<div class="floatleft">(http://imgur.com/RcjBCPf.jpg)</div>It had been such a lovely day. Dancing, drinking, and just enough flirting to ensure that Isabela would have plenty of invitations from the handful of eager and hopeful nobles she had led on so that she could repeat the experience for weeks to come. But as all things do, it came to an end, leaving her only with the consequences that inevitably followed: the fatigue that slowly replaced the relaxing warmth of alcohol and the dull, throbbing ache that pervaded through every muscle in her legs. She was a woman that had spent her life doing Castille's dirty work and it somehow left her completely unprepared for the hell that was twirling about in high heels for hours. Torture devices is what they were. The worst of it came when the driver of her carriage pulled off the road and informed her that the fog was making travel too treacherous and that it would be prudent to stop and continue the journey home in the morning. Isabela didn't mind so much but Countess Sabine Gautier was another matter entirely. Mingle with commoners and sleep in a bed that others had rented? Out of the question. It seemed she had some acting to do.<br/><br/>Once she had overseen her servants cleaning the bed she had paid for and replacing the sheets provided with her own personal ones, she was more than happy to drop the subject and retire to the inn's common room. It was there that she was presently located, sitting low in her chair with the encroaching night and the isolated spot she had picked out making her light dusky skin appear a shade darker. Isabela was completely out of place here; a raven haired beauty dressed to the nines and a cloud of soft floral perfume following in her wake. Even though it had been hours since she left the lord's ball, Isabela was still dolled up in her makeup and court finery, a strapless crimson gown held in place only by how tightly it hugged her. She liked to joke inwardly with herself that all it would take is one good, powerful sneeze and the whole thing would probably split in half. Good thing one of her handmaidens was nice enough to shove her into a corset that morning; not even the need to breathe could overpower Montaigne fashion. Resting just above the valley of cleavage not covered by her dress - just enough flesh to tantalize without looking desperate - was a golden necklace with an emerald centerpiece that sparkled in the light of freshly lit candles. It was a gift from some nobleman or another. Isabela never bothered to remember his name.<br/><br/>Isabela's legs were stretched across the lap of the man to her left, explaining her current slouched posture, while the offending shoes that were the source of her discomfort sat unbuckled and neatly stowed away beneath her chair. This was Mathieu, the carriage driver, and owner of some of the strongest hands she had ever come across. Already he worked his magic on her calves, his thumbs circling against the fabric of her stockings and earning him a contented sigh as his Countess' eyes started to drift closed. Mathieu was mildly attractive Isabela supposed, a distinguished man in his mid-30s whose shoulder length brown hair had been pulled back into a short ponytail so as to make himself more presentable at court. Like all of Isabela's servants, he wore an embroidered powder blue tunic with white trim and black slacks, though he had loosened the buttons around his collar immediately after leaving sight of the lord's manor. If he ever saw Isabela's requests as anything sexual, he certainly never showed it; Mathieu was the epitome of stoicism even as he coaxed soft coos from his mistress and caused her silken legs to slide across his lap. He was a miracle worker with his hands but Isabela saw no reason to ruin a good thing with sex should he ever work up the nerve to ask. Besides, sleeping with servants was generally frowned upon and Isabela had her eyes set on much bigger prizes.<br/><br/>Sounds of clanking glass pulled the Countess from her rapture, causing her to sit up in her chair in a more regal posture. The cause of her annoyance was Thomas, a young boy of seventeen and her newest servant. He was a spindly thing - not quite able to fill out his uniform like the other men that wore it - with a nest of dirty blonde hair that Isabela always tried to fuss into something presentable with little success before being seen in public with him. If the character of a person could be summed up in only one word, Thomas' word would have been 'awkward'. Even now, the three mugs of ale sloshed out of their containers, darkening his tunic in spots as he neared the table, stopping abruptly with wide eyes when he heard his mistress' voice. "What is that you're carrying, Thomas?" He knew that look, that piercing green stare coupled with the stern voice that sent shivers down his spine.<br/><br/>"Apologies m'lady. It is all they had." He did well to not stutter. It was always worse when he stuttered.<br/><br/>Isabela's emerald eyes rolled as she really sought to sell the whole 'Montaigne noble annoyed by every little thing' routine. "I asked for wine, Thomas.<em>Wine</em>. I am a lady of class and will not stoop to drinking anything less. I don't care if you have to walk to the nearest vineyard and pick the grapes yourself."<br/><br/>"I-" Thomas stopped in his tracks, a look of utter helplessness on his face. He wordlessly turned to return to the bartender, only remembering the armful of alcohol that he carried after taking a few uncertain steps. Again he returned to the table with a quick apology, laying the drinks in the center for the two men at the table to enjoy while he went to beg the bartender for something he could pass off as wine.<br/><br/>"You're being too hard on the lad." A hoarse voice came from Isabela's right, a voice she knew to be owned by her personal bodyguard, Reynauld. Reynauld was approaching forty but looked at least a decade older. Most of the man's hair had gone gray, only a few spots of the two day old stubble he wore showing any signs of the black hair he once had. He was one of Montaigne's many war veterans, a man that knew a hundred different ways to kill another person and not much else; it was no wonder he would find work protecting a spoiled noble once the military had run out of uses for him. To say Reynauld was a difficult man to look at might have been an understatement; he was almost more scar tissue than man thanks to his many close encounters with death. Of particular note was the rough, ridged trail of pale flesh that ran from the top of his cheek all the way down his face, even continuing at the top of his chest and likely going even further. Unlike the others, he wore his own clothes; a stained grey shirt and loose fitting brown trousers, each circled in various places with bits of leather that held an array of weapons. Even worse, Reynauld carried the odor of old leather everywhere he went (which was everywhere Isabela went) and spent most of his time scowling at Isabela's potential suitors. Overall, he was far too rough around the edges for what Isabela had in mind. What she need was a dashing warrior, the well-dressed and well-mannered guardian angel that was always watching her back. It wouldn't hurt if he was nice to look at either. Instead, what she had was a grizzled old man that refused to wear the clothes she presented and looked like he had stopped caring whether he lived or died five years ago. Reynauld probably wasn't going to be her bodyguard much longer.<br/><br/>"Maybe." The corner of the Countess' lips curled into a smile, her eyes glued on Thomas as he frantically pleaded his case with the barman. Looks like wine wasn't going to be on the menu today. "But I'm bored. And I do so enjoy tormenting the poor boy." Her white teeth briefly flashed, met only by a grunt from Reynauld and absolute indifference from Mathieu. The veteran reached his arm across the table and snatched up one of the glasses of alcohol, determined not to let it go to waste. He was already halfway through by the time Thomas returned.<br/><br/>The boy's hands shook nervously as he tried to break the news to his mistress as softly as he could. Maybe she would go easy on him this time. "My lady...I-I tried...I really did but-"<br/><br/>Isabela's firm voice cut off his excuses, her eyes staring straight through him. "Are you trying to get me killed Thomas?"<br/><br/>Thomas' eyes widened in shock, looking toward both the other men seated at the table for answers to this question he was completely unprepared to answer. They offered him no aid, neither even acknowledging that he was there. "I-I...what? No! Of course not."<br/><br/>Isabela leaned forward, folding her hands across the top of the table. "Then why are you bringing my bodyguard three pints of ale, Thomas? Mathieu doesn't drink and<em>I'm</em>not going to drink it. So you obviously just brought my bodyguard three pints of ale. Trying to get him to lower his guard so you can get to me?"<br/><br/>Thomas could only stammer in retort. He didn't mean to. One for each of them. It made so much sense when he first placed the order.<em>Oh god, he was so sorry!</em><br/><br/>"Drink." The Countess pointed a single slender finger at one of the glasses even though her gaze never moved from Thomas' eyes - not that he could stand to make direct eye contact with her but it was there as a reminder for those times he could work up the courage to look anywhere but the floor.<br/><br/>Thomas shot up at that single word, his blue eyes following Isabela's finger to the glass and then back again. "But, my lady, I'm only seventeen. I can't-"<br/><br/>"You want to prove you're not a spy? Then you will help Reynauld drink these." Isabela wasn't budging.<br/><br/>Still stunned by this sudden turn of events, Thomas sat down at the table across from Isabela, a look of pure terror on his face. What if he got in trouble? The local sheriff would surely come in here, see him drinking, and arrest him on the spot. Then the mistress would be even angrier when she had to pay for his release - if she even bothered in the first place. But what if he didn't drink? Slowly his trembling hand reached out, slowly sliding the mug across the table as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Reynauld regarded the whole thing with a jovial laugh, grabbing his second drink and tapping it against the one that now sat in front of the boy that looked as if he would faint at any moment. "Aye. Drink up lad. Wouldn't want to lose my edge." He offered Isabela a knowing wink as he raised the glass to his lips, doing well not to spill any on his chin as he fought back a smile. It was going to be an interesting night.