Page 14 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

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I sabel stood still, fists clenched and thought she should be happy that she had escaped Bolton’s attentions for another day. Yet the tension vibrating within her only increased, and she wanted to growl her frustration. It angered her beyond all bounds to feel this yearning for his touch, this need to know what else lay beyond the wondrous pleasure he had already given her. It gave her some satisfaction to know that he was not oblivious to this awareness between them, that even if he loathed her, his body wanted to possess her.

Yet he held himself back. Why? To prove that he was better than she, that he could control himself where she was concerned? After all, she was only a thief to him, one who belonged in a gaol but for a word from King Henry.

Could he be pushed to the edge, taunted beyond control? Would she want to suffer the consequences to win their private bedchamber war? Then perhaps she could hold it over his head that he forced her to bed, just like he’d forced his first betrothed.

Isabel’s cheeks flushed with the heat of embarrassment and excitement. No, she could not yet make such a decision. She did not know if Bolton was a man who could be pushed too far. Would he retaliate and hurt her—or perhaps William? Could she risk such results, just to say she’d won?

And yet perhaps there was a way to test Bolton’s resolve. She thought that earlier in the garden, without Wiggins’ interruption, he would have pressed her further. A dark heat coiled its way through her body, and she felt ashamed. Why should her captor—her husband—make her feel stirrings she’d never imagined in her life? She had to take the control of this marriage into her own hands.

“Bolton,” she said.

There was a pause, when she thought perhaps he might have fallen asleep.

“What?”

“I wish to learn how to use this tub.”

She heard him sit up, saw the fire and candlelight play across his skin, through his dark hair. She swallowed.

“You wish to bathe ?” he asked, skepticism laced through his words.

“Yes.”

“At such a late hour?”

“Yes.” She forced her own words to sound clear, almost casual. She was anything but relaxed as he came to his feet. The rod that made him a man still swelled between his legs. The heat deep in her belly spread farther, until even her breasts ached. Why did the sight of him make her restless with needs she’d only just discovered? Why had she followed such a mad plan to taunt him?

“Isabel, think not that you can bend me so easily to your will,” he said, coming nearer.

She forced herself to hold still, when all she wanted to do was run.

“But for some peace—and a fresh-smelling wife—I will show you this once, and not again.”

She bit her lip, watching him bend over the tub. She hardly heard the words he said about the pipes and the cisterns up on the roof. She only imagined touching him. How could he even string words together, when she was so muddled by his nakedness? She turned her head away and closed her eyes, concentrating on anything but a naked man.

After the third repetition of her name, she looked up to find Bolton close, too close. He was staring down into her face, and once again his height startled her, made her feel…womanly, even delicate. Weak.

“What more do you need of me?” he asked.

She saw his gaze drop to her lips. She took a deep breath and said firmly, “Nothing.”

He grunted and turned away, finding his bed again, leaving Isabel feeling vanquished. But she would not accept defeat so easily. He would be the one to lose control before she was through. She slowly removed her garments—his garments—feeling his gaze on her. But whenever she turned to look, his eyes were closed. Let him think he deceived her.

When she was naked, she sank into the tub, again wondering how something so simple as hot water could make her feel so good. Bathing was not going to be the intolerable chore she had originally thought. She slowly soaped her body, knowing her husband watched, wondering what he would do.

The bruises of the hard life she had led had already faded away. Would she ever know a quiet feeling of accomplishment again? Would he allow her to do the things she loved, or would he keep her prisoner? All her feelings were coiled in a tense knot as she bathed before him, waiting for his reaction.

There was none. He lay motionless, his eyes closed. When the water grew too cold, she rinsed and stepped from the tub, rubbing herself briskly with a towel. Of course he would not be lured into forgetting himself just by the sight of her body. Their encounter in the garden might never have happened. Were their “discussions” only to be on his terms, not hers? Not if she could help it.

She donned the same shirt and he said nothing. She found her cold bed before the fire, wrapped herself in a blanket, and stared into the flames long into the night. His breathing turned to soft snores, yet still she lay awake, her front warm, her back cold, and wondered what she could do with her life.

In the morning, Bolton was again gone before she awoke. A second blanket lay atop her, as if someone had covered her against the chill. Annie must have come, she insisted to herself.

When she arose, she saw immediately that another gown lay across the bed, this one simpler, yet of no less fine workmanship. The garments she had worn yesterday were gone. Isabel invaded the wardrobe room again, choosing the plainest tunic she could find. But why bother? Would this day end up as wretched as the day before?

Bolton had left the castle, leaving her to her own amusements. Again she tried to saddle a horse, or even walk out of the gatehouse, but found her way reluctantly blocked at every turn. She fled to the battlements, looking out over freedom. She circled the curtain wall all the way around, staring until her eyes hurt, anger burning a hole in her stomach, wishing she were free on the back of a horse.

She stood looking out for what seemed like hours, until finally she went to the tiltyard to watch the swordsmanship. She paced alongside, desperately aching to join. But they all ignored her. The need to move, to use her muscles, was so overwhelming, she almost grabbed a sword and dared them to refuse her entry. Yet she held back, and finally wandered to the stables. She trailed William for an hour, but he could spare her little time. The looks he cast her were so pitying, she didn’t wish to stay long.

Despair made her climb to the battlements once more. She forgot to eat dinner, as she stood looking out on all she would never have again. Perhaps even the king’s dungeon would be better than this.

A small party on horseback approached the castle. She recognized Bolton, saw him look up and take her measure, but neither of them acknowledged the other. Frowning, she remained where she was, the wind whipping around her, until Bolton sent a servant to bring her to supper.

She entered the great hall, sat at the table beside her husband, and said nothing as she waited for the meal. A juggler performed for the waiting crowd, but she kept her gaze downcast.

“Why are you not wearing the gown I laid out?” Bolton asked.

Isabel ignored him.

“I will not permit you to go about forever dressed like that.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, then looked away.

“So what did you do today?”

“Nothing.”

“Aah, you have a voice,” he said.

The amusement in his tone cut her deeply. She hated to be laughed at. She gritted her teeth and refused to be baited.

A basin was brought over and when she hesitated, Bolton frowned until she stuck her hands in the water. She rubbed them together, shook the droplets of water aside, and dropped her hands into her lap. None of his foolish games mattered.

“Angel, I thought I said—” He suddenly broke off, searching her eyes.

She glared at him.

“You will ride with me tomorrow.”

She tensed, waiting for the sarcastic laugh. None came.

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, suspecting a trap.

He shrugged and dropped his gaze. It made her even more nervous.

“Be ready before the sun, wife. I will brook no delays.”

Isabel was awake and dressed before gray skies heralded the coming dawn. She wore her own garments, and tied her hair back with a strip of leather. She was restless, longing to start the day, but still Bolton slept. She drew near the bed and stared at his face, relaxed in sleep. The cool amusement was gone, and he looked young and handsome.

How would she feel if he were not her family’s enemy, if he had come to court her? She tried to imagine herself happily married to such a man, content with family and hearth. The very thought was foreign. Most certainly a man like Bolton would never content himself with only his wife’s bed, especially not hers. But an image arose in her mind of waking up in his arms, his hands on her, and the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.

Bolton suddenly opened his eyes and she stiffened. He languidly raised himself up on his elbows, and looked down her body, cool and assessing.

“Anxious, are we?” he asked. “No riding clothes? I could insist you wear whatever feminine items Annie can find.”

Isabel tensed, knowing that if he forced the issue, she would remain in the castle. She could not give in to him. But after a moment, he shrugged and threw the blankets aside. He stood up, and once again he had no qualms about his nakedness. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him flaccid. She turned quickly for the door.

“Hold.”

There was a husky note to his voice that sent bumps rising along her skin, made her breath quicken. She halted but didn’t turn.

“In return for allowing you freedom from the castle today, I deserve a reward.”

She clenched her hands behind her back. “You did not allow me freedom. You ordered me to go.”

“A kiss,” he said, ignoring her words. “Come here, Angel.”

She wanted to refuse. Yet didn’t this make him the first to surrender, to admit he needed something from her? She lifted her chin and strode toward him, eyes alight with triumph. Yet her heart pounded, and she felt light-headed.

Bolton studied her as she stopped before him.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“But you said?—”

“I demanded a kiss. I did not say I would do the giving.”

“Then you ride alone this day, Bolton. A day’s freedom is most certainly not worth such suffering.”

He suddenly caught her face between his big hands and forced a kiss on her. She kept her mouth firmly closed. His body brushed hers.

“Open,” he said against her lips.

She gritted her teeth and disobeyed him, trying to pull away.

Her world spun as he turned her around and pressed her onto the bed. She opened her mouth to shout her outrage, but he took advantage of her thoughtlessness and invaded her defenses with his tongue. Isabel was pressed into the soft mattress, surrounded by pillows and the hard, aroused length of his body. She couldn’t get enough air as he suckled her lips and stroked her tongue with his.

With her last strength, she finally broke the contact, gasping, “You claimed merely a kiss!”

“And so it was.” He threaded his hands through her hair and pulled at the leather tie. “Wear it down,” he ordered.

“It will hamper my riding,” she insisted. He combed through her curls with his fingers, sending little tugs along her scalp.

“You had no trouble with your hair as the Black Angel.”

“That was so you’d know I was a woman and could still best you.”

He chuckled, and Isabel felt the rumble clear to her belly, and out along every inch of her skin.

“You could have been hooded and fully masked, and I’d have known you for a woman.”

“But I am not shaped like most women,” she insisted, then bit her lip at what she’d revealed.

Bolton propped himself up on one arm, and ran his other hand up her hip. “Not shaped like most women?” he murmured.

Did she hear teasing in his voice? She was insulted, then suddenly breathless as his warm palm slid up her ribcage and over her breast. She remembered what his hands had done to her, what he’d made her feel.

“Not shaped like most women?” he repeated, his voice lower, huskier. “I think I should decide that.”

His thumb began to trace circles across her breasts, and she shivered as he concentrated on her nipples through her clothing. She closed her eyes tightly. She told herself to fight, but her hands felt languid and heavy, unresisting. She told herself to submit, to let him prove his lust for her. But the sensations that swept through her body were frighteningly overpowering.

Bolton murmured, “I think these feel rather like a woman—at least in my humble experience.”

She opened her eyes and saw his smiling, dark face just above her chest.

“But there is truly only one way to find out,” he said, his voice a low caress. “Taste.”

Just that one word sent a shock of desire through her body, centered where their hips met and strained. Isabel frantically shook her head and pressed at his chest.

“Angel, you’ve given me such a fascinating puzzle. I must disprove your conclusions.”

He leaned against her ribcage, holding her pinned with his body, while his mouth nipped playfully at her breasts through her clothing. She moaned and tried to writhe away from him.

It was the wrong thing to do. He shuddered and drew in a quick breath. She froze and they stared wide-eyed at each other. She was horrified to discover that she enjoyed the weight of him, holding her to the bed.

Bolton’s glance fell to her lips, then to her breasts. “The taste just isn’t right this way. Isabel, I vow to prove to you that you are shaped just like other women.”

“I believe you!” she said breathlessly.

She gasped as he tugged at the laces of her shirt, then pulled the garment wide to reveal her breasts. She was barely able to breathe as he studied them with an attentive frown.

“Isabel, I must say, they look fine to me. But we can’t base our judgment on looks alone.”

“Bolton—”

He suddenly traced his tongue up to the valley between her breasts. She twisted and shuddered beneath him, all her senses attuned to his smallest movement. “Tastes fine,” he murmured as if to himself.

“Please, don’t—” she began.

Bolton met her gaze and smiled. “You are right, of course. I must stop this. We were speaking about your breasts.”

Holding her gaze captive with his, he let his tongue circle her nipple. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t remember to breathe. He licked and stroked her until her flesh burned for more of him.

Isabel should feel victorious—he had broken first and showed a need of her. But he was laughing at her! His eyes were the merry blue of a sunny day, as if he had not shown once again that he desired her—a thief, his enemy. Surely a man such as he, with his reputation, could take whatever he wanted. He had all the control between them.

She squirmed and rolled to one side, gathering her shirt over her chest. She heard Bolton laugh as he released her. She bounded off the bed and marched from the room, tying laces as she went.

James lay still, his smile leaving as she did. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It had taken all his effort not to rip the clothes from her body. Was he so desperate? Why did he feel he needed her permission, her acceptance? She was his wife, his property. It had been a month or more since he’d had a woman.

He thought suddenly of Fiona, a village widow a few hours ride away, who always gladly welcomed him. She was a Scottish redhead who teasingly spoke her mind, but didn’t expect more than he offered.

For a moment he pictured Isabel, defiant, beautiful. She might be his wife, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing as he pleased. It had been a year since he’d last seen Fiona, and it was time to get reacquainted.

James rose, washed and dressed, inwardly berating himself for telling Isabel she could leave the castle with him. In no way was he through punishing her for her part in their dreadful marriage. But for an instant he had weakened, imagined himself confined to the castle. He would not be so foolish again.