by Gayle Callen
The cellars were thrown open, and the feast was beyond what she had ever seen. Tray upon tray were carried on the shoulders of servants, bearing roasted pigs, and large pies made of capons and
hens. She saw grown men wipe away tears of gratitude at the abundance. Isabel's throat was tight and her eyes stung. She realized she had to get away before Bolton saw her foolish sentimentality. His back was turned as he laughed with Sir Roger, her steward.
She piled a few morsels on a silver plate and crept from the hall. No one noticed her leaving amid the celebration.
Isabel retrieved a torch from one of the guards, and went out into the night. The wind caught her, swirled around her, and she shivered. But she had no time for her cloak. She walked to the simple graves of her parents, in a remote corner of the outer curtain wall. She shoved the torch into the packed earth and sat down to eat her meal.
The night was silent, except for the occasional shouts of the men above her as they patrolled the batdements. Well, at least that was one thing she could say for her father—his soldiers were well armed and well trained.
But children in the village starved. Anger and outrage rushed through Isabel, and she threw her plate down on her father's grave.
"Did you lie to me about everything?" she cried.
A great hoarse sob tore from Isabel's chest and she buried her face in her hands. She cried until her eyes burned, until her chest ached. The torchlight flickered over the bare mounds of earth and threw eerie shadows on the stone wall. Her crying subsided into trembling, into finally a tired stillness. She sat with her legs bent against her chest, her arms wrapped about them for warmth.
Her father could not have been so deliberately cruel. Maybe he knew not how to care for his people.
She looked at the other grave, wishing she could remember more of her mother than a tired, sad shadow of a woman. Would things have been different had her mother lived?
"Mother," she said awkwardly, looking up into the night, "what should I do? My revenge is a hollow thing now, and I know not what my life should be. I am such a failure."
But there was no answer, only the never-ending loneliness that haunted her soul.
James began to realize something was not right after the third song he'd been asked to sing. He bowed to the applause, and jested with the knights who'd begun to speak to him with less wariness. Yet something nagged at him.
And then he noticed that Isabel was not in the great hall. He frowned, searching the room with his gaze. Galway saw him, and seemed to realize at once what was wrong—faster than James had. He continued speaking with one of the knights as Galway took the corner staircase to the second floor. A few minutes later, his captain returned and shook his head.
James excused himself and let the jugglers begin their entertainment. Uneasiness roiled through his stomach. He tried to tell himself that this was Isabel's home, that she could do what she wanted here.
Why was he worried? Surely, he just needed to know that she wasn't plotting some new revenge against him. But she'd been strangely silent since they'd come to her father's home. James had tried hard not to be openly scornful of the condition of the casde and the surrounding countryside. But the great poverty was hard to bear. How could she not have known?
But deep inside he knew that although she was a skilled warrior, she was a naive woman. He remembered how she'd looked at his food, and he thought she'd been merely hungry. But he knew now it was because she had never imagined such luxuries existed.
Galway spoke to a guard in low tones, then approached James.
"Milord, Lady Isabel was seen leaving the hall with a plate of food and a torch."
James nodded, throwing his cloak over his arm as unobtrusively as possible. "Is the drawbridge up?"
"Aye."
"Make sure everyone in the hall is kept amused. I'll return with her as quietly as I may."
The captain nodded as James slipped from the hall. It was a cold night, with only a sliver of a moon to shine its weak light upon the inner ward. With little difficulty, he followed Isabel's movements as related by the soldiers on guard. He was grateful that Isabel was not trying to flee. He hadn't relished the thought of a midnight ride down unfamiliar roads chasing the foolish wench.
But God's teeth, what was her destination on such a cold, windy night? He entered the outer ward, following the silent gesture of a soldier who looked too young and gaunt to be of much use in battle.
But he forgot the cares of his new retainers when he saw the small torch driven into the ground in a corner of the ward. It flickered ominously, about to surrender to the wind, but its owner wasn't paying much attention.
James slowed his steps. He found Isabel asleep on the ground, shivering. And then he saw the graves.
Chapter 21
J[ames realized immediately that these were the graves of Isabel's parents, inscribed with only a simple cross. Mansfield had spared little coin even on himself.
And yet Isabel had come here to be near the man who had treated her so cruelly. What hold did he have on her, that reached beyond even death? Didn't she see how much better off she and her people would be under the Bolton pennant?
He remembered Margery's words, about how unhappy Isabel was.
The weariness of dealing with Isabel and her problems hung heavily on his soul. He didn't want to worry about her, didn't want to care. Hell, she was making his life miserable—and she looked too peaceful. He knelt down beside her and shook her shoulder.
"Isabel?"
She didn't stir, just shivered in her sleep. James removed his cloak and wrapped it about her, lifting her into his arms. Her head fell to his shoulder and she sighed but didn't awaken. He rose to his feet, adjusting himself to her weight. She was not a dainty girl, his wife. But in the last of the torchlight, he could see the smudges of dirt across her cheeks, and thought she'd been crying.
He trudged back to the inner ward, and up to the main entrance to the casde. He was as yet unfamiliar with the layout, or he would surely have snuck her into their bedchamber. Instead, he kicked open the door to the great hall and received shocked stares and startled questions.
"She's fine, she's fine," James insisted, making his way through crowds of reaching hands. "Just fell asleep. We'll be off to our bedchamber."
Isabel chose that moment to snuggle her head under his chin, and throw one arm around his neck. He heard chuckles, and relaxed as the people of the castle parted to let him through.
It was a chore to carry her up the steep circular stairs. More than once, he wanted to waken her. After too many endless corridors, he shouldered open the door to their bedchamber and found a warm fire roaring in the hearth. Rugs were scattered on the floor, and candles had been lit. He sent away the trailing maids. He set Isabel down gently on the bed. With a sigh she turned her cheek against the pillow. Her dirty cheek.
He opened the door to call for towels and found a thin, timid girl bearing a basin of steaming water. She shook so badly that water sloshed onto the floor. He heard her soft cry of distress. Must he rescue absolutely everyone in this decrepit castle?
"Set it upon the bedtable, girl," he said gruffly.
She tried to bow and curtsy at the same time, and James quickly took the basin from her." 'Tis all right," he said, watching her lower lip quiver. She certainly wouldn't be able to handle bathing Isabel, who would probably roll over and crush the girl. "Just set the linens down and find your bed."
Before she left, she gave him a grateful smile, her eyes large and wet and shining. James sighed, wondering if he'd get used to being treated like the second savior.
He went back to the bed and stood looking down at Isabel. She seemed strangely vulnerable and defenseless in her sleep. He felt a thread of unease wind its way to irritation, then anger. He didn't want to care—he couldn't. She was an embarrassment forced on him. And if he found her desirable, what of it? He found most women
desirable. He would bed her soon, and then whenever he wanted. She wo
uld grow used to her situation, even if he had to teach her step-by-step how to be a woman.
Grudgingly, he cleaned her hands with hot water, then wiped the dirt from her cheeks. She wrinkled her nose occasionally but never truly woke. When she emitted a soft moan at his touch, James had to pause in astonishment at the uncontrollable shudder that moved through him. He wanted to disrobe her, to give her something to truly groan about.
He let his hand slide down her breast and hip before he removed her boots and hose. Her legs were generously long and supple, more well-formed than any woman's he'd ever seen. He rolled her over, unlacing her doublet with one hand, while her body rested against his thighs. He wanted to slide the last of the cloth up her thighs, to peer at her magnificent nakedness. James forced himself to stop when she was wearing but a shirt.
Isabel stirred in her sleep, long legs sliding against one another, arms raised over her head to taunt him with the swell of her breasts. James barely withheld a groan. He may have been forced to marry her, but his body did not seem to care.
He leaned over her, pulling a curtain of hair from her face. Why could he remember no other women when he looked upon Isabel?
He removed his clothing and lay down, letting his body rest lightly against hers. He smiled at his reward—she rolled against him, one knee over his. His smile died as his erection nestled against her hips. He gritted his teeth, knowing he was but a thrust away from the heaven his earthly body craved.
But no, not like this. He would have a willing Angel in his arms.
Isabel awoke in a cold, empty bed. She lay still, smelling fresh sheets and the faintest lingering scent of her husband.
She sat up with a start, and saw sunlight streaming in the uneven gaps of the broken shutters. She had no idea how she'd gotten to their bedchamber. She scrambled to her feet and threw open the shutters. She'd slept half the morning away. Who knew what Bolton was doing with her people.
She found yet another gown upon the bed and threw it carelessly across a chair. She dug in his chest for a clean doublet and hose that were sure to
droop on her legs. The belt at her waist was too loose for comfort. Would she ever become used to not wearing a weapon besides her eating knife?
When she descended into the great hall, few servants were about. The room was so clean as to be unfamiliar. She grabbed a loaf of bread and a slice of hard cheese left at her table, and hurried out the door. Where was everyone?
Isabel ran full bore into Wiggins, sending both of them sprawling. He "tsked" as he got to his feet and helped her up. He gave her a disapproving frown and wiped dirt from her broken cheese.
"My lady, where go you in such haste?"
She took back the cheese. "Where everyone else is."
"I am sure the ladies are inside."
"But my husband is out here, is he not?"
He hesitated. "Aye, my lady, but perhaps we can sit within, while you tell me the history of this fine castle. Surely it dates back to—"
Isabel could take no more delay. She walked past him, glancing about the inner ward. The day was brisk with an early winter chill, although the sun played amidst the clouds. Chickens and dogs and pigs ran amuck, chased by merry children she'd never seen before. She could hear the hammer of the smithy, and the calling voices of the dairymaids.
When had anyone ever spoken above a whisper before?
Yet why did a horrible feeling of foreboding hover low in her stomach?
"My lady—" Wiggins began.
She interrupted him. "Where is Lord Bolton?"
"My lady, surely—"
"He is at the tiltyard, isn't he," she said, knowing the answer before seeing the bemused look on his face.
"My lady, he did not want you there."
"What does he mean to do, Wiggins? These are my men, used to taking my orders. They will not listen to Bolton until I prepare them for—"
She heard the cheers before they entered the outer ward. Saints above, her soldiers would not harm their new lord.. .would they? Isabel broke into a run until she turned the last corner of the wall and found the tiltyard spread out before her. Soldiers stood in a huge group, their backs to her, cheering and shouting and thrusting fists into the air. Isabel pushed her way through them, and they good- naturedly let her by.
She wasn't sure what to expect, but when the last man—Galway—moved aside for her, she stumbled to a halt and gaped at her husband and Sir Hugo.
They battled with razorsharp swords instead of blunted ones.
"Galway, what is happening?" she demanded. "Do they mean to kill one another?"
"Nay, milady, his lordship said he could take no more of Sir Hugo's contempt. Aye, he's teaching the man a well-needed lesson, if ye asks me."
Isabel's heartbeat slowed considerably and she turned back to watch the combatants. Bolton was a fine swordsman, that she knew from experience, but Sir Hugo, her most experienced knight, could surely best the man.
But not today. Bolton stood unscathed as the other man huffed for breath and tried to keep his sword raised. Her husband had forsaken his fine clothes for a sleeveless leather jerkin that left his arms and legs bare but for a pair of boots. His body was lean and well muscled, still dark from the sun. Isabel felt a sudden familiar weakening in the vicinity of her lower stomach as she stared wide- eyed at her husband.
He was magnificent in his victory over Sir Hugo, and then he threw an arm around his opponent to the cheers of hundreds of soldiers, both Bolton and Mansfield bred.
Isabel felt herself rather awed by the implication of this victory. She heard all the men discussing the
battle with good-natured heat. Where was their loyalty to her father and herself?
She knew where—their new master was a charming, skilled man, who fed them well and treated them as men instead of worthless servants. They had all fallen under his spell. She knew there was nothing she could do, no way to stop this. Bolton rule was the future for all of them, herself included, and they didn't seem unhappy about it. Even Sir Hugo gave a grudging laugh.
Anger swept through Isabel, stunning her with its sudden ferocity. He had taken over her life, ruined her vengeance, swayed all her people to his side. She had nothing that was not corrupted by him, even her own feelings.
Had she no shame? Did she care nothing for everything she'd been taught, everything her family had suffered through the decades because of a Bolton?
And here he stood, laughing and triumphant in the Mansfield tiltyard, having defeated the captain of the guards. She could take it no longer. She strode forward and yanked the sword from Hugo's hand before he saw her coming. He began to protest, but she gave him the coldest glare she could. He stepped back and bowed.
"Bolton!" Isabel cried his name with an erupting rage.
He turned, still laughing from something Mort had said. When he saw her weapon, his smile grew a little less brilliant, touched with sarcasm.
"You may have defeated my captain of the guards," she said, "but you will not defeat me this day."
She waited for him to bring up their past sword fights, but he didn't. He merely pulled the sword from his scabbard with a swish of metal, and grinned at her.
"Angel," he said loudly, "are you sure you want our bedchamber battles waged before your men?"
She heard bellows of laughter from the soldiers, even her own. Sir Hugo stood beside Galway and the two men gave each other uneasy glances of worry. Somehow, seeing two such opponents in league in their concern, only incensed Isabel more.
"Can you stand to lose, Bolton?" she demanded, giving him a tight smile.
He threw back his head and laughed. "Men, I won the Black Angel to wife by sword point. I guess I can win my way to her bed this night."
He made it sound like he'd fought for her, desired her for his mate. It was all a show for his people, as his whole life had been. But she was
warmed by it. She found her gaze dropping down his body. Aye, he was a well-formed man.
She brought up he
r sword and heard the men fall back, laughing and wagering amongst each other. But soon it all receded from her mind. The only thing she saw was James Markham, her husband. The sunlight shone in his dark hair, glistened on his bare skin. He looked better in a plain jerkin than in his finest court clothes. He laughed aloud as their swords arced and met with a clash of steel. She felt his power shake her weapon and shiver down her arm.
Isabel thrust straight at his body, as if he wore armor she needed to pierce. He parried her blade aside, then blocked her slash to his knees.
"Well done!" he cried.
She warmed to her task and their battle, but try as she might, she could not so much as scrape his skin. He seemed even more skillful by daylight.
Bolton finally knocked the sword from her hand and threw his own down beside it. He caught her in a hot, sweaty embrace, and kissed her hard before the entire castle complement. She opened her mouth, let his tongue duel with hers as their swords had done. He swept her up in his arms and continued to kiss her.
Isabel only vaguely heard the cheers of the soldiers, only remotely understood they'd entered the great hall and were moving through it. He drew from her any resistance, any care but the sensation of his body making her feel like a woman, desired, needed. He carried her up the circular stairs, bumping her feet against the walls. In the corridor he buried his face against her neck and she dropped her head back. He murmured hoarse words against her skin as he kicked open the door to their bedchamber and slammed it shut by falling against it.
And then she was on her back on the bed, and he was ripping the clothes from her body. And she let him. She revelled in his desperation, in the first power of desirability she'd truly felt as a woman.
Her bare legs hung over the bed. Bolton stood between them and flung the jerkin from his body. He came down on top of her, hot flesh to hot flesh, holding her head as his lips tasted every part of her face. She encircled him with her arms, needing to get closer as if she could make them one. She heard moans and knew they were coming from her, but she was unashamed, for his voice matched hers in intensity.
