A Knight's Vow

by Gayle Callen

She gave a soft snort.

  "So what did you do?"

  "I must report my every move to you? Have I no privacy?"

  "None."

  She continued to eat, ignoring him.

  "Let me see," James murmured, studying her. "You visited with William."

  "I did not. He has duties to perform. I would not make his life here any more miserable than it already is."

  "So he has begun to complain already?"

  Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. "Of course he has not. He is an honorable man. I am merely.. .guessing."

  He leaned towards her, speaking softly. "Most people do not hate living here, Angel. But then, most people were invited." The moment the cruel

  words escaped his mouth, James found himself regretting them. He should hoard his anger, use it to punish her for her interference. Yet—when her shoulders stiffened at his words, when she slowly lowered her eating knife and sat up straighter, an incredible guilt lashed through him. And it only made him even angrier.

  How dare she make him feel this way? He had most certainly not invited her, and most definitely not wanted to marry her. She was a savage, a thief, and he shouldn't let her tie his insides into knots this way.

  When she carried her trencher to the fire, he allowed it. Hell, the farther apart they were the better.

  She upset him, that was why he felt so miserable, why he could only stare at his food rather than eat it. It was almost a relief when his soldier, Wiggins, respectfully approached the dais.

  "My lord, might I have a moment of your time?"

  "Of course. Sit down," James said, pulling out a chair to his left.

  Wiggins's eyes widened. "Heavens, no, my lord. It would not be proper."

  "Oh." James slumped back in his chair. "What do you wish of me?"

  "Just that.. .forgive me, your lordship, but I overheard part of your conversation with your wife. I, of course, shall tell no one what I heard."

  "She has a loud enough voice to fill the hall, Wiggins," James said bitterly. "Everyone already heard."

  "Oh, well then, might I say that your wife was a restless woman today, my lord, but she did not cause any problems."

  "And I needed to know this?"

  "Well, yes, my lord, I thought you would like to know that she behaved herself quite admirably. It must have been terribly difficult to watch, you know."

  James found his gaze wandering repeatedly to his wife, who stood with her back to the hall, long legs spread wide. "Watch what?" he murmured, only half listening.

  "She spent most of the morning at the tiltyard, Lord Bolton."

  That got James's attention. "You don't mean she took up a sword."

  "Heavens no, my lord. She just...watched."

  He could only imagine how well his men had taken to their prisoner watching them like a hawk. Must he guard her every moment of the day? Was he, too, a prisoner? He should forbid Isabel from

  having anything to do with the soldiers. She should act like a woman, like a wife.

  But he quickly realized that would effectively keep her prisoner inside the house—and who here would guard her? The soldiers didn't want her, the servants didn't want her. The women of the household would find her useless. He was the only one who wanted her for something, and even then it was only for the solace of her body. He doubted she would find it her mission in life to wait in bed for when he might want her. He was only now beginning to realize how truly she complicated everything.

  And now she stood smug before the fire, humiliating him at every turn, with every gesture. This was not to be borne without a fight.

  "Isabel!" he called loudly, getting to his feet.

  The sounds of conversation in the hall died down. James tried not to see the anticipation on the face of everyone present, but how could he blame them? He was providing them with entertainment. Isabel slowly turned to face him, still chewing her meal.

  "As everyone knows," he said, "I was gone much of the day. Isabel, I'm sure you did not fail to mention that I had neglected to perform my husbandly duties today."

  He was well rewarded when her cheeks blazed with a red blush of mortification. She threw her food into the rushes and used her dark eyes to blaze her fury at him.

  "Isabel, let us retire to our bedchamber."

  And then she did the last thing James expected. He thought she'd scream her anger or stalk away, but she bolted fast for the door to freedom. The shocked guards on either side obviously feared to touch the master's wife, for they let her throw open the doors and escape. James vaulted the table and landed hard on his feet in the rushes. He took off after her, dodging giggling serving maids. His knights cheered.

  James knew he should feel in control, that he had his strong wife running in fear of him—but he'd seen the quick shot of terror in her eyes before she'd run. God help him, he didn't want to see the Black Angel afraid of him.

  He burst outside and breathed bitterly cold air into his lungs. The moon was hidden behind dark banks of clouds, but torches ringed the courtyard and battlements for the night watch.

  A soldier on the walkways at the top of the curtain wall pointed and called, "That way, milord!"

  James saluted his thanks, and ran towards the back of the castle, where the ground began to slope downwards. He skidded to a halt, knowing she could be hiding anywhere. Again a helpful soldier pointed—this time to the lady's garden. James hopped the broken fence and entered the murkily lit path. Shrubs and trees crowded out the castle walls, and he could almost imagine he was alone in a forest.

  Not quite alone. He heard the faintest sound of breathing. He walked deeper into the garden.

  "Angel," he murmured, "this is pointless. There is no escape for either of us. When will you accept it?"

  "Never!"

  He caught Isabel's body full in the chest and went down on his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. He gasped in air as she straddled him, holding her eating knife to his throat. He could not see more than the faintest shadows of her face, but he could feel the wild tumble of her hair all about him. He forced his hands to remain on the ground.

  She, too, was breathing hard, but she did nothing else for endless moments.

  "What are you waiting for?" he finally asked. "We've done this before, Angel, and it only got us married."

  "I could kill you," she hissed. "I should have done it that first day."

  "You're not a murderer, no matter how your father tried to make you one."

  "Don't you dare mention him!" she cried, and he thought he heard the sound of tears in her voice.

  "Then say his name! Since he stands between us as if he were alive, you tell me about him. Tell me why he raised you as he did."

  "To rid the earth of the stench of a Bolton." Her voice was more controlled, lower, and somehow more threatening. He sensed her leaning closer, felt the tickle of her curls against his face.

  "No father treats his daughter thusly—and no mother allows it."

  "My mother was dead to me long before she truly died. And why should it matter how I was raised? No man would want me because of the humiliation my family has suffered at the hands of Boltons."

  "Isabel, that is not true," he insisted. Slowly, he reached up and set his hands on her waist. "You are an incredibly wealthy noblewoman. You'd have to be a hunchback for a man not to want you."

  "Thank you," she said bitterly.

  "I am only trying to prove a point. Your father knew he could many you off any time he pleased. Instead he selfishly kept you to himself. It didn't matter that you weren't happy, that you were only a

  tool for his revenge. He was a bitter old man who used you."

  "Stop!"

  James caught her wrist and wrestled the knife away from her. He tossed it aside and rolled until he pinned her struggling body into the frost-tipped grass.

  "Isabel, in some bizarre way, your father actually got you a husband. 'Tis a shame it had to be me."

  She lifted her hips off the ground, trying to
dislodge him. He heard her panting, felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, and once again began to lose his thoughts. Her hips were so very comfortable to lie upon. His erection throbbed between them, and he slowly rubbed against her.

  He leaned down and she turned her face away. Touching his lips to her cheek, he murmured, "There is but one good thing about our marriage, Angel, and I've only taught you part of it."

  He felt her trembling now, felt the rigidness of her thighs begin to ease. Why wouldn't she just give in to the passion she so carefully held in check? Must he seduce it from her as he had before?

  Suddenly, he heard running feet, and he groaned.

  "My lord?" It was Wiggins's voice.

  Isabel lay still, feeling the threat and promise of Bolton's body atop her. After a frozen moment, he

  rolled away, and she was almost disappointed. Deep in her heart, she knew she had almost succumbed to the memories of pleasure he had given her. It was a trap, a passionate lure to keep her quiet, to keep her under his control. He wanted her to give in, but he himself never lost control. She struggled to remember the cruel words he'd said about her father.

  "Wiggins," Bolton said, "what do you want?"

  "I was worried when you didn't return, my lord. Is everything all right?"

  Isabel heard Bolton get to his feet, then felt herself hauled up beside him. She wanted to run, but he caught her wrist and held her.

  "We're fine," he said, and she thought his voice sounded hoarse. "Let us go in. Tis time for Lady Bolton and me to retire."

  She shook off his grip and walked ahead of him. When they reached the torchlit great hall, everyone turned to stare at them. Too late, Isabel saw the grass rubbed into their clothing. They looked like they'd been rolling around in pleasant abandon. She gritted her teeth, ascended the stairs, and marched down the corridor to Bolton's bedchamber. There were so many empty rooms, and she longed to have one of her own. But what would be the point in defying him? He'd only drag her back.

  So once again, Isabel undressed down to her shirt and began to pace. Bolton didn't come. Her anxiety became dread, and her dread became something darker, with a tinge of excitement. She tried to repress it, but her skin tingled in remembrance of his fingers trailing across her. How had he done it? How had he known? She shivered as she pictured his warm mouth covering her nipple. With a groan, Isabel clasped her hands to her eyes. What had he done to her? Why couldn't she be unaffected?

  The door opened and she stiffened but kept her back turned.

  "Annie?" she whispered, hoping.

  "I told her to find her bed." Bolton's deep voice rumbled in the room, through her body, and into her mind. "You don't need her this night."

  Isabel forced herself to turn and face him. He leaned back against the door, tall, elegantly dressed, too handsome. The candlelight shone across his dark hair, reflected off his white teeth. He was laughing at her. Then he came towards her, one step at a time, and began to remove pieces of his clothing. She held her ground, trying to control her breathing when she saw his muscled chest. He untied his hose and codpiece, and dropped them and his braies to the floor. He was naked and aroused and seemed not to care that she stared at him.

  The urge to flee these unnameable feelings was almost overwhelming. But she held her ground, trembling, until he stood so close to her she could feel the incredible heat of his body. He reached out a hand, she stiffened, but he merely retrieved a blanket from a chest behind her. He gave her a knowing smile and turned and went to his bed.

  " 'Tis cold tonight, Angel. Wrap yourself in a few more blankets."

  Chapter 14

  Isabel stood still, fists clenched and thought she should be happy that she had escaped Bolton's attentions for another day. Yet the tension vibrating within her only increased, and she wanted to growl her frustration. It angered her beyond all bounds to feel this yearning for his touch, this need to know what else lay beyond the wondrous pleasure he had already given her. It gave her some satisfaction to know that he was not oblivious to this awareness between them, that even if he loathed her, his body wanted to possess her.

  Yet he held himself back. Why? To prove that he was better than she, that he could control himself where she was concerned? After all, she was only a thief to him, one who belonged in a gaol but for a word from King Henry.

  Could he be pushed to the edge, taunted beyond control? Would she want to suffer the consequences to win their private bedchamber war? Then perhaps she could hold it over his head that he forced her to bed, just like he'd forced his betrothed.

  Isabel's cheeks flushed with the heat of embarrassment and excitement. No, she could not yet make such a decision. She did not know if Bolton was a man who could be pushed too far. Would he retaliate and hurt her—or perhaps William? Could she risk such results, just to say she'd won?

  And yet perhaps there was a way to test Bolton's resolve. She thought that earlier in the garden, without Wiggins's interruption, he would have pressed her further. A dark heat coiled its way through her body, and Isabel felt ashamed. Why should her captor—her husband—make her feel stirrings she'd never imagined in her life? She had to take the control of this marriage into her own hands.

  "Bolton," she said.

  There was a pause, when she thought perhaps he might have fallen asleep.

  "What?"

  "I wish to learn how to use this tub."

  She heard him sit up, saw the fire and candlelight play across his skin, through his dark hair. She swallowed.

  "You wish to bathe?" he asked, skepticism laced through his words.

  "Yes."

  "At such a late hour?" His voice rose.

  "Yes." She forced her own words to sound clear, almost casual. She was anything but relaxed as he came to his feet. The rod that made him a man still swelled between his legs. The heat deep in her belly spread farther, until even her breasts ached. Why did the sight of him make her restless with needs she'd only just discovered? Why had she followed such a mad plan to taunt him?

  "Isabel, think not that you can bend me so easily to your will," he said, coming nearer.

  She forced herself to hold still, when all she wanted to do was run.

  "But for some peace—and a fresh-smelling wife —I will show you this once, and not again."

  She bit her lip, watching him bend over the tub. She hardly heard the words he said about the pipes and the cisterns up on the roof. She only saw him, imagined touching him. How could he even string words together, when she was so muddled by his nakedness? She turned her head away and closed

  her eyes, concentrating on anything but a naked man.

  After the third repetition of her name, she looked up to find Bolton close, too close. He was staring down into her face, and once again his height startled her, made her feel.. .womanly, even delicate. Weak.

  "What more do you need of me?" he asked.

  She saw his gaze drop to her lips. She took a deep breath and said firmly, "Nothing."

  He grunted and turned away, finding his bed again, leaving Isabel feeling vanquished. But she would not accept defeat so easily. He would be the one to lose control before she was through. She slowly removed her garments—his garments— feeling his gaze on her. But whenever she turned to look, his eyes were closed. Let him think he deceived her.

  When she was naked, she sank into the tub, again wondering how something so simple as hot water could make her feel so good. Bathing was not going to be the intolerable chore she had originally thought. She slowly soaped her body, knowing her husband watched, wondering what he would do.

  The bruises of the hard life she had led had already faded away. Would she ever know a quiet feeling of accomplishment again? Would he allow her to do the things she loved, or would he keep her prisoner? All her feelings were coiled in a tense knot as she bathed before him, waiting for his reaction.

  There was none. He lay motionless, his eyes closed. When the water grew too cold, she rinsed and stepped from the tub,
rubbing herself briskly with a towel. Of course he would not be lured into forgetting himself just by the sight of her body. Their encounter in the garden might never have happened. Were their "discussions" only to be on his terms, not hers? Not if she could help it.

  She donned the same shirt and he said nothing. She found her cold bed before the fire, wrapped herself in a blanket, and stared into the flames long into the night. His breathing turned to soft snores, yet still she lay awake, her front warm, her back cold, and wondered what she could do with her life.

  In the morning, Bolton was again gone before she awoke. A second blanket lay atop her, as if someone had covered her against the chill. Annie must have come, she insisted to herself.

  When she arose, she saw immediately that another gown lay across the bed, this one simpler, yet of no less fine workmanship. The garments she had worn yesterday were gone. Isabel invaded the wardrobe room again, choosing the plainest tunic she could find. But why bother? Would this day end up as wretched as the day before?

  Bolton had left the castle, leaving her to her own amusements. Again she tried to saddle a horse, or even walk out of the gatehouse, but found her way reluctantly blocked at every turn. She fled to the battlements, looking out over freedom. She circled the curtain wall all the way around, staring until her eyes hurt, anger burning a hole in her stomach, wishing she were free on the back of a horse.

  Isabel stood looking out for what seemed like hours, until finally she went to the tiltyard to watch the swordsmanship. She paced alongside, desperately aching to join. But they all ignored her. The need to move, to use her muscles was so overwhelming, she almost grabbed a sword and dared them to refuse her entry. Yet she held back, and finally wandered to the stables. She trailed William for an hour, but he could spare her little time. The looks he cast her were so pitying, she didn't wish to stay long.

  Despair made her climb to the battlements once more. She forgot to eat dinner, as she stood looking out on all she would never have again. Perhaps even the king's dungeon would be better than this.

  A small party on horseback approached the castle. She recognized Bolton, saw him look up and

  take her measure, but neither of them acknowledged the other. Frowning, she remained where she was, the wind whipping around her, until Bolton sent a servant to bring her to supper.