A Knight's Vow (30 page)

He walked over and knelt down beside the stream. Isabel still crouched there, her hand dangling in the water, her eyes staring unseeing across the valley. Her profile was proud, remote, so very beautiful. He didn't know what to do to reach her, to make things better between them. He looked down into the water in confusion.

"Are you thirsty?" she asked softly.

He looked up to tell her he could certainly drink with one hand, but she already held her cupped hands before him, dripping water sparkling in the sun. Part of him wanted to say he didn't need her help, but that lasted but a moment. On his knees before her, he took her cupped hands between his

and bent to drink. When the water was gone, he pressed his mouth into her palms for every last drop.

She was trembling when he finally looked up. He saw the same wonder in her eyes as when he'd given her the first pleasure she'd ever had.

Then he realized he was touching her skin with his bandaged, mutilated hand, and he pulled away and stood up.

"Let us return to my brother's," he said, not looking at her. "Tonight is to be a special feast."

He mounted his horse, knowing she would follow.

That evening, the whole countryside gathered to celebrate the birth of the babe. The hall fair burst with people. The smells of delicious food filled the air.

Isabel stood alone, watching as the tables were taken down and the minstrels began to play. Soon laughing couples were dancing through the rushes, dodging children and dogs.

James stood beside his brother, talking, gesturing with his left hand only, although Isabel could not hear the words. He hand always been astoundingly handsome to her, but she saw deeper now, and was still drawn to him. She loved him. Why was she such a coward? Why couldn't she admit it aloud?

Margery suddenly stopped beside her, took up Isabel's stance, and looked out over the room. "What do you see from here?" she asked.

"Many people," Isabel answered warily. She remembered again how worried Margery was about her own wedding, and Isabel realized she couldn't blame the girl. Isabel knew first-hand what it was like to be forced into a loveless marriage.

"Do you know how to dance?" Margery asked.

Isabel wanted to laugh. "No."

"My brother wants to dance with you."

"He does not," she quickly answered.

Margery smiled. "I am quite positive. I'll tell him you would like to learn how to dance."

"No!" Isabel whispered furiously, but Margery was already off. Isabel whirled and leaned against the mantel, breathing heavily.

Across the hall, James cupped his left hand about his ear. "Margery, what did you say?"

She rolled her eyes and repeated, "Isabel wants to dance with you."

"She does not."

"She wants you to teach her."

James didn't believe his sister's ploy for a moment. He glanced at Isabel, who stood alone

before the hearth, her back to him. Oh, she seemed ready to dance.

He looked down at Margery. "Why are you so eager tonight, sweetheart?"

"I am not eager. Your wife just looks.. .sad."

James had a sudden memory of William using those exact words. They made him uneasy.

"Are you going to dance with her, or not?"

His smile faded and he lowered his voice. "Margery, look at my hand. I cannot dance."

"Then the two of you are well-matched this evening."

She gave him a push and James found himself ducking around circles of dancers holding hands. He couldn't do this anymore. He should just have another tankard of ale. But Isabel leaned against the mantel and stared into the fire as if she were all alone in the room.

He stopped behind her. "Isabel?"

"I did not send your sister to you," she said, not looking up.

"I know."

She lifted her head. "Then why did you come?"

He looked down into her dark eyes, and the bravado was gone. She looked strangely vulnerable, uncertain—and very appealing.

"I thought you'd like to learn how to dance."

She hesitated. "No."

James put his hand on her waist and felt her stiffen. He leaned closer to her. "I don't bite— much." He said the last against the wisps of curls at her temple and felt her shiver. He smiled. He still had talents—even one-handed.

"Let me put my arms around you and we can move to the music. The rest of the dancing—well, I can't hold hands."

"When the bandages come off—"

"No."

"Stubborn?" she asked, a small smile on her face. "I don't bite."

He raised his eyebrows and leaned in closer, waiting.

Isabel rolled her eyes."—much."

"Thank you."

James slid his arms around her waist, and began to drag her into the center of the rush-covered floor. They knocked people off-step right and left, split open circles of dancers, but James just laughed, and started spinning his wife about. She reeled almost drunkenly, and once nearly sent the two of them to the floor, but she grasped it eventually. Soon she was leading him about. It took James a moment to realize that she was deliberately aiming for knots of dancers and breaking them apart.

And then she laughed. Her voice became sweet and girlish with merriment, and it struck his heart painfully. He'd always thought her laugh would be gruff and masculine, but this was too hard to resist. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, to feel her body against his. She didn't seem to be disgusted by his touch, and it made him more hopeful than he'd been in a long time.

In their bedchamber that night, James lounged in a chair before the fire and watched his wife. Isabel deliberately avoided looking at him as she removed all of her clothes but her shirt. He thought for a moment that there was the slightest hesitation in her manner, that maybe her fingers had almost touched the laces on her shirt. James's groin came to life with the painfulness of forced celibacy as he watched her climb into bed. She pulled the blankets up but didn't turn away from him. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling.

With a stunned feeling of shock, James realized his wife might possibly accept his attentions this night. He didn't bother examining the reasons closely, because he couldn't touch her. He gripped the tankard of ale with his left hand and drained it. He glared at his right hand. In his mind, he tried to

imagine touching her bare flesh with his mutilation. Even the image twisted his gut with nausea. Their only chance at a half-decent marriage had been destroyed. It was too late.

Chapter 28

Isabel and James decided to leave at dawn's first light. Isabel had fallen asleep last evening, almost hoping he would come to her, show her the same kindness and pleasure he had before. Instead he'd sat before the fire in a morose mood she couldn't interpret. Had he hated dancing with her? Was he finally finished with their marriage, tired of a woman who didn't know how to be a woman?

The three-day journey was cold and wet. Almost every evening, James lay down behind her to share his warmth, yet he never attempted to touch her intimately, and didn't speak more than necessary during the day.

She missed his sarcastic banter, and his charming manner. She yearned for some kind of peace between them, but she was unsure how to go about it.

When they arrived at Bolton Casde, it was like he visibly donned another facade for his people, and he behaved as he always had. But Isabel saw beneath the edges of the mask now. He hid his emotions from the world just as she did—only he used his garments, his tide, and his handsome face to hide, whereas she had always used her weapons and her anger.

In their bedchamber early that first evening home, Isabel found Annie bouncing Mary on her knee. The servant beamed a smile of welcome, then promptly handed the baby to Isabel.

Why were women all of a sudden making her hold babies? Isabel wondered. She wanted to resent it, but Mary clutched fistfuls of Isabel's tunic in her pudgy fists and grinned her own toothless welcome. Isabel couldn't help but soften.

Annie suddenly said, "My lady, I forgot something in the kitchens. I'll return in but a moment."

"Annie—"

But she was gone, and Isabel could have sworn she'd been skipping. She stared at Mary, who started playing with the laces on her shirt. With a sigh, Isabel sat down before the fire and held the baby in her lap. Time seemed to stretch on forever. The baby grew bored, then restless, and when the

whimpering started, Isabel panicked. She tried to jostle the baby as she'd seen Annie do, but soon Mary was emitting angry screams. Isabel hadn't thought something so little could be so loud.

The door opened and Isabel looked up in relief, but saw James instead of Annie.

Her spirits plummeted. "Did you see Annie in the hall?" she asked.

"No," he said, a slow smile crossing his face.

She tried to pretend she was unaffected by his handsomeness, that she didn't feel an ache of desolation at what she might never have.

But Mary chose that moment to empty the contents of her stomach all over Isabel, who gaped in horror.

James started to laugh, falling back against the door.

"This is your tunic!" Isabel said, picking up Mary before the baby could soil herself further. "Do something!"

Mary started to cry, and Isabel regretted her loud, angry words. It wasn't the baby's fault.

"Hush, Mary, your mama will be here soon." She wanted to comfort her, but she was at a loss. "James!"

He came forward and took the baby, a smile still curving his lips. As Isabel began to undress, she

watched James use a cloth from a pile by the tub to wipe Mary's face. He spoke softly to her, comforting her, and soon the baby was all smiles. Isabel sighed, reminded once again how inadequate she was as a wife.

She turned her back to slip on a clean shirt. When she looked at James again, the baby had reached for his bandaged hand, and he quickly pulled it away.

"I don't understand you," Isabel said with exasperation. "The baby doesn't care about your hand, I certainly don't, yet you are acting as if your world has ended."

His face paled, then darkened as he scowled at her.

"James, you lost two fingers. You'll do fine without them. You could have lost a foot—or your life. How do you think I'd feel then?"

For a moment, she thought he would yell or walk out of the room. He finally lifted his head and gazed at her, asking softly, "How would you feel?"

She was taken aback by his question, by the soft yearning in his eyes. This wasn't like James. "I—I don't know."

At that moment, Annie came into the room. "My lady, I've brought hot spiced wine—" Then her gaze took in the scene and she stumbled to a halt. "My lord—" she began, but James stopped her.

"It was nothing, Annie, just an accident. Would you mind taking Mary to bed? We won't need you tonight."

Isabel remained silent as Annie collected Mary and all the soiled garments and linens. The maid gave Isabel a worried, apologetic look, but Isabel just smiled and shook her head.

"Have a good evening, Annie."

When they were alone, she briskly went to a trunk to find something to wear.

"Isabel, come here," James said in a low voice. "I need to finish talking to you."

"I said all I needed to."

"I did not. Please come here."

He'd even asked politely, which was certainly a different side of James. With a sigh she went and stood awkwardly before him. His hands were resting loosely on his stomach, and he leaned his head back against the chair to look up at her.

"So how would you feel if I died?" he asked in a serious, calm voice.

She didn't know what to say.

"You are happy I didn't die? A few weeks ago, you would have been thrilled to run a sword through me yourself."

She shrugged and looked away. She tried to remember what it felt like to hate him, to want him

dead, but she was a different person now and saw James as he was, not through the filter of another's eyes. He cared about his people and his lands, and had the strength to go against his whole family for what he believed in. She could have a good life with him—if only he could accept her for what she was.

It would never happen. The love inside her burst for release, but she was so afraid of his reaction, of his rejection. She felt tears building in her eyes, and to her humiliation, one slipped down her cheek.

"Isabel?" he whispered her name.

She felt his hands on her waist as he pulled her down into his lap. She struggled, but he held her still, his arms around her.

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying," she answered sternly, trying to rub her hand across her face. He stopped her, brushing away the tear with his thumb.

James pressed his lips to the same spot on her cheek and she shuddered, feeling his warmth all around her.

"Please don't," she said forlornly.

He pressed his face against her neck and just held her. "Why can't I touch you?"

"Because—because you don't mean it," she cried. "You don't care how much this hurts me."

James held still, breathing in the scent that was only Isabel, wishing he knew the right words. He was afraid to hope, afraid to find the truth. To hear her say that she didn't care about his hand—the relief was overwhelming and he found himself incredibly grateful.

"I mean it," he whispered, pressing kisses on her neck and jaw. "I want to touch you, to make love to you."

She shook her head and he saw another tear roll down her cheek.

"Please, Angel, I don't want to hurt you. If my hand doesn't bother you, then what does?"

"I'll never be like the other women you've wanted as your wife," she whispered, trembling. "I don't know what to do or say or—"

James hushed her and started to rock slowly, cradling her in his arms. She took a shuddery breath, sighed, then slowly relaxed against him. James was stunned to realize that most of his problems with Isabel were not about their families or his hand, but her own insecurities as a woman. And he'd done his damnedest to make her feel worse. It shamed him down to his soul, how he'd made his naive wife suffer.

With sudden clarity, he realized he'd fallen in love with her sometime between their first sword