A Knight's Vow

by Gayle Callen

  Two soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs, one coming towards him, the other going below in a hurry. A door halfway down the corridor opened, and the two sisters leaned out, their mouths agape. They let out stifled screams on seeing James, and he realized he was still completely naked.

  Sweeping into an elaborate bow, he said, "Ladies," and retreated back to his room. He quickly donned a shirt and sleeveless leather jerkin, and pulled boots over his bare legs.

  In the inner ward, he found Galway surrounded by milling troops. He was a fair-haired, burly man who usually fulfilled James's confidence. But not tonight.

  "Where is she?" James demanded, his breath a mist that hung in the cool autumn air.

  The captain shrugged. "I'm not sure, milord. The gatehouse is closed, so she hasn't fled."

  "Damn," James said softly, his gaze darting across the stables and barracks and smithy. "Are the buildings being searched?"

  "Just now, milord."

  They waited in silence, listening to the jingling of armed men, and the neighs of horses held saddled in readiness.

  "There!" someone called in a hoarse voice. "On the battlements!"

  Torchlight had ringed the high curtain wall as the search for the Black Angel went on. Now she stood

  looking down on them all, her black clothes and hair fading into darkness, her lower face a stark mask of triumph beneath the mask.

  James raced inside the gatehouse tower, and took the circling stairs two at a time. He came out on the battlements and found her perched on the curtain wall itself.

  "Angel!" he shouted, but once again she bent and disappeared. Sure enough, a rope hung down to the ground and she descended it as ably as a black spider. He turned back to the inner ward. "She's escaping! Open the gates and follow her!"

  When he came out of the tower, Galway was waiting for him. "Milord, the gates are jammed shut."

  "Batter them open!"

  "We tried, but she's done a fair job of it."

  James sighed, realizing that once again she would elude him. "Wake the steward for the keys and unlock the rear gate. Horses can't exit there, but a troop of soldiers can go clear the front gate." He glared at the offending portal. "Blasted woman."

  Chapter 4

  In the middle of the night, James dressed in a black tunic and slipped out the rear gate of his castle. He was through waiting for the Black Angel to be captured by his men. She had made this as personal as she could, so there must be something she held against him. It was time he found out, before she got it into her head to disappear with his money for good.

  He had a feeling the Black Angel kept a close watch, and would certainly come to him. The ground outside the curtain wall immediately sloped down a rocky crag to the river, so he hugged the wall until he reached the forest. He had no horse or heavy armor, only a light sword through a loop at his waist. Following a little-used path into the forest, he swept his cloak about him for warmth and walked.

  The night grew colder, the full moon lower, but James kept warm with determination. It was time to finish this obsession—for the both of them.

  He heard her coming before he saw her. Just the light snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, but he knew deep in his soul that it was the Black Angel, come to greet him. Anticipation burned through him, and a sudden fierce desire. Though she was a tall, muscular, unorthodox woman, the unknown had always secretly attracted him. He imagined her beneath him, and this time she, too, wore no clothes.

  "Angel," he whispered, his husky voice carrying softly. The rustlings ceased. "Angel."

  He saw the flash of moonlight on her sword, and with a dance to the side, he drew his own weapon and met hers, parrying it up and away. She let out a startled oath, and they turned to face one another, swords raised. The Angel wore only black, from her dark riotous hair and wild eyes, to her swirling cape and hose that molded to her wonderfully long legs. James forgot about his money, his humiliation. He only knew the exhilaration of facing her in battle. He couldn't remember a moment when his life had seemed so vibrant.

  She circled slowly in the small, natural clearing, never taking her eyes from him.

  James smiled. "What are you waiting for?"

  "I have waited a lifetime for this," she answered, her voice low, triumphant.

  "A lifetime? I have been so much a part of your thoughts, and I never knew?"

  He thrust forward and she whirled away, knocking aside his sword with her wrapped arm.

  "Tell me how you know me," he demanded.

  "You are legendary in my home," she said, and her teeth flashed in almost a grimace.

  "My daring exploits travel far."

  "No, only your incredibly evil deeds—yours and your family's."

  James's smile died as she came at him, sweeping at his knees. He jumped over her sword, then parried the arc she swung back towards his head.

  They both took a step away, breathing heavily.

  "Are you trying to kill me?" he asked in a soft voice. He didn't need her answer—she gave none. "Wasn't my money enough?"

  "It was only the beginning."

  The Angel battled hard, thrusting, slashing, until James realized she could beat him if he wasn't fighting at his best. His respect for her skills grew, along with his intense curiosity about her life. She was a dark shadow by moonlight, and it took all his concentration to match her stroke for stroke.

  "Where did you learn to fight like this?" he demanded between deep, gasping breaths. They stood apart, their swords a bit lower. He was thankful that at least she seemed as winded as he.

  "I learned it all for you," she whispered, and the wild light in her eyes stunned him.

  "What have I done to inspire such—dedication?" He wanted to say "hatred," but the word wouldn't leave his throat. He didn't want this magnificent woman to hate him.

  "Think back on your life, Bolton," she said harshly. "Your crimes are apparent."

  When she thrust towards him, she was wild with passion and some unnamed emotion. James jumped to one side, knocked away her sword, and pulled her against him. She fought him, kicking and hitting, until he caught her arms to her body in a hard hug.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, and when she didn't answer, he ripped the mask from her face. She was a stranger, as he had known she would be. In the moonlight, her eyes were dark, angiy pools, her mouth a grimace of anger.

  Isabel glared her hatred at him. She was beyond outrage, beyond fear. Everything her father had instilled in her, all her plans for revenge, for triumph, were spinning away. She was captured, taken over a sword. She had thought herself

  invulnerable, and her arrogance had destroyed her in the end. Or had she forgotten herself, forgotten her heritage, and allowed thoughts of her enemy's pleasing face to sway her? It was unthinkable. She could not give up, she couldn't let him win. She kicked and she fought and she scratched.

  Bolton gave her a bone-squeezing hug until she gasped for breath.

  "Enough," he whispered harshly into her ear. "I don't want to hurt you."

  "You already have," she hissed, "my entire life."

  She knew he was puzzled, that he hadn't a clue to her identity. It was unthinkable that he should be oblivious to all her family had suffered. But if she told him her story, spewed her hatred, her people would suffer, her castle would come under attack. And William—where was he? Perhaps he could escape.

  That hope was dashed when there was a sudden rustle in the trees. Three of Bolton's men stepped into the clearing, and the giant one had William in his grip.

  "My lord Bolton," the smug blond one said. "We found this man trying to escape."

  The smallest man removed William's hood. "He's a boy, milord."

  Isabel's squire bravely lifted his chin, but she could see the despair in his eyes as he looked at her. She hated herself for involving him, for not insisting he return to his own home.

  Bolton sighed, and she felt the expansion of his ribs against hers. "A woman and a boy. You've done well, my dea
r Angel. You should be proud of yourself."

  She remained silent.

  "Now where is my money?"

  The missing money was her last chance to thwart him. It was a large sum, and she knew it might cripple him financially to do without it. She narrowed her eyes at William and remained mute, hoping the boy would understand.

  "Angel, this is useless. I can easily retrieve the information from you. Don't force me to harm your pretty face."

  Surely he knew such threats wouldn't work. And calling her "pretty" only proved his deception. But William.. .she tightened her lips. She didn't know what she'd do if they harmed her squire.

  Isabel tensed, waiting for whatever torture Bolton deemed necessary.

  After a moment of weighty silence, he sighed and said to his men, "Does one of you have some rope?"

  The blond looked guilty. "Lord Bolton, your leave-taking was sudden, and we followed barely dressed."

  "But with our weapons, o' course," said the small man.

  "Of course," the first one echoed.

  Isabel couldn't see Bolton's face. She took a quick breath as he ran a hand around her waist. She arched away from him in outrage. Did he mean to do something unspeakable in front of his men?

  "Calm down, Angel," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. "I need something to tie you and the boy up with, and I assume you have a handy black ribbon about you. Care to tell me where?"

  He barely waited before responding. "Very well."

  While she was held immobile at the little man's sword point, Bolton ran his hands down her hips. She felt her face drain of blood. Did he treat his betrothed this way? Had he forced his body on her before his own men? She saw William's eyes go wild as he fought the grip of the giant.

  When Bolton found nothing at her hips, he slid his hands up her torso. He stopped just below her breasts. Isabel felt as tight as a taut bow string, waiting in anguish for what her arrogance had brought her to.

  "No!" William suddenly shouted.

  "Cease!" she ordered the boy.

  But her squire ignored her, breathing in ragged gasps. "She carries the ribbons in a special pouch sewn into the skirt of her doublet. Get your hands off her!"

  To her surprise, Bolton did so immediately. "Thank you, boy. I don't enjoy forcing women to reveal their secrets."

  She almost snorted at that one. She stood still as he lifted her doublet and removed the trailing length of ribbons. He handed one over to the dark giant, who wordlessly tied William's hands. Her squire turned anguished eyes on her. She gave him as gentle a smile as she was capable of, then submitted woodenly while the earl tied her hands before her. When Bolton was through, he looked up and their gazes met and held.

  "This isn't necessary," he said for her ears alone. "I don't wish to humiliate you as you've done to me. Just tell me where the money is."

  Isabel narrowed her gaze, allowing it to casually roam down his body and back up. "Your humiliation has only just begun."

  Chapter 5

  As dawn lightened the forest and a soft rain began to fall, James trudged beside the Black Angel, holding her elbow tightly. She was exhausted, he could tell, but held herself proudly. Their swordfight had drained even him.

  He found himself admiring her, regardless of the money. She'd given up a normal life for her revenge —if only he knew what it was he had done.

  He halted their little band at the edge of the forest and stared up at the castle, its towers pointing to the overcast sky. It would soon be over. He had captured the thieves, proving he could best a woman. He looked down into her face. The victory felt hollow. Dark smudges rimmed her eyes below the paint, and across one cheek there was a smear of blood that ran in the rain. But she did not look

  defeated. She met his gaze with a calm serenity he found unnerving.

  What would his people think, when he and his prisoners trooped into the castle this disheveled? Did it look like he had physically beaten a mere woman? James stepped in front of her and put both hands on her face. She stiffened, her eyes wide.

  "Peace," he murmured. "I'm not going to hurt you." He tilted her head, looking at her cheek. The wound was only a scratch. She stood frozen as he wiped it gently with his fingers. A wet rag appeared in Wiggins's hand.

  "My lord?" the soldier said.

  Wordlessly James took it, not even bothering to wonder any more how Wiggins always managed to anticipate his needs. He wiped as much dirt from the Angel's face as possible. When he was finished, he didn't let her go immediately. He searched her mysterious eyes, then glanced at her lips. The urge to kiss her was powerful, overwhelming, primitive. How many of her lovers had succumbed? He quickly stepped away before he could act on such foolishness. His men-at-arms all discreetly managed to be looking elsewhere.

  The castle gates were already open, and villagers streamed into the inner ward on their daily business. But all commotion ceased when James and his

  unusual companions approached the gatehouse. Smiles died, replaced by sullen stares and curious whispers. James felt a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades. He held the Angel's elbow tighter in his grip, wondering how she felt.

  She held her head erect, her face proud. She had high, regal cheekbones, and the dark complexion of one who spent most of her life outdoors. The mystery of her ate at his insides. She carried herself like the nobility, not a village wench. Who was she? Did the humiliation of her capture not touch her? Never before had he met someone who seemed to care so little about what others thought.

  They walked beneath the dark tunnel of the gatehouse and entered the inner ward. Word of their arrival must have already spread, because it seemed as if every resident of the castle stood silent and watchful in the rain. The blacksmith's hammer was still and the dogs didn't bark. Even his three men- at-arms must have felt something odd, because they closed in around James and the prisoners.

  But the Angel did not cower or look fearful. She strode beside him boldly, her steps matching his. A low hiss swept the crowd and someone booed. My God, he had never thought his people were upset that he had been humiliated. He felt strangely

  grateful. Maybe his little corner of the world wouldn't change much after all.

  Someone tossed a rotten turnip, and it hit the boy in the chest and dropped to his feet.

  James stepped forward, thrusting the Angel into Wiggins's hands. "That is enough!" he shouted. "This woman is my prisoner, and she will be treated fairly. Go back to your work."

  His people began to move, sending dark looks over their shoulders at the Black Angel, but the grumbling had ceased. James again took the Angel's elbow. She gazed straight ahead.

  The trap door over Isabel's head closed with a loud thump, and she was alone in the dungeon. Daylight stole through an arrow loop in one rock wall, for which she was grateful. Bolton Castle's dungeon had been cut out of the rock cliff overlooking the river, and could only be entered by being lowered on a rope in one of the corner towers. William was in the next dungeon, separated from her by roughly carved walls.

  Isabel peered out the slim window, watching the swift flowing river and the expanse of sheep-dotted countryside, but nothing could keep her mind from dark thoughts. Once as a child, she'd been trapped

  for two days in her father's dungeon, and by the time anyone had bothered to look for her, her throat had been raw from screams of terror. She'd had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and she'd almost died. Sometimes, in her dreams, she relived the feeling of being swallowed by blackness.

  Now she desperately tried to memorize the countryside, so she could picture it tonight when darkness crushed her. If only Bolton had known how well he'd chosen when he'd confined her here. How long would she last? How long before the darkness and the pressure of the rock walls proved too much for her? She had to be strong. She was a grown woman now, not a little girl. Bolton would not abandon her here—he needed her information, although of course she wouldn't give it to him. She'd go to her grave first. But why wasn't he ques
tioning her? Why had he defended her to his own people?

  Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw his face, inches from hers, eyes wide and a deep, vivid blue. His lips had been thin, yet formed well, ripe for an amusing smile. He had held her firmly, but never hurt her, not even when she lay beneath him. She had not been able to still her heart, to bury the excitement his body had sinfully brought to her. Why had her flesh heated with the touch of his naked skin? Why did the thought of his erection, pressed hard against her hips, bring warm awareness low in her stomach? She must be a wanton, to have such a man, now her captor, linger in her memories.

  Isabel knelt on the rickety pallet, leaned against the slitted window, and tried to pretend she was outside. When her dinner was lowered down in a bucket, she ate the bread and water voraciously. Still Bolton did not come.

  Daylight faded, and she wished she could crawl into the window to be closer to the outdoors. Her supper arrived and she ate it. Still Bolton did not come. What did he plan?

  Darkness settled in and she felt buried in a rock tomb. She sat on the pallet, knees drawn up to her chest, the open arrow loop above her. The breeze was cold, but it was the only thing she had of the outdoors. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried not to imagine the spiders hanging over her, the rats creeping to her pallet. Could they climb up? When she'd been trapped as a child, she'd become too disoriented to fend off the rats.

  Isabel decided to remain awake. She hadn't slept much the night before, but she'd been fed decently enough today. Her strength should hold out. She got up to pace.

  When the slitted window began to show gray light, Isabel watched it with dull exhaustion. She had survived the night. She refused to think about the following night and what she would do to stay awake. Would Bolton come today to question her? She amused herself by imagining all the ways she could torment him.

  No food came to break her fast. Isabel paced beneath the trap door. Should she remind them that she was here? No, she thought, clasping her hands behind her back and counting out for the hundredth time the length of the floor. When the trap door finally opened, the rope was dropped in without a bucket. Isabel stared at it in despair.