A Knight's Vow

by Gayle Callen

  shut, then gave her another shove that sent her back onto the bed.

  "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Bolton demanded, striding forward until he stood over her, dark and angry. "You made sure everyone knew I'd been a gentleman, so I'd be forced to bed you."

  "No!" she cried, trying to sit up.

  He pushed her shoulders back on the bed and held her there. "It seems you were gravely disappointed last night."

  "I was not!"

  "Then what other reason could there be for your wagging tongue?"

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it into a grim line. What could she say? That she wanted to humiliate him before his people? He already knew that. He was simply toying with her emotions, which were fragmented at best. What did he intend to do?

  Bolton stood back. "Take off your clothing."

  Isabel sat up, feeling an unfamiliar tightening deep in her stomach. "No."

  "Take off your clothing."

  His voice grew deeper, and seemed to rumble through her chest until she shivered. His eyes were blue flames, searing her with incredible intensity. Wasn't it fear that coiled its way inside her, twisted

  her nerves into dark anticipation? No, she could not let this happen.

  She came to her feet and he fell upon her without warning, pinning her to the bed with his long body. Though she fought and squirmed and pushed his hands away, she felt the laces of her doublet loosen and give way. The garment began to slide down, baring more and more of her shirt. He was calm and determined, and she was wildly out of control. For she was not only battling him, but some deep part of herself, bursting to be free, to let him take her and know again the pleasure of his kiss.

  Isabel felt his hands beneath the skirt of her doublet, heard the hose ripped down her legs, first one, then the other. She went still then, breathing in terrible gasps. What was the use? she thought, feeling dark despair flood her mind. She was his property, he could take her as he pleased. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, hands spread over her chest.

  For a moment, Bolton didn't move. "Angel?" he whispered, and his breath touched her cheek.

  She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowledge the thunder in her heart that his voice aroused. She felt him lift her right hand. She stiffened, but didn't bother to fight. He pressed his mouth into her palm. Her eyes flew wide and she stared at him, feeling

  the brush of stubble against her skin as he kissed her. His eyes were closed and his dark hair fell over his forehead. While she gasped for air, he turned his attention to her other hand. After a moment, he sucked her littlest finger into his mouth.

  Isabel jerked beneath him at the strange sensation that shot through her. His eyes opened, heavy- lidded, knowing. Then he forced both her arms wide and leaned his face over hers. She found her gaze dropping to his lips, and wondered crazily if he would kiss her. Instead he pressed his mouth to the corner of her eye.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered, not trusting her voice.

  "Shhh."

  He trailed kisses along her cheek, suckled her chin, dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat. He nuzzled beneath her ear, and the clean smell of his hair filled her nostrils. She realized he no longer pinned her arms, but she couldn't even begin to move them. She was caught up in the sensation of his body rubbing against hers.

  And then his mouth moved lower, and he took the neckline of her shirt in his teeth and began to pull. Isabel stared aghast as her breasts were bared to daylight and his gaze. She should be embarrassed by her nudity and her scars, but his admiring regard

  didn't allow that. She stared in surprise as her nipples puckered and hardened. She squirmed, and the movement of their hips rubbing together felt so wickedly good that she stopped, afraid to take such pleasure in her enemy's body.

  This was wrong, she should stop him, but he once again pulled on the fabric, sliding down her body until she groaned softly. The retreating shirt revealed her stomach, then the indentation of her navel. Her bare arms came free and she didn't know what to do with them. She was shocked that she desperately wanted to touch him, to run her hands across his broad chest—instead she gripped the coverlet tightly in her fists. She didn't understand what she wanted, why she ached, why Bolton could work such delicious torture on her body with just a touch.

  Isabel stiffened as she came free of her garments. He knelt on the floor, fully clothed, his hands on her thighs, and looked his fill of her nudity. She felt a tightness in her throat. Hers was not a body men looked at. She was big from sword-fighting, with muscles down her long limbs that other women didn't have. She didn't know how to take Bolton's seeming admiration, didn't know what to think of herself.

  He skimmed his hands up her thighs and she groaned, forgetting all thought. His thumbs rubbed light circles next to the hair between her thighs, and tremors pulsed through her. She clenched her legs tightly together. He laughed low in his throat.

  He suddenly climbed onto the bed, straddling her on his hands and knees. He bent and she felt the brush of his hair just before he dipped his tongue into her navel. Every inch of her was alive with tension as he kissed the skin across her ribcage, trailing his tongue just beneath her breasts. She couldn't get enough air, didn't care that he searched her eyes, saw everything written on her face. She rolled her head back and forth, barely holding back whimpers of longing. But what did she want? What need did he bring in her that she had never felt before? His hot breath seared her a scant moment before he took one nipple into his mouth and began to suck.

  Isabel groaned aloud, arching beneath him as a spasm of intense pleasure shot deep into her. She wished only for the pressure of his hips between hers, and that his mouth would never stop. But he held himself above her and began to lick her breasts, tormenting their peaks with his lips and tongue. And while his mouth worked its magic on

  one breast, he caressed the other with his fingers, rubbing her nipple gently.

  "Please!" Isabel heard herself gasp. She didn't know what she begged for, only that her body would shatter if he stopped. The pleasure was a rising storm inside her, whirling aside everything she thought she knew about men and women.

  He continued to sweep his tongue over her breasts, while his hand began to slide down her stomach and across her clenched thighs. He parted her knees and she allowed it. He seemed to know everything her body wanted, knew how to drive her just this side of mad with desire. She admitted the wickedness to herself. She wanted his hands on her body. In the dark of the night she had dreamed of little else since he had kissed her.

  Her mind was a jumble of sensations, the scrape of his hair against her breasts, his rough, callused palm sliding up her inner thigh. His fingers entered the moist folds of her flesh, and the first whimper escaped her.

  "Easy," he murmured against her breasts, stroking the most intimate part of her body.

  And then he touched a part of her that brought gasps to her throat. She arched against his hand wildly and cried out. He controlled her hips with one of his thighs, and licked her nipples at a steadily increasing pace. His thumb traced little pulsing circles into her flesh, and she felt the world fall away and crash about her, leaving her shaking in the wake of the most wondrous tumult she had ever known.

  Isabel came back to herself slowly, languorously, reluctant to lose this feeling of fulfillment. She opened her eyes and found Bolton sitting back on his heels, straddling her. He slowly trailed his fingers through the hair between her thighs and she shivered with each touch. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, relaxed and waiting for what he would do next.

  Then he climbed off her and walked out of the room.

  Isabel stared in shock at the closed door, then down at her naked, sprawled body. Her breasts bore faint red marks.

  What had she done?

  She had let her enemy master her. She had practically begged him to pleasure her with every whimper and groan. And yet he himself had felt nothing except triumph. She must be utterly repul
sive for a man like Bolton to be unable to finish the sex act, a man who'd literally forced his first betrothed into bed.

  Why had she not fought? Where was her pride, her determination? Bolton had won.

  Sobs shook her shoulders and burst from her lungs in a hoarse moan. Isabel put her face in a pillow and cried.

  After James closed the door behind him, he staggered against the wall and simply held on, his face pressed to the rough, cold stone. His body was taut with denial and anguish, but he could not regret his decision. He had seduced his wife, but he realized now that she had known nothing of a woman's pleasure. What kind of brute had taken her virginity so harshly?

  Perhaps the same kind of man as her father, who had let her disavow her womanhood, had molded her into a killer. Of course she knew nothing of a woman's pleasure. She had never known pleasure at all. She never even smiled, except in a triumphant grimace.

  James lifted his head, listening, then turned and leaned against the door. Isabel was crying. He felt a surge of grief for her lost childhood, and the confused young woman he must now deal with. But he didn't go back into the room. He returned to the great hall, to the ribald cheers of his men and the fantasy that he could be a happily married man. Nothing had really changed. His life was a show for his people's well-being, and Isabel would only make it harder. And he doubted she had forgotten her vow of vengeance. If anything, it would be stronger than ever.

  Isabel's tears finally dried, and she forced herself to leave Bolton's bed. She may have lost this battle, but he was a fool if he thought he had beaten her. She refused to cower in his bedchamber like a submissive wife. She stared in anger at her garments, especially the ruined hose.

  There was a soft knock on the door and she stopped, naked, in the center of the room, praying it was not her husband.

  "Lady Isabel?" said the maid, Annie.

  Isabel let out the breath she was holding and found her old shirt. She donned it and called for the girl to enter.

  Annie walked in with a smile, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if her mistress wasn't half-naked in the middle of the day. "My lady, Lord Bolton sent me up to help you change for supper. I'm sure I can find a gown I could alter for you."

  "Thank you, Annie, but that won't be necessary. It is true that my garments need to be washed, and my hose are no longer.. .wearable, but I will not dress to suit Bolton. I will need another doublet, or perhaps a tunic."

  The girl bit her lip. "But my lady—"

  "I promise I will not tell him that you helped me."

  "'Tis not that. I'm just uncertain whose clothing will fit you."

  "Aah," Isabel said with a thoughtful nod. "Do your best. But what I need most right now is hose." She looked about the room at the chests and cupboards. "Surely these are not all of Bolton's clothes."

  "Oh no, my lady. His wardrobe room is next door, on the left." With a shaky curtsy, Annie fled the room.

  Isabel pondered this new information for a moment, a plan forming in her mind. She carefully opened the door, checked the hall for guards or her husband, then crept into the next room. A glazed window let in enough light for her to see rows of pegs along all four walls, hung with more garments than Isabel had seen for an entire castle staff. There were at least a score of chests. The man was a peacock about clothing, she thought with disgust.

  She found another black doublet, this one short, with slashed sleeves. She donned a fine white shirt and black hose, then the doublet, which well revealed the roundness of her hips. Out of habit, Isabel almost discarded it, then thought better of it. They all knew she was a woman. There was nothing left to hide, and it would make Bolton angrier.

  She arrived back in his bedchamber just as Annie did. The girl stared at her garments, wide-eyed, but offered no comment.

  "I found hose made for a smaller man," she said, offering a handful of black fabric.

  Isabel pulled off Bolton's too-large hose and donned the new ones, tying them into place beneath her garments. She pulled on her own boots. "I am ready."

  "My lady," Annie said, picking up a brush. "Allow me to fix your hair."

  "No."

  "It has become quite tangled. Please sit."

  Reluctantly, Isabel sat at a small table and let the girl brush out her hair. The lulling motion of the brush moving across her scalp was strangely relaxing. She found herself pillowing her head in her arms, drowsing, trying to forget.

  "Has no one ever brushed your hair before?" Annie asked softly.

  She answered without thinking about it. "Not that I remember. My mother died when I was very young."

  Still Annie stroked her hair and Isabel felt her tension easing.

  "Shall I tie your hair back, my lady?"

  "Perhaps later," she said with a sigh, getting to her feet.

  Annie arched her neck to look up at her. "My lady, might I say something?"

  She nodded warily.

  "You could have a good life here."

  Isabel turned away and started for the door.

  "Please, give us a chance—give him a chance. This isn't the way to do that."

  Over her shoulder, Isabel said, "Bolton doesn't deserve a chance."

  Chapter 12

  James sat on the dais, wearing a false grin, trying to enjoy the minstrel's performance. He was still uncomfortably frustrated, still angry at his momentary weakness. Why hadn't he just taken Isabel when she'd been willing?

  He downed his third tankard of ale, clapped along with the rest of the hall's occupants, and waited impatiently for his meal. He ignored Isabel's glowering squire.

  A sudden silence descended on the hall, and James knew immediately that the Black Angel would never be a woman to hide from her problems. She swaggered down the stairs, wearing one of his doublets, by the saints. It was too big through the shoulders, but it showed the enticing curve of her hips. When she turned away, he could see the indentation of her backside.

  James's mouth went dry and he gulped more ale. She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had stolen his clothing and paraded it before everyone, pretending to be a man except for that incredible mane of black curls flowing down her shoulders. She wore an eating knife in her belt—his belt.

  And she'd just been crying.

  James forced the memory away and watched as she strode over to one hearth. She stood with her hands riding low on her hips, surveying the hall as if she owned it, daring anyone to comment. He felt a reluctant smile tug his lips. He certainly could not deny her bravery.

  He doubted she would tell everyone that he had not consummated their marriage. He almost hoped she would try. It would leave her open to whatever twist James wanted to put on their afternoon together.

  The minstrel's voice choked to a halt as he realized who the lady of the castle was. James's smile vanished. Another story for the minstrel to spread at every castle he visited.

  Sighing, he gave a nod to his steward and the meal began. James merely wanted to get the evening over with—and what? Return to his bedchamber with his wife, who cried when he pleasured her? He suspected she'd never known

  pleasure in her life. Feeling depression settle over him, he simply stared at the first course, wondering if he would have trouble eating.

  Isabel had no such problem. She reached the table before he did and sat down, looking towards the kitchens expectantly. She motioned for William to join them, but as the young man began to sit, James gave him a stern look and shook his head once. William froze, then smiled apologetically at Isabel and went to sit elsewhere.

  She gave James an angry look.

  "He is my squire, the son of a baron," she said. "He cannot eat with the common folk."

  "He had better become used to it, Angel. He has a long way to go before he proves to me that he deserves to be here."

  She set down her eating knife with a clatter. "It is my fault he is here at all. Punish me instead of him."

  "I thought I already did that this afternoon."

  He was startled t
o see a slow blush redden her cheeks. But she met his gaze.

  "Yes, it was a trial," she said calmly, as if she'd never cried out in bliss.

  "I don't think you thought so at the time."

  "I am a very good liar." She found a spoon beside her bread trencher and began to eat her soup. Noisily.

  James felt irrationally angry. Lying, she called it? And she was slurping soup all over one of his best doublets. Just as she was about to put the spoon in her mouth, he calmly said, "Shall I imitate the sounds you made while lying?"

  The spoon caught on her lip and she dribbled half of the soup down her chin. Damn, another splatter on the garment, but it was worth it.

  She slammed the spoon down and proceeded to wipe the back of her forearm across her mouth. James winced.

  "What game do you play, Bolton?"

  The few voices still speaking died down.

  She continued, "Do you want to hear aloud how unsatisfactory you were?"

  James heard the collective gasp of every person in the hall. He stood up, leaning over her. "Unsatisfactory?" he shouted. "They could hear your screams of ecstasy from the village!"

  Isabel got to her feet, her face inches from his. "Screams of pain from your clumsiness!"

  They breathed hard into each other's faces, teeth bared in angry grimaces. A lone voice spoke up from the back of the hall—Father Carstairs.

  "My children, perhaps your private chambers would be a better place to—"

  "Father, cease your prattle," James said, never looking away from Isabel's cold eyes. "It was your fine suggestion that put us there in the first place."

  But he did want to end this. He was afraid that Isabel, if pushed too far, would reveal that he once again had not bedded her. Part of him couldn't stop wondering what men she'd had, and how he had compared. God's teeth, it was not supposed to be like this with his wife.

  He took a step back and glared at her. "Sit down and finish eating."

  "I may be married to you, but I shall do as I—" Isabel's gaze followed the platter of sliced venison. "But I must keep up my strength for training." She sat back down in her chair and ignored him.