Page 5 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)

5

A s dawn lightened the forest and a soft rain began to fall, James trudged beside the Black Angel, holding her elbow tightly. She was exhausted, he could tell, but held herself proudly. Their swordfight had drained even him.

He found himself admiring her, regardless of the stolen money. She’d given up a normal life for her revenge—if only he knew what it was he had done.

He halted their little band at the edge of the forest and stared up at the castle, its towers pointing to the overcast sky. It would soon be over. He had captured the thieves, proving he could best a woman. He looked down into her face. The victory felt hollow. Dark smudges rimmed her eyes below the paint, and across one cheek there was a smear of blood that ran in the rain. But she did not look defeated. She met his gaze with a calm serenity he found unnerving.

What would his people think, when he and his prisoners trooped into the castle this disheveled? Did it look like he had physically beaten a woman? He stepped in front of her and put both hands on her face. She stiffened, her eyes wide.

“Peace,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He tilted her head, looking at her cheek. The wound was only a scratch. She stood frozen as he wiped it gently with his fingers. Wiggins offered a wet rag.

“My lord?” the soldier said.

Wordlessly James took it, not even bothering to wonder any more how Wiggins always managed to anticipate his needs. He wiped as much dirt from the Angel’s face as possible. When he was finished, he didn’t let her go immediately. He searched her mysterious eyes, then glanced at her lips. The urge to kiss her was powerful, overwhelming, primitive. How many of her lovers had succumbed? He stepped away before he could act on such foolishness. His men-at-arms all discreetly managed to be looking elsewhere.

The castle gates were already open, and villagers streamed into the inner ward on their daily business. But all commotion ceased when James and his unusual companions approached the gatehouse. Smiles died, replaced by sullen stares and curious whispers. James felt a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades. He held the Angel’s elbow tighter in his grip, wondering how she felt.

She held her head erect, her face proud. She had high, regal cheekbones, and the dark complexion of one who spent most of her life outdoors. The mystery of her ate at his insides. She carried herself like the nobility, not a village wench. Who was she? Did the humiliation of her capture not touch her? Never before had he met someone who seemed to care so little about what others thought.

They walked beneath the dark tunnel of the gatehouse and entered the inner ward. Word of their arrival must have already spread, because it seemed as if every resident of the castle stood silent and watchful in the rain. The blacksmith’s hammer was still and the dogs didn’t bark. Even his three men-at-arms must have felt something odd, because they closed in around James and the prisoners.

But the Angel did not cower or look fearful. She strode beside him boldly, her steps matching his. A low hiss swept the crowd and someone booed. My God, he had never thought his people were upset that he had been humiliated. He felt strangely grateful. Maybe his little corner of the world wouldn’t change much after all.

Someone tossed a rotten turnip, and it hit the boy in the chest and dropped to his feet.

James stepped forward, thrusting the Angel into Wiggins’s hands. “That is enough!” he shouted. “This woman is my prisoner, and she will be treated fairly. Go back to your work.”

His people began to move, sending dark looks over their shoulders at the Black Angel, but the grumbling had ceased. James again took her elbow. She gazed straight ahead.

~oOo~

The trap door over Isabel’s head closed with a loud thump, and she was alone in the dungeon. Daylight stole through an arrow loop in one rock wall, for which she was grateful. Bolton Castle’s dungeon had been cut out of the rock cliff overlooking the river, and could only be entered by being lowered on a rope in one of the corner towers. William was in the next dungeon, separated from her by roughly carved walls.

She peered out the slim window, watching the swift flowing river and the expanse of sheep-dotted countryside, but nothing could keep her mind from dark thoughts. Once as a child, she’d been trapped for two days in her father’s dungeon, and by the time anyone had bothered to look for her, her throat had been raw from screams of terror. She’d had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and she’d almost died. Sometimes, in her dreams, she relived the feeling of being swallowed by blackness.

Now she desperately tried to memorize the countryside, so she could picture it tonight when darkness crushed her. If only Bolton had known how well he’d chosen when he’d confined her here. How long would she last? How long before the darkness and the pressure of the rock walls proved too much for her? She had to be strong. She was a grown woman now, not a little girl. Bolton would not abandon her here—he needed her information, although of course she wouldn’t give it to him. She’d go to her grave first. But why wasn’t he questioning her? Why had he defended her to his own people?

Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw his face, inches from hers, eyes wide and a deep, vivid blue. His lips had been thin, yet formed well, ripe for an amusing smile. He had held her firmly, but never hurt her, not even when she lay beneath him. She had not been able to still her heart, to bury the excitement his body had sinfully brought to her. Why had her flesh heated with the touch of his naked skin? Why did the thought of his erection, pressed hard against her hips, bring warm awareness low in her stomach? She must be a wanton, to have such a man, now her captor, linger in her memories.

Isabel knelt on the rickety pallet, leaned against the slitted window, and tried to pretend she was outside. When her dinner was lowered down in a bucket, she ate the bread and water voraciously. Still Bolton did not come.

Daylight faded, and she wished she could crawl into the window to be closer to the outdoors. Her supper arrived and she ate it. Still Bolton did not come. What did he plan?

Darkness settled in and she felt buried in a rock tomb. She sat on the pallet, knees drawn up to her chest, the open arrow loop above her. The breeze was cold, but it was the only thing she had of the outdoors. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried not to imagine the spiders hanging over her, the rats creeping to her pallet. Could they climb up? When she’d been trapped as a child, she’d become too disoriented to fend off the rats.

She decided to remain awake. She hadn’t slept much the night before, but she’d been fed decently enough today. Her strength should hold out. She got up to pace.

When the slitted window began to show dawn’s gray light, Isabel watched it with dull exhaustion. She had survived the night. She refused to think about the following night and what she would do to stay awake. Would Bolton come today to question her? She amused herself by imagining all the ways she could torment him.

No food came to break her fast. She paced beneath the trap door. Should she remind them that she was here? No, she thought, clasping her hands behind her back and counting out for the hundredth time the length of the floor. When the trap door finally opened, the rope was dropped in without a bucket.

“Angel?”

It was Bolton’s voice, sounding pleasantly refreshed. She gritted her teeth and refused to answer him.

“Would you care to come up and eat with me?”

She considered rejecting his invitation—after all, he only meant to pester her with questions she’d refuse to answer. But then her stomach growled. She stepped into the loop at the end of the rope and held on while they pulled her up.

Isabel squinted her eyes against the sun streaming in the open door. A small table was placed to one side of the tower with two chairs facing each other. Bolton occupied one. He was immaculately clean and she was layered in the grime of the dungeon. She had used some of her drinking water to wash the paint from her face, but that had probably smeared the dirt in streaks.

Bolton waved away the guards, who immediately left them alone. Isabel looked at the other trap door.

“Your partner has already been fed,” Bolton said. “Please join me—I’m famished.”

She took a step nearer. The table was covered with an ivory-colored linen tablecloth and set with fine plates and silver drinking cups. Bowls of soft cheese and butter rested next to platters of the whitest bread she had ever seen. Slices of apples and pears, coated in sugar, decorated her plate. Her mouth watered, and she tried not to appear starving. But she sat down. If this was Bolton’s torture, it would be hard to resist.

She looked at him closely. He was dressed in a fine blue doublet, with a white shirt showing in the slits along his sleeves. He was the very picture of an elegant nobleman, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He began to spread cheese on his piece of bread. She despised him.

“Are you not hungry?” he asked with polite consideration.

Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With dirty hands that shook, she spread butter on her bread and began to eat.

“You look tired today, Angel,” he said.

She knew he watched her intently. She wanted to remain silent, but found herself saying, “I assure you I am not. My quarters were quite comfortable.”

He gave her a slow grin. His teeth were a brilliant white in his tan, lean face. He oozed charm and civility. Why was he so easy to look at? She could almost understand why a woman would be flattered by his attention.

“Angel, you fascinate me. Won’t you tell me your name?”

She merely continued to eat, trying not to shove it into her mouth too quickly.

Bolton sighed. “I must say, I am disappointed. You hold a grudge against me, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. Have I?”

Next she tried the cheese, which was so soft it melted on her tongue. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

“Shall I talk to your young partner about your identity?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling her heart pick up speed. He had stopped eating to study her. Would he harm a mere boy? Had he already?

“I would hate for anything to happen to him,” Bolton continued.

“He knows nothing,” she said coldly. “I found him wandering the roads. I fed and housed him, so he agreed to help me.”

“That is a nice story, Angel, but I may have to put it to the test. He seems too loyal. Are you finished?”

She wasn’t, and couldn’t resist a longing glance at the food.

“You go ahead and eat. My men are outside the door, so call them if you need anything. I’ll just go visit your partner.” Bolton stood.

Isabel rose to her feet. Her hand went to her belt, until she remembered she didn’t have a sword at her hip.

Before she could grab an eating knife from the table, he stepped forward until there was barely a hand span between them. She hated having to look up into his face, when men usually had to gape up at her. She returned his gaze boldly.

“Angel, do you wish to answer my questions?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

“The boy knows nothing,” she repeated.

Bolton sighed and went to William’s trap door. He threw it open, and called, “Boy, I need to know your lady’s identity. Think on your answer as I come down. I don’t want to hurt her.”

Isabel came up behind him. He must have suspected her intentions, for he turned and caught her around the waist, shoving her against the stone wall with his body. He stared at her mouth and she couldn’t look away.

In the tense silence, William’s voice drifted up from the open hole. “Bolton?”

Isabel felt trapped by his eyes, now storm blue with intensity. Her breasts ached against his chest, her legs trembled where they twined with his. She must be beyond exhaustion, because it took a moment before she remembered to struggle. She brought her hands up and pushed at his shoulders.

“Let go of me.”

She couldn’t move him. His gaze dropped to her breasts and she felt his grip tighten on her ribcage. He leaned harder against her.

“Release me!” she cried, her voice rising higher.

William called out, “Angel, what is happening? Has he harmed you?”

Before she could answer, Bolton covered her mouth with his. His lips were hot and hard against hers. She was so shocked she didn’t know what to do, how to react. He turned his head and molded his mouth to hers. Something terribly, darkly exciting burst to life within her chest at the feel of him along her entire body. She was vividly aware of the thrust of his hips against hers, and how much she longed to rub back against him. She was horrified, appalled at her wanton behavior. With a wild cry she twisted her head away.

Bolton clasped her face between his hard hands and tilted her head. From somewhere far away, she heard William scream her name. Then Bolton’s mouth caught hers again, and he parted her lips with his tongue. He pushed deep inside her mouth and she should have gagged, but the more he stroked her tongue with his, the more she wanted to respond, to wind her arms about his body, to push him back against the wall. She heard herself whimper as she fought the urge to kiss him back.

“Don’t hurt her!” William screamed. “I will tell you anything you want! Why isn’t she answering? Is she dead? God’s precious blood, please!”

Bolton stepped back so quickly Isabel almost fell. Through wide, shocked eyes she watched him struggle for breath. Then he slowly wiped his mouth and turned away.

“Boy, there’s still time,” he said hoarsely. “Who is she?”

“No!” she shouted.

She heard William sob. “She’s Lady Isabel Atherstone, daughter of the late Earl of Mansfield. Please don’t kill her.”