A Knight's Vow (29 page)

"Hold!" Reynold said. "I am not condemning you —I did the same thing. And for that, I bear the guilt of his death. He never would have made a knight, but he would have made a compassionate priest. And he certainly never would have wanted the two of us to carry this guilt throughout our lives."

James sat back down, feeling again the anguish of Edmund's death, and recognizing the guilt intertwined. "It was easy for me to blame you," he finally said in a hoarse voice, "maybe too easy to take out my anger on you, the anger I should have reserved for myself."

"Then let us put it behind us. We are only hurting ourselves and Margery, and even our wives."

Reynold held out his hand, and James clasped it gladly.

In the morning after mass, Isabel joined her husband and his brother and sister as they broke their fast. Reynold was a huge man, broadly

muscled, with bright, violet eyes beneath a heavy brow. He had a gentle smile at odds with his warrior's body. She tried to relax, seeing the two brothers at ease.

"Isabel," James said, "allow me to properly introduce my brother, Viscount Reynold Welles. Reynold, this is my wife, Isabel."

Reynold reached for her hand, and she let him bring it to his lips.

"I am pleased to have a new sister," he said.

Isabel realized that he did not look down at her garments in shock, or express any wariness.

Margery wore a relieved smile.

"Lord Welles, did your wife give birth?" Isabel asked.

"Please, call me Reynold. Yes, we have a son, Nicholas."

"It is a strong name."

After they had begun to eat, Reynold said, "James, Katherine insists she would like to meet your wife this morning."

James's smile faded, and Isabel's curiosity grew. Would he want to see the woman who had broken their engagement? Would he refuse and begin another argument with his brother?

And did she herself really want to meet another of James's women, who would only remind her how little she could ever measure up?

James's smile returned, although this time he looked a bit pained. "Are you certain she wants to see me? I'd understand if not."

"She would like me to bring up both of you."

Isabel saw James glance at her. "Very well. My wife will only hold me at sword point if I refuse."

Reynold turned his bright eyes on her. "I understand you are quite good with a sword."

Isabel deliberately kept her gaze away from James. "I am good, yes, but not invincible."

"Thank God," James added. "Otherwise I'd not be here."

Reynold laughed. "It sounds like a tale worth hearing."

James rose to his feet. "Another time, brother. I wish to meet your son."

On the second floor, Reynold led them all to a spacious suite of apartments, where sun streamed through glazed windows. Isabel expected to find a bedridden woman, but instead Reynold's wife was bent over a cradle beside the hearth. She straightened slowly as the door opened. She was blond, well-curved and beautiful. Obviously James's ideal woman, Isabel thought.

"Katherine," Reynold said, "this is James's wife, Isabel."

Isabel felt like a clumsy giant as Katherine came forward. She noticed that the woman didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Isabel, I am pleased to meet you," she said. "Margery speaks of you with admiration."

Isabel was speechless. Surely they couldn't be talking about the same woman, the one who was worried Isabel's presence would hurt her chance at a good marriage. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. "Congratulations on the birth of your son."

"Thank you."

Then Katherine's gaze turned to James, and Isabel held her breath. She didn't believe James had ever physically harmed her, yet Katherine's smile disappeared and her cheeks reddened.

"James," she said simply.

He bowed, his expression sober. "My congratulations, Katherine."

She accepted with a nod and continued to study him. Isabel wasn't quite sure what she read in Katherine's face, but she thought it might be guilt. Was she actually embarrassed that she'd had to leave one brother for another?

Reynold helped Katherine to a chair, then went to the cradle and lifted their son. The boy was wrapped snugly in blankets against the cold, and he looked like a bunch of rags against his burly father's chest. But the man held the baby with knowledgeable tenderness that Isabel found herself envying. Even a man knew more about babies than she did. He settled the boy into Katherine's waiting arms.

After they all awkwardly admired the baby, Katherine suddenly handed it to Isabel. Thank the saints she had practiced once with Annie's child, and didn't drop this one. But she felt they were all staring at her, comparing the two women, and she knew she would lose.

Yet the little boy Nicholas suddenly yawned, his tiny mouth opening wide. He arched his back, and with a howl, turned to root for his mother's milk. Isabel gasped and raised her head, feeling utterly foolish. And found everyone wearing smiles that were not quite so awkward. She quickly handed the baby back.

That afternoon, Isabel felt the need to escape the manor for a brief respite. While James was talking to Margery, she left the hall and wandered the courtyard. It was a cold October day, gray and

damp. She had met James's family now. There were no more surprises. Yet Isabel felt confined, alone, confused.

She absently stared at the gate, guarded by two soldiers who nodded respectfully towards her. These men didn't know her, knew nothing about her history—or James's orders that she not leave alone. She found the stables, saddled her horse, then smiled as the guards opened the gates to freedom.

James's gaze was never far from Isabel, much as it annoyed him. He'd seen her leave the hall, and thought he'd give her a chance to walk in peace. But when she didn't return within the hour, he felt uneasy enough to go out into the courtyard and search for her. The guards at the gate obligingly told him that Lady Bolton had gone for a ride.

Chapter 27

Isabel was free. She should be happy, at peace, with the world spread out before her. She could go anywhere she wanted. But instead she rode miles of the viscount's lands and wondered why peace eluded her.

She was galloping back to the manor when she saw James racing towards her. He had had a difficult few days confronting his past—but by the saints, so had she. She'd met his family and his first betrothed.

James was nearing her, leaning low over the stallion's neck, his dark hair swept away from his proud, intent face. A wry smile tilted the corner of her mouth. He was certainly magnificent on a horse, regardless of his hand.

Without thinking, she spurred her horse across the grassy uplands, away from her husband. She heard his shout, and she raised a hand in salute, but the thrill of the chase was upon her. They raced against each other and the wind. For the first time that day, Isabel felt truly free, with a good horse beneath her, her sword at her hip—and James trying to capture her, trying to outwit her.

She pulled up in a valley lined with gritstone walls and sliding rocks. A waterfall from the moors above them pounded over rocks into a stream, sealing one end of the valley. She wheeled her horse about and faced James, who came to a halt behind her.

"Why did you run from me?" he demanded, sliding from the horse and tossing his reins over a bush.

Isabel's horse pranced beneath her, and she patted its heaving sides. "I most certainly did not run from you. I raced you—and I won."

She gave a startled gasp as he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her from the horse. It must have hurt his hand, for he quickly hid it in his cloak. But now that she thought about it, he kept his bandages out of sight most of the time. Why was he so defensive about an injury that could have happened to anyone? Isabel whirled away from the heat of his body and went to get a drink at the stream.

"I always understood that races start fairly," he said, coming up behind her. "Or are you claiming a woman's need to be treated gently?"

Isabel squatted beside the water and cupped a handful to her mouth. Glancing over her shoulder, she answered, "I don't need you to treat me like a woman. You've never done so before."

As she stood up, she heard him inhale sharply. He turned her around and she felt a thrill of excitement and longing for his bantering. He hadn't been himself since his injury.

"You've never behaved like a woman," he said, blue eyes narrowed, "nor have you asked me to treat you like one. Are you asking now?"

She stood silent, watching his gaze search her face, then drop to her lips. What would he do if she suddenly kissed him hard as he'd done to her?

"The only thing I'm asking of you, James, is to tell me the whole story about why Katherine married your brother."

He took a step backwards, looking confused. "What did you call me?"

"Did that horse step on your ears, too?"

He studied her. "You've never called me by my Christian name before."

"Of course I have," she said, feeling heat flush her face. "Are you going to tell me about Katherine? Or should I ask her?"

"I shall answer your questions," he said, leaning back against a boulder. "I owe you that much."

But then he remained silent for a long time, staring at his boot where it scuffed the dirt. Isabel waited as patiently as she could.

"I am not proud of some of the things I had to do in the war," he finally said.

She stepped closer, her curiosity winning out.

"I chose to follow Henry Tudor because I knew he would win. I wanted to protect my family, my people, and our lands. I never told anyone but a few men who shared my beliefs. Katherine overheard these men plotting, and I was worried she would be killed for her knowledge. I had her kidnapped, and sent to Reynold's monastery."

"Monastery?" she asked.

"He was a novice monk. I thought if anything went wrong, he could protect her. Something went wrong. The man I chose to kidnap her took his job more literally than I had intended. When Reynold helped her escape, this man chased them across the countryside, and in his anger at being foiled, nearly killed both of them."

His voice dropped lower, and he met her gaze almost defiantly.

"That's all?" she finally asked. The last heaviness of secrets between them was lifted—and it was nothing like she had imagined and dreaded.

James's eyes widened. "Isn't that enough?"

"You but tried to keep her out of harm's way, and for this she broke the betrothal?"

"In fleeing from my mistakes, Katherine and Reynold fell in love. And I had betrayed them. Aren't those enough reasons?"

"I don't think it was a betrayal to try to protect your family, even if your plan did not work."

"Isabel, you amaze me."

With a shock, she realized his gaze was admiring. And he wasn't even looking at her naked body. They stared at one another, until Isabel began to lose track of where they were, what they had been arguing about. All she saw was the brilliance of his eyes, all she wanted was his touch. My God, when had that become so important?

James was the first to look away. "Since we're talking about my past, it's only fair that we talk about yours. I have a question about the feud between our families," he said.

She tried to hide her shock at being thrust so abruptly from the sensual trance of his gaze. She

turned her back on him and it all flooded back, her family vengeance, the vow she'd sworn to humiliate him.

"I know most of the historical details," he continued. "What I want to hear is what happened to your father. Tell me his story."

Isabel found herself staring blankly at the dead grass at her feet. She had not spoken of it openly in a long time. Her problems with James went so much deeper. After a moment, she slowly said, "My father challenged your father at a melee. They fought, and your father unfairly wounded mine."

"You say 'unfairly.' How do you mean? Did your father say mine cheated?"

"I—" She frowned and hesitated. "I'm not sure. He left my father a cripple." She thought of her father's bitterness, the endless drinking to dull the pain.

"Isabel, I was there. I was but a child, but I remember. Your father challenged mine. What did you want my father to do? Refuse? Dishonor himself?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"My father but defended himself, and he didn't want to die. He was greatly sorry to have injured Mansfield, but it was a fair fight, witnessed by all who saw it."

She felt her stomach twist with anxiety. "I—I hadn't thought of it that way. Honor is important." Her throat felt blocked. "He never let me forget," she whispered. "I heard the story of that fight over and over. Why would my father..." Her voice trailed off and she felt lost.

"Maybe he, too, was raised to hate the Boltons by his own father. Maybe our families have done nothing but pass down hate. I want it to end with us, Isabel."

James looked at her white face, and knew much of their marriage rested on what she said next.

He saw fear in her eyes for the first time.

"I don't know how to change things," she said.

"Then let us begin with some truths. Did your father give you those scars on your ribs?"

She shook her head. "I used to bind my breasts."

James felt a shiver work its way through him, as he imagined her a maturing young woman, hiding the proof of her sex. "Why?"

"It was easier to train that way."

"There must have been more to it than that."

She eyed him coldly. "There was nothing."

James thought again of the scars that crisscrossed her chest. No one mutilated herself just for ease of training. But she was the only child of a man who wanted revenge on an old enemy. Did Isabel

deliberately make herself into the son he always wanted, or did her father force her?

She turned her back again and bent towards the stream, but James didn't think she was thirsty. He began to wonder if there were problems between them because of the things his ancestors had done— or for a newer reason.

He thought of when she'd asked him if the horse had stepped on his ears. She seemed to be treating his injury matter-of-factly. If she was no longer angry with him over the feud, and if his injury was more important to him than to her—then why was there still such discord between them?