A Knight's Vow (3 page)

the curtains around the bed, hoping that as Bolton opened them, he'd be shocked and angry. Would he have a woman with him? The more people who saw his humiliation, the better.

Hearing nameless voices conversing in the hall, Isabel quickly darted behind the bed, covering her face with the mask. As the door opened, she shed the last of her female disguise, ready as the Black Angel to do battle with her enemy if necessary. She should be frightened, but a fevered excitement raced through her body as she imagined besting him again.

Holding her breath, she listened to the movements in the chamber. Just one person—a man. The bedcurtains separated her from him, but she could peer through them as he moved about the room. It was James Markham.

Each time he passed before the openings of the curtains, he was wearing less and less clothing. Softly he whistled as he moved about the room, and the sound raised bumps across Isabel's clammy skin. She would actually get to witness her newest humiliation—as long as he didn't find her.

"Have I displayed enough flesh for you yet?"

Isabel was frozen in shock for a long moment. Had he seen the ribbons already?

"Come, young lady," he murmured, his voice deep, warm, cajoling. "This is not the way to satisfy your pleasures. And it will only get me challenged by your father."

Isabel barely withheld a gasp. Did he toy with her? But no, of course he didn't know her identity.

"You've seen enough. I suggest you return to your maidenly bed and whisper about me with your sister. I'll rest content knowing I live on in young girls' fantasies."

Isabel clenched her jaw. He thought she was one of the baron's giggling daughters. Why had she removed the cloak? She could have crept out, pretending to be thoroughly chastised. Could she don it in time?

She tried to reach the garment, but the space between the bed and the wall was too narrow. She heard the rustle of the bedcurtains.

"Where are you, girl?" he whispered.

She detected the first hint of impatience in his voice. She heard him take a quick breath, and knew with grim certainty that he had seen the black ribbons.

He ripped the last of the curtains aside and they faced each other over the headboard. Isabel had a quick impression of dark hair and light eyes, and plenty of skin, before she darted out the far side of

the bed and drew her sword. With the tip of her weapon, she looped his sword high in the air and out the window.

Bolton reached forward across the bed too late. With a curse, he straightened and faced her, naked. She wanted him to be humiliated, to cover himself, but instead he leaned casually against a bedpost and gave her a slow smile.

Isabel clenched her jaw. None of this was turning out as she had planned. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Why, if it isn't the Black Angel herself," Bolton murmured, as his gaze raked her body insolently. "Come for some nighttime pleasures, love? Isn't taking my money enough? Please say you don't mean to take my innocence as well."

Isabel remained silent, her sword a thankful barrier between them. But he was too close to the window, her only escape route. She wished he would charge at her, so she could do something— anything!—rather than stare at his nakedness. She had lived and trained with men her entire life, and she had seen plenty of them nude. As long as she didn't do anything womanly, they treated her like one of them.

But James Markham was not treating her like a man. He stood brazenly before her, a smirk on his

face, and dared her to act. He was tall, taller than herself, with a fine, leanly muscled body he was obviously proud of.

"/choose the men I share my nights with," she finally said, adding a lie to her wicked reputation. "And you have no innocence, sir. Would that God had given you and your family some meager share."

"Heavens, Angel, don't bring my family into this lovely moment between us. You'll douse any passion I feel for you." He looked down his body in sudden bemusement. "Damn, and I was just feeling a spark of desire. You've ruined it." He glanced back up at her, his expression sobering. "I guess you're not womanly enough to hold my interest."

"God be praised," she said.

His sudden attack took her by surprise. She never imagined him foolhardy enough to bound over the bed straight at her sword and knock it aside. Isabel brought up her knee, but that too he thrust aside and fell on her. They landed hard in a tangle of limbs and long bodies, with Isabel bearing the brunt of it. With an outraged cry, she tried to bring up her sword, but Bolton grabbed both her arms and pinned them above her head.

Isabel kicked and rolled, but for once she was no match for a man's strength. She was intimately aware that he was naked, and a part of her wondered

what he intended to do with her. But most of her was too busy struggling to get to the window, and freedom.

"Stop this!" he said, then grunted as her elbow jabbed his wounded cheek. He finally spread her arms out wide and held them there. They were chest to chest, breathing heavily. Where he held her legs between his, Isabel felt a swelling hardness. Her anger burned, that he would dare to assault her.

Bolton gripped her wrists tighter. "I won't hurt you. I just need to know why this is so personal to you."

She stilled beneath him, trying to control her breathing and marshal her strength, but she was ever aware of the threat of rape so obvious against her body. She stared hard into his face, into eyes as blue as a fresh sky. She thought with a shock that he was handsome, that he must know and use such a gift on women.

He seemed to search her face intently, and she worried that he would rip the mask from her.

"Why have you chosen me?" he asked. "You already took so much—why come into my home and decorate my bedchamber with your emblems?"

Isabel gave him a cold stare. "Because you're a convenient target."

She watched a fire of anger light his eyes, yet nothing she said or did seemed to affect his arousal. It still pressed hard into her stomach, making her angry that men held such a threat over women.

"That's all?" he asked hoarsely. His gaze dropped to her breasts, where they were pressed painfully beneath the expanse of his chest. She hoped he couldn't feel her thundering heart.

His gaze moved back up to her face languidly, then seemed to linger on her lips. Isabel compressed them into a tight line.

"You have caused me much grief," Bolton murmured. "I could take what you owe me."

"And I would kill you."

"It might be worth it," he breathed, lowering his head until their lips were mere inches apart.

Isabel turned aside. A prickling began on the skin of her neck, as if she could almost feel the barest touch of his lips.

She suddenly brought her leg up hard between his. He gave a loud grunt, his head smacking into hers. She pulled free her fists and boxed his ears, pushing him to one side. Though bent with pain, still he reached for her. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her sword and headed for the window.

The pain was so intense, James wanted to curl up on the floor. His strength had momentarily deserted

him. He expected her to leap over his body for the door, but she gracefully vaulted onto the window ledge and disappeared.

"Angel!" he shouted, unable to believe she could have so easily killed herself. He staggered to his feet and leaned out the window in stunned horror.

The inner ward was dark but for the occasional flickering torches of guards on duty. James expected to And the Black Angel in a broken heap on the ground, but instead saw the top of her head as she lowered herself down a rope. She looked up. For a moment they simply stared at each other, the mask a barrier between them. Then she broke the spell with a grim smile and continued towards the bottom.

Damn her, she knew he couldn't cut the rope and deliberately kill her. James leaned out over the cold stone and grasped the rope. He tried to haul it back up, straining every muscle, but he suddenly fell back onto the floor as she dropped to the ground. With a groan, he got to his feet and threw open the door.

"Galway!" he shouted to his captain of the guards. "To arms! The Black Angel is in the ward below!"

Two soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs, one coming towards him, the other going below in a hurry. A door halfway down the corridor opened, and the two sisters leaned out, their mouths agape. They let out stifled screams on seeing James, and he realized he was still completely naked.

Sweeping into an elaborate bow, he said, "Ladies," and retreated back to his room. He quickly donned a shirt and sleeveless leather jerkin, and pulled boots over his bare legs.

In the inner ward, he found Galway surrounded by milling troops. He was a fair-haired, burly man who usually fulfilled James's confidence. But not tonight.

"Where is she?" James demanded, his breath a mist that hung in the cool autumn air.

The captain shrugged. "I'm not sure, milord. The gatehouse is closed, so she hasn't fled."

"Damn," James said softly, his gaze darting across the stables and barracks and smithy. "Are the buildings being searched?"

"Just now, milord."

They waited in silence, listening to the jingling of armed men, and the neighs of horses held saddled in readiness.

"There!" someone called in a hoarse voice. "On the battlements!"

Torchlight had ringed the high curtain wall as the search for the Black Angel went on. Now she stood

looking down on them all, her black clothes and hair fading into darkness, her lower face a stark mask of triumph beneath the mask.

James raced inside the gatehouse tower, and took the circling stairs two at a time. He came out on the battlements and found her perched on the curtain wall itself.

"Angel!" he shouted, but once again she bent and disappeared. Sure enough, a rope hung down to the ground and she descended it as ably as a black spider. He turned back to the inner ward. "She's escaping! Open the gates and follow her!"

When he came out of the tower, Galway was waiting for him. "Milord, the gates are jammed shut."

"Batter them open!"

"We tried, but she's done a fair job of it."

James sighed, realizing that once again she would elude him. "Wake the steward for the keys and unlock the rear gate. Horses can't exit there, but a troop of soldiers can go clear the front gate." He glared at the offending portal. "Blasted woman."

Chapter 4

In the middle of the night, James dressed in a black tunic and slipped out the rear gate of his castle. He was through waiting for the Black Angel to be captured by his men. She had made this as personal as she could, so there must be something she held against him. It was time he found out, before she got it into her head to disappear with his money for good.

He had a feeling the Black Angel kept a close watch, and would certainly come to him. The ground outside the curtain wall immediately sloped down a rocky crag to the river, so he hugged the wall until he reached the forest. He had no horse or heavy armor, only a light sword through a loop at his waist. Following a little-used path into the forest, he swept his cloak about him for warmth and walked.

The night grew colder, the full moon lower, but James kept warm with determination. It was time to finish this obsession—for the both of them.

He heard her coming before he saw her. Just the light snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, but he knew deep in his soul that it was the Black Angel, come to greet him. Anticipation burned through him, and a sudden fierce desire. Though she was a tall, muscular, unorthodox woman, the unknown had always secretly attracted him. He imagined her beneath him, and this time she, too, wore no clothes.

"Angel," he whispered, his husky voice carrying softly. The rustlings ceased. "Angel."

He saw the flash of moonlight on her sword, and with a dance to the side, he drew his own weapon and met hers, parrying it up and away. She let out a startled oath, and they turned to face one another, swords raised. The Angel wore only black, from her dark riotous hair and wild eyes, to her swirling cape and hose that molded to her wonderfully long legs. James forgot about his money, his humiliation. He only knew the exhilaration of facing her in battle. He couldn't remember a moment when his life had seemed so vibrant.

She circled slowly in the small, natural clearing, never taking her eyes from him.

James smiled. "What are you waiting for?"

"I have waited a lifetime for this," she answered, her voice low, triumphant.

"A lifetime? I have been so much a part of your thoughts, and I never knew?"

He thrust forward and she whirled away, knocking aside his sword with her wrapped arm.

"Tell me how you know me," he demanded.

"You are legendary in my home," she said, and her teeth flashed in almost a grimace.

"My daring exploits travel far."

"No, only your incredibly evil deeds—yours and your family's."

James's smile died as she came at him, sweeping at his knees. He jumped over her sword, then parried the arc she swung back towards his head.

They both took a step away, breathing heavily.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked in a soft voice. He didn't need her answer—she gave none. "Wasn't my money enough?"

"It was only the beginning."

The Angel battled hard, thrusting, slashing, until James realized she could beat him if he wasn't fighting at his best. His respect for her skills grew, along with his intense curiosity about her life. She was a dark shadow by moonlight, and it took all his concentration to match her stroke for stroke.

"Where did you learn to fight like this?" he demanded between deep, gasping breaths. They stood apart, their swords a bit lower. He was thankful that at least she seemed as winded as he.

"I learned it all for you," she whispered, and the wild light in her eyes stunned him.

"What have I done to inspire such—dedication?" He wanted to say "hatred," but the word wouldn't leave his throat. He didn't want this magnificent woman to hate him.

"Think back on your life, Bolton," she said harshly. "Your crimes are apparent."