A Knight's Vow (25 page)

"My lady, she carries a sword; on my knees I beg my reward." He threw his head back as he sang, but never broke their shared gaze.

Isabel's unease deepened. Did he think he could own her so easily?

"When she gives me a sign, I'll unsheathe this weapon of mine!"

He ended with a flourish, rising to take his bows with great conceit. Unfettered laughter filled the hall until her ears hurt. She couldn't take her eyes off Bolton. Although she was angry, she saw how white his face had become, how forced his merriment. She recognized her concern for him, and was appalled by it.

"I'm off to my bed," Bolton said. "Have hot water sent up for my bath. I've had quite an exhausting day."

More laughter greeted his words. Isabel glared at him. Did he think she would gladly join him?

Chapter 23

Isabel walked slowly up to her bedchamber. She knew that nothing could be the same between Bolton and her after this morning. He was a man, after all, and she'd overheard enough stories from her knights to know that a man accepted bedding as his due, especially from a wife. Bolton had been humoring her along, and now that she'd succumbed, he'd expect her to lie with him whenever he ordered her to. Even an injury to his hand wouldn't stop him.

She didn't want to be under the power of a Bolton, to be ordered about whenever he pleased. She was afraid that she didn't dread going to his bedchamber—she wanted it too much. And he would eventually hurt her. She didn't know how to be a wife, most certainly couldn't be his lover. That

involved love, and she would never give him that kind of power over her.

Isabel finally arrived at their door and could hold off no longer. She opened it and thought she'd found what she expected—Bolton in bed. But he lay in the center of the bed, with his back to her, blankets pulled up to his neck. And he snored.

Although Isabel felt relieved, she was also uneasy. Was she so lacking as a woman, bedding her was not worth repeating?

By morning, James thought the throbbing was beginning to worsen. Whenever he moved, or touched his hand, pain shot through him. It didn't help that his first sight in the morning was Isabel wrapped in a blanket on the floor. He felt a momentary pang of guilt, then he banished it. He'd seen her face last night when she'd looked at his hand. She damn well knew what such an injury could mean to his sword fighting. She, who valued skill and talent, was appalled by his wound. And James couldn't blame her. Yet who was she to be appalled?

He'd show her how quickly he could recover. It was but a paltry injury. He'd use the hand for sword fighting again—and for caressing Isabel.

She began to stir as if his thought had summoned her. James watched her awaken, and knew he shouldn't have. She stretched slowly, all long gorgeous legs and flowing hair. He was hard at the thought of her, and his arousal almost eclipsed the pain in his hand. But he'd wait to ease his lust until he had recovered, and was every bit the man he was before.

By mid-morning he was sick to death of everyone's sympathies, the cautious queries about how he was feeling. It was just a broken finger, by heaven! His own people would know to ignore it. It was time to go home, where he wouldn't be the object of such attention. Isabel didn't even try to persuade him to change his mind, which bothered him to no end. He wondered what her game was, because she always had one.

The long train of carts and wagons and horses left for Bolton Castle early in the afternoon. James rode beside his wife, beneath a leaden sky brewing with stiff, cold winds. When they made camp that night, he crouched near the fire, feeling unusually cold. The rest of their party spread out, and more fires soon dotted the rolling meadow.

The gusts of wind were too great to allow the servants to set up James's tent, so he spread blankets as close to the fire as he could. He saw Isabel watching him again, with that inscrutable look on her face, and he clamped down on his anger. He gazed pointedly into the fire and tried to ignore her. That was difficult when she lifted his blankets and slid in behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, infuriated that his voice sounded hoarse.

"You're shivering."

"Isabel—"

"I'm cold, too."

James bit back his angry words and closed his eyes. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was warmer now. But he hated that she pitied him, that she thought he needed her help. The fingers would heal. He would hold a sword again and be the man she had married.

When he finally did sleep, he tossed and turned, feeling hot and cold in infuriating cycles.

In the morning, Riley removed the bandages, saying nothing as usual, even when he saw the badly bruised hand. The swelling was worse, and the gash on his broken finger had bright red streaks about it.

"Isabel must not know about this," James said in a low voice, knowing he sounded childish.

Riley gave a pointed shrug. He bathed the hand again, adding more medicine and wrapping it in strips of cloth. It would get better, James thought, and tried not to remember his brother, Edmund, and the little scratch he'd received in a sword fight with Reynold.

The next day, not even the sight of home brought James out of his lethargy. It was too hot for October, he thought dully, and began to dismount. The next thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.

Isabel rolled Bolton over, and realized with shock that his body felt afire. She touched his face, shook him, but he was unconscious, with dark circles beneath his eyes. She felt a horrible lump of anxiety form in her stomach.

"Riley," she said as the men all gathered around her in a concerned knot, "I need your help getting Lord Bolton to our bedchamber. Do you think you can—"

The man elbowed everyone out of the way and single-handedly lifted Bolton off the ground, with only one sidestep to position his weight. Isabel led the way inside the great hall. She looked over the worried servants.

"Annie—" Isabel began, then stopped. She didn't have the first idea what to do. Any other woman would know. She gazed at Annie and tried not to show her desperation and panic, feelings she'd seldom experienced before, and which now threatened to overwhelm her.

Annie turned toward the kitchens, calling over her shoulder, "I'll bring hot water and bandages, my lady, and send for the healer."

In their bedchamber, Isabel pulled back the blankets and Riley laid Bolton down. The giant stood up, wiped his hand across his moist forehead, and took a few deep breaths.

Isabel smiled grimly. "It's nice to see you're human."

Riley gave her a crooked smile and shrugged, before leaning over to feel Bolton's forehead.

Isabel watched him. "He's very sick, isn't he?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

Riley nodded and began to unwrap Bolton's wounded hand. Isabel couldn't hide her shock when she saw the swelling and the angry red discoloration staining the entire finger. Pus oozed from the wound.

Through the tightness in her throat, she said, "Will he lose this finger?"

Riley shrugged, but it was a tentative movement, and Isabel saw the inevitability lurking in her future. How would she tell her husband he would lose a finger on his sword hand? She well knew what his reaction would be, knowing she'd feel the same way. Yet what choice was there? She'd seen other injuries where she never thought the man would fight again, but through perseverance, he had. And Bolton had plenty of perseverance.

Bolton groaned and opened his eyes. He licked his lips and managed a smile. "Angel," he murmured. "Just need to sleep—be all right."

He had certainly lost none of his confidence. Something close to tenderness moved through her, and she fought the urge to hold his hand. Only yesterday she had been scheming how to avoid him. Now he lay unnaturally still, pale, nothing like her husband—and she wanted him back, the man who could turn a bad situation on its ear with just a witty phrase.

Where was the healer?

The woman who entered the room carried a basket on one arm and a bucket of hot water in the other. She wore no wimple, just her plain brown hair tied back at her neck. She didn't look much older than Isabel. How could she have the necessary experience to help Bolton?

The girl must have been used to such questions, for after introducing herself as Margaret, she immediately said, "Milady, I've spent my whole life learning to heal from my mother. You need have no worries."

Margaret examined Bolton's hand, even though he didn't want to cooperate. His insistence that he was fine was beginning to grate on Isabel's nerves.

Margaret finally shook her head. "Milord, we must take at least the littlest finger. If we leave it on, the sickness will only spread."

Bolton laughed weakly. "I'm feeling better already. Just pat on your medicine, girl, and go back to the garden."

From across the room, Isabel said, "You are being foolish. The injury is making you sick."

"Temporarily. I'll be fine."

No matter what anyone said, he refused to consider having the finger amputated. Isabel couldn't understand his obstinacy. He was usually such a rational, practical man, but now he refused to see how sick he was, and how little the herbs were helping him. She was agitated, uncertain, not herself, and she realized with a shock that she didn't want him to die. Just a month ago, she would have been gleeful. The thought made her feel sick inside.

Annie wanted to show Isabel how to keep Bolton comfortable, but Isabel knew she was hopelessly clumsy at things every woman took for granted. She let Annie wipe his body with cool wet cloths, while Bolton mumbled and thrashed in a delirium. She felt stupid and helpless, and often went to sit alone in the great hall to wait. It hurt to see him in pain.

At midnight, she stood alone in their bedchamber and watched Bolton, who had lapsed into a still sleep. She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over him, staring into his gaunt, flushed face. She touched his hot forehead, then slid her hand down his stubbled cheek. Her chest ached and her eyes burned with tears she didn't know how to shed. What was wrong with her? She had been forced against her will to marry this man, and now it terrified her that he might die.

Could she possibly have fallen in love with him? Was she like every other foolish woman who had melted before the cajoling words of a man? And yet, Bolton had never lied to her, had never taken what she hadn't wanted to give. In his own way, he'd even been kind. These soft feelings burning her heart—were they love?

She sent for Annie, who stumbled in, wearing her gown half-unlaced, and carrying her baby on her

shoulder. She took one look at James's hand and gasped.

"I must get Margaret, my lady. Here, hold Mary." She held the sleeping baby out and Isabel stumbled back a step.

"But I've never—"

"Just sit down. She's not even awake."

Isabel sat hesitantly before the fire and Annie quickly positioned her arms and set Mary's warm body in her lap. She ran out the door before Isabel could even ask if she was doing it right.

Mary slept on, putting her thumb in her mouth and cuddling against Isabel, who was trying not to move. It was a strange experience to hold a baby, and she realized with a start that she herself could be with child already. She had to fight feelings of panic. She'd never even seen a birth, didn't know what babies ate when they were too old for milk. And as she looked at Bolton, so still and pale, she thought with rising despair that she might have to do it all alone.

Carefully holding Mary, she stood up and walked over to her husband. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the bed.

"Bolton?" she began, then found herself saying, "James? You are not going to die. I won't allow it. Wake up."

But he lay still. Margaret arrived and Isabel backed away, absently handing Mary to her mother.

Margaret examined James's hand for a moment, then lifted her head. "Milady, 'tis spreading to the next finger."

A sudden calmness descended over Isabel. She didn't know a thing about healing, but she could make decisions. "Take the fingers off—both of them." The moment she said the words, she felt better. She wanted James, she wanted to be his wife, much as it all terrified and bewildered her.

"But milady, his lordship said—"

"He is out of his mind with sickness. And he isn't getting better. I want a live husband, not a corpse. Take the fingers off."

James awoke slowly, but his eyes didn't want to obey him. He lay still, assessing the lingering pain in his hand. It felt better. And he was definitely cooler. The bedclothes were drenched in his sweat, so the fever must have broken. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thank God.

When he finally managed to open his eyes and lift his head, he saw the sun creeping into the windows, and Isabel rolled in a blanket on the floor. Some things never changed.

"Angel?" he whispered.

She was up in an instant, leaning over him, touching his forehead. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then stepped back. James felt something wither inside him at her obvious disgust.

"The medicines worked," he said. "I told you we didn't need to take the finger."

She stared at him solemnly, and he knew in that instant that it was too late. He lifted his heavily wrapped hand and stared at it.

"You took it anyway, didn't you, regardless of my orders."

She folded her arms across her chest. "You were going to die. I did what I thought best. Margaret said she needed to amputate both fingers."

"How could you do this to me?" he demanded, propping himself on one elbow although pinpricks of darkness hovered in his sight. "Were you jealous of my skill? Did you feel the need to be the best swordsman?"

He thought her face paled, but her eyes glittered with anger. She didn't answer. Some deep part of James knew he was behaving foolishly, that Isabel would hardly have his fingers cut off for no reason —and none of his servants would have allowed it.

He closed his eyes as the enormity of it all swept over him, chilling him. Not just one, but two

fingers. His reputation, his presence, were how he controlled his people and managed the king. Now he couldn't even lift a sword. He might as well be an old man drooling by the fire, for all the good he could do Bolton Casde.