Page 13 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

13

J ames 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 body was inspiring. She’d led an active life, and the lean muscle 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.

He 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. He stayed hard on her heels.

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. “Of course he has not. He is an honorable man. I am merely…guessing.”

He leaned toward 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, he 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, 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 had 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 Wiggins respectfully approached the dais.

“My lord, might I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course. Sit down,” James said, pulling out a chair to his left.

Wiggins’s eyes widened. “Heavens, no, my lord. It would not be proper.”

James folded his arms across his chest. “Then what do you wish of me?”

“Just that…forgive me, your lordship, but I overheard part of your conversation with your wife. I, of course, shall tell no one what I heard.”

“She has a loud enough voice to fill the hall, Wiggins,” James said bitterly. “Everyone already heard.”

“Oh, well then, might I say that your wife was a restless woman today, my lord, but she did not cause any problems.”

“And I needed to know this?”

“Well, yes, I thought you would like to know that she behaved herself quite admirably. It must have been terribly difficult to watch, you know.”

James found his gaze wandering repeatedly to his wife, who stood with her back to the hall, long legs spread wide. “Watch what?” he murmured, only half listening.

“She spent part of the morning at the tiltyard, Lord Bolton.”

That got James’s attention. “You don’t mean she took up a sword.”

“Heavens, no. She just…watched.”

He could only imagine how well his men had taken to their prisoner watching them like a hawk. Must he guard her every moment of the day? Was he, too, a prisoner? He should forbid Isabel from having anything to do with the soldiers. She should act like a woman, like a wife.

But he quickly realized that that would effectively keep her prisoner inside the castle—and who here would guard her? The soldiers didn’t want her, the servants didn’t want her. The women of the household would find her useless. He was the only one who wanted her for something, and even then it was only for the solace of her body. He doubted she would find it her mission in life to wait in bed for when he might want her. He was only now beginning to realize how truly she complicated everything.

And now she stood smug before the fire, humiliating him at every turn, with every gesture. This was not to be borne without a fight.

“Isabel!” he called loudly, getting to his feet.

The sounds of conversation in the hall died down. James tried not to see the anticipation on the face of everyone present, but how could he blame them? He was providing them with entertainment. Isabel slowly turned to face him, still chewing her meal.

“As everyone knows,” he said, “I was gone much of the day. Isabel, I’m sure you did not fail to mention that I had neglected to perform my husbandly duties today.”

He was well rewarded when her cheeks blazed with mortification. She threw her food into the rushes and used her dark eyes to blaze her fury at him.

“Isabel, let us retire to our bedchamber.”

And then she did the last thing James expected. He thought she’d scream her anger or stalk away, but she bolted fast for the door to freedom. The shocked guards on either side obviously feared to touch the master’s wife, for they let her throw open the doors and escape. James vaulted the table and landed on his feet in the rushes. He took off after her, dodging giggling serving maids. His knights cheered.

He knew he should feel in control, that he had his strong wife running in fear of him—but he’d seen the quick shot of terror in her eyes before she’d run. God help him, he didn’t want to see the Black Angel afraid of him.

He burst outside and breathed cold air into his lungs. The moon was hidden behind dark banks of clouds, but torches ringed the courtyard and battlements for the night watch.

A soldier on the walkways at the top of the curtain wall pointed and called, “That way, milord!”

James saluted his thanks, and ran toward the back of the castle, where the ground began to slope downward. He skidded to a halt, knowing she could be hiding anywhere. Again a helpful soldier pointed—this time to the lady’s garden. James hopped the broken fence and entered the murkily lit path. Shrubs and trees crowded out the castle walls, and he could almost imagine he was alone in a forest.

Not quite alone. He heard the faintest sound of breathing. He walked deeper into the garden.

“Angel,” he murmured, “this is pointless. There is no escape for either of us. When will you accept it?”

“Never!”

He caught Isabel’s body full in the chest and went down on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. She straddled him, holding her eating knife to his throat. He could not see more than the faintest shadows of her face, but he could feel the wild tumble of her hair all about him. He forced his hands to remain on the ground.

She was breathing hard, but she did nothing else for endless moments.

“What are you waiting for?” he finally asked. “We’ve done this before, Angel, and it only got us married.”

“I could kill you,” she hissed. “I should have done it that first day.”

“You’re not a murderer, no matter how your father tried to make you one.”

“Don’t you dare mention him!” she cried, and he thought he heard the sound of tears in her voice.

“Then say his name. Since he stands between us as if he were alive, tell me about him. Tell me why he raised you as he did.”

“To rid the earth of the stench of a Bolton.” Her voice was more controlled, lower, and somehow more threatening. He sensed her leaning closer, felt the tickle of her curls against his face.

“No father treats his daughter thusly—and no mother allows it.”

“My mother was dead to me long before she truly died. And why should it matter how I was raised? No man would want me because of the humiliation my family has suffered at the hands of Boltons.”

“Isabel, that is not true,” he insisted. Slowly, he reached up and set his hands on her waist. “You are an incredibly wealthy noblewoman. You’d have to be a hunchback for a man not to want you.”

“Thank you,” she said bitterly.

“I am only trying to prove a point. Your father knew he could marry you off any time he pleased. Instead he selfishly kept you to himself. It didn’t matter that you weren’t happy, that you were only a tool for his revenge. He was a bitter old man who used you.”

“Stop!”

He caught her wrist and wrestled the knife away from her. Tossing it aside, he rolled until he pinned her struggling body into the frost-tipped grass.

“Isabel, in some bizarre way, your father actually got you a husband. ’Tis a shame it had to be me.”

She lifted her hips off the ground, trying to dislodge him. He heard her panting, felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, and once again began to lose his thoughts. Her hips were so very comfortable to lie upon. His erection throbbed between them, and he slowly rubbed against her.

He leaned down and she turned her face away. Touching his lips to her cheek, he murmured, “There is but one good thing about our marriage, Angel, and I’ve only taught you part of it.”

He felt her trembling now, felt the rigidness of her thighs begin to ease. Why wouldn’t she just give in to the passion she so carefully held in check? Must he seduce it from her as he had before?

Suddenly, he heard running feet, and he groaned.

“My lord?” It was Wiggins’s voice.

Isabel lay still, feeling the threat and promise of Bolton’s body atop her. After a frozen moment, he rolled away, and she was almost disappointed. Deep in her heart, she knew she had almost succumbed to the memories of pleasure he had given her. It was a trap, a passionate lure to keep her quiet, to keep her under his control. He wanted her to give in, but he himself never lost control. She struggled to remember the cruel words he’d said about her father.

“Wiggins,” Bolton said, “what do you want?”

“I was worried when you didn’t return, my lord. Is everything all right?”

Isabel heard Bolton get to his feet, then felt herself hauled up beside him. She wanted to run, but he kept hold of her wrist.

“We’re fine,” he said, and she thought his voice sounded hoarse. “ ’Tis time for Lady Bolton and me to retire.”

She shook off his grip and walked ahead of him. When they reached the torchlit great hall, everyone turned to stare at them. Too late, Isabel saw the grass stains in their clothing. They looked like they’d been rolling around in pleasant abandon. She gritted her teeth, ascended the stairs, and marched down the corridor to Bolton’s bedchamber. There were so many empty rooms, and she longed to have one of her own. But what would be the point in defying him? He’d only drag her back.

So once again, Isabel undressed down to her shirt and began to pace. Bolton didn’t come. Her anxiety became dread, and her dread became something darker, with a tinge of excitement. She tried to repress it, but her skin tingled in remembrance of his fingers trailing across her. How had he done it? How had he known? She shivered as she pictured his warm mouth covering her nipple. With a groan, she clasped her hands to her eyes. What had he done to her? Why couldn’t she be unaffected?

The door opened and she stiffened, but kept her back turned.

“Annie?” she whispered, hoping.

“I told her to find her bed.” Bolton’s deep voice rumbled in the room, through her body, and into her mind. “You don’t need her this night.”

Isabel forced herself to turn and face him. He leaned back against the door, tall, elegantly dressed, too handsome. The candlelight shone across his dark hair, reflected off his white teeth. He was laughing at her. Then he came toward her, one step at a time, and began to remove pieces of his clothing. She held her ground, trying to control her breathing when she saw his muscled chest. He untied his hose and codpiece, and dropped them and his braies to the floor. He was naked and aroused and seemed not to care that she stared at him.

The urge to flee these unnamable feelings was almost overwhelming. But she held her ground, trembling, until he stood so close to her she could feel the incredible heat of his body. He reached out a hand, she stiffened, but he merely retrieved a blanket from a chest behind her. He gave her a knowing smile and turned and went to his bed.

“ ’Tis cold tonight, Angel. Wrap yourself in a few more blankets.”