A Knight's Vow (32 page)

In their bedchamber, James caught her to him and kissed her with all the passion he'd been withholding for weeks. She pushed him back on the bed and climbed on top.

"May we do that again?" she asked, spreading his arms wide and holding him down.

James groaned. "Please."

James awoke, still feeling exhausted and sore. He lifted his head, saw Isabel nowhere in sight, then collapsed back on the cushion wearing what was undoubtedly a silly grin. He felt wonderful.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open. Again he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. Isabel stood over him, dressed all in black, a sword belted at her hip, her arms crossed over her

chest. She surveyed him casually and he was aroused in an instant.

"Coming back to bed?" he asked.

"Soon. I have something to read to you first."

He saw a piece of parchment in one of her hands. She unrolled the letter and held it to the light. Very slowly, she began to read it aloud, and James was astonished by how fast she had taken to reading.

Then he began to listen to the words, and his stomach clenched with dread. When she was done, she lowered the parchment, put her hand on her sword hilt, and just looked at him.

"James, does this letter from the king mean that he has taken my family tide away?"

Looking into her wide eyes, James saw the ruination of everything he'd finally achieved— Isabel's love. He watched her face, waiting for her to scream, throw the letter into the fire, anything but look at him so calmly. That disturbed him more than any woman's tantrums.

"Yes, Angel, King Henry has decided to give the earldom—but not your lands or property—to a knight who has served him well." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He couldn't let her be hurt again, as she'd been hurt her whole life. "Put away your sword, Isabel. I will write to

the king. I'll travel to London and protest. He cannot do this to you. I'll—"

"You would do this for me?" she interrupted, as the parchment rolled to the floor. "Risk your lands, your wealth, in a court battle against the king?"

"Of course I would! I wrote him when we married, asking for permission for your family title to be inherited by our child. And this is obviously his answer. I'll—"

"Stop!" she said, taking his shoulders and giving him a little shake. "I need to know something."

"Anything."

"Could you ever love me for what I am, not some ideal woman you've had pictured your whole life?"

"I thought I proved that last night." James wanted to touch her, but he held back. "I love you," he whispered, and felt the words deeply.

Isabel closed her eyes and sighed. He tried to hold her, but she put a hand on his chest. "I need to know that this is more than just.. .mating."

He smiled and cupped her cheek with his hand. "I love you."

"Why?"

"Precisely because you are like no other woman I've ever met. You're strong in your own right. And you don't care about my title—or my hand. You are

the first woman who's ever seen anything else in me besides what's on the surface."

She gazed deeply into his eyes, before allowing a small smile to show.

"Did I pass your test of honor, wife? Can I go to London on your behalf?"

"No."

"No? You're not going, Isabel. The king would

"Don't you understand? It isn't important anymore."

He stared at her in amazement. "But Isabel—"

She smiled. "We can't win against the king. All that matters, all that touches me deeply, is your offer to risk all that is important to you, your security, your title, just for me."

"Isabel, I love you. You are the most important thing to me now."

"Then that's all I need," she said, leaning into his embrace. "My life is more than I ever imagined it could be, and I have that title—and an old feud—to thank for it." She lifted her head up, then glanced down his body. "You're not wearing anything."

He grinned and nodded towards the bed.

"Are you sure you're not too tired?" she asked, eyes narrowed in speculation.

"My bruises will heal."

Before supper, Isabel insisted she needed a moment of privacy, and sent James down to the great hall with instructions to send Annie up.

He awaited his wife before the fire, listening to William talk, but feeling a bit too happy to think about jousting, or whatever subject the boy was chattering about. A moment later, William's mouth sagged open and his eyes grew wide in astonishment.

James turned to follow his gaze, and he too felt like someone had punched the air from his lungs. Every sound in the great hall died away until just the gurgling of a babe could be heard.

Isabel was slowly coming down the stairs looking as regal as a princess, dressed in wine-colored silk that clung to her breasts and fell in rich, full folds to her feet. Her tight sleeves were embroidered with gold threads and pearls, and the design was echoed across her bodice and along the hem of the skirt. She wore no headdress, just a simple upsweep of her shining hair, almost blue-black in the flickering candlelight.

Around her neck, she wore his mother's gold and pearl chains. And tied to the chain was her father's ring.

The emotions coursing through James's chest had nothing to do with arrogant satisfaction. He ached to have her for all time, knowing that she had dressed like this just to please him.

Then he saw the wickedly sharp dagger in the jeweled girdle at her waist, and he wanted to laugh until tears of gratitude poured down his cheeks. Every day with Isabel was an adventure, and he so wanted to be worthy of a lifetime of such days.

As she came near, he slowly rose to his feet, then dropped to one knee and reached for her hand. He kissed her knuckles, then turned it over to press his lips into her palm.

He raised his head. "I love you," he said in a husky voice. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." She leaned over him. "But I want you to know, this is only for special occasions."

His shoulders shook with laughter as he got to his feet. He turned and saw Annie at the top of the stairs, wiping away tears. He blew her a kiss, then presented his arm to his wife, leading her to a cushioned chair before the fire.

"A song!" someone called from the crowd.

Mort began to pluck the lute strings. "Until ye're ready, milord, I can play."

James nodded, listening to Mort's strumming. He recognized an old song of love and beauty. He sang

praise to her eyes, which rivaled the mysteries of the night, to her hair, in which a man could gladly lose himself. But there were no lyrics written to do justice to the spirit that was Isabel.

Epilogue

Isabel Markham was a most unusual wife, and her approach to childbearing bore that out. Through her pregnancy, James had to keep a constant watch on her, lest she remain too long at the tiltyard, giving advice, seeing to the squires' training—and forgetting to eat. She would not rest in the afternoon, as the midwife told her she ought.

When the actual labor began, only James seemed to be nervous. Isabel claimed not even to be in much pain. He was amazed, exasperated, sick with love, and paralyzed with fear that something would happen, and he would lose his Angel, the only reason he could imagine for living.

When Isabel finally agreed with the midwife that the babe was about to be born, she ascended to their

bedchamber. James walked beside her, arm about her shoulders, trying to help.

"Honestly, James, I am perfectly capable of walking," she said, looking amused.

Less than two hours later, with only a minimum of fuss, Isabel gave birth to an overly long, squalling girl. James couldn't take his eyes off his daughter as she lay in her cradle, flinging her arms, looking just like her mother.

James lifted little Elizabeth, the descendant of both their families, the beginning of a new peace. He didn't bother to count her fingers and toes, because she would be loved, no matter what she looked like.