Page 27 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

27

I sabel was free. She should be happy, at peace, with the world spread out before her. She could go anywhere she wanted. But instead she rode miles of the viscount’s lands and wondered why peace eluded her.

She was galloping back to the manor when she saw James racing towards her. She knew he’d had a difficult few days confronting his past—but by the saints, so had she. She’d met his family and his first betrothed.

James was nearing her, leaning low over the stallion’s neck, his dark hair swept away from his proud, intent face. A wry smile tilted the corner of her mouth. He was certainly magnificent on a horse, regardless of his hand.

Without thinking, she spurred her horse across the grassy uplands, away from her husband. She heard his shout, and she raised a hand in salute, but the thrill of the chase was upon her. They raced against each other and the wind. For the first time that day, she felt truly free, with a good horse beneath her, her sword at her hip—and James trying to capture her, trying to outwit her.

She pulled up in a valley lined with gritstone walls and sliding rocks. A waterfall from the moors above them pounded over boulders into a stream, sealing one end of the valley. She wheeled her horse about and faced James, who came to a halt behind her.

“Why did you run from me?” he demanded, sliding from the horse and tossing his reins over a bush.

Isabel’s horse pranced beneath her, and she patted its heaving sides. “I most certainly did not run from you. I raced you—and I won.”

James grabbed her by the waist and pulled her from the horse. It must have hurt his hand, for he quickly hid it in his cloak. But now that she thought about it, he kept his bandages out of sight most of the time. Why was he so defensive about an injury that could have happened to anyone? She went to get a drink at the stream.

“I always understood that races start fairly,” he said, coming up behind her. “Or are you claiming a woman’s need to be treated gently?”

Isabel squatted beside the water and cupped a handful to her mouth. Glancing over her shoulder, she answered, “I don’t need you to treat me like a woman. You’ve never done so before.”

As she stood up, she heard him inhale sharply. He turned her around and she felt a thrill of excitement and longing for his bantering. He hadn’t been himself since his injury.

“You’ve never behaved like a woman,” he said, blue eyes narrowed, “nor have you asked me to treat you like one. Are you asking now?”

She stood silent, watching his gaze search her face, then drop to her lips. What would he do if she suddenly kissed him hard as he’d done to her?

“The only thing I’m asking of you, James, is to tell me the whole story about why Katherine married your brother.”

He took a step backward. “What did you call me?”

“Did that horse step on your ears, too?”

He studied her. “You’ve never called me by my Christian name before.”

“Of course I have,” she said, feeling heat flush her face. “Are you going to tell me about Katherine? Or should I ask her?”

“I shall answer your questions,” he said, leaning back against a boulder. “I owe you that much.”

But then he remained silent for a long time, staring at his boot where it scuffed the dirt. Isabel waited as patiently as she could.

“I am not proud of some of the things I had to do in the war,” he finally said.

She stepped closer, her curiosity winning out.

“I chose to follow Henry Tudor because I knew he would win. I wanted to protect my family, my people, and our lands. I never told anyone but a few men who shared my beliefs. Katherine overheard these men plotting, and I was worried she would be killed for her knowledge. I had her kidnapped, and sent to Reynold’s monastery.”

“Monastery?” she asked.

“He was a novice monk. I thought if anything went wrong, he could protect her. Something went wrong. The man I chose to kidnap her took his job more literally than I had intended. When Reynold helped her escape, this man chased them across the countryside, and in his anger at being foiled, nearly killed both of them.”

His voice dropped lower, and he met her gaze almost defiantly.

“That’s all?” she finally asked. The last heaviness of secrets between them was lifted—and it was nothing like she had imagined and dreaded.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“You but tried to keep her out of harm’s way, and for this she broke the betrothal?”

“In fleeing from my mistakes, Katherine and Reynold fell in love. And I had betrayed them. Aren’t those enough reasons?”

“I don’t think it was a betrayal to try to protect your family, even if your plan did not work.”

“Isabel, you amaze me.”

With a shock, she realized his gaze was admiring. And he wasn’t even looking at her naked body. They stared at one another, until she began to lose track of where they were, what they had been arguing about. All she saw was the brilliance of his eyes, all she wanted was his touch. My God, when had that become so important?

James was the first look away. “Since we’re talking about my past, it’s only fair that we talk about yours. I have a question about the feud between our families,” he said.

She tried to hide her shock at being thrust so abruptly from the sensual trance of his gaze. She turned her back on him and it all flooded back, her family vengeance, the vow she’d sworn to humiliate him.

“I know most of the historical details,” he continued. “What I want to hear is what happened to your father. Tell me his story.”

Isabel found herself staring blankly at the dead grass at her feet. She had not spoken of it openly in a long time. Her problems with James went so much deeper. After a moment, she slowly said, “My father challenged your father at a melee. They fought, and your father unfairly wounded mine.”

“You say ‘unfairly.’ How do you mean? Did your father say mine cheated?”

“I—” She frowned and hesitated. “I’m not sure. He left my father a cripple.” She thought of her father’s bitterness, the endless drinking to dull the pain.

“Isabel, I was there. I was but a child, but I remember. Your father challenged mine . What did you want my father to do? Refuse? Dishonor himself?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“My father but defended himself, and he didn’t want to die. He was greatly sorry to have injured Mansfield, but it was a fair fight, witnessed by all who saw it.”

She felt her stomach twist with anxiety. “I—I hadn’t thought of it that way. Honor is important.” Her throat felt blocked. “He never let me forget,” she whispered. “I heard the story of that fight over and over. Why would my father…” Her voice trailed off and she felt lost.

“Maybe he, too, was raised to hate the Boltons by his own father. Maybe our families have done nothing but pass down hate. I want it to end with us, Isabel.”

James looked at her white face, and knew much of their marriage rested on what she said next. He saw fear in her eyes for the first time.

“I don’t know how to change things,” she said.

“Then let us begin with some truths. Did your father give you those scars on your ribs?”

She shook her head. “I used to bind my breasts.”

He imagined her a maturing young woman, hiding the proof of her sex. “Why?”

“It was easier to train that way.”

“There must have been more to it than that.”

She eyed him coldly. “There was nothing.”

He thought again of the scars that criss-crossed her chest. No one mutilated herself just for ease of training. But she was the only child of a man who wanted revenge on an old enemy. Did Isabel deliberately make herself into the son he always wanted, or did her father force her?

She turned her back again and bent toward the stream, but James didn’t think she was thirsty. He began to wonder if there were problems between them because of the things his ancestors had done—or for a newer reason.

He thought of when she’d asked him if the horse had stepped on his ears. She seemed to be treating his injury matter-of-factly. If she was no longer angry with him over the feud, and if his injury was more important to him than to her—then why was there still such discord between them?

He walked over and knelt down beside the stream. Isabel still crouched there, her hand dangling in the water, her eyes staring unseeing across the valley. Her profile was proud, remote, so very beautiful. He didn’t know what to do to reach her, to make things better between them. He looked down into the water in confusion.

“Are you thirsty?” she asked softly.

He looked up to tell her he could certainly drink with one hand, but she already held her cupped hands before him, dripping water sparkling in the sun. Part of him wanted to say he didn’t need her help, but that lasted but a moment. On his knees before her, he took her cupped hands between his and bent to drink. When the water was gone, he pressed his mouth into her palms for every last drop.

She was trembling when he finally looked up. He saw the same wonder in her eyes as when he’d given her the first pleasure she’d ever had.

Then he realized he was touching her skin with his bandaged, mutilated hand, and he pulled away and stood up.

“Let us return to my brother’s,” he said, not looking at her. “Tonight is to be a special feast.”

He mounted his horse, knowing she would follow.

~oOo~

That evening, the whole countryside gathered to celebrate the birth of the babe. The hall fair burst with people. The smells of delicious food filled the air. Isabel stood alone, watching as the tables were taken down and the minstrels began to play. Soon laughing couples were dancing through the rushes, dodging children and dogs.

James stood beside his brother, talking, gesturing with his left hand only, although Isabel could not hear the words. He had always been astoundingly handsome to her, but she saw deeper now, and was still drawn to him. She loved him. Why was she such a coward? Why couldn’t she admit it aloud?

Margery suddenly stopped beside her, took up the same stance as Isabel, and looked out over the room. “What do you see from here?” she asked.

“Many people,” Isabel answered warily. She remembered again how worried Margery was about her own wedding, and Isabel realized she couldn’t blame the girl. Isabel knew first-hand what it was like to be forced into a loveless marriage.

“Do you know how to dance?” Margery asked.

Isabel wanted to laugh. “No.”

“My brother wants to dance with you.”

“He does not,” she quickly answered.

Margery smiled. “I am quite positive. I’ll tell him you would like to learn how to dance.”

“No!” Isabel whispered furiously, but Margery was already off. Isabel whirled and leaned against the mantel, breathing heavily.

Across the hall, James cupped his left hand about his ear. “Margery, what did you say?”

She rolled her eyes and repeated, “Isabel wants to dance with you.”

“She does not.”

“She wants you to teach her.”

James didn’t believe his sister’s ploy for a moment. He glanced at Isabel, who stood alone before the hearth, her back to him. Oh, she seemed ready to dance.

He looked down at Margery. “Why are you so eager tonight, sweetheart?”

“I am not eager. Your wife just looks…sad.”

James had a sudden memory of William using those exact words. They made him uneasy.

“Are you going to dance with her, or not?”

His smile faded and he lowered his voice. “Margery, look at my hand. I cannot dance.”

“Then the two of you are well-matched this evening.”

She gave him a push and James found himself ducking around circles of dancers holding hands. He couldn’t do this anymore. He should just have another tankard of ale. But Isabel leaned against the mantel and stared into the fire as if she were all alone in the room.

He stopped behind her. “Isabel?”

“I did not send your sister to you,” she said, not looking up.

“I know.”

She lifted her head. “Then why did you come?”

He looked down into her dark eyes, and the bravado was gone. She looked strangely vulnerable, uncertain—and very appealing.

“I thought you’d like to learn how to dance.”

She hesitated. “No.”

James put his hand on her waist and felt her stiffen. He leaned closer to her. “I don’t bite—much.” He said the last against the wisps of curls at her temple and felt her shiver. He smiled. He still had talents—even one-handed.

“Let me put my arms around you and we can move to the music. The rest of the dancing—well, I can’t hold hands.”

“When the bandages come off?—”

“No.”

“Stubborn?” she asked, a small smile on her face. “I don’t bite.”

He raised his eyebrows and leaned in closer, waiting.

Isabel rolled her eyes. “—much.”

“Thank you.”

James slid his arms around her waist, and began to drag her into the center of the rush-covered floor. They knocked people off-step right and left, split open circles of dancers, but James just laughed, and started spinning his wife about. She reeled almost drunkenly, and once nearly sent the two of them to the floor, but she grasped it eventually. Soon she was leading him about. It took James a moment to realize that she was deliberately aiming for knots of dancers and breaking them apart.

And then she laughed. Her voice became sweet and girlish with merriment, and it struck his heart painfully. He’d always thought her laugh would be gruff and masculine, but this was too hard to resist. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to feel her body against his. She didn’t seem to be disgusted by his touch, and it made him more hopeful than he’d been in a long time.

~oOo~

In their bedchamber that night, James lounged in a chair before the fire and watched his wife. Isabel deliberately avoided looking at him as she removed all of her garments but her shirt. He thought for a moment that there was the slightest hesitation in her manner, that maybe her fingers had almost touched the laces on her shirt. James’s cock came to life with the painfulness of forced celibacy as he watched her climb into bed. She pulled the blankets up but didn’t turn away from him. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling.

With a stunned feeling of shock, James realized his wife might accept his attentions this night. He didn’t bother examining the reasons closely, because he couldn’t touch her. He gripped the tankard of ale with his left hand and drained it. He glared at his right hand. In his mind, he tried to imagine touching her bare flesh with his mutilation. Even the image twisted his gut with nausea. Their only chance at a half-decent marriage had been destroyed. It was too late.