A Knight's Vow (21 page)

"None of them appeal to me. I'll know, James, just as Reynold seemed to know."

The comfortable atmosphere between them vanished. James narrowed his eyes and stared into the flames as if they could sear his memories away. "I do not wish to discuss him."

"James, you're both my brothers. Can you imagine how I feel, having you hate each other? You know that Edmund's death was a training accident, that Reynold did not mean for him to die."

"Reynold seduced my betrothed away from me," he said, turning and glaring at his sister. "How should I forgive that?"

"And you had her kidnapped—"

"For her protection."

"—and she almost died."

"But I didn't know!"

Margery sighed. "James, I am not blaming you. You did what you thought was right during the war. And I cannot deny that it was successful, that we lost none of our lands as so many others did. But can't you accept that neither Reynold nor Katherine planned to fall in love and betray you, just as you did not mean for Katherine to be endangered?"

James frowned, but didn't answer.

"I just ask you to think on what this rift between you is doing to our family."

In a low voice, he said, "Even if I wanted to speak to Reynold, he would not see me. It is for the best."

Margery shook her head sadly. "I won't accept that. Someday, I want to have both of my brothers at my wedding, celebrating together."

James took his leave and walked to his bedchamber. He found his wife dripping wet, wearing only a linen cloth. Annie was emptying the tub. He silently motioned Annie to the door and she said her good-nights.

Using a second towel, Isabel dried her hair, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"That was quite a performance," James finally said, taking a seat before the hearth.

She ignored him.

"You couldn't wait to get up here and bathe, could you?"

When he saw the small smile curve her lips, he gripped the arms of the chair to keep from leaping to his feet. He didn't know whether he wanted to shake her or kiss her passionately. Anger and desire were so mixed up inside him, he didn't know what to think anymore. He wanted to rip off the towel and force her into his bed—but what kind of man would that make him? He'd become just like the

man who'd already stolen her virginity from him, the man who'd hurt her.

Instead James seethed with a helplessness he'd never felt in his life, as his wife turned her back and dropped the towel. Her hips were exquisitely round, her back a delicate long curve. As she reached for a clean shirt, he could see the edge of her breast and the lithe muscles of her arm.

Why didn't he just seduce her? She did not seem afraid anymore. What held him back from the only thing that made marriage to Isabel worthwhile? Nothing in his life felt right anymore. He was out of control—hell, he'd just used a sword against his wife, when with one slip he could have killed her.

And he thought she enjoyed it as much as he did.

The shirt fell in long folds down Isabel's body, hiding what he craved. She walked towards him, carrying a blanket. He didn't even pretend to look at her face.

"Are you sleeping before the fire," she said, "or am I?"

Very slowly, he let his gaze travel up her body. She looked at him directly, unafraid, but her cheeks were flushed red.

James stood up and stepped aside. Isabel lay down on the rug before the fire and wrapped herself in her blanket. Was he being a fool, waiting for her to come to him?

At dawn, Isabel awoke and lay still, listening to the sound of her husband breathing. She thought of the conversation she had overheard, and inside she ached. Bolton pitied her. She would have preferred his hatred. And as for Margery, Isabel should be thrilled she had upset even more of the Boltons. But the thought of ruining an innocent girl's chance at marriage made her feel sick inside. What did they all want from her? She couldn't be the woman they expected her to become. By the saints, Bolton only remembered she was one when he saw her naked.

The sky was almost fully alight as James kissed his sister.

"Wish me Godspeed, brother," she said.

"Where are you off to?"

She smiled. "Reynold has invited me to visit."

He frowned. "You could stay here longer, you know."

"Thank you for the offer, but I don't want to intrude on a newly wedded couple. Good luck!" She turned towards the castle, where Isabel stood in the distance. "Take care, Lady Isabel."

For a moment, Isabel did nothing, and the tension in James's stomach heated up. She finally nodded, and his sister gave a relieved smile.

Margery mounted her horse and fell in beside Sarah's litter. Avery raised his arm in salute, and their small party of travelers started under the gatehouse. James sighed, wondering what tales would soon be spread through the countryside about his new wife.

He mounted up to lead the small party of knights to Mansfield Castle. As Isabel approached, he scowled down at her choice of his tunic.

"What about the dress that was left for you?"

"Bolton, you can't imagine that I could travel in such a thing."

He grunted.

Isabel looked over the column of men, then frowned and stepped near his horse. She stood close to his leg, and stared up at him with dark, serious eyes.

"Is William journeying with us?" she asked.

"I decided that he should continue his duties here. I certainly don't trust the two of you together yet."

She shrugged, but made no comment. She mounted her gelding, swinging her long leg up and over. James found himself watching the way her thigh was encased tightly in dark hose. Even her

legs did things to his insides. He was disgusted with himself.

The first day's journey was uneventful but tiring. Rain fell steadily for much of the day, and the coldness seeped down James's neck until he occasionally shivered. Isabel was stoic as usual, and never complained.

Night fell, and they made camp deep in the forest, where the rain dripped through the trees rather than poured. James had a very small, enclosed tent erected for Isabel and himself. The rest of the company built tree branch shelters, and everyone settled into sleep early, for no fires would stay lit. James ducked inside the tent and pulled the flap closed behind him. He found Isabel curled with her back to him, wrapped in a blanket. How unusual, he thought dryly. Damn, but she infuriated him—and intrigued him. He didn't have the first idea what to do about it.

They approached Castle Mansfield late in the day, when the sun had already begun to set. James could see soldiers walking the battlements, and guards at the drawbridge. That eased his concerns, knowing he wouldn't have to start with military

basics. As for the residence itself, he only hoped things were not worse than he imagined.

Their horses clattered onto the drawbridge. As they entered the gatehouse, he looked up to see the portcullis hanging over his head—rusted, but still deadly. They passed through the outer ward, with still another curtain wall to go. He glanced at Isabel, who had an eager, excited look in her eyes. He'd only seen that expression when facing her across a sword.

The gatehouse leading to the inner ward was manned by grim-faced soldiers, who bowed respectfully—to Isabel, he was sure. And then James forgot about his wife as he saw the condition of the inner ward. Animal dung was scattered everywhere. Pigs rooted through a nearby garden, because of a broken fence. The dovecote looked abandoned.

The keep itself rose up massively before him, with many towers and levels. James knew deep inside that he would never know worry again, with such a fortress behind him. But there was still so much work to be done.

Then, suddenly, the barracks seemed to empty of soldiers and knights as men streamed into the ward. Isabel gave a glad hail and dismounted to run into the center of the troop. She was caught up in giant bear hugs, and passed from man to man. James felt his gut tighten, and he didn't know why.

Most of the soldiers wore beards or dark stubble, with long unkempt hair and stains on their brigantines. They looked like time had stopped for them hundreds of years ago. James's anger seethed inside him. Had one of these men taken his wife's virginity?

He dismounted and approached Isabel while she was deep in conversation with a gruff knight. When she saw him, her eyes narrowed.

"Bolton," she said. "This is the captain of my father's—my guard—Sir Hugo Naughton."

She didn't say anything else.

And then the devil inside James came to life. He put his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers tease her ear. She gaped at him.

"My wife just can't keep these things straight in that pretty head of hers. I am James Markham, Earl of Bolton."

For a moment, James thought the soldiers would attack him for touching their mistress. He kept his hand on his sword, daring them to. Sir Hugo finally gave a formal bow, his lip twitching beneath his overgrown mustache. The man narrowed his eyes and gave James a deliberately assessing stare.

"We were worried when Lady Isabel did not return home after her father died. Even the steward did not know her whereabouts. We had begun searching for her, thinking she was thrown from her horse. And then we heard that the king has given her to you in marriage."

His stance made it very clear that there was little besides death he considered worse than marriage to a Bolton.

"Your loyalty is to be commended," James said. "Carry on with your duties. I'll have my wife show me the castle." Sir Hugo gave a brief nod and turned to his troop. Isabel began to follow the captain.

"Isabel, you heard me," James said.

He saw her back stiffen and she turned very slowly to face him.

"I would like to spend time with my men," she said.

"They are also my men now, and you can converse with them in the great hall. Your duty should be to prepare for their meal and see to their comfort."

He thought for a moment she would rebel, and he would have to chase her across the ward, but instead she gave him a cold black stare and went inside the castle. James tossed his reins to a page and followed her. The stench of rotting rushes and moldy food

was almost overwhelming. The walls were bare rock, no tapestries to keep out the drafts. He turned to watch Isabel closely, and thought even she looked surprised.

Servants appeared to greet her, and they were warm enough to her, but cast wary glances at James. One old man stood before the rest with an air of command, and a frown of distrust. Probably the steward, the man James most needed to see.

He decided to wait on Isabel's words. There was silence for a moment, broken by the wail of a child somewhere down a corridor. She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow.

She took a deep breath, then turned to address the small crowd. "This is James Markham, the Earl of Bolton. As you know, I have been given to him in marriage by King Henry." She stopped speaking, and gave him a cold look. "He is your lord now."

Chapter 20

James winced at Isabel's poor choice of words. He was their lord, true, but it was not the most delicate way to handle the situation.

He eyed her coldly, then faced his newest servants. "I am pleased to have all of you with me. Be patient. I may not be your former lord, but I am a fair man, and will treat you as you treat me."

He heard a few grumbles, but thought his little speech sufficient for the moment.

"I must ask that you prepare the hall for supper. I require things to be slightly different than you're used to." That was not quite the full truth, and he saw Isabel give him a quick glance. Yet he could not ignore the condition of the trestle tables, which seemed not to have been cleaned since dinner.

Soon the tables were being scrubbed with hot, soapy water, and a girl was sweeping out the old

rushes. Plenty of rats scurried out of the way and James grimaced. Knights and soldiers and laborers arrived in small groups, and bowed with grudging respect to James, yet eyed all the changes uncertainly.

Just before supper, James came downstairs dressed in gold and black, and he shone before the easily awed knights. Appearances were how he had always won any awkward situation.

He had ruled his people by showing them exactly what they wanted to see, a powerful man in control. After all, what else mattered besides his title, his face, and his reputation?

Supper was a strained meal, with Sir Hugo and Galway sharing the head table with James and Isabel. The two captains sat beside each other in disapproving silence. Conversation was absent, the food was abysmal. Even Isabel stared down at her trencher and sighed before eating. Watching Sir Hugo, James realized that someone actually had worse table manners than his wife. He wanted to throw a napkin in the man's face and demand he wipe the food off his mustache. But he restrained himself.

The Mansfield knights leered at and pinched the serving maids whenever they passed by. The Bolton knights were offended, and by their dark looks,

James wondered if all would come to blows. There were no minstrels to enliven the evening, but a few half-hearted games of tables and chess were started and quickly ended. Isabel took up her stance before the fire, speaking with no one. James called an end to the evening.

"Isabel, show me to your bedchamber," he said, thinking now was not the time to demand the lord's chambers.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face flushed red, and a few of her knights got to their feet, hands on their hilts. James stood his ground. Let them all just try to keep their new lord from his wife. Isabel seemed to square her shoulders before taking him to a corner staircase that wound its way tighdy up to the second floor. The corridors were dimly lit with sputtering, ill-made torches.

When she opened the door to her bedchamber, James braced himself, but still he was stunned. She had nothing but a pallet on the floor and a trunk. The walls were damp and narrow, with only a single shuttered window that didn't keep out a draft.

"We can't sleep here, Isabel."

"I am sorry it is not elegant enough for you," she said with a faint sneer.

"Elegant?" he repeated, catching her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. "I