A Knight's Vow (12 page)

There was a soft knock on the door and she stopped, naked, in the center of the room, praying it was not her husband.

"Lady Isabel?" said the maid, Annie.

Isabel let out the breath she was holding and found her old shirt. She donned it and called for the girl to enter.

Annie walked in with a smile, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if her mistress wasn't half-naked in the middle of the day. "My lady, Lord Bolton sent me up to help you change for supper. I'm sure I can find a gown I could alter for you."

"Thank you, Annie, but that won't be necessary. It is true that my garments need to be washed, and my hose are no longer.. .wearable, but I will not dress to suit Bolton. I will need another doublet, or perhaps a tunic."

The girl bit her lip. "But my lady—"

"I promise I will not tell him that you helped me."

"'Tis not that. I'm just uncertain whose clothing will fit you."

"Aah," Isabel said with a thoughtful nod. "Do your best. But what I need most right now is hose." She looked about the room at the chests and cupboards. "Surely these are not all of Bolton's clothes."

"Oh no, my lady. His wardrobe room is next door, on the left." With a shaky curtsy, Annie fled the room.

Isabel pondered this new information for a moment, a plan forming in her mind. She carefully opened the door, checked the hall for guards or her husband, then crept into the next room. A glazed window let in enough light for her to see rows of pegs along all four walls, hung with more garments than Isabel had seen for an entire castle staff. There were at least a score of chests. The man was a peacock about clothing, she thought with disgust.

She found another black doublet, this one short, with slashed sleeves. She donned a fine white shirt and black hose, then the doublet, which well revealed the roundness of her hips. Out of habit, Isabel almost discarded it, then thought better of it. They all knew she was a woman. There was nothing left to hide, and it would make Bolton angrier.

She arrived back in his bedchamber just as Annie did. The girl stared at her garments, wide-eyed, but offered no comment.

"I found hose made for a smaller man," she said, offering a handful of black fabric.

Isabel pulled off Bolton's too-large hose and donned the new ones, tying them into place beneath her garments. She pulled on her own boots. "I am ready."

"My lady," Annie said, picking up a brush. "Allow me to fix your hair."

"No."

"It has become quite tangled. Please sit."

Reluctantly, Isabel sat at a small table and let the girl brush out her hair. The lulling motion of the brush moving across her scalp was strangely relaxing. She found herself pillowing her head in her arms, drowsing, trying to forget.

"Has no one ever brushed your hair before?" Annie asked softly.

She answered without thinking about it. "Not that I remember. My mother died when I was very young."

Still Annie stroked her hair and Isabel felt her tension easing.

"Shall I tie your hair back, my lady?"

"Perhaps later," she said with a sigh, getting to her feet.

Annie arched her neck to look up at her. "My lady, might I say something?"

She nodded warily.

"You could have a good life here."

Isabel turned away and started for the door.

"Please, give us a chance—give him a chance. This isn't the way to do that."

Over her shoulder, Isabel said, "Bolton doesn't deserve a chance."

Chapter 12

James sat on the dais, wearing a false grin, trying to enjoy the minstrel's performance. He was still uncomfortably frustrated, still angry at his momentary weakness. Why hadn't he just taken Isabel when she'd been willing?

He downed his third tankard of ale, clapped along with the rest of the hall's occupants, and waited impatiently for his meal. He ignored Isabel's glowering squire.

A sudden silence descended on the hall, and James knew immediately that the Black Angel would never be a woman to hide from her problems. She swaggered down the stairs, wearing one of his doublets, by the saints. It was too big through the shoulders, but it showed the enticing curve of her hips. When she turned away, he could see the indentation of her backside.

James's mouth went dry and he gulped more ale. She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had stolen his clothing and paraded it before everyone, pretending to be a man except for that incredible mane of black curls flowing down her shoulders. She wore an eating knife in her belt—his belt.

And she'd just been crying.

James forced the memory away and watched as she strode over to one hearth. She stood with her hands riding low on her hips, surveying the hall as if she owned it, daring anyone to comment. He felt a reluctant smile tug his lips. He certainly could not deny her bravery.

He doubted she would tell everyone that he had not consummated their marriage. He almost hoped she would try. It would leave her open to whatever twist James wanted to put on their afternoon together.

The minstrel's voice choked to a halt as he realized who the lady of the castle was. James's smile vanished. Another story for the minstrel to spread at every castle he visited.

Sighing, he gave a nod to his steward and the meal began. James merely wanted to get the evening over with—and what? Return to his bedchamber with his wife, who cried when he pleasured her? He suspected she'd never known

pleasure in her life. Feeling depression settle over him, he simply stared at the first course, wondering if he would have trouble eating.

Isabel had no such problem. She reached the table before he did and sat down, looking towards the kitchens expectantly. She motioned for William to join them, but as the young man began to sit, James gave him a stern look and shook his head once. William froze, then smiled apologetically at Isabel and went to sit elsewhere.

She gave James an angry look.

"He is my squire, the son of a baron," she said. "He cannot eat with the common folk."

"He had better become used to it, Angel. He has a long way to go before he proves to me that he deserves to be here."

She set down her eating knife with a clatter. "It is my fault he is here at all. Punish me instead of him."

"I thought I already did that this afternoon."

He was startled to see a slow blush redden her cheeks. But she met his gaze.

"Yes, it was a trial," she said calmly, as if she'd never cried out in bliss.

"I don't think you thought so at the time."

"I am a very good liar." She found a spoon beside her bread trencher and began to eat her soup. Noisily.

James felt irrationally angry. Lying, she called it? And she was slurping soup all over one of his best doublets. Just as she was about to put the spoon in her mouth, he calmly said, "Shall I imitate the sounds you made while lying?"

The spoon caught on her lip and she dribbled half of the soup down her chin. Damn, another splatter on the garment, but it was worth it.

She slammed the spoon down and proceeded to wipe the back of her forearm across her mouth. James winced.

"What game do you play, Bolton?"

The few voices still speaking died down.

She continued, "Do you want to hear aloud how unsatisfactory you were?"

James heard the collective gasp of every person in the hall. He stood up, leaning over her. "Unsatisfactory?" he shouted. "They could hear your screams of ecstasy from the village!"

Isabel got to her feet, her face inches from his. "Screams of pain from your clumsiness!"

They breathed hard into each other's faces, teeth bared in angry grimaces. A lone voice spoke up from the back of the hall—Father Carstairs.

"My children, perhaps your private chambers would be a better place to—"

"Father, cease your prattle," James said, never looking away from Isabel's cold eyes. "It was your fine suggestion that put us there in the first place."

But he did want to end this. He was afraid that Isabel, if pushed too far, would reveal that he once again had not bedded her. Part of him couldn't stop wondering what men she'd had, and how he had compared. God's teeth, it was not supposed to be like this with his wife.

He took a step back and glared at her. "Sit down and finish eating."

"I may be married to you, but I shall do as I—" Isabel's gaze followed the platter of sliced venison. "But I must keep up my strength for training." She sat back down in her chair and ignored him.

James sat down with a grimace and began to stab at his meat. So this would be his married life. The sun had only risen and set once and already he needed to escape his wife.

They ate in silence, alone at the head table, while all around them people carried on lively conversations and enjoyed each other. The air between them was frozen with distrust and bitterness.

Near the end of the meal, Isabel suddenly spoke. "Why were the gates barred to me today?"

She had soup on her chin, and James almost used his own sleeve on her in exasperation. "We've been married one day, and I am supposed to trust you?"

"What more do you want of me? You have taken everything, including my people and my lands—and especially my freedom."

He shook his head. "I don't trust that you will not do something foolish in your ridiculous attempts to humiliate me."

"Ridiculous?" She seemed to study him with cool amusement.

He should be angry, instead he looked at the curve of her lip and wanted to kiss her. What was it about her that made him forget everything a woman should be?

"My attempts are hardly ridiculous," she said. "They are working, aren't they? Tell me you are not mortified by our marriage, by me. I am not what you wanted for a wife, admit it."

He grinned. "And did you expect to be married to a Bolton?"

He saw the self-satisfied pleasure leave her eyes. He'd struck a blow. "Tell me how your father would react to his new son by marriage," he continued.

She clutched her eating knife and James pinned her hand beneath his.

"Now, now, Angel, this works both ways," he said. "I've humiliated you, you've humiliated me. Can we not call it even and have peace?"

"Never!" She stood up, stabbed her knife in a slice of pork and walked to the hearth to eat. "Am I still your prisoner?" she demanded in a loud voice.

"In every way."

Her eyes raged hatred at him as she chewed her meat.

James sighed. He should not have mentioned her father. His curiosity about the Mansfields was growing stronger by the minute. He almost wished he had told Galway to return immediately. What kind of family had molded such a creature? And what was he to do with her?

James usually danced, sang, or played cards, but on this second evening of his marriage, people seemed to be keeping their distance. The minstrel's songs went on depressingly about unrequited love. And Isabel was a statue before the hearth, legs spread, hands on her hips, frowning at everything in her path. She made everyone, including him, uncomfortable, and shortened the evening considerably. A few people made impromptu pallets on the floor, but most crept off to find their beds early, including William, whom James had given his own small room.

James got to his feet. "You've scared them all off," he said tiredly. "Are you proud of yourself?"

He saw a genuine flash of puzzlement before she hid it. "I never made a threatening gesture."

"You didn't need to. Your mere presence is enough." His anger spilled out as he walked towards her. "How do you think they feel, knowing a woman who robbed from us is now their mistress?"

He saw her jaw clench. "I certainly did not ask for this."

"Yet it happened." His gaze dropped down her body. "Go up to my bedchamber."

"No. I want to have a room to myself." She met his eyes in obvious defiance.

"Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again? You're big enough to injure my back." James thought of how she'd embarrassed him this evening with her lack of manners and refinement. "Have no worries, my lady. I won't give you anything to scream about." Damn, but his mouth ran away from him.

"Very well," she said evenly, as if she'd been waiting for his anger to bring on irrational oaths. She turned and ascended the staircase, obviously taunting him with her barely covered backside. He drained another tankard of ale before following her.

His bedchamber was filled with lit candles, just as he liked it. It was warm, it should be peaceful, but Isabel stood in the center of the room, naked but for his shirt. She turned and saw him close the door behind him. Calmly, never breaking their shared gaze, she wrapped a blanket around her and sat down on the floor. She rolled onto her side to face the fire, her long legs not quite covered. He saw her feet and the beginning of a shapely calf.

With a curse, he broke, turning and slamming out of the room before he begged her to willingly spread her legs for him. He descended into the great hall and out to the inner ward. The smell of autumn was in the air, and he could see the mist of his breath. Maybe the weather could freeze this wild desire out of him.

But all it did was make him miserably cold, and ever more conscious of being alone. He walked the battlements, he rubbed down the horses, but he ran out of reasons to stay away from his own bedchamber.

Long after midnight, he returned to find Isabel sound asleep before the fire. He undressed and lay down in bed, watching her. He couldn't shut out the cries of her pleasure still echoing in his ears. He remembered the moist heat between her thighs, and the merest thought of burying himself in her made

him ache. But what stopped him was knowing that he could seduce her into accepting his seed, but not have her freely give herself. And he didn't want his marriage to be like that. Hell, he didn't know what he wanted anymore.

Isabel opened her eyes to the morning light. She stiffened, then slowly turned her head. The bed was empty. Bolton must have arisen before her and was now gone. She looked down at her bare legs and shivered. Had he watched her while she slept? She would have known if he had touched her. Just the thought of his hands on her made her uneasy. Asleep, she would be even less likely to control her reactions.