by Gayle Callen
She entered the great hall, sat at the table beside her husband, and said nothing as she waited for the meal. A juggler performed for the waiting crowd, but she kept her gaze downcast.
"Why are you not wearing the gown I laid out?" Bolton asked.
Isabel ignored him.
"I will not permit you to go about forever dressed like that."
She gave him a sidelong glance, then looked away.
"So what did you do today?"
"Nothing."
"Aah, you have a voice," he said.
The amusement in his tone cut her deeply. She hated to be laughed at. She gritted her teeth and refused to be baited.
A basin was brought over and when she hesitated, Bolton frowned until she stuck her hands in the water. She rubbed them together, shook the droplets of water aside, and dropped her hands into her lap. None of his foolish games mattered.
"Angel, I thought I said—" He suddenly broke off, searching her eyes.
Isabel glared at him.
"You will ride with me tomorrow."
She tensed, waiting for the sarcastic laugh. None came.
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, suspecting a trap.
He shrugged and dropped his gaze. It made her even more nervous.
"Be ready before the sun, wife. I will brook no delays."
Isabel was awake and dressed before gray skies heralded the coming dawn. She wore her own garments, and tied her hair back with a strip of leather. She was restless, longing to start the day, but still Bolton slept. She drew near the bed and stared at his face, relaxed in sleep. The cool amusement was gone, and he looked young and handsome.
How would she feel if he were not her family's enemy, if he had come to court her? She tried to imagine herself happily married to such a man, content with family and hearth. The very thought was foreign. Most certainly a man like Bolton would never content himself with only his wife's bed, especially not hers. But an image arose in her
mind of waking up in his arms, his hands on her, and the feeling wasn't unpleasant.
Bolton suddenly opened his eyes and she stiffened. He languidly raised himself up on his elbows, and looked down her body, cool and assessing.
"Anxious, are we?" he asked. "No riding clothes? I could insist you wear whatever feminine items Annie can find."
Isabel tensed, knowing that if he forced the issue, she would remain in the castle. She could not give in to him. But after a moment, he shrugged and threw the blankets aside. He stood up, and once again he had no qualms about his nakedness. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him flaccid. She turned quickly for the door.
"Hold."
There was a husky note to his voice that sent bumps rising along her skin, made her breath quicken. She halted but didn't turn.
"In return for allowing you freedom from the castle today, I deserve a reward."
She clenched her hands behind her back. "You did not allow me freedom. You ordered me to go."
"A kiss," he said, ignoring her words. "Come here, Angel."
She wanted to refuse. Yet didn't this make him the first to surrender, to admit he needed something from her? She lifted her chin and strode towards him, eyes alight with triumph. Yet her heart pounded, and she felt lightheaded.
Bolton studied her as she stopped before him.
"What are you waiting for?" he asked.
"But you said—"
"I demanded a kiss. I did not say I would do the giving."
She grinned fiercely. "Then you ride alone this day, Bolton. A day's freedom is most certainly not worth such suffering."
He suddenly caught her face between his big hands and forced a kiss on her. She kept her mouth firmly closed. His body brushed hers.
"Open," he said against her lips.
She gritted her teeth and disobeyed him, trying to pull away.
Her world spun as he turned her around and pressed her onto the bed. She opened her mouth to shout her outrage, but he took advantage of her thoughtlessness and invaded her defenses with his tongue. Isabel was pressed into the soft mattress, surrounded by pillows and the hard, aroused length of his body. She couldn't get enough air as he suckled her lips and stroked her tongue with his.
With her last strength, she finally broke the contact, gasping, "You claimed merely a kiss!"
"And so it was." He threaded his hands through her hair and pulled at the leather tie. "Wear it down," he ordered.
"It will hamper my riding," she insisted. He combed through her curls with his fingers, sending little tugs along her scalp.
"You had no trouble with your hair as the Black Angel."
"That was so you'd know I was a woman and could still best you."
He chuckled, and Isabel felt the rumble clear to her belly, and out along every inch of her skin.
"You could have been hooded and fully masked, and I'd have known you for a woman."
"But I am not shaped like most women," she insisted, then bit her lip at what she'd revealed.
Bolton propped himself up on one arm, and ran his other hand up her hip. "Not shaped like most women?" he murmured.
Did she hear teasing in his voice? She was insulted, then suddenly breathless as his warm palm slid up her ribcage and over her breast. She remembered what his hands had done to her, what he'd made her feel.
"Not shaped like most women?" he repeated, his voice lower, huskier. "I think I should decide that."
His thumb began to trace circles across her breasts, and she shivered as he concentrated on her nipples through her clothing. She closed her eyes tightly. She told herself to fight, but her hands felt languid and heavy, unresisting. She told herself to submit, to let him prove his lust for her. But the sensations that swept through her body were frighteningly overpowering.
Bolton murmured, "I think these feel rather like a woman—at least in my humble experience."
She opened her eyes and saw his smiling, dark face just above her chest.
"But there is truly only one way to find out," he said, his voice a low caress. "Taste."
Just that one word sent a shock of desire through her body, centered where their hips met and strained. Isabel frantically shook her head and pressed at his chest.
"Angel, you've given me such a fascinating puzzle. I must disprove your conclusions." He leaned against her ribcage, holding her pinned with his body, while his mouth nipped playfully at her breasts through her clothing. She moaned and tried to writhe away from him.
It was the wrong thing to do. He shuddered and drew in a quick breath. Isabel froze and they stared wide-eyed at each other. She was horrified to discover that she enjoyed the weight of him, holding her to the bed.
James's glance fell to her lips, then to her breasts. "The taste just isn't right this way. Isabel, I vow to prove to you that you are shaped just like other women."
"I believe you!" she said breathlessly.
She gasped as he tugged at the laces of her shirt, then pulled the garment wide to reveal her breasts. She was barely able to breathe as he studied them with an attentive frown.
"Isabel, I must say, they look fine to me. But we can't base our judgment on looks alone."
"Bolton—"
He suddenly traced his tongue up to the valley between her breasts. She twisted and shuddered beneath him, all her senses attuned to his smallest movement. "Tastes fine," he murmured as if to himself.
"Please, don't—" she began.
James met her gaze and smiled. "You are right, of course. I must stop this. We were speaking about your breasts."
Holding her gaze captive with his, he let his tongue circle her nipple. She couldn't look away, couldn't remember to breathe. He licked and stroked her until her flesh burned for more of him.
Isabel should feel victorious—he had broken first and showed a need of her. But he was laughing at her! His eyes were the merry blue of a sunny day, as if he had not shown once again that he desired her —a thief, his enemy. Surely a man such as he, with hi
s reputation, could take whatever he wanted. He had all the control between them.
Isabel squirmed and rolled to one side, gathering her shirt over her chest. She heard Bolton laugh as he released her. She bounded off the bed and marched from the room, tying laces as she went.
James lay still, his smile leaving as she did. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It had taken all his effort not to rip the clothes from her body. Was he so desperate? Why did he feel he needed her permission, her acceptance? She was his wife, his property. It had been a month or more since he'd had a woman.
He thought suddenly of Fiona, a village widow a few hours ride away, who always gladly welcomed him. She was a Scottish redhead who teasingly spoke her mind, but didn't expect more than he offered.
For a moment he pictured Isabel, defiant, beautiful. She might be his wife, but that wouldn't stop him from doing as he pleased. It had been a year since he'd last seen Fiona, and it was time to get reacquainted.
James rose, washed and dressed, inwardly berating himself for telling Isabel she could leave the castle with him. In no way was he through punishing her for her part in their dreadful marriage. But for an instant he had weakened, imagined himself confined to the castle. He would not be so foolish again.
Chapter 15
Isabel was mounted on a fine gelding, which she walked in small circles as she waited impatiently for Bolton to wake his men. She heard grumbles from the barracks, a crash, then a bark of laughter. It was Bolton. He was easily amused, not the mark of a good leader.
She almost didn't care how much time he took. She had the freedom of a mount, and he had even allowed her a dagger at her belt. He'd looked so confident as he'd given it to her. It galled her that he was right. Why would she use it on him now? As he had already said, where would she go? Her new methods of revenge were so much more effective and long-lasting than simple death.
His three men-at-arms straggled down the stairs from the barracks atop the stables. Bolton came last, herding them, a grin on his face. They looked
bedraggled and half-asleep, except the giant, who emitted a calm watchfulness. She guessed that he did not sleep much.
Isabel forced such pointless wanderings from her head. She had to be alert, for who knew when Bolton would allow such respite again. She waited more minutes as they saddled their horses, then she wheeled her mount toward the gatehouse and led the way.
Bolton rode up beside her, and she saw his guards glance at each other in surprise as the party entered the tunnel.
"They think I do not bring enough protection," Bolton casually said.
The darkness swallowed him but for the light retreating behind them.
"Do they so fear the criminals on your land?"
As they left the gatehouse, his grin was almost blinding. "Oh no, they only worry about the criminal at my side."
She coolly looked him up and down. "Perhaps they should worry. After all, it took more men than these to hunt me down."
Bolton leaned closer to her, and Isabel kneed her mount aside.
"I seem to recall that it took but one special man to disarm you. Or are you claiming to have been so
awed by my dashing appearance that you gratefully surrendered?"
She lifted her chin, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore his low, rumbling chuckle. She'd give him this one small victory, but the day was yet young.
Dawn brightened the eastern horizon, and above that hung a deep, dusky blue sky, with no clouds portending bad weather. Though the air was chilled, and Isabel could see her breath, she thought the day would be beautiful. She wondered with a start when was the last time she had considered the day except for comfort and ease of fighting. She would not be so weak again.
After a few minutes, the forest closed about them, sunlight scattered amidst the reds and oranges and yellows of the towering oaks and elders. She found the forest sounds strangely relaxing after the tension of her last few days as mistress of Bolton castle.
She allowed Bolton to continue riding beside her, his three men following behind. She thought they really wished to be abed, but they were alert to protect their master. She wondered why they had not been so when she had robbed Bolton.
"You have not asked where we are going," he said.
Isabel glanced at him, gave a deliberate shrug, and looked back to the packed earth road. "The freedom to ride is more important than the destination."
"Does that include the freedom to take your leave of us?"
She smiled grimly. "That would be foolish. You have William."
"Ah yes," he said, giving a slow nod. "You are quite fond of the boy."
The answer was already so obvious she left it unspoken.
They came out of the forest along a hedge-lined road. The sun was well on its way into the sky, brightening the sheep dotted across the dark grass. In the distance she could see a cluster of small wooden houses. As they approached, children ran barefoot to greet him. The were well fed and happy, calling hellos and looking at her with avid interest.
The elders of the village arrived soon after, displaying the wariness she was more used to. She stiffened her spine and returned their looks with a haughtiness she had never used before, but which might sufficiently embarrass her husband. With only a quick unreadable look, he introduced her. They scrutinized her with momentary wonderment, then ignored her for Bolton.
Isabel let their little speeches flow around her without listening to them. She deliberately looked bored, and even sighed loudly a few times. She almost enjoyed it—if only she knew for certain she was making her husband squirm. But he was so friendly and intent on his villagers, that she might not have even been there.
"Milord, we'd like ye to see the changes we made at the mill," said one small hairy man, who seemed to be in charge.
Just as Bolton turned to look at her, Isabel said, "I am not interested."
She heard low disapproving murmurs, saw a momentary blank look on Bolton's face as he took in her comment. She held her breath, waiting for an explosion, but he simply grinned, and that was worse.
"Gentlemen, you must understand my poor wife," he said with indulgence in his voice. "She has a hard time comprehending such weighty matters. I am sure she will be well occupied waiting for me out here. She has a good communion with animals, and I see plenty of cows here on the village green."
Isabel barely stopped her mouth from dropping open in shock. Embarrassment swept through her as everyone in the gathering laughed. Before she could even form a retort, he had dismounted and walked away, with the crowd fawning over his every uttering.
She was alone, but for the small soldier with the ready smile. Red-faced, he looked casually about the village green, anywhere but at her. She seethed, she fumed, then eventually she fought a small measure of grudging admiration. By the saints, Bolton had a quick way with words.
After a few minutes, the soldier reined his horse in beside hers, grinned, and doffed his hat.
"I'm Mort, milady," he said.
She gave him a cool nod, knowing he'd been chosen as her keeper.
He dismounted, then waited beside her expectantly.
With a sigh, Isabel stepped to the ground. "Why are we here, Mort?"
"Because ye didn't want to see the mill."
She closed her eyes for a pained moment. "No, I mean why are we at this village?"
"Lord Bolton always visits his people, milady. He moves around from castle to castle, just so he can see them all."
"Why?" she asked, wondering how many castles he actually owned.
"They tell him problems, things they wouldn't come to the castle for. It makes them feel better. Less fights, too."
Isabel mulled over his words. She did not remember her father ever bothering to discover the mood of his peasants. That was for his steward to worry about. Surely Bolton coddled his people too much. How could they learn self-reliance, if they could run to him with every little problem?
Mort continued to talk, but if he w
as trying to put her at ease, he needn't have bothered. She was content under the brilliant sun, a dagger at her hip. Yet she couldn't help but notice the stares she received. Nothing seemed malicious, and even the children continued to hover near. Shouldn't they all be disgusted by her behavior?
Isabel saw a well in the center of the village green. Leaving Mort behind, she strode across the grass. The children followed her, gaping up at her height as had every child—and adult—she'd ever known. A young woman was already bent over the well, and Isabel waited for her to finish.
The girl glanced over her shoulder, giving a start. Her bucket overturned and she reached for it with a dismayed cry.
"Take your time, I can wait," Isabel said.
The girl glanced towards a baby playing nearby on a blanket. Then she gave Isabel another frank look.
"Are you passing through, mistress?" she asked hesitantly. "I've never quite seen anyone like you before."
"I live at the castle."
"The only new person at the castle is..." Her words died off as her eyes grew very wide.
Isabel waited, feeling a small smile touch her lips at the girl's shock. Surely she would scoop up the babe and run, upsetting Bolton.
"Are—are you the new lady of the castle?" she finally asked.
"I am."
The girl straightened, coming up to Isabel's neck. "You are like nothing I imagined, my lady. Of course I heard the stories, but—"
"I am everything you imagined, and more," she said shortly, losing her hope that the girl would run.
"Did you really wield a sword against..." She trailed off, blushing.
"Against the earl? Aye." Maybe she should show some teeth, grimace, even growl. Why were these villagers so forthright? Weren't they afraid of the nobility?
She heard footsteps behind her, saw the girl's quick curtsy, and knew exactly who approached.
"Good morning, Agnes," Bolton said in that low, honeyed voice of his.
Agnes blushed and bobbed another curtsy. Isabel wanted to rip the silly smile off the girl's face. How dare Bolton know every woman's name.