A Knight's Vow (11 page)

William began to shovel out the manure. "I would say he showed you more sympathy last night than most men would."

Isabel turned on her heel and walked out.

James spent the rest of the morning with his steward, going over his account books and seeing

where his dowry money—old and new—would be most useful. He tried not to think of Isabel, but occasionally a maid would helpfully inform him that she still kept to the battlements, after her one visit to the stables.

If James had to speak to one more blushing, giggling maidservant, he would erupt into an angry defense of his chivalrous behavior. What were his people thinking? That he should just force his attentions on a woman who could barely come to terms with her married state?

He held his temper without answering everyone's obvious questions. At dinner, the soldiers and servants flooded the great hall. Isabel entered, William Desmond beside her. Though she tried to sit at a far table, James had her escorted to his.

"Your place is beside me, wife," he said sternly. As William bowed and turned away, he added, "Sit with us, Desmond. My wife seems to enjoy your company."

No one else made any move to join them, and James wasn't surprised. Who would want to sit between a rumor-mongering wife and her frustrated husband. But Father Carstairs suddenly waddled forward and sat at James's left hand, after nodding to Isabel. Isabel practically turned her back to talk

to her squire. James sighed and began to eat his fish stew.

For a few tense minutes, he watched Isabel eat as if she were starving. Then Father Carstairs tugged on his arm.

"Lord Bolton, might I say something... indelicate?" the priest asked in hushed tones.

James gritted his teeth, feeling his meal sit in a ball in his stomach. "What is it, Father?"

"My son, I have heard whispered rumors that disturb me."

James rolled his eyes. Didn't even a priest care that he showed a woman mercy? He felt his face grow red, sensed every eye surreptitiously glancing their way.

"I worry about the legality of your marriage in the eyes of the law, my son. Perhaps you need to—"

Before the priest could utter another word, James slammed his hands down. The hall fell into immediate silence, as if they were all just waiting for an excuse to openly listen.

"That is enough!" James shouted, and his voice echoed from wall to wall. "If respecting my wife's fears is such a terrible thing, then by all means, let us consummate this farce!"

Chapter 11

Isabel stood so quickly her chair fell in a clatter. This was not what she had meant to happen.

"Not so fast, my loose-lipped wife."

Bolton grabbed the back of her doublet. She staggered and found herself spinning towards him. He caught her full against him and she struggled wildly. Bedlam erupted as knights and serving girls and travelers roared with laughter.

"Of course I shall kiss you," he said loudly. "I promise to do more than that."

Holding her body against his with one hand, he gripped her chin with the other and forced their mouths together. Isabel tried to bite him, but he only spread her mouth open and plunged in his tongue. Before she could even think how to react, he broke the kiss and gave her a triumphant grin.

Then her world turned upside down as he bent and flung her over his shoulder. Her breath left her lungs with a giant whoosh, and she found her face against the rump of his multicolored hose. She reared away and tried to punch him.

"None of that, Angel," Bolton said. "I can tell how eager you are. I will hasten to our bedchamber."

The laughter almost hurt Isabel's ears and her mortification burned. How dare he turn her revenge around on herself?

Bolton started to walk and came to an abrupt halt, bouncing her against him.

"William, sit down," he said coldly.

She tried to see what was going on, and failed. Her squire mustn't interfere and risk his own safety, not again.

"But, Lord Bolton—"

"Learn your place, boy."

William must have given way, because James was on the move again, taking the stairs two at a time and slamming her into his shoulder repeatedly. The cheers and laughter mercifully died away as they turned down the stone corridor.

Isabel heard him fling open the door, and a moment later she found herself flat on the bed. As she came wildly to her feet, he slammed the door

shut, then gave her another shove that sent her back onto the bed.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Bolton demanded, striding forward until he stood over her, dark and angry. "You made sure everyone knew I'd been a gentleman, so I'd be forced to bed you."

"No!" she cried, trying to sit up.

He pushed her shoulders back on the bed and held her there. "It seems you were gravely disappointed last night."

"I was not!"

"Then what other reason could there be for your wagging tongue?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it into a grim line. What could she say? That she wanted to humiliate him before his people? He already knew that. He was simply toying with her emotions, which were fragmented at best. What did he intend to do?

Bolton stood back. "Take off your clothing."

Isabel sat up, feeling an unfamiliar tightening deep in her stomach. "No."

"Take off your clothing."

His voice grew deeper, and seemed to rumble through her chest until she shivered. His eyes were blue flames, searing her with incredible intensity. Wasn't it fear that coiled its way inside her, twisted

her nerves into dark anticipation? No, she could not let this happen.

She came to her feet and he fell upon her without warning, pinning her to the bed with his long body. Though she fought and squirmed and pushed his hands away, she felt the laces of her doublet loosen and give way. The garment began to slide down, baring more and more of her shirt. He was calm and determined, and she was wildly out of control. For she was not only battling him, but some deep part of herself, bursting to be free, to let him take her and know again the pleasure of his kiss.

Isabel felt his hands beneath the skirt of her doublet, heard the hose ripped down her legs, first one, then the other. She went still then, breathing in terrible gasps. What was the use? she thought, feeling dark despair flood her mind. She was his property, he could take her as he pleased. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, hands spread over her chest.

For a moment, Bolton didn't move. "Angel?" he whispered, and his breath touched her cheek.

She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowledge the thunder in her heart that his voice aroused. She felt him lift her right hand. She stiffened, but didn't bother to fight. He pressed his mouth into her palm. Her eyes flew wide and she stared at him, feeling

the brush of stubble against her skin as he kissed her. His eyes were closed and his dark hair fell over his forehead. While she gasped for air, he turned his attention to her other hand. After a moment, he sucked her littlest finger into his mouth.

Isabel jerked beneath him at the strange sensation that shot through her. His eyes opened, heavy- lidded, knowing. Then he forced both her arms wide and leaned his face over hers. She found her gaze dropping to his lips, and wondered crazily if he would kiss her. Instead he pressed his mouth to the corner of her eye.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, not trusting her voice.

"Shhh."

He trailed kisses along her cheek, suckled her chin, dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat. He nuzzled beneath her ear, and the clean smell of his hair filled her nostrils. She realized he no longer pinned her arms, but she couldn't even begin to move them. She was caught up in the sensation of his body rubbing against hers.

And then his mouth moved lower, and he took the neckline of her shirt in his teeth and began to pull. Isabel stared aghast as her breasts were bared to daylight and his gaze. She should be embarrassed by her nudity and her scars, but his admiring regard

didn't allow that. She stared in surprise as her nipples puckered and hardened. She squirmed, and the movement of their hips rubbing together felt so wickedly good that she stopped, afraid to take such pleasure in her enemy's body.

This was wrong, she should stop him, but he once again pulled on the fabric, sliding down her body until she groaned softly. The retreating shirt revealed her stomach, then the indentation of her navel. Her bare arms came free and she didn't know what to do with them. She was shocked that she desperately wanted to touch him, to run her hands across his broad chest—instead she gripped the coverlet tightly in her fists. She didn't understand what she wanted, why she ached, why Bolton could work such delicious torture on her body with just a touch.

Isabel stiffened as she came free of her garments. He knelt on the floor, fully clothed, his hands on her thighs, and looked his fill of her nudity. She felt a tightness in her throat. Hers was not a body men looked at. She was big from sword-fighting, with muscles down her long limbs that other women didn't have. She didn't know how to take Bolton's seeming admiration, didn't know what to think of herself.

He skimmed his hands up her thighs and she groaned, forgetting all thought. His thumbs rubbed light circles next to the hair between her thighs, and tremors pulsed through her. She clenched her legs tightly together. He laughed low in his throat.

He suddenly climbed onto the bed, straddling her on his hands and knees. He bent and she felt the brush of his hair just before he dipped his tongue into her navel. Every inch of her was alive with tension as he kissed the skin across her ribcage, trailing his tongue just beneath her breasts. She couldn't get enough air, didn't care that he searched her eyes, saw everything written on her face. She rolled her head back and forth, barely holding back whimpers of longing. But what did she want? What need did he bring in her that she had never felt before? His hot breath seared her a scant moment before he took one nipple into his mouth and began to suck.

Isabel groaned aloud, arching beneath him as a spasm of intense pleasure shot deep into her. She wished only for the pressure of his hips between hers, and that his mouth would never stop. But he held himself above her and began to lick her breasts, tormenting their peaks with his lips and tongue. And while his mouth worked its magic on

one breast, he caressed the other with his fingers, rubbing her nipple gently.

"Please!" Isabel heard herself gasp. She didn't know what she begged for, only that her body would shatter if he stopped. The pleasure was a rising storm inside her, whirling aside everything she thought she knew about men and women.

He continued to sweep his tongue over her breasts, while his hand began to slide down her stomach and across her clenched thighs. He parted her knees and she allowed it. He seemed to know everything her body wanted, knew how to drive her just this side of mad with desire. She admitted the wickedness to herself. She wanted his hands on her body. In the dark of the night she had dreamed of little else since he had kissed her.

Her mind was a jumble of sensations, the scrape of his hair against her breasts, his rough, callused palm sliding up her inner thigh. His fingers entered the moist folds of her flesh, and the first whimper escaped her.

"Easy," he murmured against her breasts, stroking the most intimate part of her body.

And then he touched a part of her that brought gasps to her throat. She arched against his hand wildly and cried out. He controlled her hips with one of his thighs, and licked her nipples at a steadily increasing pace. His thumb traced little pulsing circles into her flesh, and she felt the world fall away and crash about her, leaving her shaking in the wake of the most wondrous tumult she had ever known.

Isabel came back to herself slowly, languorously, reluctant to lose this feeling of fulfillment. She opened her eyes and found Bolton sitting back on his heels, straddling her. He slowly trailed his fingers through the hair between her thighs and she shivered with each touch. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, relaxed and waiting for what he would do next.

Then he climbed off her and walked out of the room.

Isabel stared in shock at the closed door, then down at her naked, sprawled body. Her breasts bore faint red marks.

What had she done?

She had let her enemy master her. She had practically begged him to pleasure her with every whimper and groan. And yet he himself had felt nothing except triumph. She must be utterly repulsive for a man like Bolton to be unable to finish the sex act, a man who'd literally forced his first betrothed into bed.

Why had she not fought? Where was her pride, her determination? Bolton had won.

Sobs shook her shoulders and burst from her lungs in a hoarse moan. Isabel put her face in a pillow and cried.

After James closed the door behind him, he staggered against the wall and simply held on, his face pressed to the rough, cold stone. His body was taut with denial and anguish, but he could not regret his decision. He had seduced his wife, but he realized now that she had known nothing of a woman's pleasure. What kind of brute had taken her virginity so harshly?

Perhaps the same kind of man as her father, who had let her disavow her womanhood, had molded her into a killer. Of course she knew nothing of a woman's pleasure. She had never known pleasure at all. She never even smiled, except in a triumphant grimace.

James lifted his head, listening, then turned and leaned against the door. Isabel was crying. He felt a surge of grief for her lost childhood, and the confused young woman he must now deal with. But he didn't go back into the room. He returned to the great hall, to the ribald cheers of his men and the fantasy that he could be a happily married man. Nothing had really changed. His life was a show for his people's well-being, and Isabel would only make it harder. And he doubted she had forgotten her vow of vengeance. If anything, it would be stronger than ever.

Isabel's tears finally dried, and she forced herself to leave Bolton's bed. She may have lost this battle, but he was a fool if he thought he had beaten her. She refused to cower in his bedchamber like a submissive wife. She stared in anger at her garments, especially the ruined hose.