“Thyme?” she asked.

The king looked at her. “My guess, Isabel, is betwixt the noon hour and evening meal.”

“I was talking about . . . never mind. May I retire to my quarters to prepare for supper?”

“Most assuredly, Countess. Your trunks will be delivered as soon as one of your Toms, Dicks or Harrys manage to get them up there.” The humor was back in his eyes, and Isabel was once again bamboozled.

She pulled herself together to ask one more thing. “Sir, my men. They mean a great deal to me. Their accommodations?”

“They’ll be given the best the great hall of Camelot has to offer, Isabel.”

Once again, she melted. The way her name came off his tongue really screwed with her hormones. “Does this mean they’ll stay downstairs, then?”

“Do you want them up closer to you, Isabel?”

“Is that possible? I don’t want to upset anyone, but I truly want them near me.”

“Very unusual, but it shall be done.” The king took a long look at her, then bowed. “I only wish to make you happy.”

Happy would be kissing him senseless.

Her necklace again thumped her. Stick to the plan, Izzy.

Then stop putting gorgeous, sexy kings in my face, Viviane.

ISABEL’S room was the epitome of medieval luxury accommodations. The walls were made of rustic wood, which smelled of cedar, but probably weren’t. The bedsheets were rose and forest green. She had her own special room, if you could call it that, with a piss pot in just about every corner. And in front of the fireplace was a huge tub.

There was a cheerful fire crackling in the huge fireplace, which bathed the room in a rosy glow. All in all, considering the time period, this was presidential-suite material.

Her trunks had been delivered to her room, and Viviane had thought of everything. Except floss. And a toothbrush. And Listerine.