“My pardon?” James said.
Arthur shook his head. He was either addled or . . . no, there was no other choice. He was addled.
“Confronting him will put her in danger,” James said.
“It will, we must put a stop to this. She knows the back staircase, James,” Arthur said. “I shall try to stop her there, you go and guard the stables.”
James actually smiled. “We will catch her, my lord. But I must say, I enjoy the thought of the countess taking on the lad.”
“Oh, I do not. She knows not who she faces.”
“Methinks the lady has mettle.”
“Perhaps too much for her own welfare. Mordred’s dislike of women is well documented.”
“She cares about you, m’lord, which is more than I am able to say—”
“Do not finish that thought, James. Please just help me find her.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“You to the stables, I will try to find her at the back of the castle afore she makes a run.”
Arthur ran, even knowing he had witnessed another smile upon his man’s face. What flummoxed him was that he felt a grin forming on his own, even as he attempted to head off disaster. Isabel against Mordred. He could not even conceive of which of the two might win such a battle. Well, yes, he might. Were it a battle of words and wit, his coins would be placed on Isabel. However, Mordred relied on neither, instead preferring to use much nastier weapons.
The thought of Mordred harming Isabel had him taking the steps two at a time. No! If Mordred even attempted to lay a hand to Isabel, he would take down the lad himself, blood or not.
JAMES caught Isabel and Harry as they were halfway to the stables. He held out his arms and prided himself on being able to step side to side to effectively block their paths.
Harry adjusted the green and white nightcap on his head and growled, “I have a patient that needs attending.”
“I understand,” James said, then caught the countess around the waist when she tried to slip around to his right side. He held her sideways and had a rather fun and easy time deflecting her attempted blows to his body. Although he had to admit that he could understand the master’s attraction to her passion.
“Let Isabel go,” Harry demanded as she squirmed in James’s arms. “She is a countess!”
“I apologize, Countess,” James said, knowing he could be in deep trouble for even touching her. But he had one loyalty, and that was to his king. “Please allow me to explain a thing or two afore you head in there with heads blazing.”
The countess stopped wiggling in his arms, even though he kept a gentle hold.
“I promise not to try to run ahead of you, James, should what you tell me be important and relevant.”
James had a deep desire to twirl her once afore setting her on her feet but decided the king would not take kindly to that playfulness. He set her upright upon her feet, and then bowed. “My apologies. But truly, there are things you must needs be made aware of afore you rush in there, m’lady.”
Isabel kind of wished James had twirled her around once or twice before setting her down. Could have been kind of a Six Flags ride in Camelot. But she needed to understand. So she got over it. “Tell me, James.”
Harry harrumphed and she amended it to, “Tell us, James.”
“This . . . how do you call it? This thing ’twixt Mordred and the king has been a long time brewing. For reasons I may not speak of, they have bad blood betwixt them. It is a constant source of misery for my king.”
Isabel felt the fire starting to stir in her belly. Pretty soon it was going to be steaming out of either her nose or mouth. Or both. “And why does this make you try to stop me from going in and kicking the little shit in his—”
“What the lady means,” said Harry, slapping a hand over her mouth, “is that we do not understand why we are appeasing this young man.”
The big man shook his shaggy head. “Mayhap because the king loves the boy, no matter what agony the child brings him, no matter what pleasure Mordred takes in making my king suffer for young sins.”
Isabel grabbed Harry’s hand from her lips and glanced over at him. “Do you see why I never wanted to procreate now?”
“I’m beginning to understand the concept,” Harry said out of the side of his mouth. “But I still think you’d have made a great mother.”
“You are asking me to act with due diligence?” she asked of James.
“That I am, Countess. Please allow the king to handle this situation. Perhaps ’tis time for you to retire to your chamber for the evening?”
Isabel nodded. “Perhaps. But not a chance in hell, as we say in Dumont. I insist that my man Harry and you, James, escort me to the stables.”
“I fear trouble brewing,” James said to Harry.
“You have no idea,” Harry said, before oomphing at Isabel’s elbow to his belly. “But let us go.”
“Then so we shall.”
Isabel, still reeling from the knowledge that Arthur had a son, and that his son was a total jerk, felt a little impatient. She lifted her skirts and yelled, “Catch me if you can!” and made a run for it.
They both ran after her; however, neither was as fast.
James and Harry did not catch the countess until she was facing Mordred in the stables. And she was already speaking her piece. She held out her arms to hold them from stepping forward.
“What brings you here, sir?” she asked Mordred. “What business do you have in Camelot?”
“Who are you to even presume to ask my intentions?”
Isabel studied him. There was no doubt he was Arthur’s son. They looked alike in so many ways, including the deep green eyes. The difference being Arthur’s eyes were so filled with kindness and laughter, whereas Mordred’s emanated venom. “I am Isabel, Countess of Dumont. And a friend of the king. Apparently, you are not. So I ask again, what brings you here?”
Mordred made a mockery of a bow. “How do you do? However, Countess, my business here is none of yours. Has my father stooped so low as to have need of a mere woman to come riding to his defense?”
“A mere woman? Listen, you little shit—”
“No, you listen, Countess,” he spat out. “I am heir to this kingdom, and have every reason and right to travel to Camelot to oversee my future holdings.”
“The king is quite healthy. I believe he will remain so for many years to come. So don’t count your cows before they . . . breed.”
Wow, that was lame, but the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment.
Mordred’s eyes went wide for a moment, and then he broke out in nasty laughter. “If you have not been fully informed, mistress, my father already has a wife. One quite younger than you. I see his interest, as you are fetching; however, you will never take her place as queen. Unless you plot to murder her.”
James and Harry each grabbed one of her arms, apparently hoping to ward off her jumping forward and scratching the bastard’s eyes out. There was no need. She had no intention of launching herself at the boy.