by Gayle Callen
"For your hair," he said, impatience vibrating through his voice.
She held her towel with one hand, and clumsily tried to dry her hair with the other, all while staring at her husband. For the first time she could see
shadows beneath his eyes, and the stubble of a dark beard. If he was so tired, why couldn't he just leave her alone—or fall on her and be done with it. This terrible, waiting tension was rattling her more than an impending sword fight.
He suddenly cursed, ripped the towel from her hand and began to scrub her hair with it. It was all she could do to stay covered and upright. She shoved him hard and he reeled back.
"God damnit, woman, you are worse than a child in your ignorance!" he said. "You're a nobleman's daughter and you couldn't learn the basics of cleanliness?"
Isabel wanted to shout that there was no one who cared, but she held her tongue. Showing such vulnerability would only make things worse.
Bolton reached into a chest and threw a linen shirt at her. "Wear this. I'm not waking the household to find you nightclothes. There's a brush on that table. Use it, for heaven's sake."
Then he poured himself more ale, sank down in a chair before the fire, and stared into it. While he wasn't looking, Isabel dropped the towel and pulled on his shirt, so fine she could see the shadows of her body through the cloth. She found the brush on a table beside the bed. She sat on a hard wooden chair in the corner, keeping the bed between them, and
began to work the snarls from her hair. But she couldn't keep her hands from shaking. The night was far from over.
Chapter 9
As the ale worked its way through his system, James prayed for drunkenness, but his prayers weren't being answered. Instead he stared into the fire and seethed at his stupidity. He'd given her clothes to wear! It was his wedding night, and he'd just told his wife to cover herself. He should be taking what God and king had just granted him.
Instead, he was miserably aroused, and couldn't bear to look at his wife. For all her admitted lack of virginity, she'd obviously had little experience kissing. Not that she hadn't caught on quickly. The taste and feel of her, all hot and soft and forbidden, flashed in his mind, increasing his pain. What kind of love-making had she known? Had she been used by men, with no regard for her pleasure? She was frightened of his touch, for God's sake, she who had gladly risked her life fighting him.
James glanced at her from beneath his lowered eyelids. She sat perched awkwardly on a chair in the corner, motionless, waiting. She held the brush clenched in her white-knuckled fists. Moisture from her hair slowly traced paths down the shirt.
"Come here, Isabel."
She raised her cold gaze to him, but she didn't rise.
He sighed. "The fire is warm. Come dry your hair before it."
James thought she might protest, but she exhaled loudly and stood. She walked towards him with easy grace in her purposeful strides. No mincing, ladylike steps for the Black Angel. She stopped before the hearth and looked at him.
He couldn't help the small smile that curved his lips. "Kneel down, Angel. Brush your hair out near the fire's warmth."
Without comment, she did as he asked. James immediately realized his error. The shirt was almost transparent in the light, and the dampness from her hair caused it to cling. He could see her dark nipples, and the darker area between her thighs. He shifted uncomfortably, wanting to look away, but unable to.
She pulled her hair forward over her shoulder, and methodically began to brush it out. She stared into the fire, her profile flawless—straight nose, high forehead, exotic cheekbones, and full lips made for kissing. He had tasted something new and different on those lips, and ached to discover what it was. If he wasn't careful, he could become besotted with his own wife. He wanted to take her now, while he was still confident he only desired her because she was unconquered territory.
But he couldn't force her into his bed. The merest thought was repulsive. He didn't want to see the Black Angel afraid of him. Although it would surely kill him, he would contain his lust—for now. Isabel had better get used to him sooner, rather than later, or all his good intentions would be for naught.
James lost track of the time, torturing himself by watching Isabel. Her hair began to bounce into soft, clean curls. He could smell her, could imagine tasting her fresh skin.
My God, he had a wife now. And he hadn't done the one traditional thing every earl of Bolton had done for the past four generations. He stood up, feeling the room spin for a moment. He noticed Isabel gave a little start, but she didn't look at him. He opened one of his chests, and found the small box he'd hidden since his mother's death. With a heavy heart, he wondered what his mother would think of his wife.
James walked to the hearth and held the box before Isabel. She stared at it suspiciously.
"Take it," he said impatiently. "It's for you."
"You have a gift for me?" she asked sarcastically.
"It is really from my mother, to my wife."
When she made no move to touch it, James lifted the lid. The firelight sparkled on gold chains set with pearls. Isabel's face showed no emotion.
"I will not wear Bolton jewels."
A fierce anger gripped him, and James was thankful he was too drunk to do anything about it. He lifted the lid of his trunk and tossed the box back in, slamming it shut louder than necessary. He went back to his chair beside the fire, beside Isabel, and forced himself to take the punishment he so richly deserved for getting trapped into an unwanted marriage.
When she rose to her feet, James blinked at her in a drunken haze.
"Do you have another blanket?"
He couldn't speak. He nodded towards the chest at the foot of the bed.
Isabel lifted the heavy lid effortlessly. She unfolded a woolen blanket, wrapped it about her shoulders, and lay down on the rug near the fire.
His mouth sagged open. He was either stunned, or terribly drunk. It took moments for him to form words. "What do you think you're doing?"
She closed her eyes. "Attempting to sleep."
"On the cold floor?"
"Yes."
Anger surged anew through James. He had tortured himself to be noble, to give her time, and now she wouldn't even sleep in the same bed with him. Perhaps it was just as well.
"I hope you're comfortable, my lady," he said between gritted teeth.
"I have slept in worse places."
"I've no doubt."
She opened her eyes, black, fathomless, framed in lush, feminine eyelashes. She gave him a cool, amused stare, as if she very well understood his meaning. To hell with her.
James pushed himself to his feet and staggered, but didn't fall. Holding her gaze, he removed his tunic and let it fall to the floor. He stretched, pulling the shirt up and over his head. She stared, silent, eyes wide. Let her believe the worst. He was beyond caring. He untied his codpiece and peeled his hose down his legs, never looking away from his wife. When he was wearing only the narrowed braies across his hips, he hesitated.
But she'd already seen him naked—and aroused at that. He loosened the laces and let the last of his garments drop. His erection was so huge it hurt, but still he stood above her, allowing her to look. He held onto the ragged edges of his self-control for a moment longer, while he could see more and more of the whites of her astonished eyes.
Then he turned and crawled into bed. He pulled the covers up to his chest, threw his arm over his eyes and tried not to groan in frustration. He was too noble by half. He'd never be able to sleep, knowing his near-naked wife lay only a few feet away.
Isabel jerked as something light dropped onto her feet from the direction of the bed. Carefully she touched it, and found a cushion. She eased it beneath her head, grimly trying to ignore the fact that her new husband might have been showing her consideration. What seemed like hours later, she finally heard a soft snore. Only then did her cramped shoulders begin to relax, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She slid one arm beneath her head and c
ontemplated the fire, too wide awake for sleep.
Bolton had not touched her except to scrub the filth from her hair. She tried to decide if she were more insulted or relieved. The latter of course. She
did not need his sweaty body pumping on top of her. She'd seen such things many times in her youth, when she'd walked into the stables with too soft a footstep.
And yet, disgust was the last thing on her mind when she stared up at Bolton's nakedness. He looked at her with drunken animosity, but his body had proclaimed his desire. Heat flushed her cheeks, seared her breasts, moved downwards into the depths of her stomach with startling, embarrassing speed. What was wrong with her? She should be happy she had lived unscathed through her first night shackled to Bolton. She had emerged victorious—hadn't she?
Then why did she feel mortified, even angry that she was not worthy of being touched? He desired her, it was obvious. Or would any naked woman do?
Stop It, stop itS her mind screamed. Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears, trying to block out the sound of her thoughts. Bolton was her enemy. She did not want his filthy hands to touch her. He had forced her to marry him. Imagine trying to make her wear the tainted jewelry of the Bolton line! It was time to make him pay for his sins—and his ancestors'.
James opened his eyes just as the first rays of dawn struck his window. He lay still for a moment, wondering why he felt weak, disoriented, queasy. He remembered with a suddenness that was almost painful. He was a married man this morning—a very frustrated, married man. With a groan he came up on one elbow and saw his wife.
Isabel lay asleep on the rug before the hearth. The laces winding through the neckline of her shirt—his shirt—had come loose, sagging to reveal one perfect breast. He stared at it almost greedily. He was already aroused by just the thought of her lying in his room, but this wasn't helping his self-control.
James slipped from the bed and knelt beside her. Her face was relaxed in sleep, and she looked very young. He didn't even know her age, really knew nothing about her. His gaze traveled down her throat to the round breast offered so enticingly. He looked closer, then frowned. Careful not to disturb her sleep, he leaned in and very slowly pushed the shirt far ther beneath her arm. He saw pale white lines, scars, etched across her ribcage, beneath her breasts, even over the skin of the breast itself. He spread the shirt wider, revealing the same web of pale scars on her other breast.
Her eyes suddenly snapped open and she stared at him.
James raised his hands slowly. "Isabel," he began, but got no farther.
She yanked closed her shirt. "Did you mean to force yourself on me as I slept?" she demanded, her voice deadly quiet.
"Don't be ridiculous." He sank back on his heels, but made no other move. "Where did you get those scars?"
The heel of her hand caught him square in the mouth and James fell back on one hand. With a cry of rage she sat up. Whether she meant to fight or flee, he didn't know, but he was taking no chances. He launched forward, knocking her onto her back and coming down on top of her.
"Hold still," he said harshly, pinning her arms at her sides.
They fought a few minutes longer, but it was obvious who was going to win. She finally subsided, panting, into stillness. The shirt was barely a scrap across her waist and hanging from her arms. Her bare breasts were pressed flat beneath his chest, her naked hips pillowed his erection.
James caught her face between his hands. "Listen to me," he said slowly.
Her eyes glared silent hatred.
"If I would have wanted to force myself on you, I could have done so last night." He reached down
and pulled one of her knees up to his waist. She took a frantic breath as he settled between her thighs. The moist heat of her was almost his undoing, but he held tight to his purpose. "All it would take is one thrust."
For a moment, they remained frozen on the brink of consummation. James wanted to bury himself inside her, while his mind and heart shouted caution. Although it pained him greatly, he lifted himself off Isabel. She scrambled away, bumping hard into the bed, before he even got to his knees. She tried to clutch the shirt across her, but there wasn't enough whole cloth left. James felt guilt sweep through him, and he hadn't even done anything.
"I saw the scars on your chest and came closer to look," he said.
"My body is none of your concern."
Did her voice actually shake? He raised one eyebrow. "My lady, the vows we exchanged made your body my concern. Who did that to you?"
Her hands finally found the blanket she had slept with, and she yanked it up beneath her chin.
"Your father?" he asked softly.
"Never!"
Her outrage seemed honest, but he still needed the truth. "Isabel, answer my question. Who did this to you?"
"I did," she said with great menace, and rose to her feet to tower above him.
James almost hoped she'd try something just so he would have another excuse to grapple with her. But the scars stopped his baser instincts. Could it be true? Could she have cut herself deliberately? They didn't look like the marks of a knife. And she didn't strike him as a weak woman who needed to hurt herself.
Isabel backed towards the tub, never taking her dark, glittering eyes off him. James stood up, feeling the cold a bit too much, now that he'd lost the warmth of her flesh. He leaned against the side of the bed and watched her find her garments.
"Those have yet to be washed," he said mildly.
She ignored him. Lifting her chin, she dropped the blanket and let the torn shirt slide down her body. James felt the impact deep in his gut, and gripped the coverlet in his fists. Isabel pulled on braies, tied on her hose, and yanked the black shirt and doublet over her head.
"I'll send Annie for a gown," he offered.
She slung a belt around her waist. "I don't wear gowns."
"You will," he said, smiling with an arrogance he wasn't feeling at the moment.
She tied her hair back with a strip of leather and flung open the door. She strode down the hall with all the purpose of a soldier marching off to battle. James walked forward and leaned against the doorway, watching her. He had no doubt she was off to marshal her resources for a new assault. At least she wouldn't get farther than the gatehouse.
But he would not wait to determine the out-come of this particular battle. No, it was time to go on the offensive. He would send Galway to Mansfield Castle and find out just exactly how his bride grew up.
Isabel descended the stone staircase and came to a halt. A few servants were laying cloths on the trestle tables. They eyed her coldly, uneasily, then continued their tasks. None of Bolton's knights or soldiers were in evidence. Were not armed guards supposed to follow her? she thought bitterly. Would she actually be allowed to roam at will? She desperately needed to get out of this hall, if only for a moment of necessary privacy.
Annie, the little red-headed maid, emerged from a corridor and smiled as she approached Isabel.
"My lady, I was just about to bring you a change of clothing."
"Not necessary," Isabel said shortly. "Where is everyone?"
"At mass, my lady. We didn't think it right to disturb you. Would you care to join them?"
"No."
Annie's smile didn't falter. "Very well. Could I bring you something to break your fast?"
Isabel was about to refuse, then thought better of it. She hadn't eaten much the previous evening. "Bread and ale would be fine."
"My lady, Cook has made a fine porridge this morn. Perhaps you'd care for some?"
Isabel hesitated. A hot meal for breakfast. But no, Bolton might be down any moment, and she didn't want to see his face or remember anything of her wedding night.
"Another time. Just the bread. I'll eat it outside." When the girl turned to leave, Isabel called, "Wait." She gritted her teeth, wishing she could stop her cheeks from reddening. "Where would I find the garderobe?"
Annie nodded, appearing not the least bit embarrassed. Isabel
was embarrassed enough for the both of them.
"My lady, wasn't there a chamber pot in your..."
Her voice withered away beneath Isabel's narrowed gaze.
Isabel suddenly found herself spouting words she had not meant to say. "Bolton and I are not comfortable with one another, especially since the wedding night was.. .incomplete."
Annie's eyes went wide and she stuttered over her words. "F-forgive me, my lady. I understand. Just follow me down this corridor."
Minutes later, Isabel paced before the fire, her eyes going constantly to the stairs. The idea had come to her so suddenly, she hadn't even had time to think it through. But it was perfect. Bolton's household would know that he could not even bed his wife. She almost wished she could see his face when he heard the rumors. And if she brought his wrath down on her, all the better reason to defend herself.
Chapter 10
Annie returned from the kitchens, carrying a stuffed leather wallet and a drinking horn. Isabel accepted them without comment, then stood awkwardly as the maid gave her a quick curtsy. In the corridor Annie had come from, two dairymaids stood whispering and giggling. Isabel crushed a dim feeling of panic.
"Anything you need, my lady, just send for me," Annie said. "Perhaps a cloak? The wind is chilled this day."
Isabel shook her head and escaped through the double doors. Mass had ended in the chapel and people streamed out, talking and laughing. One by one they caught sight of her. An eerie calm spread across the crowd like ripples in a pond. Isabel felt their coldness envelope her, and she told herself she didn't care. Soon they'd know that their master was
not truly a man. A real man would have taken her and sealed their union. Deep in her soul, she wondered who she was trying to convince, them— or herself.
She narrowed her eyes at them all, walked down the stairs and headed across the inner ward. The crowd parted as if they didn't want to touch her. Even the children clutched their mothers' aprons in fear. The tension in Isabel's stomach rose to nausea. She was taller than all but a few of the men, and she had forgotten how strangers looked upon her as if she were an unnatural monster.
