A Knight's Vow (13 page)

She still could not believe the feelings he had coaxed out of her. She had never imagined mating could be so...pleasant. Oh, she knew there was more involved, but it now made so much more sense why maids foolishly became pregnant by men who did not mean to marry them. To forget one's miserable life, even for a short while, was incredibly appealing.

But Isabel was not a foolish, moonstruck girl. She knew what kind of man Bolton was. He did nothing without purpose. She would be prepared

this time. Now that she knew what to expect, she would not allow such feelings to overcome her, no matter what he did. She would think of.. .sword fighting instead.

She rose to her feet and stopped in astonishment. Spread out on the bed was a deep red gown, trimmed in gold, the sort those foolish baron's daughters might wear. Isabel grinned. What could Bolton be thinking—that a bit of cloth would change her mind? She'd worn a gown once or twice, but they'd been uncomfortable things, and left her nether regions too exposed. How did one comfortably ride a horse like that?

She found her own laundered garments hung on a peg in the wall. Annie had been thoughtful once again, but it made Isabel uneasy. How could she ever repay such favors? She would just have to remember that Annie was a servant. And yet... Isabel had never had a friend, a woman who was decent to her for no reason except friendship. Maybe she wouldn't feel so alone then.

Isabel came slowly down the stairs into the great hall. A few servants looked her way, but she was becoming a familiar figure. They didn't stare as long this time, and turned back to what they were doing with cold indifference. She realized that she had missed the bells for mass. She went out into the

inner ward, but walked past the chapel quickly, for she didn't want to meet up with Bolton.

Once again she tried to saddle a horse and was refused. Once again, she attempted to leave by the gatehouse and was refused. She gritted her teeth and returned to the great hall for her morning bread and ale. She never saw Bolton.

As the tables were cleared, Isabel sat there, feeling the emptiness of her days overwhelm her. What was she to do? She'd always trained with the Boltons in mind, knowing some day she'd use her fighting abilities against them. But her days as the Black Angel were through. She still planned to wreak havoc on Bolton's life, but that could only occupy so many hours of her day. What did a wife do?

Isabel sighed and rose from the table. She was not that desperate. She left the great hall to explore the inner ward. Bolton Castle had only one curtain wall, massive though it was, and it protected an impressive assortment of buildings—barracks and armory, laundry and kitchens, storehouses and sheds. The chapel itself had beautiful stained glass windows, the likes of which she'd never seen before. All in all, Bolton displayed more wealth than Isabel could imagine. Yet, according to him, she was a rich heiress. Her father had had this kind

of wealth, and hoarded it, rather than seeing to the comfort of his people? It was an unsettling thought. Could she do for her people what Bolton had done for his—make them happy and comfortable? Would Bolton spend money on her villages, or would he enjoy abusing them merely because they were hers?

Deep in thought, Isabel rounded the corner of the castle, then sighed with delight. The tiltyard. She heard the sounds of warfare she so loved—metal on metal as men practiced with their swords, the squeal of saddle leather as one man on horseback made a pass with his lance at the quintain. The device spun and hit him in the back as he went past, and all who saw it guffawed, including Isabel.

They turned and saw her standing there, and their merriment died away. She heard the mutters, saw their hands grasp their swords. These men she understood. She had bested them, eluded them, and they would not soon forget it.

But they could not stop her from watching. She spent the morning standing where they could see her, perched on the balls of her feet as she played out how she would react to every sword thrust. Archers shot arrows at their targets, and though she was impressed, Isabel knew she was better. Yet how could she ask to practice? They'd only go to Bolton, who would again forbid her to do anything at all

enjoyable. He was more than adept at his own means of revenge.

She ate dinner alone because Bolton still hadn't returned from wherever he'd gone. She didn't ask his steward for his whereabouts, and Galway she had not seen this day. She was restless, ill at ease, and when she returned to the tiltyard and they all turned to stare at her as one, she found she couldn't bear another minute. She walked past them, taking turn upon turn of the castle walls, until she came upon an overgrown garden, with a low crooked gate as the only obstacle. Curious, she went inside.

Isabel had already seen the kitchen gardens, now harvested for the coming winter. But this was different. She recognized decorative plants only, beside the occasional fruit tree. What purpose did this serve? She continued to follow the paths until the curtain wall towered far above her. Here vines were threaded through wooden gates of sorts, and formed a tunnel. In the summer it must keep a person hidden, but now it was bare, forlorn. She ducked inside and found a bench to sit on.

It was very peaceful here. Distantly she could hear the sounds of the castle, the smithy pounding on his anvil, the dogs, the laughter of servants. But there were no prying eyes, no dark looks, no anger. She leaned back against the wall and tried to

imagine what it must feel like to walk in this garden as mistress of a castle where you were respected, where you knew what to do every day, and you fit in. Isabel swallowed past an unfamiliar lump in her throat. She didn't know anything but her hatred and her revenge, and she couldn't see a way past it—nor did she want to.

Angrily, she pushed her way out of the vine tunnel, strode out of the garden, past the tiltyard. A man on horseback was just leaving the gatehouse tunnel. Three men followed him—the soldiers who'd helped capture her and William. There was no need to shield her eyes from the sun to know the identity of the leader.

"My lady."

Bolton's deep voice made her shiver, and she inwardly cursed her weakness. He dismounted and walked towards her. The dark giant took the reins of Bolton's horse, and the three men continued on, nodding respectfully in her direction. She arched a brow at them with the most forbidding expression she could manage. They all dropped their gazes together, though at least two of them were smiling, and the big one looked.. .amused. She turned to watch them enter the stables.

"Come to take supper with your husband, Lady Isabel?" Bolton said calmly. "Or are we just ogling the soldiers today?"

She turned back to look at him. He was dressed impeccably as usual, totally unsuitable to combat in any form. But she had begun to think he misled people with his manner and dress. He was a capable warrior. He had certainly bested her in swordfight. But why was he so quick to put on a different appearance?

"No more soldiers, so you're ogling me?" he asked.

His smile was rakish, but she was not deceived. He coolly assessed her.

"I view whatever I please," Isabel answered, continuing past him.

He took her arm and she looked down at his hand, then into his face silently.

"It is time for the evening meal," he said. "You will join me and tell me how the mistress of the castle spends her day."

Her gaze narrowed as she studied him. His height still caught her off guard, as did his strength. She sometimes forgot how well his hand held a weapon, when all she could remember was how feather-light it had touched her skin.

"I have nothing to say to you," she replied evenly, shaking off his hand.

"But you'll eat anyway, won't you?"

Isabel turned and started across the grounds, knowing he was right about her appetite. Why should she deny herself the sustenance that she needed to match wits with him? She sensed another evening of opportunities stretching out before her, and for the first time, the day held promise.

Chapter 13

James watched his wife walk ahead of him to the castle. Though she was wearing male garments again, disregarding his orders, he couldn't help but admit to himself how much easier it was to study a woman's body this way. Often in his various seductions, he had wondered about a woman's hips and legs beneath voluminous skirts. More often than not he'd been disappointed when the hidden was finally revealed.

But not with Isabel. Naked or clothed, her hips and legs were inspiring. She'd led an active life, and the lean muscle of her body only enhanced the elegant roundness of her hips. And wearing a doublet, with a skirt that barely reached the top of her thighs, well, the sight was enough to make a grown man fall to his knees and beg.

James caught himself in time. He was hardly at the begging stage of their little game. Of the two of them, he thought perhaps she was closer than he. He followed his wife up the stairs to the great hall, watching her round buttocks work efficiently. He reached up and caught one cheek in his fingers. She whirled fast, using her knee to knock his hand hard into the stone wall.

"Why did you put your hands on me?" she demanded.

James ignored the stares of the people around them. "If you wear such clothing, expect to be pinched, and not just by me."

"Are you saying your people are so ill-trained that they would assault their master's wife?"

"Oh, so you are enjoying the privileges of being another piece of my property."

She gave him a frosty glare and continued on up the stairs, faster now. James stayed hard on her heels, and he was almost disappointed when she opened the double doors into the castle, and her pleasant rear was no longer just before him.

He noticed she didn't even bother to try to sit below the salt. She marched to the dais, a princess expecting her due, seated herself and waited for the meal to begin. He took his place beside her, and immediately one of the serving girls set a basin of

steaming water on the table between them. She placed two clean towels nearby. James nodded his thanks.

Isabel looked puzzled. "Are we to drink this?" she finally asked.

He laughed. "No, my dear, it is for washing. Think of it as a little tub."

"But I am not dirty."

James rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands in, letting the heat steam the tiredness from his hands.

"And have you sat in our bedchamber all day?"

"I have not," she said, looking affronted.

"Then you are dirty. Wash."

Isabel bit her lip, mutinous, then gave in. She plunged her hands in, scrubbed them together and removed them, wringing them out on either side of her.

James sighed. "You look like a dog shaking out wet fur."

Her eyes narrowed and she took a breath to speak. He forestalled her by clasping both her hands in a towel and holding them there.

"After we wash, we dry off like this," he murmured, deliberately pitching his voice lower, softer, and gently rubbing the towel over her hands. He was amused when she yanked away and placed

them in her lap. Aah, her lap, where he, too, wanted to be.

The first course was served and he tried not to watch her. She ate too quickly, put too much in her mouth, and didn't use her spoon and knife correctly. The girl would be a disaster at court, let alone when he had company.

"You will not be starved, Angel. Slow down."

She gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye and continued eating.

"So why are you not wearing that lovely dress I found for you?"

She ripped off a piece of white bread, put it in her mouth, and said, "I don't wear gowns."

At least that's what he thought she said. It was hard to tell with her mouth full. He waited until she had swallowed before saying, "You will wear them eventually, Isabel, so you might as well begin now."

She bit off another piece of bread and said, "You are naive to assume so, Bolton. Gowns are ridiculously confining, and I refuse to be confined."

"You'll have to be confined eventually—perhaps when you're bearing my heir."

He thought she swallowed hard at that, but she merely looked him up and down.

"You've not proved you're capable of that yet, have you?"

He leaned closer and whispered against her hair. "Are you challenging me, Angel?"

She smelled good, soapy. He liked it—to his consternation. He wanted to nibble her earlobe, lick her neck. Instead he gritted his teeth, sat back, and asked, "So what did you do today, wife?"

"Nothing. I am a prisoner, remember?"

"You've already said you did not sit in our chamber, awaiting my return."

She gave a soft snort.

"So what did you do?"

"I must report my every move to you? Have I no privacy?"

"None."

She continued to eat, ignoring him.

"Let me see," James murmured, studying her. "You visited with William."

"I did not. He has duties to perform. I would not make his life here any more miserable than it already is."

"So he has begun to complain already?"

Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. "Of course he has not. He is an honorable man. I am merely.. .guessing."

He leaned towards her, speaking softly. "Most people do not hate living here, Angel. But then, most people were invited." The moment the cruel

words escaped his mouth, James found himself regretting them. He should hoard his anger, use it to punish her for her interference. Yet—when her shoulders stiffened at his words, when she slowly lowered her eating knife and sat up straighter, an incredible guilt lashed through him. And it only made him even angrier.

How dare she make him feel this way? He had most certainly not invited her, and most definitely not wanted to marry her. She was a savage, a thief, and he shouldn't let her tie his insides into knots this way.

When she carried her trencher to the fire, he allowed it. Hell, the farther apart they were the better.

She upset him, that was why he felt so miserable, why he could only stare at his food rather than eat it. It was almost a relief when his soldier, Wiggins, respectfully approached the dais.