A/N: this is not a prompt, but something I really wanted to do myself. After several reviews from readers saying how many feels they had in the last one-shot (considering what happens to poor Isabelle in The Long Game), I felt like writing a bit more about them. Also, I was feeling mean, so I wrote their first kiss. Sorry guys! Big thanks to Emilie Brown for the cover art :)

Crazykat77, OneMagician, Erik'sTrueAngel, Twyla Mercedes, deweymay, JospehineM, Wondermorena, Kiri Huo Ziv, Valrie: thank you for all your lovely comments and encouragement. And thanks for the prompts, guys! Always happy to receive more! I may do a smutty one next time...

Isabelle left Langfell Castle in a towering rage, digging her heels into Falcon's flanks as he cantered out of the gate, her dark green skirts flapping in the chill breeze. It was her birthday; she had turned seventeen that day, and unfortunately it appeared to coincide with her mother suddenly realising she was there, and a grown woman to boot.

"Isabelle, I really think it's time we looked for a suitable alliance for you," she had said over their meal that afternoon, and Isabelle had dropped her spoon in her bowl of pottage, eyes widening with fear.

"Alliance?" she asked unsteadily. "You mean – marriage?"

"You're seventeen," said the Lady Marie, idly waving a hand as she spread butter on a piece of bread. "By your age I had already been married three years and borne two sons."

Isabelle swallowed hard. She had really hoped to put this off, at least until her father got back. Did that mean...?

"Is Father coming home?" she asked. "Have you heard from him?"

Lady Marie frowned. "I have not. You know I'd tell you if we heard anything. It's past time for you to marry." She took a bite of her bread, watching her daughter. "I've decided to invite the Earl of Salisbury with his retinue and several of the local knights to an evening of music and dancing just before Christmas. And Sir Guy and several of the knights will be here later this evening. Won't that be delightful?"

Won't that be a chance for me to be displayed as though I'm a farmer's prize cow, thought Isabelle. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

"If you'll excuse me, Mother, I'm going for a ride," she said coldly, and swept from the room.

It didn't take her long to reach Avonleigh at the pace she set, and she slowed Falcon to a trot as she passed through the town, several of the townsfolk tugging their forelocks to her as she went. Isabelle nodded to as many as she could, but her eyes were fixed on the large house at the end of town. She dismounted, patting Falcon, and walked him around to the stables, tossing a coin to the stable-boy, Henry.

"Give him some oats and a rub-down," she said. "I've ridden him hard."

Henry ducked his head respectfully. "Yes, m'Lady," he said, in his piping voice, and she smiled at him, a little of the tension leaving her as she stood on familiar soil. Hitching up the skirts of her dress, she strode towards the barn, where she expected Rum to be at this time of day. His three apprentices were already working away, producing yarn at an incredible rate. Isabelle had marvelled at the new spinning wheels, and how much quicker they were than the usual spindle and distaff. They spared her a glance, but Rum wasn't there, and so she walked around to the front of the house and knocked on the door.

The past three years had seen their relationship grow into something beyond friendship. He seemed to understand exactly how she felt, what was important to her, what she hated about her life. He had lent her many books, and Isabelle had spent glorious hours lapping up knowledge in new ways of healing, military strategy, and even recipes for medicines and good things to eat. He had introduced her to Doc, the strange old healer who lived in a small cabin in the woods, and he had been pleased to teach Isabelle some of his secret recipes for medicines, all of which seemed to work better than those the monks peddled.

She sometimes spent all day with the two men, talking until the sun went down, but this was, all too often, not possible. Rum had his apprentices to consider, after all. Her favourite day was Sunday. After attending church with her mother and Hannah (she never saw Rum and Doc in the church, but this didn't bother her) she would go to his house and sit cross-legged on the sheepskin rug while he poured her a cup of wine or two. They would talk, about all manner of subjects, from religion to politics to wars to the rearing of livestock. They would often argue; Isabelle had a temper and was relatively easy for him to rile, and several times she had ended up shouting at him, her eyes flashing before she stormed out. But she always went back.

She was aware that she was in love with him, and that she had been almost from the first, but she was nervous, unsure whether he knew (if he did, why didn't he say something, and if he didn't, was he just immensely stupid?). She had not pressed the issue yet, or told him anything, but her mother's mention of marriage that morning had spurred her into action; she knew she didn't have much time left.

Rum was washing his hands when he heard the knock on the door. He had been dying yarn, and the colour was sometimes difficult to get out. He intended to set the apprentices on it tomorrow, as soon as this yarn was dry. He needed to go back out to the barn, to check on what they were doing before dismissing them for the day. The orange winter sun was already slipping towards the horizon, although it was only a couple of hours past noon. The knock sounded again, insistent, and he dried his hands and went to the door, eyes widening as Isabelle rushed inside and began pacing the floor.

"Isabelle," he said, pleasantly surprised. "How are you?"

She continued to pace, biting her lip, and he decided to let her gather her thoughts while he poured her a cup of wine, along with one for himself. She was looking as ravishing as always; her dark green dress suited her pale skin and dark hair, and it had a belt embroidered in gold, with the same pattern around the neckline. A thick cloak of fine green wool sat about her shoulders, which she was currently tearing at impatiently. She got the thing off, throwing it over the back of his chair. He eyed her, drinking her in, the swish of her skirts and the determined, but slightly fearful look on her face. He loved her, of course, and he knew that she loved him, that she was his, albeit not in word or deed. He held out the wine to her and she stopped abruptly, taking in from him with a muffled word of thanks.

"Are you going to tell me what's upset you?" he asked mildly, and she snorted.

"Mother decided, after several years of not noticing my existence, that she's going to take charge of finding me a suitable alliance," she said pouring all the scorn into the last word as she could.

She turned to face him, her chest heaving with outrage, and tried to interpret the sudden, closed look on his face.

"I see," was all he said, and she glared at him.

"You see? Is that it? Help me think of something!"

"You've been of an age to be married for several years now," he said reasonably, making her scowl. "You must have known this was coming at some point."

"But I don't want to be married!" she whined. "At least not to – Mother's invited the Earl of Salisbury up before Christmas. I hate him! He's vile and cruel, and she'll make me marry him unless I can put him off."

She dropped her head, and he reached out to touch her arm briefly before pulling back.

"I will let no one harm you, Isabelle," he said quietly.

"I fail to see how," she said sourly, taking a drink of her wine. "Would you follow me to Salisbury?"

"I'd follow you anywhere," he said softly. "And kill anyone who raised a hand to you."

She looked up at him then, and her lips parted at the intensity in his dark eyes. He was standing too close; she could almost feel the heat from his body. He reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb gently stroking over her smooth skin, his scent enveloping her and making her head spin. She swallowed hard, and he suddenly pulled away, leaving her feeling strangely alone.

"It will be dark soon," he said. "You should get back to the castle."

She stood for a moment, breathing hard, trying to will courage into herself as she looked at his back.

"It's my birthday," she blurted, and he paused, turning back to her.

"Oh? And how old are you, Isabelle?"

"Seventeen, you know that," she admonished, a small smile on her lips. He took a step closer.

"And did you get some precious gifts from your suitors today?" He spoke with a mocking drawl, and she pulled a face at him.

"I don't know. I left the castle before I could be forced to sit through any of the tedious conversations with the desperately dull knights that Mother approves of. I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask you for something." She gazed at him clearly, hoping he would take the hint.

"Indeed?" His voice was warm, soft, humming through her and making her shiver. "And what might that be?"

Her breath hitched. "A kiss," she said defiantly. "I want you to kiss me. As – as my birthday gift."

"Ah." He looked her up and down slowly. "So you only want the one, then?"

"Yes – I mean, no – I mean…" She trailed off, blushing furiously. "Shut up! Are you going to kiss me or not?"

He pressed a hand to his heart, raising his eyes to the ceiling as the heavy gold ring on his finger winked in the light, its blue-grey stone shining.

"Such courtly grace!" he sighed. "How could I resist?"

She glared at him, wanting to stamp her foot in frustration, and he chuckled, moving closer to her, so that her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were dark in the candlelight, the amber glow from the fire warming his skin and picking out highlights in his hair. She could feel his cool breath on her face, and breathed in his familiar scent as he stepped up to her.

"Are you ready?" he asked quietly, and she nodded. She had been ready for three years. He sighed softly, a hand stroking her hair gently and making her shiver.

"This will change things," he said gently. "You know that."

It wasn't a question, and so she didn't bother to answer. She wanted it to change things! She wanted him to see her as she saw him! She wasn't a girl any longer. She lifted her chin and stared at him defiantly, making him smile. Their bodies were almost touching, and she found that she was breathing hard, her chest heaving.

She stood stock still, unsure what he wanted her to do, her belly churning and twisting with something she couldn't define, something that she had felt since she had met him. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he lifted his hands to cup her face, brushing a curl of hair back from her, and gazed at her for a moment. Isabelle could see gold flecks in his eyes, their deep brown almost black in the candlelight, and she felt her heart fluttering as he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

She felt a fire burning through her at his touch, gasping as his soft tongue parted her lips and explored her. Hannah and the other girls had never mentioned tongues, in the giggling conversations she was not supposed to overhear. It felt wonderful, though and she gently touched her own against his, making his grip tighten. She clung to him, pressing her body against his, feeling the hardness of him against her as he deepened the kiss, his fingers sliding into her hair and sending shivers through her whole being. She let out a tiny moan as one hand slid down her back and into the hollow of her spine, tugging her flush against him so that she could feel his desire. It was everything she had thought about in the dead of night, when she tried to fill her head with thoughts of him in the hope that she would dream of his touch. It was more. She had not imagined the rush of heat that would surge through her, the way wetness would pool between her legs just from his kiss. She could taste him in her mouth, could feel the roughness of his cheek against her smooth skin, and a brief thought flitted through her head of what it might feel like against her breasts. She moaned again at the thought of it.

A strange feeling was running through her, like an itch under her skin that she couldn't scratch. She wanted…she wanted… That was it. She wanted. She wanted him, wanted him the way a wife wanted a husband, although according to the Prior that in itself was sinful. She briefly recalled a sermon she had attended the previous week. The daughter of Mrs Brewer, the owner of the tavern, had refused to share her wastrel husband's bed for several weeks after catching him in the ale store with one of the serving wenches. The husband must have gone to the Prior, because his sermon was full of the duties of a wife to lie with her husband, that there should be no pleasure in it, but that it was solely for the getting of children, and only where such a union had been blessed by God. Anything else was adultery, and sinful. Isabelle had watched the husband nodding sagely along with the sermon, his wife bowing her head in shame, and her lip had curled at the hypocrisy of it all. How could this, this wonderful feeling, be sinful?

She pressed herself against Rum, her fingers sinking into his hair and drawing a tiny noise of pleasure from him as his tongue stroked hers. The noise excited her, made her want to do more, pull more noises from him, do everything she could with him. Did that make her a wanton, a Jezebel? She was sure the church would not approve. Not to mention her parents. If her father ever found out, Rum would be lucky to get away with a flogging. She banished the unwelcome thoughts from her head and lost herself in his kiss, in the feel and taste and scent of him.

Rum drew back from her, slowly, letting the kiss become soft and gentle once more before releasing her from his arms. Isabelle stood on shaking legs, her lips bruised, her eyes bright with desire and surprise, and he smiled warmly at her as she put her hands on his chest to steady herself.

"I love you," she said breathlessly. "I love you. Completely and utterly. I have since we met."

He kissed her forehead, brushing an unruly curl away and tucking it behind her ear, and traced her lower lip with his calloused thumb.

"I love you, my little Belle," he whispered. "Until the end of time."

Isabelle's heart swelled with joy and love, and she fell against him, tilting her head upwards.

"Kiss me again," she murmured, and he grinned.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed. I couldn't resist… Back to your prompts next time, promise! I was just feeling self-indulgent :)