A Knight's Vow (20 page)

Isabel leaned her arm against the mantel as a wave of despair washed through her. She wondered if she could feel any more alone or hated. She had

never imagined how tiring it was to be bad all the time, to be the object of so much scorn. She'd been living with it for weeks now, but it suddenly seemed as thick as black smoke in the great hall. Her throat tightened, breathing became painful, and something was stinging her eyes. She had to escape.

Moving along the outskirts of the crowd was difficult, and at one point she found herself backed into a corner. She stumbled and put her hand out to brace herself, only to encounter the hilt of a sword, propped against the wall. Isabel didn't even hesitate. She clutched the scabbard against her thigh to keep it hidden, and turned into a dark corridor.

The sounds of music and laughter faded behind her, muffled by thick stone. The hiss of torchlight and her breathing were all she heard, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

It slowly began to dawn on James that everyone in the great hall was too happy. People had begun to dance. Isabel must be gone.

Before he could even formulate a plan, he heard one of his knights saying to another, "But I put my sword right here."

James felt a chill of foreboding. He ducked down a side hall to the next staircase, only to find his bedchamber empty. He grabbed his sword, leaving

the scabbard behind. He ran out a side entrance to the castle and skidded to a halt.

James found his wife almost immediately. She was alone in the tiltyard, ringed by newly lit torches. Dressed in black, with her black curls wild down her back, she looked like the phantom of some dark dream. She swung a sword in powerful arcs, ducking and turning and weaving as if her imaginary opponent had great skill. Her breath was puffs of mist in the cold night. She looked skilled and competent, able to take care of herself. James couldn't help but admire her. And when had he ever admired a woman but for beauty?

She suddenly turned and ran straight at James, bringing down her sword. He had no choice but to raise his weapon and parry hers aside.

There was a sudden shout from the battlements above. "Who goes there?"

"Lord Bolton!" James yelled. "Go back to your duties."

Isabel crouched to face him, holding her sword ready. James felt a sudden exhilaration, but he tried to hide it.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Isn't it enough that you ruined the evening for everyone? Now you must go against my orders, too?"

"You think I wanted to be with all those hypocrites? You keep me on display as if I'm your pet heiress. Well, I can still do tricks."

She came at him again, thrusting straight for his chest. James blocked her and they spun apart.

"Angel, are you trying to kill me? Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"If I'd have wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

Her casual disregard of everything she'd put him through this night roused his anger like nothing else could. She'd humiliated him, treated his friends and his sister abominably. Before he even realized what he was doing, he swung a hard blow. With a sharp crack of metal on metal, she met his sword with her own, then ducked away.

James grimaced and chased her. He knew this was childish, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He followed her out of the tiltyard, away from the torches. She slid deeper into the shadows, ducked around the stables, then slashed at him as he followed.

With a curse, James stumbled against the wall. He grabbed for a handful of her clothing, then heard a rip as she escaped.

He followed her towards the front of the inner ward, and this time she was forced to turn and meet his sword or be caught from behind. They fought

their way towards the gatehouse, ducking around the decorative trees he already regretted planting. Isabel never seemed to get tired. Her sword caught the skirt of his tunic and ripped it to his hose. He thought he saw her grin, and he wanted to grin in return. Damn, but this was fun.

With hard slashes he drove her back towards the casde, until she was pinned against the wall just beneath the entrance to the great hall. With his sword, he neatly cut the laces of her shirt, and the neckline sagged. Isabel looked down, distracted, and with a twist of his wrist, he sent her weapon skittering across the ground.

James pinned her to the wall and smiled. "My, my, Angel, you lose."

Her eyes glittered with triumph. "I was only practicing in the tiltyard. I'm not the one who lost control like a madman."

"Madman?" he echoed with a sharp laugh. Then he caught sight of her bare shoulder and the beginning swell of her breasts. Her skin shone like the moon against the shadows of her black hair and dark mysterious eyes. She looked like a goddess from another world, exotic, unreachable, seductive. His purposes changed with shocking intensity as the heat of desire blazed through him. Gazing deeply into her eyes, he pulled the neckline until it hung from her smooth shoulders and sagged below her breasts.

Her eyes widened and her breathing quickened. But she didn't fight him. Her searching gaze swept his face and dropped to his lips. With a groan, James ran his hands up her arms, then pressed her shoulders back against the wall. He looked deep into her eyes, then bent and took her nipple into his mouth. Isabel cried out, but he knew it wasn't with fear. She trembled and whimpered as he made love to her breasts as he wanted to do to her whole body.

He forgot where he was, forgot who he was. There was only Isabel and the dark passion that bound them together. He lifted his head and kissed her, then groaned when her tongue swept his mouth. His body roared with an urgent desire as his hands skimmed over her clothing and up beneath her tunic.

She lifted her leg, rubbing her foot along his calf. James caught her knee and lifted it higher, pressing between her thighs. The spell that was Isabel wove through his mind, filled his senses, quelling the memories of every other woman he'd known. He was lost in her hot mouth, lost in the possibilities of pushing her garments aside and—

Above them, they heard a woman's choked scream, and Margery yelling, "James!"

Chapter 19

James straightened and pressed his whole body against Isabel. She pushed hard against his chest and tried to kick him.

"Be still!" he ordered. "Unless you want all of our guests to see everything God endowed you with."

Isabel cursed under her breath, but she did stop fighting. He leaned over her as much as possible, while their hands tried to gather the edges of her shirt. She felt wonderfully soft and very feminine. If only there wasn't an audience—

"James!" Margery yelled again. "What are you doing?"

"Sword fighting!"

"With your wifeT

"I thought you said you heard all the rumors." While Isabel held the shirt up, James tried to tie the ragged neckline together.

"Are you finished?" Isabel hissed.

"I can't see what I'm doing, you know. Be still." After a moment, he stepped back. The garment sagged dangerously, and he saw a glimmer of her collarbone. "Do not make any elaborate movements."

Glaring at him, Isabel pushed him aside and picked up her sword, keeping her other hand at her neckline.

"I don't think that sword is yours," he said, looking warily up towards at least ten people on the stairs, all craning their necks to see what was going on.

She glanced over her shoulder as he followed her. "I had every intention of replacing it. Perhaps if you gave me back my own—"

"Not now, Isabel," he said.

James followed his wife up the stairs. His guests stumbled back into the great hall as a group, their expressions ranging from horror, to shock, to amusement. He couldn't blame them. Isabel was disheveled but proud as she placed the sword on a table. She swept the murmuring crowd with a cool, haughty gaze. James winced as a seam gave at her

shoulder and he caught a glimpse of skin. Then she marched upstairs and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Every face turned to stare at him, and James grinned. "Is there a problem?"

Avery blew out a breath and shook his head. "I think Sarah and I will retire for the night. I've had more.. .entertainment than I can take. By the way, your tunic is ripped in a revealing place."

James glanced down his body and remembered Isabel's sword slashing through his garment just above his thighs. Good God. He clenched his jaw, but gave a gracious half-bow. Sarah's face was blotched with color, and she was fanning herself weakly as she was led away, trailed by her flock of ladies.

Curious servants began to clean up the evening's festivities. James ignored them and sat down before the fire, wincing from an ache in his side. He hoped Margery would go so he could sulk in peace, but she stood right next to him.

"James, would you escort me to my bedchamber?"

He sighed. "Did you forget the way?"

"I would like to speak with you in private."

"Margery—"

"James!"

He stood up and bowed as he presented his arm.

"Oh stop that!" she said crossly, heading for the stairs.

Isabel hid in the shadows of a corridor outside Margery's bedchamber. She pressed her back against the stone wall and prayed no one would come her way. She knew she shouldn't care what her husband and his sister said to each other, but she had to know where she stood in the game she and Bolton played. Tonight he had been angry, but unable to stop himself from—touching her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force from her mind the sensations of his tongue licking her breast.

If she barely breathed, she could just hear the murmur of their voices through the door. Thank goodness her husband wasn't a quiet man.

James slouched in a chair before the hearth and stretched out his legs. He heard his sister sit down beside him.

"James?" Margery said tentatively.

"Hmm?" He didn't take his eyes off the fire.

"For someone just fighting his wife with a sword, you didn't seem to hate it. In fact, you looked as if you were taking her clothes off one piece at a time."

James gave his virginal sister a shocked look. "Margery!"

Her cheeks blushed red, but she still gazed grimly at him.

He finally shrugged. "She may look like a man in those clothes, and inspire me to great heights of anger, but once I see what's underneath, I can't help but remember she's a woman."

Margery winced and closed her eyes. "Oh, James."

"Forgive me, sweetheart, but you asked."

"You're bleeding."

"Where?" he said, examining his hands and legs. There was a tiny cut across one thigh. "She has good aim."

"But James, your wife tried to stab you...thereV

"What's a little bloodletting between married people?" he asked, giving her a rakish grin.

"You are not fooling me, James Markham. What is going on? I hear rumors you've married some wild woman, and I think they can't possibly be true. But when I arrive, you're trying to kill each other!"

"She wasn't trying to kill me, just to work out some frustration."

"Why should she be frustrated? She's married to you, she's wealthy—" "She's miserable. She's doing her best to humiliate me in every way she can."

"Why?" Margery asked in confusion.

James sighed. "Revenge."

"Revenge? Is that why she robbed you?"

"Well, she hardly needed the money—although I don't think she yet realizes what a grand heiress she truly is." He explained the feud between their two families, and the obsession of the Earl of Mansfield.

Margery gaped at him. "I cannot believe that man raised his daughter to kill you."

"She was his only child. I don't think she ever had a friend, besides the knights and squires she trained with. I'm fostering the squire who helped her attack me."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"No, he has nothing against me. He was only loyally trying to help his mistress. And I didn't want to separate them. I have a hard enough time imagining how she grew up, let alone depriving her of her only friend in the world."

"But James, how do you sleep at night? Don't you worry she'll harm you in some way? When I talked to her earlier, she was very upset."

"Upset? What did she say?"

Margery shook her head. "The words aren't as important as the fact that she is miserably unhappy. I—I feel sorry for her."

"You don't feel sorry for me?" he said teasingly.

She didn't smile. "James, you have to talk to her, to come to some compromise."

His good humor faded. "Margery, do not interfere. You know nothing about what's going on in my marriage."

"I want to know," she said softly. "I want to help. You're both so unhappy."

"Listen to you, the expert on marriage," he said, forcing a light tone. "Does this mean you're ready to discuss a betrothal?"

She put up her hands. "You're changing the subject."

"People think I'm a fool to give you so much say in your future. There have certainly been enough marriageable men asking my permission to court you." He suddenly paused. "Margery, is there a chance that my ...unusual marriage will interfere with your prospects?"

She hesitated, and that was enough for James. He swore softly.

Isabel heard footsteps coming down the corridor. She waited as long as she could, praying whoever it was would turn away. But the footsteps became louder, and someone started whistling. She fled down the hall towards her bedchamber, almost glad she couldn't hear anything worse.

Margery sighed and looked into the fire. "James, you're wrong. What man would care who my brother was married to?"

"You're naive, sweetheart. Many people care."

"She's the heiress to Mansfield! And she's a misguided, confused girl—"

"Girl! You make it sound as if I married a child. And as for confused—"

"James, imagine what she must feel like in a strange place, with no one to turn to except a husband who either ridicules her or fights her."

"But I didn't—"

"You need to be more patient with her. 'Tis obvious you feel some attraction."

"You don't build a marriage on 'attraction,' Margery. Maybe you need to start considering more men as potential husbands so you'll learn this."