by Gayle Callen
"Is that your youngest?" he asked. "My steward wrote me of his birth, but it seems like only yesterday."
"He'll be creeping about soon, my lord," the girl said, pride in her bearing.
"I've missed much, being gone so long to court." Bolton gave Isabel an amused look. "Have you been introduced to my wife, Agnes?"
"We've been chatting, my lord."
"Chatting?" He raised an eyebrow.
Chatting, indeed, Isabel thought.
"My wife has such an easy way with people, don't you think?"
Isabel folded her arms across her chest and let her husband attempt to humiliate her. She didn't have anything to lose, but he certainly did. She had already seen how he cultivated people's opinions.
But the girl surprised her. "My lord, be easy with her. It must be difficult to be new in a place such as
Bolton Castle. Does she have any of her ladies from home to attend her?"
Bolton smiled. "Isabel, have you ladies to bring with you?"
"No."
" Aah, then we must obtain you some. Agnes is right. You need women to sew with. And I could use a new tapestry in the library."
"Only if I can cut it with my sword."
Bolton laughed. "You will have to practice your wifely skills."
He dazzled even her eyes, standing in the sunlight with his brilliant nobleman's garments, shining like a gemstone in maroon and gold, conversing with the most common peasant girl as if she were his equal. He even knew of her baby, by the saints.
He suddenly slung an arm around Isabel's shoulders and she staggered at his weight. Agnes blushed and smiled, looking pleased. For just a moment, Isabel felt the elusive warmth of belonging, but she let it go. She was not that much a fool.
"Come, wife, it is the brewer's turn to feed us and she's waiting."
She tried to shrug him off. "I have not yet had some water."
He didn't release her. "Agnes, have you a dipper for my lady?"
The girl laughed and cast a glance at her baby. "Aye, my lord. Give me a moment."
While Agnes brought up a bucket of water, Isabel fumed at having to endure Bolton's nearness. She could feel the length of his body, the lean hips. Why couldn't she hate the touch of him? Why did she always remember what he looked like unclothed?
Agnes brought a dipper of water to her. Isabel thought Bolton would release her now, but instead he stood against her and watched as she drank. It was too unnerving. Isabel had but a few sips and tried to hand the dipper back.
Bolton took it from her fingers and brought it to his mouth. His eyes met hers as he drank from the same place she had. She couldn't tear her gaze away as she watched his lips form to the rounded dipper, saw his throat muscles work as he swallowed. A single drop of water fell down his chin and she almost reached to wipe it away.
Bolton had seen, he Anew that she'd meant to touch him. There was triumph in his brilliant eyes, and a dark intensity that surged through her. How could he make her so aware of him, of his body? This was his own brand of revenge and it was working too well.
Isabel ducked beneath his arm and walked to her horse.
"Lady Isabel," he called. "We're off to the brewer's. Did you not remember?"
The little boy holding the reins of her horse looked happy and relieved to continue petting the animal. Isabel sighed and turned to follow her husband.
The brewer was a large, merry woman, with a makeshift ale sign outside her timber-framed house. Isabel recognized the crude drawing of a tankard easily enough. She ducked beneath the thatched roof and stepped down inside. Smoke and the odor of many people filled the air. The house had one large room on the first floor, with several trestle tables set up. These began to fill with villagers and yeomen, come to see the lord—and surely to stare in horror at his wife.
Isabel was determined to put on a show. She stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, declining what was obviously the best stool, placed next to her husband's. Her head touched the dried plants hung from the ceiling. The brewer went by her carrying a tray, and Isabel picked up a tankard before being offered one. Her eyes on Bolton, she drained half of it, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
The room was eerily silent, a solid wall of disapproval.
Bolton's long legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He grinned and patted the stool beside him. "Isabel, wait until you taste the food."
She hesitated, but what else could she do? She wasn't about to wait by the horses for hours while Bolton ate. She approached him, but his long legs were in the way. Just as she stepped over them, he deliberately moved, tilting her off balance. He caught her waist and neatly pulled her onto his lap.
The laughter reverberated through the room and Isabel smoldered with frustrated anger. She tried to stand up, but he gripped her hips tightly and had the gall to kiss her cheek.
"She's such an eager bride," he said.
He practically dumped her onto her own stool, then proceeded to ignore her for the meal and the company of his friends.
Isabel only wished she could ignore Bolton as easily. His thigh pressed the length of hers, and their shoulders overlapped. She practically had to lean sideways to avoid the touch of his arm against her breast.
What was she stopping herself for? she suddenly thought in exasperation. Didn't she want him to lose control, to see him as he was, a seducer of women, a
man unable to control his baser impulses? She finally straightened, even though it pressed her breast against him. She stared straight ahead, although she knew he glanced at her. She wouldn't look at what was surely his amused smile. Let him think he had the upper hand now. At night he would know who wielded the true power.
James found himself more distracted than he cared to admit. Since he never knew what Isabel's next move would be, he was in a constant state of readiness to toss out a quick amusing line, or to laugh at her or ignore her. He was appalled that his carefully controlled image was under attack by a thief, a mere woman—his wife.
He tried to concentrate on the conversations of the villagers. He knew they discussed the recent harvest, someone's new oxen, the planting of the winter wheat crop. It always amazed him how much he enjoyed their company. They had earthier cares than those at court, but he knew where he stood with them. There was no duplicity in their manner, no false faces hiding greed and ambition. Why had he stayed away so long?
But he knew why. He had needed to escape, to forget the upheaval in his life that had lost him a betrothed and two brothers. Perhaps his choice to back Henry Tudor for king had been a poor decision —his family certainly thought so. And too many people had been hurt. But he looked around at these simple happy faces, well fed since the recent harvest, and wondered what would have become of them if he'd backed King Richard, and been punished when Henry took the crown. Why couldn't his family see that he had done what he thought best, that he had to protect his people and his lands?
But Katherine, his betrothed, had been almost killed by a man in his employ, a man he had not known well enough. James had only meant to keep her safe at the monastery, because she knew secrets highly placed men would kill for. She had known who would turn against the king—but she hadn't known about her own betrothed.
The twinge of guilt took him by surprise, as always. He had seen that King Richard was through, that a new king would rule. His family's survival hung in the balance. Though he had tried to keep Katherine safe from men who would kill her, she had been placed in grave danger, and if his own brother hadn't rescued her, she would have died.
Yet, if one could believe the priests, everything was meant for a purpose, a plan by God. James glanced at his wife, who sat straight-backed, yet allowed her breast to touch his arm. She had given up the awkward fight to remain apart from him. He knew she had a plan to humiliate him, and that usually required the presence of other people. It was in the privacy of their bedchamber that he had trouble understanding her.
Isabel frustrated and angered him to no end.
Yet.. .sometimes he could not stop looking at her. Why could he not control his own gaze? He thought about Isabel more than he'd ever thought about Katherine. Daily he struggled to suppress an intense fascination. What kind of woman could take up a sword for her father's causes? The strength at the core of her amazed him. He needed answers from Galway, and then he wouldn't have to think about his wife—except in bed.
They'd tasted the village's best ale and ate fish pies dripping in butter and spices. Isabel ate too quickly, as if James would take away the meal before she was done. She didn't use her napkin. Though he was appalled by her table manners, a dark side of him wanted to lick the butter from her lips. He looked away, fighting the need to adjust himself.
They stopped at another village later in the afternoon, then started for Bolton Castle as the sun was low in the red-streaked sky. Plowed fields pressed along on either side of the road. Isabel wrapped her cloak more securely around her, trying to forget that they would soon return to her prison.
"I think it late," Bolton suddenly said, turning in the saddle to face his three men-at-arms. "What say you we make camp tonight?"
Isabel straightened in the saddle. Even one more hour of freedom was heaven to her ears.
Wiggins, the blond soldier with the impeccable manners, protested immediately. "But my lord, your lady wife might catch a chill. It is nigh on to winter."
"My 'lady wife' has been a soldier most of her life." He glanced at her, his face unreadable. "Let us put it to her. Lady Isabel, would you rather ride through most of the night to reach the castle?"
She hesitated. She should do the opposite of whatever he wanted, shouldn't she? But he'd only feel superior at her stubbornness. And the air did smell so fresh.
"I can camp anywhere," she said simply, and left Bolton to decide her meaning.
He threw back his head and laughed. "I think she means us to stay, men."
"But my lord—" Wiggins began.
"Mort, Wiggins, be off to the castle and let them know we'll return on the morrow. Riley will guard us well."
Wiggins drew himself up, nodded briskly, and rode on ahead with Mort.
"Riley, find us a suitable spot to rest," Bolton said. "We have more than enough time before full dark."
Chapter 16
They rode on for another hour, to a clearing just at the edge of the forest. Darkness crept over the sky, but there was still enough pale light to make camp. Isabel unsaddled her horse, rubbed him down, and tethered him to the picket line Riley had prepared. Then she stood uselessly beneath the trees, watching the soldier do everything for her. Riley went into the forest, then reappeared, dragging two tree branches behind him. After building a fire, he spread blankets on the ground.
Isabel couldn't help but be impressed. Riley was a whole troop of soldiers all by himself.
Bolton sat atop his cloak near the growing fire. Apparently his clothing wasn't so precious it couldn't be sat upon. He gave her an assessing look, and she suddenly remembered all the ways she'd embarrassed him this day.
"Sit down, Isabel."
She felt a sudden urge to flee, but that would be cowardly. Instead she spread her cloak on the ground, then lowered herself to sit across the fire from him.
Bolton's eyes gleamed but he didn't smile. "Allow Riley some privacy."
She looked over her shoulder and saw Riley wrapping himself in a blanket. Her body blocked any heat from reaching him. She grudgingly stood, walked about the fire, and sat upon her cloak near her husband. She found herself nervous, uneasy, wondering when he would bring up her antics. But his dark silence went on and she couldn't bear it.
"Why does Riley not speak?" she asked in a low voice.
Bolton glanced at her. "I don't know. From what I can tell, his tongue is not damaged."
"Are you not curious?"
"Of course. But Riley is not talking, is he? I find I don't much care what his secrets are, as long as he does what I need."
The fire kept Isabel warm, but she couldn't relax. It was difficult, being so near Bolton.
Her husband. The word still made her shiver. She would be near him forever, until he tired of her and sent her to another of his castles. She knew that
husbands did such things often. She did not dread it. The ability to once again do whatever she pleased was a powerful lure.
And yet.. .she glanced at Bolton, now staring intently into the fire. Thwarting him and taunting him gave her great purpose. Mayhap her task had changed from killing him to humiliating him, but what would she do without it? How would she fill her days? And why didn't he berate her?
There was still so much to learn about her quarry, but she didn't know how to begin. How was she to show interest in a man she'd recently wanted dead?
They were almost alone in the forest, away from the battleground of their bedchamber. Maybe he would speak more freely.
"Do you have family?" Isabel asked. "Brothers or sisters?"
He leaned back on his hands and regarded her coldly for a long, awkward minute. "Did not your father tell you everything about me? You hinted as much."
"I heard in great detail of your ancestors," she said. "And of you. But I just wanted to know..." She trailed off. Such knowledge was of little use to her revenge. She might be simply.. .curious. What kind of relationship could a man have with the brother who'd taken his betrothed?
"My mother remarried after my father died," he said. "I have a half-sister, Margery, and I had two half-brothers."
"Had?"
"Edmund is dead, killed by my brother, Reynold. I haven't spoken to Reynold in over a year."
So her father had been right about his family. Yet she was surprised that such a cruel man as Reynold could win Bolton's betrothed. "Murdering one's own brother is a foul crime. Did he go to prison?"
Bolton gave a tired sigh and rubbed a hand across his face. "It wasn't truly murder."
Isabel frowned, waiting for him to struggle through his memories.
"They were training together, and my youngest brother was wounded. The fever came upon him and he died." There was no emotion in his voice.
"Then your brother was hardly responsible."
Bolton's face grew hard. "Reynold was responsible. Edmund was destined for the church, and was sickly as a child. He knew nothing of combat. Reynold was determined to teach him out of embarrassment."
"Every man should be able to defend himself. Surely even you can see the logic of that."
"Even me?" he echoed, studying her.
"A training accident happened, as they often do. I have watched many a man die in worse agony than sickness, all due to a friend's clumsy hand. Surely you cannot find fault with your brother."
"Reynold is not a clumsy man. He should have taken better care."
"Is that why you don't speak to him?"
Silence. The fire crackled and a log fell with a hiss into the embers. Riley was asleep. Still, Bolton didn't answer.
Why was she pressing him—did she want to hear that they'd fought over a woman?
"Why are you interested in my past, Angel?"
Isabel felt herself blushing. "You are my husband now, much as it pains me. I thought I should know something about you."
"You've mentioned so before. In fact, you mentioned my former betrothed. Do you recall the conversation?"
She dropped her gaze. She had told him she knew what he'd done to his betrothed. She remembered his surprise, and had thought it was because she'd known his secret. Now, she didn't know what to think. Was Bolton a rapist? Her father's words had to be true—or had he been lied to by someone? She could not imagine this man forcing a woman into his bed—or even needing force.
She thought of the girl, Agnes, with her bright smile and cheerful conversation for her master. If he were a rapist, wouldn't Agnes have heard? Wouldn't every woman be frightened of him?
But her father had sworn it was the truth, and he'd never once lied. That you know of, whispered a quiet voice inside her head. She thought of
Bolton's villagers, running out onto the road to greet him. She couldn't remember a peasant happy to see her father.
"Isabel, my former betrothed is no concern of yours." He looked into the fire, his face hard and angry. "Let the past rest. 'Tis something your father should have done."
Isabel glared at him. Was he keeping more secrets than she knew about? He picked up a blanket, wrapped it about his shoulders, and lay on his side. She did the same, warily keeping from touching him. She took the dagger out of its sheath and laid it near her head.
Sometime during the night, an early frost settled in and Isabel awoke on her side to find only low embers left of the fire. Cold moisture had settled on her face and worked its way deep into her clothes. She trembled and clutched the blanket tighter about her.
Suddenly she felt a solid warmth press itself along her back. She stiffened as Bolton slid an arm around her waist.
"Peace, Angel," he whispered, tucking his knees behind hers. "We're both cold."
"I am no man's bed warmer," she said, trying to push him away.
"Shh."
His breath tickled the back of her neck, and his palm slid across her stomach. She felt surrounded by him, frightened of her conflicting feelings—and protected. His chest expanded with each breath, pressing against her back. He was long and solid, and fit against her so well. Her trembling continued, but it was not from the weather.
He whispered, "I can spread another blanket over us."
"I am not cold," she said, then winced at her thoughtless words.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Not cold, Angel? Then whatever could cause such a reaction in you?"
His head rested behind hers, pillowed on his arm. With his hand he began to comb through her hair.
"Stop that!" she said.
"Shh, do not wake Riley," he murmured. "He needs his sleep—and he'll only feel the cold more."
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying to pretend he was not touching her. Wasn't this what she wanted? Didn't she want his control to weaken, to throw that back in his face? But this did not seem weak to her. His hands held all the power. She was afraid that if he continued to touch her, she'd feel again the pleasure that haunted her darkest dreams. He had worked magic on her body, and she knew her taunts only brought that closer.
