Page 12 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

12

J ames 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.

He 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 toward 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 frowned at James.

“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. “ ’Tis 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? 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 concerned 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. God’s teeth, it was not supposed to be like this with his wife.

He 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 it. “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 knew 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?

He 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 toward 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.”

“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 ill temper and lack of manners. “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 slammed out of the room, descended into the great hall, then 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 the lust 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 she wouldn’t have freely given herself. And he didn’t want his marriage to be like that. Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

~oOo~

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.

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. 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 he 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.

She 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 arriving through 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 toward 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.

“ ’Tis 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.