A Knight's Vow (24 page)

Bolton finally knocked the sword from her hand and threw his own down beside it. He caught her in a hot, sweaty embrace, and kissed her hard before the entire castle complement. She opened her mouth, let his tongue duel with hers as their swords had done. He swept her up in his arms and continued to kiss her.

Isabel only vaguely heard the cheers of the soldiers, only remotely understood they'd entered the great hall and were moving through it. He drew from her any resistance, any care but the sensation of his body making her feel like a woman, desired, needed. He carried her up the circular stairs, bumping her feet against the walls. In the corridor he buried his face against her neck and she dropped her head back. He murmured hoarse words against her skin as he kicked open the door to their bedchamber and slammed it shut by falling against it.

And then she was on her back on the bed, and he was ripping the clothes from her body. And she let him. She revelled in his desperation, in the first power of desirability she'd truly felt as a woman.

Her bare legs hung over the bed. Bolton stood between them and flung the jerkin from his body. He came down on top of her, hot flesh to hot flesh, holding her head as his lips tasted every part of her face. She encircled him with her arms, needing to get closer as if she could make them one. She heard moans and knew they were coming from her, but she was unashamed, for his voice matched hers in intensity.

Her skin burned for his touch, longed for the attention she'd denied herself. He licked a trail

down her neck to her breasts, teasing and tormenting her nipples with his tongue and teeth. Isabel thrashed beneath him, torn by soul-shattering pleasure. She remembered these feelings, relived the bliss he had given her before. Only this time it was so much better, with he just as wild as she was.

Her body trembled, her fingers clutched at his back, then pressed his head harder against her. With a groan he came up on his arms, his legs braced on the floor. He arched his back, his face intense. She realized her legs were spread, that the incredible, pulsing heat she felt was him riding against her. He lifted and with a single thrust entered her body.

Isabel screamed.

Chapter 22

James froze in shock, staring down at Isabel. She squeezed her eyes closed. A long shudder took him. He was painfully hard, and her body was hot and moist and ready for him—except for her maidenhead.

"Angel," he whispered hoarsely. He dropped onto his elbows, his face just above hers. He held rigidly still, unable to make himself leave the solace of her body. "Why did you tell me you'd known men?"

She opened her eyes, which glistened with pain and pride.

He groaned and kissed her. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I was the Black Angel," she whispered fiercely, "I was playing a part. It just.. .came out."

But his mind was already losing her words. She was a virgin. She'd had no other man use her, no other man to take what was his by marriage.

He lifted his upper body to one side, resting on his elbow. He reached between them, to where their bodies joined, and began to caress her gently, slowly. He saw her eyes widen.

"That's it," he murmured, bending over her chest, kissing the scars that haunted him. His cheek brushed her nipple, and he turned and captured it in his mouth. He heard a low moan rumble inside her. She tasted like heaven, like woman. He'd keep her in bed night and day for a week just to satisfy this hunger that had been building up inside him.

When Isabel was trembling beneath him, he rose up above her and gently slid out and in again. Her body stiffened, then relaxed. He moved inside her, faster, faster, until her gasps became cries of pleasure, and her body arched beneath him. She stiffened, then shuddered with her climax, and James let go everything he'd been holding back. He thrust hard against her, pouring himself into her. He came down on her body, whispering her name.

James felt pillowed on her breasts, held safe against her womb. His head rested beside hers. She was so tall, he hadn't needed to hunch his back just to kiss her. But even she must feel the weight of his

body after a while. He lifted his head, smiling in languid peace.

Isabel's face was a cold mask of triumph. His smile died. What was her game now?

"You may have won in the tiltyard," she said calmly, coldly, "but I have won here, where it counts, in this struggle between you and me."

James searched her face in puzzlement, then rolled off her and fell back against the cushions, closing his eyes. "Angel, what are you talking about? Pleasure in bed is about sharing, not winning."

"I humiliated you as the Black Angel, humiliated you as your wife. You were forced to take me until death, and I am nothing like you thought you wanted, like you thought you deserved."

He turned his head to look at her, frowning. She raised herself up on her elbow, and didn't bother to cover her nakedness. The Mansfield ring dangled from its chain around her neck, and left an impression between her breasts.

"Yet you desire me," she said. "You have succumbed to everything you hated."

He gritted his teeth. "Isabel, do you have some point you are trying to make?"

"You have lost control."

He heaved a sigh, trying to ignore the recognition growing within him.

"You gave in to lust, the lust you feel for me, a thief, your family enemy, who refuses to dress or behave as a woman."

"Believe what you will," he said mildly, holding back his anger. "But you just bedded your husband and you enjoyed it."

He watched as she tried to hold onto her smile, and almost felt sorry for her. She quickly got out of bed. The sunlight through the shutters filtered over her body, patches of light and dark shading her skin. Regardless of her words, James wanted to take her again, now, but held himself in restraint.

After Isabel had gone, he tried not to feel the anger she'd hoped to induce, but she was beginning to know him too well. He hadn 't wanted to desire her. He'd thought himself superior because she would not act as he'd always expected a woman to act.

She had won, and it infuriated him—he could no longer control the desire that ate its way from his dreams to every waking moment. He wanted her, savage woman that she was. But she, too, lusted— after a Bolton, her family enemy. She still had quite a shock awaiting her, once she realized it.

If it was necessary, he could resist her allure until she succumbed freely to the desire simmering between them. It was but a game, but the prize would be sweet. Feeling cheerful, and free of the sexual frustration that had been haunting him, James dressed and went down to the tiltyard to train with his knights.

In her old bedchamber, Isabel paced for hours, until exhaustion swept over her. She could tell that Bolton took manly pride in bedding women, that it was some kind of need for him. Any female body would obviously do. But she could never be the kind of woman Bolton wanted. She was so tired of battles and arguments, of the misery of being alone, but she didn't know any other way.

For a few moments, she had found peace in his arms, but she wouldn't fool herself into thinking he felt anything more. What truly frightened her was how he made her feel deep inside. Could she be softening towards him? If she grew to care about him, would she lose all her strength, and be just another weak-hearted, foolish woman yearning for a man who would only use her?

Isabel was determined that this would not be her lot in life. She would not accept an ordinary

woman's role—let Bolton just try to stop her. If he thought his marriage was a hell now, then he had no concept what she could truly do to him.

She marched down the stairs and across the great hall, only to step back as the doors were thrown open. Bolton entered, and for a moment Isabel felt an embarrassing languor move through her as she looked at his handsome face. She would not allow this—this feminine weakness to take hold. He was just a man.

Then she saw that he held one arm awkwardly and she tensed. Galway trailed behind him and closed the door.

"Go back to the men," Bolton said, giving his captain a dark look. "I told you it was nothing."

"But milord—"

"What happened?" Isabel demanded.

"He's hurt," Galway said.

"I am not hurt," Bolton countered, motioning for a tankard of ale.

"He was thrown from his horse."

"It tripped in a hole," Bolton said.

Isabel started to grin until Galway interrupted her.

"It came down on his hand."

Her gaze went to Bolton's gloved hands, and she saw that he was deliberately not using the right one.

"Galway, I ordered you out to the tiltyard." Bolton downed half the tankard of ale.

Isabel narrowed her eyes as she studied him. She thought his face looked pale. "Remove the glove, Bolton. Do not be an ass."

"An ass, am I?" he said, with a grin. "I don't think you thought so this morning."

"Then I'm thinking so now." He was behaving in his usual cocky manner, but she sensed an underlying tension.

James tried his best to be nonchalant, to pretend eveiything was all right, but he knew it wasn't. His hand throbbed with a sharp pain, and he felt the sticky warmth of blood. His sword hand. But he didn't want her pity—or her smug superiority. He would be fine, whole, normal.

"I'm going to change for supper," he said, heading for the stairs.

Galway trailed him as he said, "Milady, might you have a healer here? I could go find Riley."

James whirled to face him, trying to keep his fury at bay. "I have not asked for a healer."

"I think one of the cooks is a healer," Isabel answered, as if James wasn't even there.

He escaped alone up to his bedchamber. Though he didn't want to, he stared at the glove covering his hand. The leather had darkened in streaks. Blood.

He tried to inch it down, but it clung tenaciously to his skin. The pain grew so intense he felt lightheaded. Finally he plunged his whole hand into a basin of cold water. It stung, but the throbbing began to lessen.

He heard a knock on the door.

"I'll be down soon!" he called.

" 'Tis Galway, milord. Might I come in?"

James hesitated, then called for him to enter. He tried to smile light-heartedly. "Could you give me a hand? This glove won't seem to—"

"Why didn't ye admit ye were hurt, milord?" Galway asked, frowning.

"I don't want Isabel to worry," James said, knowing that wasn't quite the truth. "Could you help me with this?"

Together they managed to remove the glove with only minimal pain. James sucked in a deep breath when he saw his hand, now mottled with blue and purple bruises. His smallest finger was badly twisted, oozing blood, and the finger beside it was swollen.

"There, see?" James said. "Just one little broken bone. Give it a pull, why don't you?"

Galway shook his head, his mouth grim. "I sent for the healer."

"This is hardly worth—"

"Milord, I can see the bone through the skin of your finger."

The cook, her gait slow and rolling with age, arrived with her bag of potions. James was relieved his wife had not come, and grudgingly allowed the muttering old woman to bathe his hand.

With no warning at all, she wrenched the bone back into place. James managed to keep all but a grimace from showing on his face, but he knew he must have blanched.

"Perhaps, dear lady, you should have warned me."

From beneath her drooping wimple, she eyed him knowingly. "Ye men make too big a fuss when I warns ye."

He gave her what he thought a most ferocious frown, but she ignored him. As she rubbed in some foul-smelling concoction, his whole arm seemed to burn with pain. He finally met Galway's gaze.

"Milord, you should rest. I'll have supper sent to you."

"No, this is nothing. I'll be down when it's bandaged," James said, ignoring his captain's concern.

At supper, Isabel watched Bolton put on a fine show for the people of Mansfield. They all thought he was his usual self, but she watched his eyes closely. Galway had told her the extent of the injury, and she knew that it must pain Bolton. He drank more ale than usual, and his cheerfulness seemed forced. Every time he was clumsy with his left hand, she saw the momentary narrowing of his eyes before he laughed at himself. For a man as proud as he was, this was a blow to his vanity. She should feel smug, instead she felt uneasy, sympathetic.

After supper, Bolton called for music, and soon there was dancing and singing and more revelry than Mansfield had seen in her lifetime.

The wind howled outside and the drafts occasionally made Isabel shiver. She sat near the fire for warmth. Bolton was in the center of the hall, the focus of all the attention, and she could hardly blame her people. He had a charming smile and brilliant, intelligent eyes. He drew people to him. He seemed to listen to everyone, old and young, villager and knight. But tonight it was all forced, and Isabel couldn't help but wonder at his strength of will.

Occasionally Bolton would glance at her, his eyelids lowered, and grin languidly, as if he thought

of their morning in bed instead of the merriment of the great hall.

Isabel tried to remain aloof to these onslaughts. She had won, hadn't she? He'd lost control, he'd lusted for her. She'd thought it would give her all the power in their marriage, but maybe she'd been a fool. Would Bolton now demand such intimacies from her whenever he wanted? Would he then see that she couldn't be like other women?

She was brought back to the singing by the wild laughter of the castle folk. Listening closely to the lyrics, she realized there was often a second meaning, one she had only begun to understand this morn. And then she heard one pure baritone voice standing out amongst all the others. An unwanted warmth moved through her body as she listened to Bolton sing.

Soon he was singing alone. There was a certain tension in the hall, an energy that had not been there moments before. She frowned as she saw people looking between her and her husband, knowing grins adorning their faces.

Bolton had shifted position and was staring direcdy at her, singing words that she realized with a start were meant for her.