by Gayle Callen
This latest Earl of Bolton deserved to suffer the revenge his entire family had earned. Her father told her that Bolton had raped his betrothed, unable to contain himself until the wedding night. The girl had broken off the engagement and settled for his younger brother, but that was not enough punishment for the earl. The Boltons had to learn that there were people in the world they could not crush. Their line must end with James Markham. First the Black Angel would ruin him. And then she would personally lead him to the gates of hell.
The door opened with the sound of wood scraping against the dirt floor. Isabel tensed as she turned, hand on her sword hilt.
William Desmond paused in the doorway. He was really still a boy, just fifteen years of age. But he was as big and solid as any man, and perhaps too loyal to her. When her father died, William should
have returned to his own family, but he had refused to leave her alone, insisting she needed a squire. Perhaps he had somehow known what she intended to do. She had to admit that attacking the earl without William's help would have been much harder.
"Is something wrong?" Isabel asked.
William's dark blond hair hung in fine strands to his shoulders and his brown eyes were so full of compassion they made her almost uneasy. After a moment, he shook his head.
"It is nothing, I guess," he murmured, stepping inside and closing the door. "I just cannot get used to you wearing a thief's mask, leaving your hair loose."
Isabel wanted to smile, but she seldom could. "I am a maiden yet—surely I need not bind my hair like a village washerwoman."
"But you usually bind your hair like a soldier. You are dressed like one."
Isabel narrowed her gaze. "What are you implying?"
"You are wearing a man's garment, but showing that you are obviously a woman. Why?"
William stepped closer. Although he was broad through the shoulders, he was not exceedingly tall
for a man—consequently, he was forced to look up into her eyes.
Isabel stared back. "You know it is not enough that Bolton die—else I could easily have killed him before now. Humiliation is an important part of my plan. What better way to embarrass him than to make all realize that even a woman can best him?"
" 'Even'? Are you claiming that men are superior to women?"
"Cease your word games, William! You know full well that the honor of my family rests in what I do here. Do not question me about this again."
He lifted his hands in surrender and bowed from the waist. "As you wish, my lady." He slowly straightened. "When do we move next?"
"Not yet," she said, feeling her spirits come to life at just the thought of besting the earl. "We will let Bolton wonder how I'm spending the ridiculous amount of wealth he carried unguarded."
"Hardly unguarded, my lady. The forest was full of his men. We barely escaped."
"In a few more days we will strike at the heart of his empire, from within his own stronghold. He will feel violated."
The boy sighed. "I hope you have a plan, because I surely don't."
For once, a tight smile touched Isabel's lips.
James sprawled in a chair before the hearth in the great hall, exhausted, frustrated, angry. His men had searched the forest for two long days, with not a sign of this woman who called herself the Black Angel.
She suddenly appeared in his mind as vividly as if she swaggered before him. What drove a woman like her? And why was he thinking about her with other parts of his body besides his brain? She had been clothed like a man, she talked like a man, she seemed to light like a man. But that black doublet had swelled at her breast and hip, proclaiming her very much a woman. And now she was probably gone with her prize—his dowry.
James flinched as the wound in his cheek pulled. He vividly remembered the sight of the bleeding scab as he'd peeled the bandage away. She'd given him a scar—on his face, of all places—and for that, she'd pay.
He rested his chin on his hand and sighed. He knew the castle residents walked gingerly behind him. They were honest, simple folk. They looked to him as the man who shaped their futures, the man who could bring them prosperity or poverty. He could imagine what they were thinking, how their respect for him had lessened.
It was bad enough that Lady Katherine Berkeley had fallen in love with his brother and refused to marry him. But now he had allowed a woman to best him, to take the money that would have restored the estates and their farms. James's stomach twisted until it burned. He almost wished he were a commoner. Every lecture from his parents and foster parents to be the perfect earl rang deafeningly in his ears. For once he was thankful they were dead. He could only imagine the look on his father's face.
He thought of his brother, Reynold, enjoying the wife James was supposed to have, and his face heated with the anger of lost opportunities. His frustration continued to mount as the world he'd worked a lifetime to create slowly began to crack.
Why ever had he left London? He would still have Katherine Berkeley's dowry money to spend as he pleased. But the life he had led since the broken betrothal had grown tiresome and depressing. He had spent months drinking, dancing, seducing, spending money, and trying to forget what had happened.
By heaven, what was wrong with him? Nothing seemed to make him happy. There was an aching emptiness inside him, and he didn't know how to fill it. He had thought returning home would ease his frustration, but a barbarous dark woman with the body of a female Viking had ruined his peace of mind.
James could not allow her to continue making a fool of him. He would find the Black Angel if he had to ride every path himself.
Chapter 3
That same evening, visitors stopped for lodging on their way from London to York. James cursed their presence—he was forced to entertain Baron George Huddleston and his wife and daughters, rather than ponder his plans to capture the Black Angel. James could tell the evening would be long. The man talked of nothing but farming and sheep. The wife perched on the edge of her seat, nodding attentively to everything James said, while the daughters elbowed each other out of the way as they fought for a place beside an eligible earl. They were pale, mouse-haired, typical English girls, with nothing to say for themselves. And then one laughed and James saw why—protruding teeth. He withheld a sigh and gave a strained smile.
He should be flirting with them. He should be judging their merits as wives, though they be
daughters of a minor nobleman. In the baron's family, he sensed money—and he needed some. Looks were no longer so important when one was desperate.
But his wife-hunting skills were deserting him tonight. Only out of habit had he remembered to dress in a fine green velvet tunic. Every time he tried to think of a thing to say to these two country girls, an image of the Black Angel appeared full blown in his mind, leaning over his cot, her black curls brushing against him, her dark eyes burning with undiscovered passion. He remembered her breasts, lush and full as he held her against his chest. Why could he think of nothing but her?
Dressed in a peasant cloak and hood, Isabel sat at a trestle table in Bolton's hall, watching the earl hold court for his visitors. She had positioned herself between the baron's people and the castle residents, trying to seem to each group that she was part of the other.
It had been easy to slip into the inner ward with the baron's party of travelers. She only had to submit to a simple search. Her sword remained well hidden beneath her skirts. Bolton's security had obviously never been tested—after tonight he would understand what he was up against. He would again feel the shame of knowing he could not best a "mere" woman. Isabel barely restrained her grin of triumph.
Yet while she voraciously ate of his delicious food, she studied James Markham. When she had first attacked him, she had been caught up in her own daring, and then concerned she had fatally injured him too early in the game. In the darkness of her hut, he had seemed reckless, amusing, charming to a degree she would not have thought possible.
Even now, though he seemed distra
cted, he captivated the baron and his family. The silly daughters gazed at Bolton with every intention written on their faces, and even their mother seemed to preen.
Bolton wore outrageously extravagant garments that almost glittered. They must be clothes he wore to court to impress the king. How did a man fight dressed like that?
And the great hall itself—Isabel had to struggle not to gape. The walls were whitewashed, covered by woven tapestries of the most incredible colors. The rushes on the floor smelled like the outdoors, with nary a chicken bone in sight.
But soon Bolton would be able to impress no one, Isabel thought fiercely. They would all know what he was, what he had done. His name would only inspire mocking laughter.
Isabel crept away when the meal was through, just as the merrymaking was beginning. She strode boldly down a hall, as if looking for the garderobe, then snuck upstairs to find Bolton's room. She shadowed chatting maidservants as they aired rooms for the earl's guests, until she deduced that the formal doors at the end of the hall opened into the master's bedchamber. It was a simple matter to slip in when they weren't looking.
A low fire filled the room with shadowy light. Candles in silver candleholders awaited the earl on tables on either side of the bed, a massive affair that filled almost a whole wall. Heavy velvet bedcurtains were tied back, ready to encircle the occupant in privacy. Isabel wondered if this was the bed he had forced his betrothed to lie in. Had he simply misjudged her willingness? No, a man must know when a woman is unwilling, even if he won't acknowledge it. She herself had once stabbed a soldier for daring to touch her intimately. After that, she had hidden her womanhood as much as possible, so that no one, least of all her father, would remember that she was a daughter, not a son.
While keeping an eye on the door, Isabel hung a rope from the window down to the ward below, just in case she needed a quick escape. Then she wove black ribbons through the bedclothes. She closed
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 breast
s, 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!"
