A Knight's Vow (8 page)

"A gift from a lover?" he demanded.

She straightened, still proud, and her hair fell in cascading curls over her body, hiding and revealing it. Her voice cold, she said, ""lis my father's."

"Well your father would want you to bathe for your husband."

"Not for a Bolton," she said.

Before she could protest, he picked her up and dropped her in the tub. Water sloshed all over the rug and wooden floor. She came up gasping and coughing.

"Doesn't that feel better, my dear Angel? There's a cloth on the table beside you. Now scrub."

James turned his back before he could watch the water drip down her breasts. Just holding her for a brief moment had made his blood thicken and his

pulse pound. What was wrong with him? Maybe if he drank enough, he could forget this whole night. He drained the last of the ale and poured another. When he felt under control, he turned and sprawled in a chair before the hearth, facing her. She sat stiffly in the tub, the cloth in her hand.

Not looking at him, she soaped the cloth and began to wash her arms. James swallowed and deliberately looked into the fire.

"All right, wife, let us play a game of 'what if.' Let us pretend you had killed me."

She remained silent, but he sensed her tension.

"What if you had succeeded in your revenge, not against something I personally had done, but against sins that my ancestors supposedly had committed. What were you planning to do after that?"

Isabel kept her gaze on the water, soaping her other arm even more slowly. She was flushed and perspiring from the heat of the water and the familiarity of a Bolton. She'd been forced into marriage, ignored at the wedding supper, dragged upstairs, and dropped into a scalding tub. She couldn't even pretend to herself that she hated it. She'd only ever bathed in a river, and had not known water could feel so luxurious and soothing. She leaned back against the padding and closed her eyes, trying to forget her humiliating day,

desperately trying to forget the coming wedding night. A shiver of fear and something more shot through her again as she remembered Bolton advancing on her, putting his hand between her breasts and stripping her of the towel.

But something had stopped her from hitting him, or even running. His blue eyes had glowed as they looked down her body, with a dark heat Isabel had only understood in some deep, buried part of her soul. She remembered his hot kiss. After all she had done to him, humiliated him, wounded him, and now married him, he desired her. Or would any woman do? After all, he had raped his betrothed.

His husky voice startled her. "Are you going to answer my question?"

Isabel sank lower in the tub. "I have forgotten it."

A white smile glowed in his dark face and he took another sip of ale. "You have not forgotten it. You merely don't wish to answer. So tell me, Your Ladyship, after you impaled me on your sword, and the last bit of my blood drained to the ground, what would have been your next move?"

She looked up from beneath her hair. "How do you know I still do not plan it?"

"True," he murmured.

She thought his voice sounded the slightest bit slurred. Her uneasiness crept higher. She sank

lower, until her chin touched the water and her knees stuck straight up.

"Answer me."

His whisper had a sudden power behind it and she gave his question consideration. After an endless moment, listening to water dripping and her husband's breathing, she said, "I had nothing planned."

Bolton lowered his tankard and rested it atop his knee. "Nothing?"

"Nothing. I assumed I would fight my way out of whatever situation I found myself in, and escape."

"Escape to where?" he mused, his eyes narrowing as they studied her.

She felt the trail of his gaze across her wet skin almost as if he touched her.

When she didn't answer, he continued to speak. "You must have realized you could not return home."

"My people would welcome me with open arms for killing you."

He lifted one eyebrow, a mocking smile tilting his lips. "Well, no, they could not have done that. They could not risk angering the king, who would be quite upset by my senseless death. In fact, your people would have been lucky if the king did not take his revenge out on them."

"Why would he?" Isabel demanded, straightening. She tried not to tremble when his gaze dropped from her face to the tops of her breasts. "My people have done nothing to King Henry."

"As I have done nothing to you." His words dripped with triumphant sarcasm, but she saw the flaw.

"You think you have done nothing?" she said, feeling righteous anger surge to replace her fear. "Every one of your ancestors conspired against mine—your father savagely wounded mine! It is only a matter of time before you show your true Bolton heritage. After all, look what you did to your betrothed."

"And what do you think I did?" he demanded, coming to his feet to tower over the tub.

Anger seemed to war on his face with bewilderment. He must be wondering how she discovered his dark secret.

"That is between you and your priest," she said calmly, taking up the cloth to begin soaping her legs.

"According to you, it is between you and me."

Bolton leaned over the tub, resting his hands on either side of her. Isabel refused to look up. Though her hands shook, she continued to wash.

"Why is that, Angel? What made you judge and executioner?"

"My family's pain!" she cried, and stared up at him with all the hatred she could muster. But it wasn't much. Why now should she doubt her father's words? She couldn't get past these new feelings rising to take hatred's place, this awareness of him as a man and not a villainous monster. His body filled her gaze, the cool scent of him overpowering the soap. His breath bathed her face, and his eyes caressed her with a searing heat. He was her husband now.

Taking a shaky breath, Isabel looked away and continued to wash. The silence stretched on forever, tense and uneasy. Still he hovered above her. She buried her face in the soapy cloth, scrubbed her neck, but she was beginning to run out of unintimate places to wash. She finally hesitated, staring at the cloth.

"Wash your hair," he murmured.

With a shock she realized he leaned even nearer. She had a sick feeling if she didn't continue, Bolton would be only too happy to finish for her. Holding her breath, she quickly dipped her head back in the tub, soaking the heavy mass until it was plastered to her body. Stinging water blurred her vision as she

opened her eyes. If she sat up any higher, she'd bump her head against his face.

Trying to ignore him, she lathered her hands with the soft soap and quickly ran them through her hair. She heard Bolton take a deep breath.

"You're not finished yet," he said, his hoarse voice making him sound like a stranger. "You've just spent five days in a dungeon. Your hair is like a rat's nest."

She gritted her teeth. "This is a perfectly acceptable hair-washing."

After pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, he thrust his hands in the tub by her feet.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice sounding higher than normal.

Without a word, he took the soap away from her and rubbed it all over his big hands. She stared in shock, half-mesmerized, half-appalled.

"What do you think you're—"

Bolton grabbed her head between his hands and began to scrub.

Isabel desperately tried to push him away, but without rising from the tub, all she could give him was a good soaking—not to mention yanking on her own hair.

"Leave me be! I can finish!"

"You've not had much practice washing, have you?" he said dryly.

She grasped his wrists and pulled.

"Angel, the more you resist, the more painful this will be."

Stamping down her burning humiliation, she finally let go of his arms and submitted. Oh, she would make him suffer endlessly for this. He scrubbed hard, shaking her whole body. She thought it was all over when he stopped, but from behind her he poured a bucket of steaming water over her head.

Isabel cried out her outrage.

"Oh sit still. I cannot believe a great warrior woman such as yourself has trouble with a simple bath. Now let's soap your hair again."

Two more times he made Isabel submit to a scalp-mauling. She hoped she had hair left. Finally he stepped away and she sat huddled in the water, shivering.

"Your bath is getting cold, my lady. I suggest you wash the more private areas you avoided earlier."

He turned to pour himself another tankard of ale, seeming to take more time than was necessary. Isabel frantically scrubbed the rest of her body.

"I am finished," she said loudly.

Bolton turned around, swallowing a large amount of ale before speaking. He peered into the tub and sighed. "Angel, your hair-washing seems to have left the water considerably.. .soapy."

"I am clean, am I not?"

"But not rinsed." He rubbed his face almost tiredly. "I'll fill another bucket."

She frowned, watching him suspiciously as he opened up the pipes and allowed steaming water to flow. "I don't understand."

He seemed to square his shoulders before turning to face her. "Stand up, Angel, and I'll rinse you."

Her eyes widened in comprehension and she instantly sank lower.

Bolton shook his head. "Angel, I have seen a hundred women naked, including yourself. You are my wife. Stand up."

She shivered, realizing forlornly that she could not remain in the rapidly cooling water forever. Let him try to touch her, and he would find her foot directly between his legs. Very slowly she rose, refusing to cower, refusing to submit. Let him look his fill.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She was caught in his gaze as it swept her body, felt it like fingers caressing her skin. Never before had she shown herself like this to a man. It made her feel

vulnerable, exposed—and something else, something warm like a summertime river moving through her blood.

Then Bolton lifted the bucket and dumped it over her head. The hot water cascaded down her body, leaving scarlet trails of heat. As Isabel wiped the water from her face, she felt the rush of air past her skin. She opened her eyes in shock to find Bolton standing against the edge of the tub, his arms reaching around her. Before she could even fight, he looped a towel around her body, then gripped the ends snugly in his fists. She was held immobile by the heat of him, feeling the backs of his hands between her breasts. His gaze held her, burned deep inside her in a way that was frightening— fascinating.

Isabel put her hands against his chest and pushed. He didn't even resist, just stepped away and let go of the towel. She caught it and wrapped it around herself. Once again, it did not quite wrap enough. And her hair still streamed wetness. He offered another towel and she stared at it.

"For your hair," he said, impatience vibrating through his voice.

She held her towel with one hand, and clumsily tried to dry her hair with the other, all while staring at her husband. For the first time she could see

shadows beneath his eyes, and the stubble of a dark beard. If he was so tired, why couldn't he just leave her alone—or fall on her and be done with it. This terrible, waiting tension was rattling her more than an impending sword fight.

He suddenly cursed, ripped the towel from her hand and began to scrub her hair with it. It was all she could do to stay covered and upright. She shoved him hard and he reeled back.

"God damnit, woman, you are worse than a child in your ignorance!" he said. "You're a nobleman's daughter and you couldn't learn the basics of cleanliness?"

Isabel wanted to shout that there was no one who cared, but she held her tongue. Showing such vulnerability would only make things worse.

Bolton reached into a chest and threw a linen shirt at her. "Wear this. I'm not waking the household to find you nightclothes. There's a brush on that table. Use it, for heaven's sake."

Then he poured himself more ale, sank down in a chair before the fire, and stared into it. While he wasn't looking, Isabel dropped the towel and pulled on his shirt, so fine she could see the shadows of her body through the cloth. She found the brush on a table beside the bed. She sat on a hard wooden chair in the corner, keeping the bed between them, and

began to work the snarls from her hair. But she couldn't keep her hands from shaking. The night was far from over.

Chapter 9

As the ale worked its way through his system, James prayed for drunkenness, but his prayers weren't being answered. Instead he stared into the fire and seethed at his stupidity. He'd given her clothes to wear! It was his wedding night, and he'd just told his wife to cover herself. He should be taking what God and king had just granted him.

Instead, he was miserably aroused, and couldn't bear to look at his wife. For all her admitted lack of virginity, she'd obviously had little experience kissing. Not that she hadn't caught on quickly. The taste and feel of her, all hot and soft and forbidden, flashed in his mind, increasing his pain. What kind of love-making had she known? Had she been used by men, with no regard for her pleasure? She was frightened of his touch, for God's sake, she who had gladly risked her life fighting him.

James glanced at her from beneath his lowered eyelids. She sat perched awkwardly on a chair in the corner, motionless, waiting. She held the brush clenched in her white-knuckled fists. Moisture from her hair slowly traced paths down the shirt.

"Come here, Isabel."

She raised her cold gaze to him, but she didn't rise.

He sighed. "The fire is warm. Come dry your hair before it."

James thought she might protest, but she exhaled loudly and stood. She walked towards him with easy grace in her purposeful strides. No mincing, ladylike steps for the Black Angel. She stopped before the hearth and looked at him.

He couldn't help the small smile that curved his lips. "Kneel down, Angel. Brush your hair out near the fire's warmth."

Without comment, she did as he asked. James immediately realized his error. The shirt was almost transparent in the light, and the dampness from her hair caused it to cling. He could see her dark nipples, and the darker area between her thighs. He shifted uncomfortably, wanting to look away, but unable to.