Page 28 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

28

I sabel and James decided to leave at first light. She had fallen asleep last evening, almost hoping he would come to her, show her the same kindness and pleasure he had before. Instead he’d sat before the fire in a morose mood she couldn’t interpret. Had he hated dancing with her? Was he finally finished with their marriage, tired of a woman who didn’t know how to be a woman?

The three-day journey was cold and wet. Almost every evening, James lay down behind her to share his warmth, yet he never attempted to touch her intimately, and didn’t speak more than necessary during the day.

She missed his sarcastic banter, and his charming manner. She yearned for some kind of peace between them, but was unsure how to go about it.

When they arrived at Bolton Castle, it was like he visibly donned another facade for his people, and he behaved as he always did. But Isabel saw beneath the edges of the mask now. He hid his emotions from the world just as she did—only he used his garments, his title, and his handsome face to hide, whereas she had always used her weapons and her anger.

In their bedchamber early that first evening home, Isabel found Annie bouncing Mary on her knee. The servant beamed a smile of welcome, then promptly handed the baby to Isabel.

Why were women all of sudden making her hold babies? Isabel wanted to resent it, but Mary clutched fistfuls of Isabel’s tunic in her pudgy fists and grinned a toothless welcome. Isabel couldn’t help but soften.

Annie said, “My lady, I forgot something in the kitchens. I’ll return in but a moment.”

“Annie—”

But she was gone, and Isabel could have sworn she’d been skipping. She stared at Mary, who started playing with the laces on her shirt. With a sigh, Isabel sat down before the fire and held the baby in her lap. Time seemed to stretch on forever. The baby grew bored, then restless, and when the whimpering started, Isabel panicked. She tried to jostle the baby as she’d seen Annie do, but soon Mary was emitting angry screams. Isabel hadn’t thought something so little could be so loud.

The door opened and Isabel looked up in relief, but saw James instead of Annie.

Her spirits plummeted. “Did you see Annie in the hall?” she asked.

“No,” he said, a slow smile crossing his face.

She tried to pretend she was unaffected by his handsomeness, that she didn’t feel an ache of desolation at what she might never have.

But Mary chose that moment to empty the contents of her stomach all over Isabel, who gaped in horror.

James started to laugh, falling back against the door.

“This is your tunic!” Isabel said, picking up Mary before the baby could soil herself further. “Do something!”

Mary started to cry, and Isabel regretted her loud, angry words. It wasn’t the baby’s fault.

“Hush, Mary, your mama will be here soon.” She wanted to comfort her, but she was at a loss. “James!”

He came forward and took the baby, a smile still curving his lips. As Isabel began to undress, she watched James use a cloth from a pile by the tub to wipe Mary’s face. He spoke softly to her, comforting her, and soon the baby was all smiles. Isabel sighed, reminded once again how inadequate she was as a wife.

She turned her back to slip on a clean shirt. When she looked at James again, the baby had reached for his bandaged hand, and he quickly pulled it away.

“I don’t understand you,” Isabel said with exasperation. “The baby doesn’t care about your hand, I certainly don’t, yet you are acting as if your world has ended.”

His face paled, then darkened as he scowled.

“James, you lost two fingers. You’ll do fine without them. You could have lost your life. How do you think I’d feel then?”

For a moment, she thought he would yell or walk out of the room. He finally lifted his head and gazed at her, asking softly, “How would you feel?”

She was taken aback by his question, by the soft yearning in his eyes. This wasn’t like him. “I—I don’t know.”

At that moment, Annie came into the room. “My lady, I’ve brought hot spiced wine—” Then her gaze took in the scene and she stumbled to a halt. “My lord—” she began, but James stopped her.

“It was nothing, Annie, just an accident. Would you mind taking Mary to bed? We won’t need you tonight.”

Isabel remained silent as Annie collected Mary and all the soiled garments and linens. The maid gave Isabel a worried, apologetic look, but Isabel just smiled and shook her head.

“Have a good evening, Annie.”

When they were alone, she briskly went to a trunk to find something to wear.

“Isabel, come here,” James said in a low voice. “I need to finish talking to you.”

“I said all I needed to.”

“ I did not. Please come here.”

He’d even asked politely, which was certainly a different side of James. With a sigh she went and stood awkwardly before him. His hands were resting loosely on his stomach, and he leaned his head back against the chair to look up at her.

“So how would you feel if I died?” he asked in a serious, calm voice.

She didn’t know what to say.

“You are happy I didn’t die? A few weeks ago, you would have been thrilled to run a sword through me yourself.”

She shrugged and looked away. She tried to remember what it felt like to hate him, to want him dead, but she was a different person now and saw James as he was, not through the filter of another’s eyes. He cared about his people and his lands, and had the strength to go against his whole family for what he believed in. She could have a good life with him—if only he could accept her for what she was.

It would never happen. The love inside her burst for release, but she was so afraid of his reaction, of his rejection. She felt tears building in her eyes, and to her humiliation, one slipped down her cheek.

“Isabel?” he whispered her name.

She felt his hands on her waist as he pulled her down onto his lap. She struggled, but he held her still, his arms around her.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” she answered sternly, trying to rub her hand across her face.

He stopped her, brushing away the tear with his thumb, then pressed his lips to the same spot on her cheek. She shuddered, feeling his warmth all around her.

“Please don’t,” she said forlornly.

He rested his face against her neck and just held her. “Why can’t I touch you?”

“Because—because you don’t mean it,” she cried. “You don’t care how much this hurts me.”

James held still, breathing in the scent that was only Isabel, wishing he knew the right words. He was afraid to hope, afraid to find the truth. To hear her say that she didn’t care about his hand—the relief was overwhelming and he found himself incredibly grateful.

“I mean it,” he whispered, pressing kisses on her neck and jaw. “I want to touch you, to make love to you.”

She shook her head and he saw another tear roll down her cheek.

“Please, Angel, I don’t want to hurt you. If my hand doesn’t bother you, then what does?”

“I’ll never be like the other women you’ve wanted as your wife,” she whispered, trembling. “I don’t know what to do or say or?—”

James hushed her and started to rock slowly, cradling her in his arms. She took a shuddery breath, sighed, then slowly relaxed against him. He was stunned to realize that most of his problems with Isabel were not about their families or his hand, but her own insecurities as a woman. And he’d done his damnedest to make her feel worse. It shamed him down to his soul, how he’d made his naive wife suffer.

With sudden clarity, he realized he’d fallen in love with her sometime between their first sword fight and their last. She had more strength and determination that he’d seen in most men. She never believed that she couldn’t accomplish whatever she meant to, regardless of what people thought.

And he was hurting her. He was afraid if he told her he loved her, she wouldn’t believe him. Why should she, after the way he’d behaved? And he wasn’t even sure she could love him. But he wanted to spend an evening with her, not arguing, not trying to outdo each other. He wanted to know what it was like to have peace between them.

James smoothed her hair away from her face. “Would you come outside with me this night? ’Tis All Hallow’s Eve. There will be bonfires dotting the hillsides.”

She sighed. “Why do they do this?”

He tried not to let the shock show on his face. Were not even such old, sacred rituals allowed at Castle Mansfield? “We light fires to aid the souls of the dead on their journey to heaven. This is the day the spirits are amongst us—or so say the very superstitious. Would you like to walk the hills tonight, and see the bonfires?”

She tilted her head and looked up into his face. “Why do you wish to take me?”

He stared into her dark, mysterious eyes, glanced at the lips he longed to kiss. “I want to be alone with you.”

And then his warrior wife blushed. “Very well.”

~oOo~

In the deepest part of the evening, James, carrying a torch, led Isabel to the back of the castle, where the land sloped down towards the curtain wall. She knew this area well, for the dungeons were nearby. He grinned at her, as if he were thinking the same thing. She arched a brow and tried not to smile.

She didn’t understand what he was doing. He hadn’t said a thing about her confession, but he’d held her more tenderly than she’d imagined a man could. He’d kissed her, said he wanted to make love to her. And it was enough for now. She would see what the rest of the evening brought.

A rusted iron door was cut into the curtain wall. James took a handful of keys from a pouch at his waist and tried them all until he found the correct one.

“This door leads outside?” she asked in an appalled voice.

“I had it cut some years ago for a safe exit.”

“Safe? But surely you could easily be taken by?—”

She broke off as he swung open the door. She saw by moonlight the rocky, narrow ledge that seemed to fall away into darkness. She went forward to investigate, but James held her back.

“The cliff rises alongside the river. Quite difficult to reach except by single file. Stay near the wall as we walk.”

He led the way along the curtain wall, holding the torch slightly behind him so she could see. The path finally left the cliff and they entered the forest. It reminded Isabel eerily of her last night as the Black Angel, when James had defeated her by sword beneath a clear moon. It had only been a few weeks ago, but she’d been another person then, vengeful, bitter, convinced that she was in the right. Now all her beliefs had crashed to the ground one by one, all because of James, her husband.

Had her father begun all of this? she thought as she followed the bobbing torch down a narrow woodcutter’s path. How would her life have turned out if her father hadn’t used her against his enemy?

“Are we going to join the villagers?” Isabel asked softly. The dark forest made her feel like she couldn’t speak too loudly. She heard owls calling to one another, and the flapping of wings.

“No, I have a different destination in mind. You’ll like it, I promise.”

Less than an hour later, she felt the ground begin to slope upward at a gentle angle. Soon they broke through the trees to find a grassy hillside beneath the dark night sky. The moon shone down on them peacefully.

She kept climbing until she stood just beneath the summit, almost level with the treetops. She would have gone higher, but there was already a pile of branches in the center for a bonfire. James’s work, she thought. She arched her neck and spread her arms wide to the black sky, with its pinpricks of light winking above her. She felt his gaze upon her, and she finally lowered her arms and looked down at him. He stood at the base of the hill, by the last of the trees, the torch flaming in his raised hand.

When he spoke, his husky, deep voice carried like it was part of the night wind. “You look like you’re from another time up there, Angel. Pagan, primitive.”

She began to shiver, and it wasn’t from the cold. Her cloak protected her well, but nothing protected her from knowing that he watched her, that he wanted her, that maybe he cared.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

After climbing the hillside, he stumbled, and Isabel reached for his hand. He caught hers in a firm grip, then didn’t let go. She was content to stand beside him in the peaceful night.

After a moment, she said, “You told me we light bonfires to help souls on their journey.”

James nodded.

“Then may we light this in memory of my father?”

He stiffened. “Is there a reason you bring him up, Isabel?”

“Because I need to say good-bye.”

He held the torch out to her, releasing her hand. Isabel stared at it for a moment, then up into the night sky. From now on, she would belong only to herself and her husband.

But first she concentrated on her father, and hoped he had left behind his misery and bitterness. She took the torch in a firm grip, then thrust it headfirst into the kindling. After a moment the dry wood caught, and the fire spread crackling from twig to branch. James put a few small logs on top, and soon the fire was in no danger of going out. They stood side by side, watching.

She removed the chain she always wore and held it before her. The Mansfield ring spun and glittered in the firelight. She slid it into a pouch hung from her belt. She didn’t know why she did it. It made her feel vulnerable, uncertain.

He held her gaze, a half-smile curving his lips, but said nothing.

“There is one important reason to remember my father,” she said.

As he looked at her, the fire played a dance of light and shadow over his face and she could read nothing there. But she didn’t need to.

“Without him, I wouldn’t have met you.” She reached down and touched his bandaged hand.

He pulled away.