A Knight's Vow (22 page)

don't need elegant—at least not immediately. But I need it to be livable." Deep inside, he couldn't help feeling appalled that she was forced to live this way. He didn't like feeling sympathy for her.

She broke his hold and glared her anger at him. "I am not so vain as you. I only need a bed."

"At times a bed is all I need, too," he said, deliberately raking her body with his gaze. He picked up the only personal item he could find. "But look at this brush. I wouldn't use it on my horse!"

She yanked the brush from his hand. "This was my mother's!"

"Then forgive me! Keep it as a memento, but I can buy you whatever you need."

"I don't need anything from you. In fact, this is my bedchamber, and I want you to leave."

James gave a mirthless laugh. "Not without you. Surely there is a grander bedchamber than this. Didn't your father have guests?"

"No."

"I do not believe you. Let's look."

Isabel turned her back, and in one swoop, he lifted her into his arms.

With a groan, he said, "I must be feeding you too well. Hold still!"

All the way down the corridor, Isabel tried to escape him. James flung open door after door,

apologizing to those he disturbed, leaving a trail of shocked and sleepy people.

He finally found a bedchamber with an actual four-poster bed, two shuttered windows, and some threadbare tapestries on the wall. He dropped Isabel on her feet. She staggered back against the bed.

"I do not care whose chamber this is," James said," 'tis ours now. Isabel, shake out the blankets. Let us pray for no bugs."

But when he tried to start a fire, the smoke poured back into the room from a clogged chimney, mixing with the dust Isabel shook from the bed. He threw open both the shutters.

"We shall deal with all this in the morning," James said. He started to remove his clothing.

Isabel felt her eyes widening, and thought desperately that now was the moment to make him take her, to make him feel indebted and needy, and her the powerful one. She suddenly thought of Sarah Cabot, and how Bolton had flirted with her. Isabel felt like a failure as a woman.. .and as a wife. The only time she could even tempt her husband was when she was naked. Not, of course, that she wanted to tempt him for any other reason than to throw his weaknesses back in his face.

Her husband stripped off all his clothes, his back partially turned. The muscles across his shoulders

rippled with movement, and only a small scar lower on his side marred the perfection of his skin. He climbed into bed, and didn't even try to touch her. Isabel sighed in defeat.

She removed her travel-stained tunic and hose, leaving on her shirt. She found an extra blanket in a mildewy chest and wrapped it around her shoulders. But there was no warm fire, no carpet. She could see the mist of her breath.

She heard Bolton's low voice. "This bed is large enough for three people, Isabel. Come be warm this night."

The strangest flutter shot through her stomach as she looked at him. He lay bare-chested, propped up on cushions, lit with pale light by a candle. She felt torn inside. She wanted to refuse just because he was her enemy, and she wanted to acquiesce to let her enemy seduce her.

She dropped the blanket, and climbed up into the high bed beside him. He had pulled back the coverlet, and she slid into the softness. It was warm, it was heaven—and Bolton was naked beside her.

Isabel pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Though he wore a small smile, he didn't make a move to touch her. He blew out the candle and lay back. She was strangely disappointed. What was the matter with her?

Isabel came slowly to consciousness, feeling as warm as a summer day. Her face was pressed against something hard and smooth. It took her a bewildered moment to realize she lay on her side, curled against her husband's back.

Stunned, she struggled to control her breathing. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, trapped beneath the heaviness of his arm. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized that her hand rested low against his stomach, and she could feel curls of hair against her fingertips. If she moved, she would awaken him, and be accused of deliberately asking for his favors.

Isabel's hand began to tremble and she willed it to cease. She could feel the slightly rough skin of his legs along the length of hers. Her shirt had twisted, and her bare hips were flush against his. She suddenly wondered if this was how a husband and wife awoke each morning, safe, protected by each other. She sensed that he was the one man who could make her feel protected. She had a wild impulse to touch him as he had touched her, to see if he, too, felt the pleasure she did. Yet that would be giving into temptation first, losing control. And he would never let her forget it.

She couldn't bear it any longer, and slowly began to ease her hand away from his stomach. Bolton suddenly gripped her arm with his elbow.

"Going somewhere?" His whisper was wicked, amused.

Isabel flushed even hotter. "Release me." To her horror, her voice came out as a squeak.

"But this is so pleasant. It brings to mind our night spent under the stars. Do you remember?"

"No."

"Hmmm."

He rubbed his hips back against hers and she flinched.

"Does that not feel good, Angel?"

She closed her eyes, reminding herself over and over to lie still, to submit. He would give in first and show his need of her. But her cheek was pressed to the warm flesh of his back, and with very little movement, she could turn her head and touch him with her lips. It was suddenly overwhelming and frightening, how much she wanted to touch him.

But she wouldn't. Isabel gritted her teeth, barely breathed, and waited.

"If you hold your breath deeper," he murmured, "I'll be better able to feel the shape of your breasts."

She exhaled in a gasp and yanked her arm away, rolling to her side of the bed. Listening to Bolton

chuckle, she fled the blankets, and yanked down her shirt.

"Pity, that," he said. "I think you should sleep naked from now on."

She glared at him over her shoulder as she pulled on her tunic and hose. Of course he wanted her to sleep naked, so he could accuse her of desiring him.

"I'll have a gown brought to you."

"I am too famished to wait."

But before she could open the door, Bolton was there, bracing both hands against the wood on either side of her. She kept her back turned, breathing rapidly, feeling him on either side of her, all around.

"Isabel, look at me."

His voice was low, rumbling through her in a way that always made her shiver. She didn't understand the feeling, but it drew her on. She found herself obeying, turning until her back was against the door, his arms braced near her shoulders. She stared directly at his chin.

"Look up, Angel."

She slowly raised her gaze, past his well-formed lips, his narrow nose, into his brilliant blue eyes. Their color was vivid and shocking as he studied her face. In the cold room, he was the only source of heat, and she felt suffused with it.

"We cannot keep going on like this," he said.

Her stomach twisted with sudden anxiety. He would send her away, now that he had all her lands and money. Once it had seemed appealing, now she was not so sure.

"Isabel, we are married. I am entitled to certain rights, which I have not claimed as of yet."

She suddenly understood. She took a deep breath and once again boldly met his gaze. "I have not stopped you."

He half-groaned, half-laughed, and began to play with a strand of her hair where it lay across her breast. The back of his hand slowly rubbed against her nipple. Her thoughts were fleeing her mind until only sensation was left. She wanted to lean into him, to feel more of this aching, painful pleasure that shot deep into her stomach, between her thighs. Instead she pressed her palms flat against the door behind her.

His lips just above hers, he whispered, "Every time I touch you, you stiffen as if I'm a demon. Afraid?"

"I was never afraid," she answered. He taunted her, she knew. But his nearness, his breath, the back of his hand endlessly rubbing, all combined to seduce her, to woo away her instinctive fears. My God, she was such a fool. Let him bed her, get it over with. But what if, once again, she wasn't like

other women? She didn't even know what to do with a man. He would ridicule her—or pity her, which was even worse.

"You were afraid," he murmured, lightly kissing her cheek, "I could see it in your eyes whenever I touched you. I want to touch you now."

Isabel should feel triumphant. She was winning, he was demanding the physical intimacy he felt his due. Instead she wanted to melt at his feet, to lean into his embrace, and beg him to hold her.

A knock shook the door behind her.

"Lord Bolton, are ye in there?"

Bolton lifted his head but didn't release her. "Galway, go away."

"Sir Roger is awaiting you in the great hall. He has all the Mansfield records ready."

Isabel didn't try to move. She studied Bolton's face, saw the muscles in his jaw clench. He finally pushed away from the door, and her. She had been so close to getting him to admit his need. But it was Aerbody that seemed empty and alone without his touch.

"This discussion is far from over, Isabel."

His warning hastened her flustered retreat from the room.

Isabel spent most of the day with Bolton, conversing with her steward about the scope of her father's estates. At first Bolton hadn't wanted her there, but it was her inheritance, her life. Even Sir Roger agreed she should stay. But shock slowly seeped through her at the enormity of lands and manors and castles that were now Bolton's dowry. His second dowry.

But that was inconsequential compared to the sick feeling that grew inside her stomach. Her father had been a wealthy man, but had lived like a pauper. Isabel had less luxuries than a yeoman on Bolton's estate. Her own people, thin, starving, whom she thought would look on Bolton as the enemy, today treated him as a savior. And she could not blame them. She had seen how even the poorest of his people lived, how he provided whatever they needed.

Isabel had known he needed money, that his first dowry meant much to him. She had thought he spent it all on himself, his clothes, his travels, his luxuries. But that had been another lie she had believed with gullibility. The people on Bolton estates lived well. It was her people who were starving and mistreated.

The parchments spread out on the table were gibberish to her unschooled eyes. Bolton perused

them with an intelligence she grudgingly admired. He was an educated man. For a moment, she had an inkling of how he must feel being married to her.

She knew in that moment a cold truth. She couldn't have helped her own people without Bolton. She was too ignorant about learning, too different for anyone to ever look at her like the lady of the castle. There was no use in even trying to learn how to be a real woman. Her failure at attracting her husband was proof of that. There was an ache in her chest that would never go away.

That night, more people gathered in the great hall than she had ever imagined lived so near. She knew it was not to see herself, but her husband, resplendent in his court garments. Yet they greeted her with warmth, the women curtsied, the men knelt with bowed heads. She became caught up in the magic of hundreds of candles gleaming on silver table settings, the clean smell of the rushes, new tapestries from Bolton's own looms keeping the warmth in the hall.

The cellars were thrown open, and the feast was beyond what she had ever seen. Tray upon tray were carried on the shoulders of servants, bearing roasted pigs, and large pies made of capons and

hens. She saw grown men wipe away tears of gratitude at the abundance. Isabel's throat was tight and her eyes stung. She realized she had to get away before Bolton saw her foolish sentimentality. His back was turned as he laughed with Sir Roger, her steward.

She piled a few morsels on a silver plate and crept from the hall. No one noticed her leaving amid the celebration.

Isabel retrieved a torch from one of the guards, and went out into the night. The wind caught her, swirled around her, and she shivered. But she had no time for her cloak. She walked to the simple graves of her parents, in a remote corner of the outer curtain wall. She shoved the torch into the packed earth and sat down to eat her meal.

The night was silent, except for the occasional shouts of the men above her as they patrolled the batdements. Well, at least that was one thing she could say for her father—his soldiers were well armed and well trained.

But children in the village starved. Anger and outrage rushed through Isabel, and she threw her plate down on her father's grave.

"Did you lie to me about everything?" she cried.

A great hoarse sob tore from Isabel's chest and she buried her face in her hands. She cried until her eyes burned, until her chest ached. The torchlight flickered over the bare mounds of earth and threw eerie shadows on the stone wall. Her crying subsided into trembling, into finally a tired stillness. She sat with her legs bent against her chest, her arms wrapped about them for warmth.

Her father could not have been so deliberately cruel. Maybe he knew not how to care for his people.

She looked at the other grave, wishing she could remember more of her mother than a tired, sad shadow of a woman. Would things have been different had her mother lived?

"Mother," she said awkwardly, looking up into the night, "what should I do? My revenge is a hollow thing now, and I know not what my life should be. I am such a failure."

But there was no answer, only the never-ending loneliness that haunted her soul.

James began to realize something was not right after the third song he'd been asked to sing. He bowed to the applause, and jested with the knights who'd begun to speak to him with less wariness. Yet something nagged at him.

And then he noticed that Isabel was not in the great hall. He frowned, searching the room with his gaze. Galway saw him, and seemed to realize at once what was wrong—faster than James had. He continued speaking with one of the knights as Galway took the corner staircase to the second floor. A few minutes later, his captain returned and shook his head.