Page 24 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

24

B y the evening, James had begun to walk about his bedchamber, but Isabel could tell he did not feel ready to face the great hall. Annie brought up a tray and proceeded to set dinner on a small table before the fire. The maid laid out snowy white tablecloths, with beeswax candles in a silver candelabra. She used the finest silver plates and glass goblets, then made another trip to the kitchens for the food itself. By the time she bid them good-night, there was a full feast for two people.

Isabel had not meant her to go to such trouble, but she thought she understood the workings of Annie’s mind. Annie wanted Isabel to be happy at Bolton Castle, and she’d seen that good food helped.

She sat down in her chair and James took the chair opposite her. Spread out before her were fried fish, steaming white bread, soft cheese, and baked pears dripping with sauce.

She closed her eyes and just inhaled, then reached across the table to spear a piece of fish.

“No, not like that,” James said, pushing her hand aside. “Ask me to pass the platter.”

She frowned. “What results do you see in these pointless lectures of yours?”

“I see a wife who can eat in front of guests without them gaping at her.”

Isabel had once been happy when she had succeeded in embarrassing him. But now there was a constant ache in her chest when she was near him. She really didn’t know how to eat in front of people, and it made her feel inferior, worthless. She was only good at one thing.

“Let me join the knights in practice at the tiltyard,” she suddenly said.

He set down his spoon. “You are not a man. I won’t have my wife?—”

“I miss training, I miss being outside. I have nothing to do here!”

“You will learn.”

“Not if you don’t give me a reason to.”

James used his knife to awkwardly break a piece of bread from the loaf. He held it out and she shook her head. He lifted one eyebrow.

“My men have not forgotten that you robbed me,” he said, “that you made fools of them.”

“I made a fool of you —there’s a difference.”

He smiled. “You could be harmed.”

“You’ve fought me. Can they so easily vanquish me? I’ve been watching them all, and I could tell you each of their weaknesses. And if that isn’t good enough, I will only train with William. Let me do what I’m good at.”

“I will make a bargain with you,” he said.

Isabel gave him a skeptical look.

“For every hour you train in the tiltyard, you must spend an hour learning to behave like a woman.”

She knew deep in her heart that she would fail, that she was not the woman he thought he deserved. But perhaps she could carve out a place for herself in his household—and also wield her sword.

“Very well,” she said. “ ’Tis a bargain.”

He nodded solemnly, but she could tell he wasn’t happy. They both continued to eat in a silence full of awkwardness and misery.

James watched her face, knowing she was trying to distance herself from him. The thought of being in the same room with him, of his hands touching her, must repulse her now. Did she hate him so much that she deliberately reminded him that he couldn’t train, might never hold a sword again?

Annie and Margaret returned to take away the remains of the meal, and to change the dressing on his hand. James didn’t have to worry that Isabel would see his deformity. She stayed on the far side of the room, her eyes averted in disgust. Hell, even he couldn’t look.

After the servants had gone, he lay back in bed and watched Isabel disrobe down to her shirt, but no further. When she actually walked to the fire with her blanket, something snapped inside him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

She took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “I am going to sleep.”

“Not over there you’re not.”

“But I always?—”

“You became my wife body and soul a few days ago. I demand you sleep in my bed. And it’s freezing on the floor!”

“Very well,” she said, climbing into bed beside him. She faced away from him and pulled the blankets up to her neck.

Stunned and baffled at her acquiescence, James lay still. The temptation of her body was bittersweet. How he ached to run his hand down the curve of her waist, to slide his thigh between hers. But he could picture how she’d react when he touched her with this bandaged mutilation that was once a hand.

Isabel waited for James to touch her. It was a foolish hope, and one he quickly dashed by rolling away from her. He must certainly have been angry at her when she wouldn’t even care for his wounds. What kind of wife—no, what kind of woman was she?

She cared for him too much, and he would never care for her. She was a thief, a savage. How could he care, with all that she’d done to him, how she’d spoken to him after they’d shared a bed?

~oOo~

Early in the morning, James dressed himself one-handedly in the simplest tunic and shirt he could find. He paused at the head of the stairs, trying to brace himself for everyone’s pity. But in the hall, he was met with cheery good wishes, and expressions of gladness that he was well. He looked hard, but caught no sadness—no pity at all.

William kept him company at the head table, chattering away about what James had missed while he was gone. But James had a hard time concentrating. He was waiting grimly for Isabel to appear and keep her part of their bargain.

He turned to find William watching him.

“My lord,” the boy said softly, “they were all worried about you. The hall was shrouded in grief for many a day.”

James didn’t know how to answer that. He wanted to say they should still grieve because he wasn’t the same man. He stopped himself, remembering his vow to put aside such self-pity. Instead he simply thanked William.

Over the next few days, James did his best to turn Isabel into the ideal wife, but nothing worked out as planned. She was hopelessly clumsy at embroidery, forever picking out the strings and starting over. Instead of learning to bake, she licked bowls, and praised Cook. In the dairy, she gazed out the window at the tiltyard instead of churning, ruining a batch of butter. Isabel had no sympathy to heal the sick, whom she thought should be up and about rather than pitying themselves.

James’s frustration reached a boiling point when he was called to the sewing room to remove his wife. He had been prepared to yell, to lecture, but he found her towering above a group of scolding women, dripping blood from her hand. He pulled up in the doorway and just looked at her. Her dark eyes were crinkled in amusement, and her lips twitched at the corners, as if she were trying desperately not to laugh. The sight of her made him ache inside, and his anger fled.

“Isabel?”

The women turned toward him, talking all at once about his wife’s clumsiness and impatience, but James ignored them. He met Isabel’s gaze over their heads. She actually blushed and looked away from him. A maidenly blush from Isabel?

The two of them were herded into the hall, and the sewing room door was shut firmly behind them. They stood there awkwardly as Isabel tried to wrap her wound in a length of cloth.

James rolled his eyes. “Come to our bedchamber and I’ll bandage that.”

“ ’Tis nothing,” she protested, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve had far worse.”

“So have I,” he said wryly, “but you still need to take care of it.”

She followed him to their room, then stood stiff and silent while he found some strips of cloth and heated water. He laid everything out on a table before the fire, then looked up at her.

“Isabel, come here.” Even the sound of her name on his lips made him shudder with a need he could no longer fulfill. He didn’t even know if she’d accept the touch of his mutilated hand. But she came forward readily enough and sat across from him.

“I can do this,” she said quietly.

“Not easily. How did this happen?” he asked, as he awkwardly bathed her wound with his left hand. “For someone so good with a sword, how could you possibly injure yourself in the sewing room?”

She bit her lip and looked away. He again saw repressed merriment in her eyes, and he wanted so badly to share it with her.

“Cutting fabric,” she finally answered. “I couldn’t line it up right, and my hand…was in the way.”

With clean strips of cloth, he began to wrap her hand, taking his time, enjoying the only touch of her skin that was left to him. He suddenly caught a distinctive odor, and he leaned forward to sniff.

“Is that ale I smell on your breath?”

Her eyes widened, and he saw a fleeting dimple in one of her cheeks. “You told me to learn to brew.”

“But you aren’t supposed to get drunk.”

Did a soft giggle escape her lips?

“I’m hardly drunk. They told me to taste the ale.”

James smiled despite his resolve. He wanted to lean closer, draw her laughter inside himself with kisses. He wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong with him, that she might fall willingly into his arms. But he looked down at his botched attempt to tie her bandage tight, and his smile died.

After a moment’s silence, Isabel said, “You should join the men at the tiltyard tomorrow.”

He glanced up at her and sat back, the contact between them broken. He gave her a smile, but he knew it wasn’t a successful one. “ ’Tis too soon.”

“You could use your left hand to sword fight. With your right, it might be best to start with a dagger’s weight.”

He remained silent.

“If you prefer to train alone?—”

“Isabel, how would you feel if you had to appear before all your men, holding your sword as poorly as a babe just out of swaddling clothes?”

“It would be difficult,” she admitted after a moment. Her voice seemed to soften. “Do you not think your knights would admire you even more for not giving up?”

He sighed. “You may be right.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said—” He stopped himself, lost again in the sweet possibilities of her laughter. “I think you like hearing me say that you’re right.”

Her gaze slid from his with all the natural ability of a born flirt. “Perhaps,” was her only concession.

~oOo~

After another frustrating night trying to keep away from Isabel in bed, James stood beside the tiltyard and watched her. He came to the conclusion that one of the reasons she failed so much at domesticity was that she was always thinking ahead to each hour of training. He had predicted wrongly about her effect on the men as she and William joined them.

At first the soldiers and knights had watched her warily, then they ignored her, then they became reluctantly impressed. Soon they were treating her like a little brother, teaching her drinking songs or challenging her to single combat—until James arrived, when they went back to their duties.

He couldn’t help but feel excluded. Of course the soldiers would turn to Isabel, a talented swordswoman, now that James could no longer lead them in combat. He was an outsider.

The self-pity of it all was making him sick. He went back to his bedchamber and spent an hour practicing his sword fighting maneuvers left-handed, away from pitying eyes. When he heard footsteps in the hall, he grabbed the scabbard and tried to ram the blade home, but ended up dropping everything in a clatter. Isabel opened the door and looked at him silently, no expression on her face.

He reddened. “I…accidentally kicked my sword over.”

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. Of course she didn’t respond. What was there to say? He was obviously lying.

“Shall we get to your letters, then?” he asked quickly.

They spent a tedious hour working on her reading. Soon he was torn between throwing the wax tablet across the room, or pulling her into his arms for a kiss. He longed to touch her, but he couldn’t bear to see disgust in her eyes.

James knew he was not the only one who was relieved when they were interrupted by news of a visitor. Together they went down to the great hall. James did not recognize the earnest young man standing before the hearth, twisting his felt cap. A small troop of the man’s guards were already eating hungrily at the tables.

Isabel came to a stop in the rushes, her face white. Obviously she knew their guest. Before either of them could say a word, the young man’s face brightened in a relieved smile.

“Lady Isabel! ’Tis so good to see you.”

He came forward, took her hand, and kissed it. James thought he was decent-looking, in a pale, blond sort of way.

“Have we met, sir?” James asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

Before the stranger could say anything, Isabel said, “This is Sir Wallace Desmond, heir to his father’s barony. He is William’s older brother.”

Sir Wallace gave the correct, polite bow, but he smiled at Isabel. “It has been many years since I have seen you last, my lady. My sympathies on the death of your father, and my congratulations on your marriage.”

He gave James a quick glance, and James realized he knew everything, that the story of the Black Angel had spread the length of the land.

Isabel thanked him coolly, and James guessed that her father was still not a subject she wished to discuss.

“Forgive me for arriving without notice, my lord, but I am bound for the continent. I will not see my brother for some years. When I heard that he was continuing his fostering here, I thought I would say my farewells in person.”

“By all means,” James said, calling for a page to fetch William.

“Allow me.”

James knew it was his wife’s voice, but it didn’t sound normal. As he turned to face her, he saw why. She was smiling at Desmond, something James had never seen unless she was bearing her teeth in a triumphant grin. And she had a dimple in one cheek.

He watched them walk off together, and an awful feeling invaded his stomach. He told himself that it was anger, but he suspected it was something more.

Isabel walked silently beside Wallace and allowed him to talk on about his approaching trip across the sea to France. But her mind traveled back to her childhood. Even when she was a young, awkward girl, more a boy than anything else, he had always been kind to her, and never tried to change her. When he had visited Mansfield Castle, she had followed him everywhere, trying to get his attention. She had daydreamed like a foolish girl, mooning over whether he might ask her father if he could marry her. After he had left, she immersed herself in her training, but never quite forgot him.

“Isabel?”

She heard Wallace repeat her name and she shook her head. “Forgive me. I have been…distracted.”

He smiled, and his face and hair seemed golden. He walked her to the tiltyard, where together they stood and watched William train. Her squire was growing to be an accomplished man, and she was proud of him. They spoke about William’s fostering, and Isabel tried to enjoy the attention Wallace gave her.

But she couldn’t keep James from her thoughts. She wondered why he had not accompanied them to the tiltyard, when he usually took every opportunity to impress a guest. Was he still not feeling well?

That would explain their nights, when James often retired to bed before she did. He never touched her, never kissed her. She knew the loss of his fingers bothered him. Was he punishing her for making the decision that saved his life? Or had one hour exploring her body been all that he needed to quench his curiosity?