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

3

T hat same evening, visitors stopped for lodging on their way from London to York. James cursed their presence—he was forced to entertain Baron George Huddleston and his wife and daughters, rather than ponder his plans to capture the Black Angel. James could tell the evening would be long. The man talked of nothing but farming and sheep. The wife perched on the edge of her seat, nodding attentively to everything James said, while the daughters elbowed each other out of the way as they fought for a place beside an eligible earl. They were pale, mouse-haired, typical English girls, with nothing to say for themselves. And then one laughed and James saw why—protruding teeth. He withheld a sigh and gave a strained smile.

He should be flirting with them. He should be judging their merits as wives, though they be daughters of a minor nobleman. In the baron’s family, he sensed money—and he needed some. Looks were no longer so important when one was desperate.

But his wife-hunting skills were deserting him tonight. Only out of habit had he remembered to dress in a fine green velvet tunic. Every time he tried to think of a thing to say to these two country girls, an image of the Black Angel appeared full blown in his mind, leaning over his cot, her black curls brushing against him, her dark eyes burning with undiscovered passion. He remembered her breasts, lush and full as he held her against his chest. Why could he think of nothing but her?

Isabel sat at a trestle table in Bolton’s hall, dressed in a peasant cloak and hood, watching the earl hold court for his visitors. She had positioned herself between the baron’s people and the castle residents, trying to seem to each group that she was part of the other.

It had been easy to slip into the inner ward with the baron’s party of travelers. She only had to submit to a simple search. Her sword remained well hidden beneath her skirts. Bolton’s security had obviously never been tested—after tonight he would understand what he was up against. He would again feel the shame of knowing he could not best a “mere” woman. Isabel barely restrained her grin of triumph.

Yet while she voraciously ate of his delicious food, she studied James Markham. When she had first attacked him, she had been caught up in her own daring, and then concerned she had fatally injured him too early in the game. In the darkness of her hut, he had seemed reckless, amusing, charming to a degree she would not have thought possible.

Even now, though he seemed distracted, he captivated the baron and his family. The silly daughters gazed at Bolton with every intention written on their faces, and even their mother seemed to preen.

Bolton wore outrageously extravagant garments that almost glittered, clothes to impress the king. How did a man fight dressed like that?

And the great hall itself—Isabel had to struggle not to gape. The walls were white-washed, covered by woven tapestries of the most incredible colors. The rushes on the floor smelled like the outdoors, with nary a chicken bone in sight.

But soon Bolton would be able to impress no one. They would all know what he was, what he had done. His name would only inspire mocking laughter.

Isabel crept away when the meal was through, just as the merrymaking was beginning. She strode boldly down a hall, as if looking for the garderobe, then snuck upstairs to find Bolton’s room. She shadowed chatting maidservants as they aired rooms for the earl’s guests, until she deduced that the formal doors at the end of the hall opened into the master’s bedchamber. It was a simple matter to slip in when they weren’t looking.

A low fire filled the room with shadowy light. Candles in silver candleholders awaited the earl on tables on either side of the bed, a massive affair that filled almost a whole wall. Heavy velvet bed curtains were tied back, ready to encircle the occupant in privacy. Isabel wondered if this was the bed he had forced his betrothed to lie in. Had he simply misjudged her willingness? No, a man must know when a woman is unwilling, even if he won’t acknowledge it. She herself had once stabbed a soldier for daring to touch her intimately. After that, she had hidden her womanhood as much as possible, so that no one, least of all her father, would remember that she was a daughter, not a son.

While keeping an eye on the door, Isabel hung a rope from the window down to the ward below, just in case she needed a quick escape. Then she wove black ribbons through the bedclothes. She closed the curtains around the bed, hoping that as Bolton opened them, he’d be shocked and angry. Would he have a woman with him? The more people who saw his humiliation, the better.

Hearing nameless voices conversing in the hall, Isabel quickly darted behind the bed, covering her face with the mask. As the door opened, she shed the last of her female disguise, ready as the Black Angel to do battle with her enemy if necessary. A fevered excitement raced through her body as she imagined besting him again.

Holding her breath, she listened to the movements in the chamber. Just one person—a man. The bed curtains separated her from him, but she could peer through them as he moved about the room. It was James Markham.

Each time he passed before the openings of the curtains, he was wearing less and less clothing. Softly he whistled as he moved about the room, and the sound raised bumps across her clammy skin. She would actually get to witness her newest humiliation—as long as he didn’t find her.

“Have I displayed enough flesh for you yet?”

Isabel was frozen in shock for a long moment. Had he seen the ribbons already?

“Come, young lady,” he murmured, his voice deep, warm, cajoling. “This is not the way to satisfy your pleasures. And it will only get me challenged by your father.”

Did he toy with her? But no, of course he didn’t know her identity.

“You’ve seen enough. I suggest you return to your maidenly bed and whisper about me with your sister. I’ll rest content knowing I live on in young girls’ fantasies.”

Isabel clenched her jaw. He thought she was one of the baron’s giggling daughters. Why had she removed the cloak? She could have crept out, pretending to be thoroughly chastised. Could she don it in time?

She tried to reach the garment, but the space between the bed and the wall was too narrow. She heard the rustle of the bed curtains.

“Where are you, girl?” he whispered.

She detected the first hint of impatience in his voice. She heard him take a quick breath, and knew with grim certainty that he had seen the black ribbons.

He ripped the last of the curtains aside and they faced each other over the headboard. Isabel had a quick impression of dark hair and light eyes, and plenty of skin, before she darted out the far side of the bed and drew her sword. With the tip of her weapon, she looped his sword high in the air and out the window.

Bolton reached forward across the bed too late. With a curse, he straightened and faced her, naked. She wanted him to be humiliated, to cover himself, but instead he leaned casually against a bedpost and gave her a slow smile.

She clenched her jaw. None of this was turning out as she had planned. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Why, if it isn’t the Black Angel herself,” Bolton murmured, as his gaze raked her body insolently. “Come for some nighttime pleasures, love? Isn’t taking my money enough? Please say you don’t mean to take my innocence as well.”

Isabel remained silent, her sword a thankful barrier between them. But he was too close to the window, her only escape route. She wished he would charge at her, so she could do something—anything!—rather than stare at his nakedness. She had lived and trained with men her entire life, and she had seen plenty of them nude. As long as she didn’t do anything womanly, they treated her like one of them.

But James Markham was not treating her like a man. He stood brazenly before her, a smirk on his face, and dared her to act. He was tall, taller than herself, with a fine, leanly-muscled body he was obviously proud of.

“I choose the men I share my nights with,” she finally said, adding a lie to her wicked reputation. “And you have no innocence, sir. Would that God had given you and your family some meager share.”

“Heavens, Angel, don’t bring my family into this lovely moment between us. You’ll douse any passion I feel for you.” He looked down his body in sudden bemusement. “Damn, and I was just feeling a spark of desire. You’ve ruined it.” He glanced back up at her, his expression sobering. “I guess you’re not womanly enough to hold my interest.”

“God be praised,” she said.

His sudden attack took her by surprise. She never imagined him foolhardy enough to bound over the bed straight at her sword and knock it aside. She brought up her knee, but that too he thrust aside and fell on her. They landed hard in a tangle of limbs and long bodies, with Isabel bearing the brunt of it. With an outraged cry, she tried to bring up her sword, but Bolton grabbed both her arms and pinned them above her head.

Isabel kicked and rolled, but for once she was no match for a man’s strength. She was intimately aware that he was naked, and a part of her wondered what he intended to do with her. But most of her was too busy struggling to get to the window, and freedom.

“Stop this!” he said, then grunted as her elbow jabbed his wounded cheek. He finally spread her arms out wide and held them there. They were chest to chest, breathing heavily. Where he held her legs between his, Isabel felt a swelling hardness. Her anger burned, that he would dare to assault her.

Bolton gripped her wrists tighter. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to know why this is so personal to you.”

She stilled beneath him, trying to control her breathing and marshal her strength, but she was ever aware of the threat of rape so obvious against her body. She stared hard into his face, into eyes as blue as a fresh sky. She thought with a shock that he was handsome, that he must know and use such a gift on women.

He seemed to search her face intently, and she worried that he would rip the mask from her.

“Why have you chosen me?” he asked. “You already took so much—why come into my home and decorate my bedchamber with your emblems?”

Isabel gave him a cold stare. “Because you’re a convenient target.”

She watched a fire of anger light his eyes, yet nothing she said or did seemed to affect his arousal. It still pressed hard into her stomach, making her angry that men held such a threat over women.

“That’s all?” he asked hoarsely. His gaze dropped to her breasts, where they were pressed painfully beneath the expanse of his chest. She hoped he couldn’t feel her thundering heart.

His gaze moved back up to her face languidly, then seemed to linger on her lips. She compressed them into a tight line.

“You have caused me much grief,” he murmured. “I could take what you owe me.”

“And I would kill you.”

“It might be worth it,” he breathed, lowering his head until their lips were mere inches apart.

Isabel turned aside. A prickling began on the skin of her neck, as if she could almost feel the barest touch of his lips.

She suddenly brought her leg up hard between his. He gave a loud grunt, his head smacking into hers. She pulled free her fists and boxed his ears, pushing him to one side. Though bent with pain, still he reached for her. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her sword and headed for the window.

The pain was so intense, James wanted to curl up on the floor. His strength had momentarily deserted him. He expected her to leap over his body for the door, but she gracefully vaulted onto the window ledge and disappeared.

“Angel!” he shouted, unable to believe she could have so easily killed herself. He staggered to his feet and leaned out the window in stunned horror.

The inner ward was dark but for the occasional flickering torches of guards on duty. James expected to find the Black Angel in a broken heap on the ground, but instead saw the top of her head as she lowered herself down a rope. She looked up. For a moment they simply stared at each other, the mask a barrier between them. Then she broke the spell with a grim smile and continued toward the bottom.

Damn her, she knew he couldn’t cut the rope and deliberately kill her. James leaned out over the cold stone and grasped the rope. He tried to haul it back up, straining every muscle, but he suddenly fell back onto the floor as she dropped to the ground. With a groan, he got to his feet and threw open the door.

“Galway!” he shouted to his captain of the guards. “To arms! The Black Angel is in the ward below!”

Two soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs, one coming toward him, the other going below in a hurry. A door halfway down the corridor opened, and the two sisters leaned out, their mouths agape. They let out stifled screams on seeing James, and he realized he was still completely naked.

Sweeping into an elaborate bow, he said, “Ladies,” and retreated back to his room. He quickly donned a shirt and sleeveless leather jerkin, and pulled boots over his bare legs.

In the inner ward, he found Galway surrounded by milling troops. He was a fair-haired, burly man who usually fulfilled James’s confidence. But not tonight.

“Where is she?” James demanded, his breath a mist that hung in the cool autumn air.

The captain shrugged. “I’m not sure, milord. The gatehouse is closed, so she hasn’t fled.”

“Damn,” James said softly, his gaze darting across the stables and barracks and smithy. “Are the buildings being searched?”

“Just now, milord.”

They waited in silence, listening to the jingling of armed men, and the neighs of horses held saddled in readiness.

“There!” someone called in a hoarse voice. “On the battlements!”

Torchlight had ringed the high curtain wall as the search for the Black Angel went on. Now she stood looking down on them all, her black clothes and hair fading into darkness, her lower face a stark mask of triumph beneath the mask.

James raced inside the gatehouse tower and took the circling stairs two at a time. He came out on the battlements and found her perched on the curtain wall itself.

“Angel!” he shouted, but once again she bent and disappeared. Sure enough, a rope hung down to the ground and she descended it as ably as a black spider. He turned back to the inner ward and shouted, “She’s escaping! Open the gates and follow her!”

When he came out of the tower, Galway was waiting for him. “Milord, the gates are jammed shut.”

“Batter them open!”

“We tried, but she’s done a fair job of it.”

James sighed, realizing that once again she would elude him. “Wake the steward for the keys and unlock the rear gate. Horses can’t exit there, but a troop of soldiers can go clear the front gate.” He glared at the offending portal. “Blasted woman.”