Page 25 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

25

J ames entered his bedchamber just as Isabel was changing for supper. For a moment, he thought she might want to impress her friend, and he didn’t know whether to be happy or jealous. Then he saw the doublet she’d chosen to wear, instead of one of the many gowns hung up on pegs on the walls. And his temper snapped.

He tossed every male article of clothing into a chest and locked it. Isabel calmly watched him, wearing only a white shirt that showed the intriguing shadows of her body. He could see the dark indentation at the top of her thighs. He tried not to stare at her, but he glanced again over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice layered with amusement.

By the saints, she was laughing at him. What kind of earl was he, if no one could respect him?

“You’re wearing this lovely dress I have picked out for you.” He held up a gown, the color of the sky just after sunset, shot with silver threads.

She looked at it impassively. “It would look adequate on your sister. Why don’t you give it to her as a gift?”

He tossed it onto the bed. “Because I had it made for you.”

“You’re wearing out your seamstresses making things I will not wear.”

“You have no choice,” he said smugly. “You either wear it or go naked.”

“Fine.” She loosened the laces of her shirt and it fell from her body.

She was utter perfection in female form, so tall and rounded and definitely not delicate. Feeling triumphant, James held out the dress with his good hand and tried not to think of throwing her down on the bed.

Instead, unabashedly naked, she went to the door and opened it. He gaped as she began to walk down the corridor.

She wouldn’t, James thought in disbelief, his triumph fading. Her lovely backside moved in a hypnotic rhythm. Her long black hair hid her back. Her breasts and everything else would be in full view to whoever walked out of a room or came up the stairs.

Yet still he didn’t call her back. She would turn modest coward soon enough. He slammed the door closed and waited for her frantic knock. Minutes passed but nothing happened. He broke into a sweat.

James told himself he didn’t care if she embarrassed herself or that the whole castle would see what was only for his private pleasure. Isabel may not look much like a woman in her male garments, but she was all woman underneath, more than any of his men could bear.

He slammed open the door and went running down the corridor, but she was gone. He called her name, causing more than a few servants to look at him in consternation. He ran down the stairs, and came to a stop.

Knights and soldiers, travelers and servants, all were beginning to take seats at the trestle tables for dinner to be served. Wallace and William were speaking together before one of the hearths, and both turned to him with almost identical looks of bewilderment. Isabel was nowhere to be seen.

James beamed a wide grin and did what seemed to come harder and harder lately—entertain his guests no matter what his mood. It was so difficult to keep his bandaged, mangled hand hidden. He still wanted to gesture with it, hold a tankard with it. He had grown resigned to eating at a slow pace with his left hand so he wouldn’t drop food down his doublet.

But there would be no meal until Isabel arrived. Where had she gone?

~oOo~

Isabel ducked into James’s wardrobe chamber and closed the door, panting from exertion. She had hidden in the first room she could find, waiting for her husband to go running past. When he’d gone, she hadn’t dared enter their bedchamber. Instead, in the dark, she grabbed the first garment she could find and hurriedly dressed. She took a deep breath, opened the door and walked down the corridor.

The great hall was ablaze with candles, heated to comfortable warmth by massive fires—and suddenly very, very silent. She kept a cool facade as she watched every face turn towards her. William looked uncomfortable, Wallace looked amused. Her husband’s face was blank.

She wasn’t quite certain why they all stared. What if this was her future, always the outsider, never a true woman or wife, scared because she finally wanted to be one?

James tried to smile at his guests. He held his hand behind him, and it ached with pain as he tried to move it, reminding him of everything he’d never do again. He was less a man now. Isabel looked better in his clothing than he did.

Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Although she’d meant to garb herself as sport, she was stunning in the rich blue velvet. The embroidered sleeves were slashed to show her white silk shirt. In a gown that color at court, she would steal every man’s breath away with her dark, exotic beauty. As she came the rest of the way down the stairs, head held proudly, James recognized the silence for what it was: appreciative. Isabel was very easy to look at, although he’d once sworn it wasn’t so.

She approached their small group and gave the Desmond brothers a smile, flashing the dimple in one of her cheeks. James’s stomach clenched with a surge of jealousy he no longer tried to deny. He looked from one brother to the other, and they practically stepped over each other—and in front of James—to bow before her. James cleared his throat. They each stumbled back a step and had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Lord Bolton,” Wallace began, his face reddening. “I did not mean to give offense.”

“None taken,” James said. “ ’Tis good of you to humor my wife.”

William and Wallace looked confused, but Isabel said, “Wallace, I’d like to meet your traveling companions.” She took his arm and walked away.

William remained at James’s side, obviously uncomfortable. “My lord…” he began, then trailed off.

James well understood the boy’s confusion. He smiled. “As I’ve said before, what a woman, eh, William?”

A half-hearted smile appeared on the boy’s face, then faded. “She’s not herself anymore, my lord. And I don’t understand.”

James turned a serious gaze on Isabel’s squire. “What do you mean?”

“All I know is, the look in her eyes has changed.” William shrugged. “Please don’t tell her I’ve said this, but she looks…sad.”

Margery had said the same thing. Frowning, James followed William to the dais and sat beside Isabel at the head table. He wanted to look into her eyes, but she was deep in conversation with Wallace about horses.

Through the meal, James tried to pay attention to the bantering of his guests, but it was very distracting to be able to eat with only one hand. He soon stopped eating altogether and merely drank. He kept remembering William’s comment that Isabel looked sad.

She seemed anything but sad. In fact, she was pleasant. James admitted to himself that it annoyed him no end that Wallace Desmond was the cause. He hated feeling jealous. He did the only thing he hoped might annoy her. He turned to the women.

Charm was difficult at first, but it was so second nature to him, that soon he found himself surrounded by the wives and ladies of Wallace’s party. Such concern expressed over his hand, such obvious worry over the wife he’d been forced to marry. James smiled and bowed and kissed hands.

And he remained unmoved by them, much to his surprise. He’d always adored women, all kinds. He touched, laughed, teased until they blushed prettily. Tonight it bored him, but he didn’t want to examine the cause. He was almost happy when the group enlarged to include their husbands. James found himself moving between clusters of guests, listening, yet not listening, his gaze lingering on his wife time and again.

He suddenly noticed that his was not the only gaze to wander. While the pretty wives blushed and fluttered their eyelashes, their husbands were glancing with interest—at Isabel.

Had it always been this way, that she seemed fascinating and different to other men? Was he actually envied because he had an unusual wife?

Isabel tried valiantly to pay attention to Wallace’s conversation, but every time James glanced at her, she felt it clear to her toes, a yearning for his attention. His eyes were bright, piercing, almost too intense. For a moment, she was afraid to hope, and then the thought came to her again. Could he be jealous? She turned her back, and wondered how she could put her conclusion to the test. Wallace smiled at her, and Isabel found herself saying, “I should like to see this horse you brag about.”

“Surely not this evening. ’Tis cold and your husband?—”

“Now—please.” She moved toward the double doors, not even turning to see if he followed.

A few early flakes of snow blew about the inner ward. Isabel led the way to the stables, her stomach tightening more and more with each step. James must have seen her slip outside with Wallace. What would he do?

They finally leaned over a stall, their breaths misting.

Wallace chuckled. “My horse doesn’t know he’s of interest. He’s asleep.”

Isabel shrugged. As if her thoughts had conjured James, he appeared out of the darkness into the dimly lit stable. He carried a tankard in his left hand. Still watching them, he drained it and tossed it aside.

Wallace grinned at him. “My lord, your wife seems to think my horse?—”

“Go back inside, Desmond.”

Wallace’s smile faded. “My lord, you don’t think that I—I intended to…”

“No, I believe you innocent. My wife on the other hand…” He let the sentence trail off, and the low menace in his voice excited Isabel. Was she right about him?

“Go back inside, Desmond.”

Wallace bowed. “Good evening, Lord and Lady Bolton.”

He disappeared into the darkness, leaving Isabel and her husband standing in the light of a small lantern. She couldn’t see James’s face very well.

“Bolton—”

“Be quiet.” With one hand, he held the back of her head and kissed her, pressing open her mouth, invading with his tongue. It reminded Isabel of their shared kiss above the dungeons. Then he had made her feel like a woman for the first time in her life, and now that feeling blossomed in her chest.

He released her mouth, but not her body. He deliberately swayed his hips against hers and kissed her again.

“Women who go outside with a man usually end up with problems,” he said against her lips.

Isabel inhaled his breath. “Not with Wallace. He’s a gentleman.”

“I’m not.”

He started nibbling her mouth. She could hear the sucking sound of his lips, and it sent a shot of heat through her lower stomach.

And then James pushed her backward into the straw. She lay shocked at his feet, looking up at him.

“I’m wearing your best garments,” she reminded him, feeling the thrill of excitement he always aroused in her.

He came down on top of her, and before Isabel could even feel relieved, he inhaled on a sharp hiss, and rolled off her. She was puzzled until she saw him grasp his injured hand.

“Did you?—”

“Be quiet!” he said, his voice full of frustration and anger. He turned his back.

“Let me see,” she demanded, pulling at his arm. “You could have reopened the wound.”

He shook her off. “Go back inside, Isabel.”

“But your hand?—”

“In how many more possible ways can you remind me of what I’ve lost?”

Her mouth dropped open and she moved back. “But I never?—”

“You don’t think I know why you wore my garments, why you came out here with Wallace? Just go, Isabel.”

She got to her feet slowly, never taking her eyes off him. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t stop holding his injured hand. She wanted to put her arms around him, absorb his pain, but he obviously didn’t want her kindness or her sympathy. She left him alone in the stables.

Avoiding the great hall, she went up to her bedchamber, climbed into bed, and dwelt miserably on the evening’s failures. What had he meant when he said she continually reminded him of everything he’d lost? He couldn’t possibly be referring to his hand. What were a few fingers when he could have lost his life? Did he mean the more suitable women he could have married?

She was still awake when James finally came in. He had obviously consumed even more ale—not that she’d know it by how he held himself, or the state of his clothing. His eyes were blood-shot and his voice was slower.

“Isabel, you missed all the fun. I beat your Wallace at Tables.”

“He is not mine,” she said evenly.

He shrugged. “You missed the messenger, too.” He laughed and leaned against the bedpost.

“What missive was so important as to arrive this late?”

“ ’Tis my sister, Margery. She is asking me to come to my brother’s manor in Lancashire. She says it is urgent, but reveals nothing else. How like the foolish girl.”

Isabel studied his face, saw his wariness. When had she learned to read his expressions so well? “But she just left us.”

“Which makes it all the more puzzling. Don’t you agree?”

She took a deep breath. “I will travel with you.”

A smile tilted one corner of his mouth. “You will?” he asked, making it very clear that it was up to him. “Curious?”

“Perhaps. I wish to meet your brother.”

He chuckled. “Are you going to be the voice of restraint?”

“Probably not. You may beat each other senseless, if you wish.”

Annie came up to help them pack late into the night, and afterward, James fell into bed exhausted. Isabel watched him sleep for too long, wishing she knew what to do to help him.

She admitted to herself that she needed to meet this woman James had been betrothed to, who’d left him for his brother, even though she no longer believed the stories of him forcing himself on Katherine Berkeley.

There was an ache, a yearning deep inside her to acknowledge aloud what she felt for him. Why did she resist surrendering to this connection that bound her to him more than their wedding vows?

Because it would hurt if he didn’t feel the same.