Page 7 of The Knight Who Loved Me (Secrets and Vows #3)
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I sabel took two swift steps back and held the knife before her. It felt at home in her hand. Bolton tried to take it back, but she eluded him.
“Angel, this is foolish,” he said in a low voice.
His gaze moved beyond her and she knew he watched his people. She heard the horrified gasps, the angry murmurs, even the clink of metal against metal from the armed men. But none would be so foolish as to rush her when she could so easily harm their lord.
Bolton laughed harshly. “Do you think I want to marry you? You are the last woman I’d choose. It is clear you have no idea what it means to be a wife, to be the mistress of a castle. Maybe you can defend it, but that’s all.”
She lunged forward with the knife, but he easily dodged it.
“This matter has already gone beyond us,” he continued. “The priest is sent by the king, ready to see us married. Do you think I can disobey His Majesty? Do you think I want his anger?”
“Maybe that’s just what I want. You deserve it.”
“Fine, but when he takes all my lands, he’ll take all of yours, too. What a find for King Henry. He wins either way. He’ll enjoy giving what’s ours to some other panting courtier. Well I’m not ready to be a pauper. Although I hate the notion, I will marry you. After all, many marriages are as horrible as ours will be.” He looked at someone over her shoulder, his eyes narrowed. “Galway, stay back!”
Isabel backed toward the heat of the hearth, keeping both Bolton and Galway within sight. She couldn’t believe the amount of people in the hall, all looking at her with anger.
“Lady Isabel,” Bolton said softly, “the king has given me your lands, your money, and your people. If you leave now, where will you go?”
She took a deep breath, and the first feelings of inevitability swept over her. She had never thought she’d marry, and certainly not to a Bolton. Yet, much revenge might be wielded from within marriage vows. A broken betrothal had begun the feud—would a humiliating marriage avenge it? Was it worth sacrificing herself? she thought forlornly. Yet what else was left in her life? She had no family, no friends. She only knew how to hate.
James watched Isabel slowly straighten and lower the knife. She glared at him darkly, unbowed, and he did not think she had totally surrendered. He held out his hand and she placed the knife in it. Returning it to his belt, he allowed himself to really look at her. My God, what was he doing? She was nothing like the woman he’d always thought he’d marry—she had not the beauty or refinement, nor even the virginity he so prized. Her hair was a wild, frizzled mass of black curls, her face was smudged with dirt and paint. Her size was monstrous. And she was wearing the same bedraggled doublet.
“Why didn’t you change into the garments I sent?”
“I don’t wear gowns,” she said coldly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steel himself to patience. Not wear gowns? God’s teeth, she was a woman, and soon his wife. This would not be tolerated. But the mood of his people was not good, judging by the dark looks and buzz of conversation. He wasn’t sure how they’d react if Isabel revealed any more of her lovely personality.
“I will force myself to marry you,” she suddenly said, as if there’d been a doubt. “But only on one condition.”
James wanted to laugh, yet the cold pride in her face held him back. “And that is?”
“If there is a son, he will inherit my family title, not yours.”
His firstborn son, not the Earl of Bolton? He tensed, then almost shouted that she was in no position to make demands. Yet the king’s priest looked on in avid interest, ready to report back that James was not willingly obeying His Majesty’s requests.
“Have you no male relatives to inherit the title?”
“None.”
“And I’m supposed to beg the king to break his laws for our child.”
“If necessary. He’ll have to give the title to someone.”
The priest continued to watch.
“Agreed,” James finally said through gritted teeth. “You do have hips large enough to comfortably bear children.”
He caught her fist before it could strike his face, then pulled her up hard against his body. For her ears alone, he murmured, “Comfortable to lie between, too, I’ll wager.”
They stood face to face, for she was barely smaller than he was. Her eyes burned like black fire, and he thought she would spit at him. Instead she gave him a grim smile.
“We shall see. But first there is the matter of the document.”
James was beginning to lose track of their discussion. He noticed her waist felt decidedly narrower than he had thought, almost—graceful.
“What document?” he asked, trying to concentrate. He looked at her lips, which were too full by half.
“The priest will write down the agreement about our heir.”
Her eyes, so close to his, were narrowed, angry, but triumphant. The king was forcing them to marry—could she work even this to her advantage?
James released her suddenly and stepped away. “Very well.”
He brought the priest over, found parchment and a sharpened quill, and dictated the brief proclamation that practically gave their first child to her family. He didn’t believe his own words. But perhaps the priest did, for he made no comment as he wrote. After James satisfied Isabel by having two different people read the agreement back, he signed his name and handed her the quill. His stomach clenched as she made a bold X as her mark.
The ceremony before the chapel doors was brief and quiet, although the inner ward was so silent every strained word could be heard. James tried not to look at anyone, because any chance sympathy and compassion would only humiliate him further.
When the ceremony was over, he felt a heavy weight restricting his breathing. It was done. He was shackled until his death to a woman who wanted him dead, whose goal would be to make him miserable. He tried to imagine how his life had come to this, what he had done wrong, but he couldn’t. The last few years of his life had been spiraling out of control, starting with his brother Edmund’s death, and finally ending at rock bottom with marriage to a woman who despised him. Could he even call her a woman?
After Mass, they returned to the great hall. James thought he might as well give the king’s priest something good to take back to court, besides the tale of Bolton’s knife-wielding, thieving bride. He made a great show of seating the priest on the dais for supper, and was about to join him, when he remembered he had a wife.
Isabel didn’t know what to do next. She stood in a great hall full of people, but she might as well have been totally alone. They went out of their way to avoid her, to turn their faces away. But she was their mistress, married to a husband she could barely look at without wanting to kill.
Liar , she thought again.
The marriage ceremony was only a vivid memory now. She had felt nothing but despondency as she stood in the cold autumn wind and gave away her life to a Bolton. She knew he, too, had not wanted this marriage, but she couldn’t help blaming him. He was the one who had written to the king.
How did he treat a reluctant wife, who’d so recently tried to kill him? She knew how he had behaved to his betrothed—he’d forced himself on her. Isabel’s stomach clenched tight with apprehension.
She stood in the center of the great hall, where servants and soldiers gave her wide berth. Food was carried in on immense platters and the smell alone made her dizzy with hunger. But what was she supposed to do, how was she to behave? Was she still a prisoner, or the free mistress of the household?
Everyone in the hall was seated and enjoying their meal, laughing and talking with their neighbors. Isabel felt humiliated to be standing in their midst, welcomed nowhere. Thoughts of revenge returned to her heart and her trepidation eased. Steeling herself against everyone’s hatred, she sauntered to the dais and approached her new husband. She leaned over the table deliberately, until his gaze lifted to hers. Even the priest stopped eating.
Without a word, Isabel ripped a leg off the pheasant displayed so prettily on a tray. She saw Bolton’s eyes widen, then narrow in anger he could barely keep hidden. She tore a piece of meat off with her teeth and chewed it, trying not to let the ecstasy of the taste show on her face. She had never imagined anyone could cook meat like this.
When her new husband didn’t invite her to sit, the priest anxiously said, “Lady Bolton, why have you not joined us?”
She barely spared him a look. She took James’s tankard of ale and her pheasant leg, and sauntered to the nearest hearth. She sat down on the ground and proceeded to eat.
The meal lasted too long, and some of Isabel’s purpose was taken away when one of the maids timidly began to bring her a sample of each dish. The girl had red hair and soft brown eyes that actually seemed to look on in sympathy.
Isabel turned away. She didn’t want to care what anyone thought of her. It would only make it harder in the end when she had to repeatedly go against their lord.
What seemed like hours later, the servants began to clear away the tables and dismantle them. Isabel kept her back turned, legs pulled up to her chest with her head resting on her knees. She drowsed in the fire’s warmth, trying not to think what the rest of the evening would bring. Was it actually fright she felt, this hard ache that made her meal sit like a rock in her stomach? She didn’t think she’d ever experienced true fear before and she didn’t like it now. But soon she would have Bolton’s hands on her, and she guessed he could easily take his revenge on her body.
His kiss flamed to life in her mind, and though she tried to will it away, the memory brought a flare of heat into her stomach, and lower. What wicked evil had he worked on her senses to make that kiss seem so darkly exciting? Why couldn’t she forget the hot feel of his open mouth on hers, the thrust of his tongue that had made her shiver? His body had not been gentle as he held her against the wall, but she hadn’t wanted him to be. She’d wanted to know what it was like to be as other women, to feel desired by a hard, powerful man.
And now she’d married him. She must slow her beating heart, must make him think his touch merely bored her. He was arrogant enough to feel humiliated when his prowess produced no response.
Isabel heard the strumming of a lute, and a sudden burst of merry laughter. Slowly she turned and looked about her. Most people were gathered about the hearth at the opposite end of the hall, listening and talking as her new husband played the instrument. Servants moved about in the smoky torchlight. No one was even looking her way.
Freedom called to her from beyond the large double doors. She had no illusions that she could escape the inner ward itself without anyone seeing her, not as she had before. But to smell the air, to see the stars once more, she would give anything for that.
She rose to her feet and began to walk softly along the tapestried wall. No eyes turned towards her. Bolton’s head was bent over his instrument, and he did not look up. She had almost reached the door.
“It appears my wife is ready for her wedding-night bath.” Bolton’s voice was raised in authority, laced with cold mocking arrogance.
Isabel stiffened and slowly turned to face him. He stood up, the lute forgotten at his side. He was an imposing man, expensively attired, and he seemed to know he drew people’s eyes to him. A few titters were heard scattered through the crowd, but most of his people seemed too tense to laugh. Over their heads, Bolton’s gaze burned into her, through her.
And then it all hit her in a painful rush—that she was his property now, that he could take everything that was hers, beat her, and no one would stop him. Although it was senseless, this new feeling of fear welled up inside her and she ran.
For James, the sight of his bride bolting from him seemed to tear loose everything civilized inside him. He didn’t even remember the lute falling from his fingers. He was suddenly vaulting over a wench who sat adoring at his feet, and crossed the great hall in a few seconds. Before the first guard at the door could halt Isabel’s progress, James caught her from behind. She flailed against him, kicking, but not screaming like a hysterical woman. He wrapped both arms around her and squeezed, pinning her hands at her sides.
“Be still,” he hissed into her ear.
He heard the ragged gasp of her breathing, felt her squirm. A shudder moved through her as she stilled. For a moment, he wondered what it must feel like to be her, with enemies all about and nowhere left to go. A reluctant sense of compassion moved through him.
“Angel, this will not help,” he said softly, keeping his back to the room to shield her. “You cannot escape.”
“I was not trying to escape,” she whispered hoarsely. “I just wanted?—”
She broke off and was silent. James held her until her breathing slowed, trying not to think about her breasts rising and lowering against his arm.
“Can you walk upstairs calmly or must I drag you?”
“Release me,” she said coldly.
When he did, she turned away from him and began to walk toward the wide stone staircase at the back of the hall. Everyone was silent, watching her. She was a proud, remote figure, wearing men’s black garments, her head high, one fist on her hip as if she rested it upon a sword hilt.
James sighed. Would every night be like this? He could imagine himself living at court for the rest of his life, just to escape this tumult. But for now, his bride waited—his filthy bride, fresh from the dungeon.
As he followed her, he caught the gaze of the little red-headed maid and motioned toward the stairs. She’d surely realize he’d be needing linens. Another nod to the soldiers, and two followed behind him to guard outside the door. Mustn’t have the bride escape.
The Angel obviously knew her way about from her last escapade in his bedchamber. She waited inside, arms folded across her chest, looking out one of the glass-paned windows into the darkness. He closed the door behind him. A fire warmed the room, and lit candles were scattered everywhere, dispelling the gloom he so hated. His bed was turned down, but he didn’t dwell on that. It would soon be too hard to pretend he didn’t care that his wife had known other men. He leaned back against the door and just watched her with narrowed eyes, feeling his simmering anger begin to bubble again.
Slowly she turned and looked at him, uncrossing her arms as if ready to defend herself. Neither of them moved. A soft knock sounded, and James opened the door to find Annie, with red hair escaping a demure cap, carrying plenty of linens. She folded back a screen in the corner of the room to reveal a padded tub. She released the valves on the pipes and allowed in water that steamed.
Isabel tried to appear disinterested, but James saw her eyes widen as she stared at the water. Finally, she walked over and put a hand in, then pulled back in alarm.
The maid smiled. “We heated water for you earlier, my lady.”
Isabel looked at the pipes again. “But where?”
“There are two cisterns on the roof. One is to heat the water, one is for cold. Is it not a wonderful idea? Lord Bolton brought such knowledge back from London.”
James watched Isabel stiffen and finally look at him.
“I thought you would be taking me out to the river.”
He shook his head, forcing away a smile. “I like a small luxury now and again.”
She snorted her response, then said, “I won’t use this. It will burn me.”
“Nonsense. We can add as much cold water as you need.”
She stepped back. “I prefer the river. I’ll be able to move more freely.”
“And escape,” he responded. Obviously, she had never bathed in a tub, only outdoors. What kind of father allowed his only child to be raised such a way? “No, you will bathe in our room from now on.”
“But this is your bedchamber.”
“And now yours, too. Do you think I’m going to wonder what you’re doing all hours of the night?”
He saw the little maid blush and lower her head.
“Annie, help her ladyship disrobe and bathe. I’ll be back in a short while.”
James closed the door before Isabel could protest. He strode past the guards and was about to go downstairs, when he halted. He suddenly imagined how everyone would look at him if he walked back into the great hall. Their expressions would run the gamut from lusty leers to pity. He suddenly didn’t want to see anyone else on this wretched day. He walked back toward his bedchamber and leaned against the wall, shrugging at the looks from his two men.
Isabel’s voice, strong like the rest of her, carried through the wooden door quite easily—a good thing to know. He motioned the guards to wait farther down the hall. Annie, the maidservant, was harder to make out. They were obviously in a disagreement about the Black Angel’s choice of clothing.
“I will remove it myself,” Isabel said.
“My lady, I just wish to have them…laundered for you.”
“Ha! I am sure he plans to have my garments burned. If you must clean them, do it here.”
“I don’t think his lordship wishes me to remain, my lady. After all, ’tis your wedding night.”
He only heard a grunt from Isabel. He wanted to respond in kind. Some wedding night, he thought morosely.
There was more general conversation as Isabel removed her clothes. James was partially successful in keeping a nude Black Angel from his thoughts. He was still trying to nurse his bitterness at being manipulated.
“Leave!” he suddenly heard Isabel command. He recognized the tone of her voice. She was probably looking for her sword hilt again.
“But, my lady, I swear to you?—”
“I will not allow this torture!”
He gritted his teeth and threw the door wide. He came to a halt, feeling as if someone punched him in the stomach. Isabel stood beside the tub, wearing nothing but a thin linen cloth wrapped around her body. Where the towel met, a slit revealed the side of her from thigh to waist. Her hair was a wild mass about her shoulders. She looked part savage, part woman—and she was trying to dunk the maid.