by Gayle Callen
"Angel?"
It was Bolton's voice, sounding pleasantly refreshed. She gritted her teeth and refused to answer him.
"Would you care to come up and eat with me?"
She considered rejecting his invitation—after all, he only meant to pester her with questions she'd refuse to answer. But then her stomach growled. She stepped into the loop at the end of the rope and held on while they pulled her up.
Isabel squinted her eyes against the sun streaming in the open door. A small table was placed to one side of the tower with two chairs facing each other.
Bolton occupied one. He was immaculately clean and she was layered in the grime of the dungeon. She had used some of her drinking water to wash the paint from her face, but that had probably smeared the dirt in streaks.
Bolton waved away the guards, who immediately left them alone. Isabel looked at the other trap door.
"Your partner has already been fed," Bolton said. "Please join me—I'm famished."
She took a step nearer. The table was covered with an ivory-colored linen tablecloth and set with fine plates and silver drinking cups. Bowls of soft cheese and butter rested next to platters of the whitest bread Isabel had ever seen. Slices of apples and pears, coated in sugar, decorated her plate. Her mouth watered, and she tried not to appear starving. But she sat down. If this was Bolton's torture, it would be hard to resist.
She looked at him closely. He was dressed in a fine blue doublet, with a white shirt showing in the slits along his sleeves. He was the very picture of an elegant nobleman, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He began to spread cheese on his piece of bread. She despised him.
"Are you not hungry?" he asked with polite consideration.
Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With dirty hands that shook, she spread butter on her bread and began to eat.
"You look tired today, Angel," he said.
She knew he watched her intently. She wanted to remain silent, but found herself saying, "I assure you I am not. My quarters were quite comfortable."
He gave her a slow grin. His teeth were a brilliant white in his tan, lean face. He oozed charm and civility. Why was he so easy to look at? She could almost understand why a woman would be flattered by his attention.
"Angel, you fascinate me. Won't you tell me your name?"
She merely continued to eat, trying not to shove it into her mouth too quickly.
Bolton sighed. "I must say, I am disappointed. You hold a grudge against me, but I don't think I've ever seen you before. Have I?"
Next she tried the cheese, which was so soft it melted on her tongue. Isabel closed her eyes and swallowed.
"Shall I talk to your young partner about your identity?"
She opened her eyes and looked at him, feeling her heart pick up speed. He had stopped eating to
study her. Would he harm a mere boy? Had he already?
"I would hate for anything to happen to him," Bolton continued.
"He knows nothing," Isabel said coldly. "I found him wandering the roads. I fed and housed him, so he agreed to help me."
"That is a nice story, Angel, but I may have to put it to the test. He seems too loyal. Are you finished?"
She wasn't, and couldn't resist a longing glance at the food.
"You go ahead and eat. My men are outside the door, so call them if you need anything. I'll just go visit your partner." Bolton stood.
Isabel rose to her feet. Her hand went to her belt, until she remembered she didn't have a sword at her hip.
Before she could grab an eating knife from the table, he stepped forward until there was barely a hand span between them. She hated having to look up into his face, when men usually had to gape up at her. She returned his gaze boldly.
"Angel, do you wish to answer my questions?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"The boy knows nothing," she repeated.
Bolton sighed and went to William's trap door. He threw it open, and called, "Boy, I need to know your lady's identity. Think on your answer as I come down. I don't want to hurt her."
Isabel came up behind him. He must have suspected her intentions, for he turned and caught her around the waist, shoving her against the stone wall with his body. He stared at her mouth and she couldn't look away.
In the tense silence, William's voice drifted up from the open hole. "Bolton?"
Isabel felt trapped by his eyes, now storm blue with intensity. Her breasts ached against his chest, her legs trembled where they twined with his. She must be beyond exhaustion, because it took a moment before she remembered to struggle. She brought her hands up and pushed at his shoulders.
"Let go of me."
She couldn't move him. His gaze dropped to her breasts and she felt his grip tighten on her ribcage. He leaned harder against her.
"Release me!" she cried, her voice rising higher.
William called out, "Angel, what is happening? Has he harmed you?"
Before she could answer, Bolton covered her mouth with his. His lips were hot and hard against hers. She was so shocked she didn't know what to
do, how to react. He turned his head and molded his mouth to hers. Something terribly, darkly exciting burst to life within her chest at the feel of him along her entire body. She was vividly aware of the thrust of his hips against hers, and how much she longed to rub back against him. She was horrified, appalled at her wanton behavior. With a wild cry she twisted her head away.
Bolton clasped her face between his hard hands and tilted her head. From somewhere far away, she heard William scream her name. Then Bolton's mouth caught hers again, and he parted her lips with his tongue. He pushed deep inside her mouth and she should have gagged, but the more he stroked her tongue with his, the more she wanted to respond, to wind her arms about his body, to push him back against the wall. She heard herself whimper as she fought the urge to kiss him back.
"Don't hurt her!" William screamed. "I will tell you anything you want! Why isn't she answering? Is she dead? God's precious blood, please!"
Bolton stepped back so quickly Isabel almost fell. Through wide, shocked eyes she watched him clutch the back of a chair, struggling for breath. Then he slowly wiped his mouth and turned away.
"Boy, there's still time," he said hoarsely. "Who is she?"
"No!" she shouted, suddenly aware of Bolton's terrible game.
She heard William sob. "She's Lady Isabel Atherstone, daughter of the late Earl of Mansfield. Please don't kill her."
Chapter 6
James was shaking by the time he reached his bedchamber. He sank into a chair before the fire and put his head in his hands. My God, what had he done? He had planned to coerce the Angel with food, to torment her about hurting her partner, all in a bluff to get her to reveal herself.
But then James had remembered the boy's reaction in the forest, when he had desperately revealed the location of the ribbons so the Angel wouldn't be hurt. All at once, he had found himself using that information, playing the woman against her partner. He should be exhilarated that his plan had succeeded without bloodshed.
Instead, James was torn apart by the most passionate kiss he had ever received in his entire life. And he'd kissed so many women. But always there had been a part of his brain detached from the emotion of the act, analyzing every technique he used and what to change the next time he needed to persuade a nervous woman with a kiss.
But with Isabel Atherstone, he'd lost himself. The woman had robbed him, humiliated him, and almost gotten away with it—but still he had continued to kiss her. Lost in the hot recesses of her mouth, he had forgotten the boy, forgotten his purpose. He still didn't even know the boy's name, because he couldn't bear to be with Isabel for a moment more, and not kiss her.
Yet.. .it bothered him that he could not fathom her motives. She wanted revenge, but for what? Her name was familiar, yet he couldn't think why.
He had to get control of himself, James thought, sweeping the hair out of his face and collapsin
g back in the chair. Yes, he'd been undone by her kiss, but nothing else could come of it. She was a barbaric, savage woman, who'd had many men before him. She had taken his money, humiliated him, and meant to kill him. It had to end. Because of her noble identity, James would have to send notice to the king of her crimes. Let His Majesty deal with her.
The guards allowed Isabel to descend into William's dungeon. She felt numb, defeated, but one look at her squire's face made her forget her own worries. She could tell from his dirty cheeks that he'd been wiping away tears.
As her feet touched the floor, he threw his arms around her and held on. Isabel awkwardly patted his back. Finally, William stepped away, gripped her shoulders, and stared intently at her face.
"Do you have injuries I cannot see?" he demanded. "Does it hurt?"
"I am fine," she said, trying to pull away.
"Isabel, do not lie to me! Let me help."
"He did not harm me." She turned away from him and went to the arrow loop. Leaning against the damp rock, she buried her head in her arms. She heard William approach.
"I don't understand," he said softly. "What happened? Why did you scream?"
"He kissed me," she murmured wearily.
"What did you say?"
Isabel whirled and faced him, anger rising to flood her mind. "He kissed me!"
William's mouth dropped open. "That's it?"
"Do you not see? He did it deliberately, knowing you'd misinterpret."
The blood drained from his face. "You mean I—I revealed your secret for no reason? I put you in harm's way?"
"William, it was not your fault. He would have discovered eventually. And I—I was not much help. I reacted badly."
"My lady, of course you reacted, having a man like that kiss you," he said, and put his hand on her shoulder. "Forgive me."
Still looking out the window, she patted his hand. She hoped he wouldn't ask what had happened, because she could barely admit it to herself. She had allowed the kiss of her family's worst enemy—and she had enjoyed it. She wanted to groan her mortification, but the boy was upset enough.
What was wrong with her, that she could find the kiss of a man she hated so wildly exciting? Her body still throbbed from the heat of him, and she felt achingly incomplete. He was a monster, he had raped his betrothed—and would she have allowed him to take her as well? Was she that weak-minded, to be swept away by a sexual desire she had never felt before?
No, she angrily thought, I would have killed him first.
"My lady," William said hesitantly, "there might be something to be said about a man who does not wish to use physical violence unless necessary."
Isabel turned to face him. "What are you saying?"
"Maybe.. .he is not all bad. He has not harmed
us."
"Yet," she added. Her voice rose. "William, he enjoyed forcing me! This is what he does! Do you not realize that this has harmed me, to be made to do something against my will, something so vile?"
Liar, she told herself.
William's eyes widened. "Do you think he'll... continue?"
"Only if he wants to see my blade part his ribs."
James wasn't about to trust himself near Isabel Atherstone. He sent good food, a basin of water, and a change of garments into the dungeon and left her and her partner alone. He would discover the boy's identity eventually. He reasoned that the Angel must have someplace to sleep nearby, so he sent out soldiers to search for anything unusual, like recent cooking fires, or shelters.
Within three days they discovered a hut not quite deserted, with a large hidden supply of black
ribbons. James arrived just as they'd begun to dig up the floor. The dowry money was there, complete and untouched. He promptly sent a missive to King Henry, asking him to take his captive off his hands.
Two evenings later, James was whistling as he came down for supper. He wore his finest garments to let all his people know that his world had righted itself, that he was once again the very eligible Earl of Bolton. But a muddy messenger waited tiredly beside one of the large fireplaces. James halted on the lowest step, feeling unease lance his stomach. He put on a false smile and went to greet him.
"Lord Bolton," the man said, rubbing his red beard nervously. He held out a sealed letter. "His Majesty sent me with a message for you."
James almost wanted to refuse it. Why did he have such a bad feeling about this? He was about to be rid of a thief.
He took the parchment. "Bring your men in to take supper with us."
"I've no men, my lord."
James's mouth went dry. "But surely you need more than yourself to guard two captives."
The messenger dropped his gaze. "I am traveling back to London alone, my lord. Perhaps you should read the message."
James grimly opened the parchment and began to read.
And then his fine world fell apart.
King Henry was giving Isabel Atherstone to him in marriage, in gratitude for all James had done for him. She was the only heiress to a wealth of properties and castles and money. The king's own priest would be arriving the next day to marry them. The banns had already been posted in London.
James stared in shock at the parchment, the words blurring together. Marry that savage, that harlot? All the respect he'd worked so hard for would come crashing down around him. He'd be the joke of London, and a pathetic wretch to his people. Isabel Atherstone obviously knew nothing about being a good mistress, a helpmate. God's teeth, she wasn't even easy to look at. What kind of life will he have, miserable in his own home, no longer welcome in society because of his outcast wife? And outcast her they would—especially knowing she was a sword-wielding thief. Who knew how many lovers she'd take behind his back.
James began to pace, ignoring the messenger who scurried away. He could barely control the rage that bubbled in his gut. Could he refuse in some polite way, perhaps on the grounds that she wanted him dead? Hell, King Henry already knew this, and it hadn't mattered. He couldn't afford to risk the king's wrath.
The choice had been taken away from him. With a curse he threw the parchment into the fire.
He had to face the truth—who else would have him since Katherine broke their betrothal? Oh, he could find a minor noblewoman or two, but none with Isabel's money and lands. True, since he had to marry her, he could always exile her to another of his manors, but who knew what havoc she could wreak if left alone.
Galway approached him. "Milord?" he said hesitantly. "Is something amiss?"
James stared into the fire, the flames threatening to consume him. "Tell the steward to prepare for a wedding tomorrow."
The unflappable Galway was silent for a moment. "Who's getting married?"
"I am."
Galway's gaze was also directed at the fire. "And the bride?"
"Do you need to ask?" James said, glancing at him.
Galway's eyes widened for a moment, then he was impassive once again. "A royal command?"
"She's incredibly wealthy, so the king is expressing his gratitude."
Galway sighed. "She's rich?"
He grunted in reply.
"He couldn't just give ye another manor?"
James smiled grimly.
Isabel sat on the pallet beside William, who was dozing with his chin on his chest. Another day was half over, another day of wondering what Bolton would do with them, when he would be back. Six days had passed since he had kissed her. She'd been fed well and left alone. To keep from feeling as if the weight of the entire castle pressed down on her, she and her squire had trained hours at a time with imaginary swords. But always her thwarted revenge simmered inside her.
Isabel had been thinking long and hard how to escape. Whenever they dropped the bucket in with food, she debated a quick climb to the top. She knew she could do it, and she didn't think they'd cut the rope to injure her. But what would she find in the tower? Three big soldiers with weapons. Even she was not that foolhardy.
Yet every day that passed, a
knot of anxiety tightened deeper in her stomach. What did Bolton plan? Was he sending her to London and the king's justice?
The trap door suddenly opened, and a shower of dirt fell to the floor. The rope came down—without a bucket. She got to her feet warily.
"Lady Isabel?" called an unfamiliar voice. "Please step onto the loop."
William stood up beside her. "What do you think this means?"
She shrugged. "I shall go up. We cannot sit here forever. I'll be back for you."
She stepped into the loop and held on. They pulled her up through the hole and she leaped onto the floor. A large man with Viking looks stood impassively before her. She put her hands on her hips and waited.
"I am Galway, Lord Bolton's captain of the guards. You will come with me to the great hall."
When he moved to take her arm she pulled away. "Why would I run? My man is down below. And I cannot escape your guards on foot."
He inclined his head and led her into the inner ward. Isabel took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. The breeze smelled of harvest and apples and the coming winter. How she'd missed the freedom of the outdoors.
She felt the hostile stares of the soldiers as they passed the barracks perched atop the stables. The smithy ceased his hammering to come out and glare.
Isabel's chin rose with pride not defensiveness. After all, if they knew what their master and his family had done, they wouldn't support him so. It was her duty to make sure they all found out.
She walked up the stairs and entered the great hall just ahead of Galway. There were trestle tables being set for supper by maids who gasped and pointed at her. Groups of soldiers and servants and travelers were waiting for their meal, and they too turned to stare as if she were the evening's entertainment. A dog raced up to greet her, sliding through the rushes as it came to a stop. Galway pushed it aside. The smells of hot food were almost overwhelming, but she was brought back to the peril of her situation by the sight of Bolton standing at the hearth next to a black-robed priest.
Isabel's bewilderment was replaced by dread. She felt her steps slowing, saw the priest's mouth drop open. Galway took her arm and led her closer, and she knew it was useless to resist. What was happening?