Page 20 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

20

J ames inwardly winced at Isabel’s poor choice of words. He was their lord, true, but it was not the best way to handle the situation.

Ignoring her, he faced his newest servants. “I am pleased to have all of you with me. Be patient. I may not be your former lord, but I am a fair man, and will treat you as you treat me.”

He heard a few grumbles, but thought his short speech sufficient for the moment. But he could not ignore the condition of the trestle tables, which seemed not to have been cleaned since dinner.

“I must ask that you prepare the hall for supper. I have specific instructions on the standard of cleanliness I expect from now on.”

Soon the tables were being scrubbed with hot, soapy water, and a girl was sweeping out the old rushes. Plenty of rats scurried out of the way and James grimaced. Knights and soldiers and laborers arrived in small groups, and bowed with grudging respect to James, yet eyed all the changes uncertainly.

Just before supper, James came downstairs dressed in a gold and black doublet. Appearances were how he had always won any awkward situation. He had ruled his people by showing them exactly what they wanted to see, a powerful man in control. After all, sometimes only his title, his face, and his reputation seemed to matter.

Supper was a strained meal, with Sir Hugo and Galway sharing the head table with James and Isabel. The two captains sat beside each other in disapproving silence. Conversation was absent, the food was abysmal. Even Isabel stared down at her trencher and sighed before eating. Watching Sir Hugo, James realized that someone actually had worse table manners than his wife. He wanted to throw a napkin in the man’s face and demand he wipe the food off his mustache. But he restrained himself.

The Mansfield knights leered at and pinched the serving maids whenever they passed by. The Bolton knights were offended, and by their dark looks, James wondered if all would come to blows. There were no minstrels to enliven the evening, but a few half-hearted games of Tables and chess were started and quickly ended. Isabel took up her stance before the fire, speaking with no one. At last, James called an end to the evening.

“Isabel, show me to your bedchamber,” he said, thinking now was not the time to demand the lord’s chambers.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face flushed red, and a few of her knights got to their feet, hands on their hilts. James stood his ground. Let them all just try to keep their new lord from his wife. Isabel seemed to square her shoulders before taking him to a corner staircase that wound its way tightly up to the second floor. The corridors were dimly lit with sputtering, ill-made torches.

When she opened the door to her bedchamber, James braced himself, but still he was stunned. She had nothing but a pallet on the floor and a trunk. The walls were damp and narrow, with only a single shuttered window that didn’t keep out a draft.

“We can’t sleep here, Isabel.”

“I am sorry it is not elegant enough for you,” she said with a faint sneer.

“Elegant?” he repeated, catching her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. “I don’t need elegant—at least not immediately. But I need it to be livable.” He couldn’t help feeling appalled that she’d been forced to live this way.

She broke his hold and glared at him. “I am not so vain as you. I only need a bed.”

“At times a bed is all I need, too,” he said, deliberately raking her body with his gaze. He picked up the only personal item he could find. “But look at this brush. I wouldn’t use it on my horse.”

She yanked the brush from his hand. “This was my mother’s!”

“Then keep it as a memento, but I can buy you whatever you need.”

“I don’t need anything from you. In fact, this is my bedchamber, and I want you to leave.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Not without you. Surely there is a grander bedchamber than this. Didn’t your father have guests?”

“No.”

“I do not believe you. Let’s look.”

Isabel turned her back, and in one swoop, he tossed her over his shoulder.

With a groan, he said, “I must be feeding you too well. Hold still.”

All the way down the corridor, she tried to escape him. He flung open door after door, apologizing to those he disturbed, leaving a trail of shocked and sleepy people.

He finally found a bedchamber with an actual four poster bed, two shuttered windows and some threadbare tapestries on the wall. He dropped Isabel on her feet. She staggered back against the bed, holding her stomach.

“I do not care whose chamber this was,” James said, “ ’tis ours now. Isabel, shake out the blankets. Let us pray for no bugs.”

But when he tried to start a fire, the smoke poured back into the room from a clogged chimney, mixing with the dust Isabel shook from the bed. He threw open both the shutters.

“We shall deal with all this in the morning,” he said. He started to remove his clothing.

Isabel thought desperately that now was the moment to let him seduce her, to make him feel indebted and needy, and her the powerful one. Images of Bolton’s flirtation with Sarah Cabot came to mind, making Isabel felt like a failure as a woman…and as a wife. The only time she could even tempt her husband was when she was naked. Not, of course, that she wanted to tempt him for any other reason than to throw his weaknesses back in his face.

Her husband stripped off all his clothes, his back partially turned. The muscles across his shoulders rippled with movement, and only a small scar lower on his side marred the perfection of his skin. He climbed into bed, and didn’t even try to touch her. She sighed in defeat.

She removed her travel-stained tunic and hose, leaving on her shirt. After finding an extra blanket in a mildewy chest, she wrapped it around her shoulders. But there was no warm fire, no carpet. She could see the mist of her breath.

She heard Bolton’s low voice. “This bed is large enough for three people, Isabel. Come be warm this night.”

The strangest flutter shot through her stomach as she looked at him. He lay bare-chested, propped up on cushions, lit with pale light by a candle. She felt torn inside. She wanted to refuse because he was her enemy; she wanted to acquiesce and let her enemy seduce her.

She dropped the blanket and climbed up into the high bed beside him. He had pulled back the coverlet, and she slid into the softness. It was warm, it was heaven—and Bolton was naked beside her.

She pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Though he wore a small smile, he didn’t make a move to touch her. He blew out the candle and lay back. She was strangely disappointed. What was the matter with her?

~oOo~

Isabel came slowly to consciousness, feeling as warm as a summer day. Her face was pressed against something hard and smooth. It took her a bewildered moment to realize she lay on her side, curled against her husband’s back.

Stunned, she struggled to control her breathing. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, trapped beneath the heaviness of his arm. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized that her hand rested low against his stomach, and she could feel curls of hair against her fingertips. If she moved, she would awaken him and be accused of deliberately asking for his favors.

Her hand began to tremble and she willed it to cease. She could feel the slightly rough skin of his legs along the length of hers. Her shirt had twisted, and her bare hips were flush against his. She suddenly wondered if this was how a husband and wife awoke each morning, safe, protected by each other. She sensed that he was the one man who could make her feel such protection. She had a wild impulse to touch him as he had touched her, to see if he, too, felt the pleasure she did. Yet that would be giving into temptation first, losing control. And he would never let her forget it.

She couldn’t bear it any longer, and slowly began to ease her hand away from his stomach.

Bolton suddenly gripped her arm with his elbow. “Going somewhere?” His whisper was wicked, amused.

Isabel flushed. “Release me.” To her horror, her voice came out as a squeak.

“But this is so pleasant. It brings to mind our night spent under the stars. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“Hmmm.”

He rubbed his hips back against hers and she flinched.

“Does that not feel good, Angel?”

She closed her eyes, reminding herself over and over to lie still, to submit. He would give in first and show his need of her. But her cheek was pressed to the warm flesh of his back, and with very little movement, she could turn her head and touch him with her lips. It was suddenly overwhelming and frightening, how much she wanted to touch him.

But she wouldn’t. She gritted her teeth, barely breathed, and waited.

“If you hold your breath deeper,” he murmured, “I’ll be better able to feel the shape of your breasts.”

She exhaled in a gasp and yanked her arm away, rolling to her side of the bed. Listening to Bolton chuckle, she fled the blankets and yanked down her shirt.

“Pity, that,” he said. “I think you should sleep naked from now on.”

She glared at him over her shoulder as she pulled on her tunic and hose. Of course he wanted her to sleep naked, so he could accuse her of desiring him.

“I’ll have a gown brought to you.”

“I am too famished to wait.”

But before she could open the door, Bolton was there, bracing both hands against the wood on either side of her. She kept her back turned, breathing rapidly, feeling him on either side of her, all around.

“Isabel, look at me.”

His voice was low, rumbling through her in a way that always made her shiver. She didn’t understand the feeling, but it drew her on. She found herself obeying, turning until her back was against the door, his arms braced near her shoulders. She stared directly at his chin.

“Look up, Angel.”

She slowly raised her gaze, past his well-formed lips, his narrow nose, into his brilliant blue eyes. Their color was vivid and shocking as he studied her face. In the cold room, he was the only source of heat, and she felt suffused with it.

“We cannot keep going on like this,” he said.

Her stomach twisted with sudden anxiety. He would send her away, now that he had all her lands and money. Once it had seemed appealing, now she was not so sure.

“Isabel, we are married. I am entitled to certain rights, which I have not claimed as of yet.”

She suddenly understood. She took a deep breath and once again boldly met his gaze. “I have not stopped you.”

He half-groaned, half-laughed, and began to play with a strand of her hair where it lay across her breast. The back of his hand slowly rubbed against her nipple. Her thoughts were fleeing her mind until only sensation was left. She wanted to lean into him, to feel more of this aching, painful pleasure that shot deep into her stomach, between her thighs. Instead she pressed her palms flat against the door behind her.

His lips just above hers, he whispered, “Every time I touch you, you stiffen as if I’m a demon. Afraid?”

“I was never afraid,” she answered. He taunted her, she knew. But his nearness, his breath, the back of his hand endlessly rubbing, all combined to seduce her, to woo away her instinctive fears. My God, she was such a fool. Let him bed her and get it over with.

But what if, once again, she wasn’t like other women? She didn’t even know what to do with a man. He would ridicule her—or pity her, which was even worse.

“You were afraid,” he murmured, lightly kissing her cheek, “I could see it in your eyes whenever I touched you. I want to touch you now.”

Isabel should feel triumphant. She was winning, he was demanding the physical intimacy he felt his due. Instead she wanted to melt at his feet, to lean into his embrace, and beg him to hold her.

A knock shook the door behind her.

“Lord Bolton, are ye in there?”

Bolton lifted his head but didn’t release her. “Galway, go away.”

“Sir Roger is awaiting you in the great hall. He has all the Mansfield records ready.”

Isabel didn’t try to move. She studied Bolton’s face, saw the muscles in his jaw clench. He finally pushed away from the door, and her. She had been so close to getting him to admit his need. But it was her body that seemed empty and alone without his touch.

“This discussion is far from over, Isabel.”

His warning hastened her flustered retreat from the room.

~oOo~

Isabel spent most of the day with Bolton, conversing with her steward about the scope of her father’s estates. At first Bolton hadn’t wanted her there, but it was her inheritance, her life. Even Sir Roger agreed she should stay. But shock slowly seeped through her at the enormity of lands and manors and castles that were now Bolton’s dowry. His second dowry.

But that was inconsequential compared to the sick feeling that grew inside her stomach. Her father had been a wealthy man, but had lived like a pauper. She had less luxuries than a yeoman on Bolton’s estate. Her own people, thin, starving, whom she thought would look on Bolton as the enemy, today treated him as a savior. And she could not blame them. She had seen how even the poorest of his people lived, how he provided whatever they needed.

Isabel had known he needed money, that his first dowry meant much to him. She had thought he spent it all on himself, his garments, his travels, his luxuries. But that had been another lie she had believed with gullibility. The people on Bolton estates lived well. It was her people who were starving and mistreated.

The parchments spread out on the table were gibberish to her unschooled eyes. Bolton perused them with an intelligence she grudgingly admired. He was an educated man. For a moment, she had an inkling of how he must feel being married to her.

She knew in that moment a cold truth. She couldn’t have helped her own people without Bolton. She was too ignorant about learning, too different for anyone to ever look at her like the lady of the castle. There was no use in even trying to learn how to be a real woman. Her failure at attracting her husband was proof of that. There was an ache in her chest that would never go away.

~oOo~

That night, more people gathered in the great hall than she had ever imagined lived so near. She knew it was not to see herself, but her husband, resplendent in his court garments. Yet they greeted her with warmth, the women curtsied, the men knelt with bowed heads. She became caught up in the magic of hundreds of candles gleaming on silver table settings, the clean smell of the rushes, new tapestries from Bolton’s own looms keeping the warmth in the hall.

The cellars were thrown open, and the feast was beyond what she had ever seen. Tray upon tray were carried on the shoulders of servants, bearing roasted pigs, and large pies made of capons and hens. She saw grown men wipe away tears of gratitude at the abundance. Isabel’s throat was tight and her eyes stung. She realized she had to get away before Bolton saw her foolish sentimentality. His back was turned as he laughed with Sir Roger, her steward.

She piled a few morsels on a silver plate and crept from the hall. No one noticed her leaving amid the celebration. She retrieved a torch from one of the guards, and went out into the night. The wind caught her, swirled around her, and she shivered. But she had no time for her cloak. She walked to the simple graves of her parents, in a remote corner of the outer curtain wall. She shoved the torch into the packed earth and sat down to eat her meal.

The night was silent, except for the occasional shouts of the men above her as they patrolled the battlements. Well, at least that was one thing she could say for her father—his soldiers were well armed and well trained.

But children in the village starved. Anger and outrage rushed through Isabel, and she threw her plate down on her father’s grave.

“Did you lie to me about everything?” she cried.

A hoarse sob tore from her chest, and she buried her face in her hands. She cried until her eyes burned, until her chest ached. The torchlight flickered over the bare mounds of earth and threw eerie shadows on the stone wall. Her crying subsided into trembling, into finally a tired stillness. She sat with her legs bent against her chest, her arms wrapped about them for warmth.

Her father could not have been so deliberately cruel. Maybe he knew not how to care for his people.

She looked at the other grave, wishing she could remember more of her mother than a tired, sad shadow of a woman. Would things have been different had her mother lived?

“Mother,” she said awkwardly, looking up into the night, “what should I do? My revenge is a hollow thing now, and I know not what my life should be. I am such a failure.”

But there was no answer, only the never-ending loneliness that haunted her soul.

~oOo~

James began to realize something was not right after the third song he’d been asked to sing. He bowed to the applause, and jested with the knights who’d begun to speak to him with less wariness. Yet something nagged at him.

And then he noticed that Isabel was not in the great hall. He frowned, searching the room with his gaze. Galway saw him, and seemed to realize at once what was wrong—faster than James had. He continued speaking with one of the knights as Galway took the corner staircase to the second floor. A few minutes later, his captain returned and shook his head.

James excused himself and let the jugglers begin their entertainment. Uneasiness roiled his stomach. He tried to tell himself that this was Isabel’s home, that she could do what she wanted here.

Why was he worried? Surely, he just needed to know that she wasn’t plotting some new revenge against him. But she’d been strangely silent since they’d come to her father’s home. James had tried hard not to be openly scornful of the condition of the castle and the surrounding countryside. But the great poverty was hard to bear.

Deep inside he knew that although she was a skilled warrior, she was a naive woman. He remembered how she’d looked at his food, and he thought she’d been merely hungry. But he knew now it was because she had never imagined such luxuries existed.

Galway spoke to a guard in low tones, then approached James.

“Milord, Lady Isabel was seen leaving the hall with a plate of food and a torch.”

James nodded, throwing his cloak over his arm as unobtrusively as possible. “Is the drawbridge up?”

“Aye.”

“Make sure everyone in the hall is kept amused. I’ll return with her as quietly as I may.”

The captain nodded as James slipped from the hall. It was a cold night, with only a sliver of a moon to shine its weak light upon the inner ward. With little difficulty, he followed Isabel’s movements as related by the soldiers on guard. He was grateful that she was not trying to flee. He hadn’t relished the thought of a midnight ride down unfamiliar roads chasing her.

But God’s teeth, what was her destination on such a cold, windy night? He entered the outer ward, following the silent gesture of a soldier who looked too young and gaunt to be of much use in battle.

But he forgot the cares of his new retainers when he saw the small torch driven into the ground in a corner of the ward. It flickered ominously, about to surrender to the wind, but its owner wasn’t paying much attention.

James slowed his steps. He found Isabel asleep on the ground, shivering. And then he saw the graves.