by Gayle Callen
"Please—" she whispered, as his other hand began to trail across her stomach.
"Please don't stop?"
He spoke directly into her ear, then nibbled the lobe itself. Her body jerked in response. She could barely remember to breathe, she was so lost in the sensations blazing across her skin, heating her blood. The back of her was flush against him, the front of her was vulnerable to his touch. And he took advantage. Beneath the blanket, his hand slid up to cup her breast and softly knead it.
"I want to bury my face right here," he murmured. His tongue licked along her ear.
Isabel held in a groan. She forgot everything when his hands touched her, forgot that they were enemies, that he withheld secrets from her. She felt the laces of her doublet and shirt loosen. He pulled them down, baring her shoulder, and then began to
kiss the exposed skin. The air was cold, his mouth was hot. She should stop him, she should scream, but the sight of his face just above her skin froze her.
His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted as they trailed a wet path to her neck. She felt the sudden roughness of the blanket on her breasts, and knew that her garments sagged almost to her waist. His fingers teased her nipples ever so lightly and she gasped. Pleasure was like a bolt of lightning through her body, and her skin burned as she writhed against him.
"Shhh."
"I cannot!" she whispered fiercely. "Don't do this to me—don't make me feel—"
Bolton came up on his elbow and pressed her onto her back. He held the blanket close about his shoulders, draped over her. He pressed his mouth to hers, stopping her protests. Who was winning in this little game they played, she thought wildly. Weren't they both losing control?
James fell back in amazement as Isabel rolled above him. Her hair cascaded in wild abandon, and her naked breasts hung full to tempt him. Somehow he remembered to keep the blanket from sliding down her back. Fire-light played across the strong bones of her face, and her full mouth was moist
from his kiss. When she looked like this, all feminine and soft, everything she'd done to him fled his mind. He was only aware of his need. He wanted to fling off all his clothes and take her now, on the forest floor. Why did Riley have to be nearby, the one time he could have actually had his wife?
He gripped her shoulders to pull her closer but she resisted. She reached over his head. With only a little more effort, he could have had her breast in his mouth. She pulled her hand back and something glittered.
"Did you forget you gave me a dagger?" she whispered, resting on her elbows, her breasts flattened against his chest.
The humiliation she'd caused him all day exploded in his mind, and he knocked the dagger aside with a violence that appalled him. He didn't recognize himself anymore. He shoved her away and didn't watch as she pulled her garments together.
"Riley, wake up," he said, getting to his feet.
He heard Isabel gasp as she turned her back.
When the soldier rolled into a sitting position, James was already strapping on his sword. "I shall meet you at the castle tomorrow. See that Lady Bolton gets home safely."
Riley stood up, his face etched with concern.
"I'm for Smithfield. Worry about my wife— although I'm sure she can take care of herself." He saddled his horse and rode off into the forest without looking back.
James was cold and damp before he could even think rationally. A year ago, the thought of visiting Fiona had left him pleasantly warm with anticipation. Now he could barely picture her face. All he could see was Isabel, half-naked, holding a dagger as if she wanted to use it. Damn the woman, but she frustrated him, and not only in bed.
He had never in his life talked about his brothers to anyone but his sister, Margery, and even then never revealed his deepest feelings. All Isabel had done was ask him a simple question about his family, and he'd found himself spilling emotions from his gut as if she were his confessor. What the hell was happening to him?
He would chase Isabel from his thoughts for at least this night. Fiona had a sweetness and easy temper to make a man feel welcome. He didn't even remember what that felt like.
But as he neared the village of Smithfield in the morning, his pace slowed, and he couldn't understand why. He approached her home, a small croft on the outskirts of the village, secluded in a
glen. He dismounted, but couldn't bring himself to go to the door. Instead he remained hidden, leaning back against a tree trunk with his eyes closed.
Why wasn't this choice easy? James had a marriage in name only and his wife had known other men. Isabel would be the first to deny they had any claim on each other. And yet...
And yet she stirred something deep inside him, something primitive and dangerous and possessive. Why did he ache to lay between the Angel's thighs, when a sweet woman was nearby, one who would gladly welcome him?
James kicked back against the trunk, startling his horse. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go in to Fiona when he desired another woman. How had he let his insides be torn up by Isabel?
Suddenly, he heard the faint sound of a baby crying. He stiffened, then slowly turned, keeping well hidden. Fiona stepped outside, and her red hair lit like fire under the sun. She had a tiny baby in the crook of her arm. James slumped in relief. It was too young to be his. But then whose was it?
A burly man, some years older, followed her outside, holding Fiona in a possessive embrace as he leaned down to smile at the baby. Fiona was married? Why hadn't his steward told him?
James gritted his teeth, watching the man leave for his fields, and Fiona disappear back inside. He led his horse to the other side of the glen, mounted, and rode away at a reckless speed. He was grateful that Fiona had found a man who deserved her, but by God, was absolutely everyone happy but himself?
Chapter 17
When Isabel entered her bedchamber that night, she found Annie sitting in a chair before the fire, holding a small baby.
"Oh, my lady, please forgive me for bringing my little girl. My aunt is ill and my husband is helping his parents and—"
Isabel remained by the door, looking cautiously at the baby's flailing arms and legs. "I didn't know you were married, Annie."
"Oh yes, milady, for a few years now. My husband works with the hunting dogs. This is our little girl, Mary."
Isabel nodded, feeling foolish and awkward. Other women would probably ask to hold the baby, but all she could manage was a step nearer to look.
Mary's little head was covered in dark hair, as wispy as feathers on a gosling. Isabel had never bothered to notice babies before. There just weren't that many in the tiltyard. They looked like such fragile little things. She knew she was too clumsy to ever hold one.
"You go on, Annie. I don't need you this night."
"Nonsense, my lady! You've been sleeping out of doors."
"Not an unusual occurrence."
"I've already filled the tub. And your hair needs a good brushing."
Annie stood up and lay the baby on the bed. The little blanket covering its legs moved spasmodically, as if there were bugs crawling under there.
Isabel bathed, then submitted with gritted teeth as Annie tugged the brush through her snarls. The baby babbled to itself in a mysterious language. Isabel found herself glancing at the bed frequently. Wouldn't Mary roll off?
Finally Annie was finished. Isabel sighed with relief as Annie picked up her baby to leave.
"Oh, no, my lady!" Annie cried. "Mary is damp, and I fear—oh, 'tis all my fault."
"That she wet herself? Don't babies normally do that?" Isabel stepped closer.
"Yes, my lady, but the coverlets and blanket beneath her are wet too! What will his lordship say?
Oh, I must hurry and bring clean linens." She set the baby down on the bed, threw open the door and ran.
"Wait!" Isabel called. "You forgot—"
But it was too late. She was alone. With a baby.
Annie seemed to take forever. Isabel paced, then hovered over the laughing infant
, then paced again. A wonderful idea began to take form in her mind.
Annie came running in, barely able to see around the blankets and coverlets stacked high. Mary began to wail.
Isabel took the blankets and set them on a chest. "I'll do this, Annie. Maiy needs you. Go on to bed."
"But my lady, I can't—"
"I am not helpless."
Annie picked up the baby, but still she hesitated. Isabel calmly began stripping the bed. When she heard Annie leave, she threw the wet blankets back on, and tried to make it up the way she'd seen Annie do it. She stepped back and admired her effort. Bolton would never know until it was too late.
When James returned to Bolton Castle late in the evening, Galway was waiting for him with news of Castle Mansfield. It was the last thing James wanted
to talk about, but he knew he couldn't escape. And Isabel had already gone up to bed.
James led Galway to two cushioned chairs before the hearth. All around them were snores and sleepy grumbles and deep breathing, but they were effectively alone.
Galway hesitated, and James allowed him the time to collect his thoughts. Finally, his captain sighed.
"A few months ago, Lady Isabel disappeared without telling her people where she went, milord. Left only the steward in charge, and he wielded little power."
"Had all law broken down?"
Galway shook his head. "Surprisingly, no. They have a strong loyalty to her, and have decided she needed to grieve for her father. The stories I've listened to these past few days..." He broke off. "She seems to be a legend amongst her soldiers. They actually boast that they can't beat her."
"How was the news of our marriage taken?" he asked.
"The steward was relieved," Galway said. "I think he knew he could never control Lady Isabel. But milord, the condition of Mansfield Castle is primitive, with barely any luxury ye'd expect of an earl. No wonder Lady Isabel is a great heiress. The wealth must be hoarded in coffers or plate, for little was spent on up-keep. Fields lie fallow. Whole villages are deserted or broken down. I could barely stand to be in the great hall for the stench of what's rotting in the rushes. And the food—" Galway shuddered. "No wonder the poor girl was starving— oh, begging yer pardon, milord, the Lady Isabel, that is."
James absently waved away any offense. "And the soldiers?"
"Well trained. I think that's mostly because of the Boltons, milord," Galway said with a rueful grin. "There was a constant threat of impending war."
"Impending war? By me?"
"The steward claims it were more under yer father, but apparentiy Lady Isabel also believed you were ruthless and despicable." The captain reddened and looked away.
James gritted his teeth. "Had she no woman's guidance?"
"Her mother died when she was very young, and with no sons, her father made sure she would carry on the feud. Apparently she only ate or slept in the castle, and lived to train with the men. They're fond of her."
"Is there anything else?"
"Only that I feel Mansfield lands need a visit by you, milord."
"My thoughts exactly, Galway. Tomorrow prepare for a week's journey or more. Bring extra food to distribute either along the way, or at Mansfield itself. It sounds like it might be easiest to bribe my way into their favor by appealing to their stomachs."
James found his wife rolled in a blanket before the fire, back turned towards him, breathing deeply as if asleep.
"Isabel?"
She didn't stir.
He cursed the need for her, which grew daily. How much longer could he wait before he demanded what was his by marriage?
Yet, she had been misused by her father. He tried to imagine his sister, Margery, without the love and coddling she so took for granted. Isabel had never known even one moment of tenderness. She'd only been taught hate and revenge.
Yet when she embarrassed him, he felt a burning anger. When he was alone with her, his desire waged war on his body. He still couldn't believe
that he even wanted her. Would she ever be more a woman than a soldier?
Suddenly James paused and sniffed the air. There was an unusual odor, and it wasn't coming from the chamberpot. He moved slowly around the room, and then stopped next to his bed in dawning consternation. He leaned forward, inhaled again, and grimaced.
"God's teeth," he said, wondering what could have happened in his bed while he was gone. "I can't believe Annie would let this—" He strode to the door and threw it open so that it crashed into the wall.
Just before he bellowed the maid's name, he heard, "Stop!"
James turned around to see Isabel sitting up next to the hearth, her hair sleep-tossed, her shirt transparent in the firelight. Every thought fled his mind as he stared at her like he'd never seen a woman before.
"Do not call for Annie," Isabel said. "I promised I would change the bed and I just—forgot. I was very tired."
James tried to collect himself, to ignore his lower body's desperation. "How in God's name did my bed get wet?"
"Annie's baby—and you can't blame the baby. I think they all do this."
"You think—" He wanted to gape at her. "Don't you know a thing about babies?"
She stiffened, and he could suddenly see the defensiveness she tried to hide. He ignored it.
"Don't you know that it has probably seeped through to the mattress by now?"
He advanced on her, and she didn't cower. He yanked her up by the arms, then turned and dumped her onto the wet bed, jumping sideways as she aimed a kick to his groin.
"Enjoy your night!" he yelled, throwing the clean blankets in a heap before the fire and settling down.
"Enjoy the floor. 'Tis quite comfortable." Her voice was low, throaty—and smug.
James clenched his jaw and listened as she tossed blankets on the floor. The odor of urine wafted over him. Damn the woman.
In the morning, James dressed and stood beside his bed, watching his wife sleep on the bare mattress. She lay spread-eagled, a peaceful expression on her face as if she'd slept well. He frowned, remembering his own restless movements of half the night.
It was all swept from his mind as he looked at the shadows between her bare thighs. If he stood at the
end of the bed, and angled his head just right, he could probably see—
A knock sounded at the door, and he found himself stepping back as if he didn't have a right to be there, looking at his wife however he wanted to.
He opened the door for Annie, said a pleasant, "Good morning," and walked out into the corridor.
After breaking her fast, Isabel stood on the battlements, high above the land. The wind blew hard, and a sudden gust made her grip the curtain wall to keep from being blown to the inner ward.
"Isabel!"
She turned and saw Bolton himself leaving the corner tower and coming towards her. He ducked his head against the wind until he reached her. He braced his big body behind hers and held onto the wall.
She said, "I am perfectly capable of—"
"Be quiet. You are a fool to be out here in such weather."
She remained silent as the wind buffeted them. Bolton was solid as the curtain wall itself, but she refused to let him support her weight.
"I am traveling to Mansfield on the morrow," he said.
She tensed, staring intently at his large, clean hands, so near to her own.
"I am going to see for myself what you brought to this marriage."
"And if it's not enough, you'll set me free?"
His laugh was grim. "I'm sorry to say 'tis not that easy."
Bolton hadn't said that she was going. Did she really want to? Did she want to see with fresh understanding what her father had allowed to become of his lands, his people? Yet the more she saw of Bolton Castle, the more she realized she now had the money to help her peasants.
There was an uneasy silence, and when he spoke, his voice was close to her ear. "Aren't you going to ask to come?"
His breathing bathed the side of her neck, and
she gripped the wall tightly. "Not if I have to beg."
"No fear of that. I don't trust you enough to leave you here alone."
Isabel didn't blame him. She was rather pleased with her recent performances—except for the night by the fire, when she had forgotten her purposes and pushed him away. He obviously had forgotten nothing.
She ducked beneath his arm and started to walk away.
"Isabel."
She slowly turned and looked at him.
Bolton's dark hair was tousled by the wind, his cloak swirled about his body. He stared at her with a penetrating gaze.
" 'Tis only a matter of time," he said softly.
She remained still. "Until what?"
"Until I take what is mine."
Isabel spent the day watching the preparations for the journey, but having nothing to do herself. Everywhere she went, from the kitchens to the armory, people loaded carts and followed orders. She felt useless as they ignored her.
She found William at the stables. Even he could spare her no time as he examined the horses for the journey. In frustration, Isabel picked up the shovel he'd been using to muck out the stalls. She started to work, finishing the job he'd begun.
In an hour, she was filthy and perspiring, her boots caked in straw and manure. Just as she leaned against a stall to rest, she heard the horn announce visitors at the gatehouse. She watched the line of carts and knights enter the inner ward. A litter was lowered, and a cloaked woman emerged from behind the curtains. A handsome man of her party took her hands and kissed them. Another noblewoman rode a fine horse of her own, and she too dismounted to stand beside the couple.
The noble party caught sight of Isabel, and their blatant stares made her sigh with contentment. It would be a good day. She wiped her hands on a rag, and sauntered over to greet them.
The well-dressed man wore a cocky grin as she approached, and his eyes moved down her body with a familiarity Isabel found distasteful. The petite woman who clutched his arm gazed at her in shocked horror, her face blanched white. The second woman, the one who'd ridden in on her own, wore a baffled smile that slowly faded.