A Knight's Vow (17 page)

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.

"Please—" she whispered, as his other hand began to trail across her stomach.

"Please don't stop?"

He spoke directly into her ear, then nibbled the lobe itself. Her body jerked in response. She could barely remember to breathe, she was so lost in the sensations blazing across her skin, heating her blood. The back of her was flush against him, the front of her was vulnerable to his touch. And he took advantage. Beneath the blanket, his hand slid up to cup her breast and softly knead it.

"I want to bury my face right here," he murmured. His tongue licked along her ear.

Isabel held in a groan. She forgot everything when his hands touched her, forgot that they were enemies, that he withheld secrets from her. She felt the laces of her doublet and shirt loosen. He pulled them down, baring her shoulder, and then began to

kiss the exposed skin. The air was cold, his mouth was hot. She should stop him, she should scream, but the sight of his face just above her skin froze her.

His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as they trailed a wet path to her neck. She felt the sudden roughness of the blanket on her breasts, and knew that her garments sagged almost to her waist. His fingers teased her nipples ever so lightly and she gasped. Pleasure was like a bolt of lightning through her body, and her skin burned as she writhed against him.

"Shhh."

"I cannot!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't do this to me—don't make me feel—"

Bolton came up on his elbow and pressed her onto her back. He held the blanket close about his shoulders, draped over her. He pressed his mouth to hers, stopping her protests. Who was winning in this little game they played, she thought wildly. Weren't they both losing control?

James fell back in amazement as Isabel rolled above him. Her hair cascaded in wild abandon, and her naked breasts hung full to tempt him. Somehow he remembered to keep the blanket from sliding down her back. Fire-light played across the strong bones of her face, and her full mouth was moist

from his kiss. When she looked like this, all feminine and soft, everything she'd done to him fled his mind. He was only aware of his need. He wanted to fling off all his clothes and take her now, on the forest floor. Why did Riley have to be nearby, the one time he could have actually had his wife?

He gripped her shoulders to pull her closer but she resisted. She reached over his head. With only a little more effort, he could have had her breast in his mouth. She pulled her hand back and something glittered.

"Did you forget you gave me a dagger?" she whispered, resting on her elbows, her breasts flattened against his chest.

The humiliation she'd caused him all day exploded in his mind, and he knocked the dagger aside with a violence that appalled him. He didn't recognize himself anymore. He shoved her away and didn't watch as she pulled her garments together.

"Riley, wake up," he said, getting to his feet.

He heard Isabel gasp as she turned her back.

When the soldier rolled into a sitting position, James was already strapping on his sword. "I shall meet you at the castle tomorrow. See that Lady Bolton gets home safely."

Riley stood up, his face etched with concern.

"I'm for Smithfield. Worry about my wife— although I'm sure she can take care of herself." He saddled his horse and rode off into the forest without looking back.

James was cold and damp before he could even think rationally. A year ago, the thought of visiting Fiona had left him pleasantly warm with anticipation. Now he could barely picture her face. All he could see was Isabel, half-naked, holding a dagger as if she wanted to use it. Damn the woman, but she frustrated him, and not only in bed.

He had never in his life talked about his brothers to anyone but his sister, Margery, and even then never revealed his deepest feelings. All Isabel had done was ask him a simple question about his family, and he'd found himself spilling emotions from his gut as if she were his confessor. What the hell was happening to him?

He would chase Isabel from his thoughts for at least this night. Fiona had a sweetness and easy temper to make a man feel welcome. He didn't even remember what that felt like.

But as he neared the village of Smithfield in the morning, his pace slowed, and he couldn't understand why. He approached her home, a small croft on the outskirts of the village, secluded in a

glen. He dismounted, but couldn't bring himself to go to the door. Instead he remained hidden, leaning back against a tree trunk with his eyes closed.

Why wasn't this choice easy? James had a marriage in name only and his wife had known other men. Isabel would be the first to deny they had any claim on each other. And yet...

And yet she stirred something deep inside him, something primitive and dangerous and possessive. Why did he ache to lay between the Angel's thighs, when a sweet woman was nearby, one who would gladly welcome him?