Page 29 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

29

J ames felt utterly foolish. Isabel had told him she didn’t care about his hand. Yet he didn’t want her to see it—even he didn’t like looking at it.

“James,” she said in a soft, husky voice.

He let her unwind the bandages. The hand was still swollen, discolored—and had two scabbed lumps where they’d cauterized after amputating. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t imagine holding a sword or touching his wife again with that hand. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Isabel loosened the laces of her doublet and shirt. With a shrug, she let them fall to her waist, and brought his mutilated hand up to cup her breast. Something twisted inside him, shaking everything he’d believed in.

“I love you, James,” she said softly. “Your hand matters to you, but not at all to me.”

Still holding his trembling hand against her, she touched his forehead, then his chest. “Your mind and your heart are all that matter to me. But of course, there is another thing that seems to matter to men.”

She suddenly grabbed him firmly between the legs and James almost doubled over in shock.

“And that certainly wasn’t damaged,” she finished wryly.

He thanked God for the gifts he’d been given, for the ability to finally see that there was so much more to appreciate beneath what his wife showed the world.

Isabel put her hands on the warm, stubbled skin of his face, and kissed him hard on the mouth. They touched in no other way but that, yet when she leaned back, they were both breathing hard. He looked shocked, wide-eyed, and then their bodies came together in a crash that almost knocked them down the sloping side of the hill.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, opening her mouth and joining her tongue with his. She felt his hands run down her back, then mold her hips against his. He was aroused, pressing against her, and she wanted more than anything to feel his body inside hers again.

She pulled off his cloak and tossed it over her shoulder.

“We might need that to lie upon,” he whispered against her neck, pressing kisses there.

“I don’t care,” she said, tilting her head back, lifting one knee high so that she could feel his hips between her thighs.

They pulled each others’ clothes off, tangling laces, ripping hose, stretching seams. She lifted his shirt up over his head, then ran her hands across the muscles of his chest, touching him as he had touched her. She bent and kissed his nipples.

He groaned. “Isabel…Angel…what you do to me,” he murmured.

When he was naked, she carefully held his penis, and it felt so different than when he’d thrust it inside her. He lifted her hands away.

“No more,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I won’t be able to hold myself back, and I so want this to last forever.”

“If I touch it, that makes you release your seed faster?”

“No more talking,” he said, dragging the shirt off her body until she too was naked.

Isabel stood feeling deliciously frozen as James held the weight of her breasts in his hands, as if admiring them by firelight. He bent and kissed each of them, bringing to her body the most unbearably wonderful feelings of pleasure and happiness. She wished never to be anywhere else but in his arms. She trailed her fingers through the thickness of his hair, then gasped as he dropped to his knees before her, spreading kisses in his wake. Kneading the rounded muscles of her buttocks with both hands, he suddenly pressed his mouth between her thighs.

She let out a little scream and tried to push him away. “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

He was laughing at her as he pulled her down into his lap beside the fire. She found herself straddling his thighs, afraid to sit down farther. James slid one of her knees aside until she found herself sinking onto him, cradling the hot hardness of him where she wanted him to be.

“Men and women do such things, Angel,” he said, kissing her face and down her neck.

She wanted to say such things were unnatural, but she forgot all her protestations when he arched her back and took each nipple into his mouth, one at a time, moving back and forth between them until she was whimpering. The sky whirled almost dizzily above her, his mouth worked magic on her breasts, and between her legs he pulsed against her, almost rocking, moving in time with the rhythm of their bodies.

A spasm of intense pleasure shuddered through her, and she didn’t want to wait any longer. “Inside me,” she gasped.

He lifted his head and gave her a languid smile. “Soon,” he whispered, pulling her into his embrace to kiss her again.

It was almost too much—his tongue invading her mouth, his erection pushing hard between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to get closer, wanting to surrender to the delight he could give her. And then she felt his fingers between her thighs, caressing, rubbing, as he’d done before. The feeling was so much more immediate, so shocking, that she cried out, and her voice echoed through the stillness of the forest.

“How do you do that?” she gasped, dropping her head back.

“No talking,” he repeated, his mouth again at her breasts. “I’ll tell you everything—later.”

He teased and caressed her with his lips and fingers until she was shuddering and shaking in his arms. Then suddenly he thrust up inside her, and it didn’t hurt at all. He filled her, completed her, made her feel every inch a woman.

He lay back in the grass, arching his body and almost lifting her. “Ride me, Isabel. You’re in control.”

She leaned forward, bracing her weight beside his shoulders and looking down into his face. The firelight flickered through the strands of her hair that curtained around him. His eyes were closed, his face intense, frowning. She raised her hips a bit, then sat back down, and was rewarded as he groaned.

“You feel so good,” he said, reaching up to pull her face down for a kiss.

Soon the movement became natural and she rode her husband hard, controlling her pleasure and his, until the passion culminated in the most exquisite release pulsing through her body. She heard James groan, felt him pressing deep inside her, even felt the release of his seed. He pulled her down on top of his chest and she rested her head against his shoulder.

For what seemed like forever, James had heard only the sounds of his and Isabel’s hearts, heard only her voice raised in cries of passion. The return of the noises of the forest almost surprised him. He’d forgotten that he lay in the cold grass, next to a blazing fire, in the middle of a dark forest where others most assuredly built their own bonfires. And he didn’t care.

Isabel, his wife, had seduced him, had wanted him, had unashamedly stripped the clothes from his body. Never in his life had he met a woman with such strength, such determination once she’d set her mind on something. And tonight she’d wanted him, and was not content to wait for him to pleasure her. It hadn’t mattered that they weren’t in the privacy of their bedchamber. To Isabel, propriety and other people’s opinions never mattered. Part of him thought he loved that best about her.

She slowly sat up, making him sink deeper into her body.

With a groan, James said, “I could do this again.”

He saw his breath as he spoke, and knew she must be cold. But instead of moving, he lay there and looked at her, silhouetted against the stars, the moon peaking over her shoulder, the fire flickering warmly across her skin. She lifted herself off him, and he sighed. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want this night to end. She had given herself freely to him, and he wanted to savor the gladness and joy. He felt like it was their true wedding night. His wife loved him.

But it was freezing.

They found their clothing scattered in the grass, and donned them quickly. After making sure the fire was stamped out, they returned to Bolton Castle hand in hand, entering again the small door cut in the wall. Guards called out soft hellos in the night. In the great hall, people still gathered at the trestle tables or before the two hearths, some well-bundled from their evening outdoors. He steered Isabel through them and up the stairs, saying countless good-nights.

In their bedchamber, James caught her to him and kissed her with all the passion he’d been withholding for weeks. She pushed him back on the bed and climbed on top.

“May we do that again?” she asked, spreading his arms wide and holding him down.

He groaned. “Please.”

~oOo~

James awoke, still feeling exhausted and sore. He lifted his head, saw Isabel nowhere in sight, then collapsed back on the cushion wearing what was undoubtedly a silly grin. He felt incredible.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open. Again he managed to open his eyes. His wife stood over him, dressed all in black, a sword belted at her hip, her arms crossed over her chest. She surveyed him casually and he was aroused in an instant.

“Coming back to bed?” he asked.

“Soon. I have something to read to you first.”

He saw a piece of parchment in one of her hands. She unrolled the letter and held it to the light. Very slowly, she began to read it aloud, and James was astonished by how fast she had learned the skill.

Then he began to listen to the words, and his stomach clenched with dread. When she was done, she lowered the parchment, put her hand on her sword hilt, and just looked at him.

“James, does this letter from the king mean that he has taken my family title away?”

Looking into her wide eyes, he saw the ruination of everything he’d finally achieved—Isabel’s love. He watched her face, waiting for her to scream, throw the letter into the fire, anything but look at him so calmly. That disturbed him more than any woman’s tantrums.

“Yes, Angel, King Henry has decided to give the earldom—but not your lands or property—to a knight who has served him well.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He couldn’t let her be hurt again, as she’d been hurt her whole life. “Put away your sword. I will write to the king. I’ll travel to London and protest. He cannot do this to you. I’ll?—”

“You would support me?” she interrupted, as the parchment rolled to the floor. “Risk your lands, your wealth, in a court battle against the king?”

“Of course I would. I wrote him when we married, asking for permission for your family title to be inherited by our child. And this is obviously his answer. I’ll?—”

“Stop!” she said, taking his shoulders and giving him a little shake. “I need to know something.”

“Anything.”

“Could you ever love me for what I am, not some ideal woman you’ve had pictured your whole life?”

“I thought I proved that last night.” James wanted to touch her, but he held back. “I love you,” he whispered, and felt the words deeply.

She briefly closed her eyes. He tried to hold her, but she put a hand on his chest. “I need to know that this is more than just…mating.”

He smiled, cupping her cheek with his hand. “I love you.”

“Why?”

“Precisely because you are like no other woman I’ve ever met. You’re strong in your own right. And you don’t care about my title—or my hand. You are the first woman who’s ever seen anything else in me besides what’s on the surface.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes, before allowing a small smile to show.

“Did I pass your test of honor, wife? Can I go to London on your behalf?”

“No.”

“No? You’re not going. The king would?—”

“Don’t you understand? It isn’t important anymore.”

He stared at her in amazement. “But Isabel?—”

She smiled. “We can’t win against the king. All that matters, all that touches me deeply, is your offer to risk all that is important to you, your security, your title, just for me.”

“Isabel, You are the most important thing to me now.”

“Then that’s all I need,” she said, leaning into his embrace. “My life is more than I ever imagined it could be, and I have that title—and an old feud—to thank for it.” She lifted her head up, then glanced down his body. “You’re not wearing anything.”

He grinned and nodded toward the bed.

“Are you sure you’re not too tired?” she asked, eyes narrowed in speculation.

“My bruises will heal.”

~oOo~

Before supper, Isabel insisted she needed a moment of privacy, and ordered James down to the great hall with instructions to send Annie up. He awaited his wife before the fire, listening to William talk, but feeling a bit too happy to care about jousting, or whatever subject the boy was chattering about. A moment later, William’s mouth sagged open and his eyes grew wide in astonishment.

James turned to follow his gaze, and he, too, felt like someone had punched the air from his lungs. Every sound in the great hall died away until just the gurgling of a babe could be heard.

Isabel was slowly coming down the stairs looking as regal as a princess, dressed in wine-colored silk that clung to her breasts and fell in rich, full folds to her feet. Her tight sleeves were embroidered with gold threads and pearls, and the design was echoed across her bodice and along the hem of the skirt. She wore no headdress, just a simple upsweep of her shining hair, almost blue-black in the flickering candlelight.

Around her neck, she wore his mother’s gold and pearl chains. And tied to the chain was her father’s ring.

The emotions coursing through James’s chest had nothing to do with arrogant satisfaction. He ached to have her for all time, knowing that she had dressed like this just to please him.

Then he saw the wickedly sharp dagger in the jeweled girdle at her waist, and he wanted to laugh, though gratitude was an ache in his throat. Every day with Isabel was an adventure, and he wanted to be worthy of a lifetime of such days.

As she came near, he rose to his feet, then dropped to one knee and reached for her hand. He kissed her knuckles, then turned it over to press his lips into her palm.

He raised his head. “I love you,” he said in a husky voice. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She leaned over him. “But I want you to know, this is only for special occasions.”

His shoulders shook with laughter as he got to his feet. He turned and saw Annie at the top of the stairs, wiping away tears. He presented his arm to his wife, leading her to a cushioned chair before the fire.

“A song!” someone called from the crowd.

Mort began to pluck the lute strings. James recognized an old song of love and beauty. He sang praise to her eyes, which rivaled the mysteries of the night, to her hair, in which a man could gladly lose himself. But there were no lyrics written to do justice to the spirit that was Isabel.