by Gayle Callen
Why were women all of a sudden making her hold babies? Isabel wondered. She wanted to resent it, but Mary clutched fistfuls of Isabel's tunic in her pudgy fists and grinned her own toothless welcome. Isabel couldn't help but soften.
Annie suddenly said, "My lady, I forgot something in the kitchens. I'll return in but a moment."
"Annie—"
But she was gone, and Isabel could have sworn she'd been skipping. She stared at Mary, who started playing with the laces on her shirt. With a sigh, Isabel sat down before the fire and held the baby in her lap. Time seemed to stretch on forever. The baby grew bored, then restless, and when the
whimpering started, Isabel panicked. She tried to jostle the baby as she'd seen Annie do, but soon Mary was emitting angry screams. Isabel hadn't thought something so little could be so loud.
The door opened and Isabel looked up in relief, but saw James instead of Annie.
Her spirits plummeted. "Did you see Annie in the hall?" she asked.
"No," he said, a slow smile crossing his face.
She tried to pretend she was unaffected by his handsomeness, that she didn't feel an ache of desolation at what she might never have.
But Mary chose that moment to empty the contents of her stomach all over Isabel, who gaped in horror.
James started to laugh, falling back against the door.
"This is your tunic!" Isabel said, picking up Mary before the baby could soil herself further. "Do something!"
Mary started to cry, and Isabel regretted her loud, angry words. It wasn't the baby's fault.
"Hush, Mary, your mama will be here soon." She wanted to comfort her, but she was at a loss. "James!"
He came forward and took the baby, a smile still curving his lips. As Isabel began to undress, she
watched James use a cloth from a pile by the tub to wipe Mary's face. He spoke softly to her, comforting her, and soon the baby was all smiles. Isabel sighed, reminded once again how inadequate she was as a wife.
She turned her back to slip on a clean shirt. When she looked at James again, the baby had reached for his bandaged hand, and he quickly pulled it away.
"I don't understand you," Isabel said with exasperation. "The baby doesn't care about your hand, I certainly don't, yet you are acting as if your world has ended."
His face paled, then darkened as he scowled at her.
"James, you lost two fingers. You'll do fine without them. You could have lost a foot—or your life. How do you think I'd feel then?"
For a moment, she thought he would yell or walk out of the room. He finally lifted his head and gazed at her, asking softly, "How would you feel?"
She was taken aback by his question, by the soft yearning in his eyes. This wasn't like James. "I—I don't know."
At that moment, Annie came into the room. "My lady, I've brought hot spiced wine—" Then her gaze took in the scene and she stumbled to a halt. "My lord—" she began, but James stopped her.
"It was nothing, Annie, just an accident. Would you mind taking Mary to bed? We won't need you tonight."
Isabel remained silent as Annie collected Mary and all the soiled garments and linens. The maid gave Isabel a worried, apologetic look, but Isabel just smiled and shook her head.
"Have a good evening, Annie."
When they were alone, she briskly went to a trunk to find something to wear.
"Isabel, come here," James said in a low voice. "I need to finish talking to you."
"I said all I needed to."
"I did not. Please come here."
He'd even asked politely, which was certainly a different side of James. With a sigh she went and stood awkwardly before him. His hands were resting loosely on his stomach, and he leaned his head back against the chair to look up at her.
"So how would you feel if I died?" he asked in a serious, calm voice.
She didn't know what to say.
"You are happy I didn't die? A few weeks ago, you would have been thrilled to run a sword through me yourself."
She shrugged and looked away. She tried to remember what it felt like to hate him, to want him
dead, but she was a different person now and saw James as he was, not through the filter of another's eyes. He cared about his people and his lands, and had the strength to go against his whole family for what he believed in. She could have a good life with him—if only he could accept her for what she was.
It would never happen. The love inside her burst for release, but she was so afraid of his reaction, of his rejection. She felt tears building in her eyes, and to her humiliation, one slipped down her cheek.
"Isabel?" he whispered her name.
She felt his hands on her waist as he pulled her down into his lap. She struggled, but he held her still, his arms around her.
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying," she answered sternly, trying to rub her hand across her face. He stopped her, brushing away the tear with his thumb.
James pressed his lips to the same spot on her cheek and she shuddered, feeling his warmth all around her.
"Please don't," she said forlornly.
He pressed his face against her neck and just held her. "Why can't I touch you?"
"Because—because you don't mean it," she cried. "You don't care how much this hurts me."
James held still, breathing in the scent that was only Isabel, wishing he knew the right words. He was afraid to hope, afraid to find the truth. To hear her say that she didn't care about his hand—the relief was overwhelming and he found himself incredibly grateful.
"I mean it," he whispered, pressing kisses on her neck and jaw. "I want to touch you, to make love to you."
She shook her head and he saw another tear roll down her cheek.
"Please, Angel, I don't want to hurt you. If my hand doesn't bother you, then what does?"
"I'll never be like the other women you've wanted as your wife," she whispered, trembling. "I don't know what to do or say or—"
James hushed her and started to rock slowly, cradling her in his arms. She took a shuddery breath, sighed, then slowly relaxed against him. James was stunned to realize that most of his problems with Isabel were not about their families or his hand, but her own insecurities as a woman. And he'd done his damnedest to make her feel worse. It shamed him down to his soul, how he'd made his naive wife suffer.
With sudden clarity, he realized he'd fallen in love with her sometime between their first sword
fight and their last. She had more strength and determination that he'd seen in most men. She never believed that she couldn't accomplish whatever she meant to, regardless of what people thought.
And he was hurting her. He was afraid if he told her he loved her, she wouldn't believe him. Why should she, after the way he'd behaved? And he wasn't even sure she could love him. But he wanted to spend an evening with her, not arguing, not trying to outdo each other. He wanted to know what it was like to have peace between them.
James smoothed her hair away from her face. "Would you come outside with me this night? 'Tis All Hallow's Eve. There will be bonfires dotting the hillsides."
She sighed. "Why do they do this?"
He tried not to let the shock show on his face. Were not even such old, sacred rituals allowed at Castle Mansfield? "We light fires to aid the souls of the dead on their journey to heaven. This is the day the spirits are amongst us—or so say the veiy superstitious. Would you like to walk the hills tonight, and see the bonfires?"
She tilted her head and looked up into his face. "Why do you wish to take me?"
He stared into her dark, mysterious eyes, glanced at the lips he longed to kiss. "I want to be alone with you."
And then his warrior wife blushed. "All right."
In the deepest part of the evening, James, carrying a torch, led Isabel to the back of the castle, where the land sloped down towards the curtain wall. She knew this area well, for the dungeons were nearby. He grinned at her, as if he were thinking the same thing. S
he arched a brow and tried not to smile.
She didn't understand what he was doing. He hadn't said a thing about her confession, but he'd held her more tenderly than she'd imagined a man could. He'd kissed her, said he wanted to make love to her. And it was enough for now. She would see what the rest of the evening brought.
A rusted iron door was cut into the curtain wall. James took a handful of keys from a pouch at his waist and tried them all until he found the correct one.
"This door leads outside?" she asked in an appalled voice.
"I had it cut some years ago for a safe exit."
"Safe? But surely you could easily be taken by
She broke off as he swung open the door. She saw by moonlight the rocky, narrow ledge that seemed to fall away into darkness. She went forward to investigate, but James held her back.
"The cliff rises alongside the river. Quite difficult to reach except by single file. Stay near the wall as we walk."
He led the way along the curtain wall, holding the torch slightly behind him so she could see. The path finally left the cliff and they entered the forest. It reminded Isabel eerily of her last night as the Black Angel, when James had defeated her by sword beneath a clear moon. It had only been a few weeks ago, but she was another person then, vengeful, bitter, convinced that she was in the right. Now all her beliefs had crashed to the ground one by one, all because of James, her husband.
Had her father begun all of this? she thought as she followed the bobbing torch down a narrow woodcutter's path. How would her life have turned out if her father hadn't used her against his enemy?
"Are we going to join the villagers?" Isabel asked softly. The dark forest made her feel like she couldn't speak too loudly. She heard owls calling to one another, and the flapping of wings.
"No, I have a different destination in mind. You'll like it, I promise."
Less than an hour later, she felt the ground begin to slope upward at a gentle angle. Soon they broke through the trees to find a grassy hillside beneath the dark night sky. The moon shone down on them peacefully.
Isabel kept climbing until she stood just beneath the summit, almost level with the treetops. She would have gone higher, but there was already a pile of branches in the center for a bonfire. James again, she thought. She arched her neck and spread her arms wide to the black sky, with its pinpricks of light winking above her. She felt his gaze upon her, and she finally lowered her arms and looked down at him. He stood at the base of the hill, by the last of the trees, the torch flaming in his raised hand.
When he spoke, his husky, deep voice carried like it was part of the night wind. "You look like you're from another time up there, Angel. Pagan, primitive."
She began to shiver, and it wasn't from the cold. Her cloak protected her well, but nothing protected her from knowing that he watched her, that he wanted her, that maybe he cared.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
James shook his head, then began to climb the hillside. As he approached, he stumbled, and Isabel reached for his hand. He caught hers in a firm grip, then didn't let go. She was content to stand beside him in the peaceful night.
After a moment, she said, "You told me we light bonfires to help souls on their journey."
James nodded.
"Then may we light this in memory of my father?"
He stiffened. "Is there a reason you bring him up, Isabel?"
"Because I need to say good-bye."
He held the torch out to her, releasing her hand. Isabel stared at it for a moment, then up into the night sky. From now on, she would belong only to herself and her husband.
But first she concentrated on her father, and hoped he had left behind his misery and bitterness. She took the torch in a firm grip, then thrust it headfirst into the kindling. After a moment the dry wood caught, and the fire spread crackling from twig to branch. James put a few small logs on top, and soon the fire was in no danger of going out. They stood side by side, watching.
She removed the chain she always wore and held it before her. The Mansfield ring spun and glittered
in the firelight. She slid it into a pouch hung from her belt. She didn't know why she did it. It made her feel vulnerable, uncertain.
He held her gaze, a half-smile curving his lips, but said nothing.
After a moment, Isabel said, "There is one important reason to remember my father."
As he looked at her, the fire played a dance of light and shadow over his face and she could read nothing there. But she didn't need to.
"Without him, I wouldn't have met you." She reached down and touched his bandaged hand.
James pulled away.
Chapter 29
James felt utterly foolish. Isabel had told him she didn't care about his hand. Yet he didn't want her to see it—even he didn't like looking at it.
"James," she said in a soft, husky voice that sent shivers through him.
He let her unwind the bandages. The hand was still swollen, discolored—and had two scabbed lumps where they'd cauterized after amputating. He couldn't look away, couldn't imagine holding a sword or touching his wife again with that hand. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he found himself trembling uncontrollably.
Isabel loosened the laces of her doublet and shirt. With a shrug, she let them fall to her waist, and brought his mutilated hand up to cup her breast. Something twisted inside him, shaking everything he'd believed in.
"I love you, James," she said softly. "Your hand matters to you, but not at all to me."
Still holding his shaking hand against her, she touched his forehead, then his chest. "Your mind and your heart are all that matter to me. But of course, there is another thing that seems to matter to men."
She suddenly grabbed him firmly between the legs and James almost doubled over in shock.
"And that certainly wasn't damaged," she finished wryly.
James thanked God for the gifts he'd been given, for the ability to finally see that there was so much more to appreciate beneath what Isabel showed the world.
Isabel put her hands on the warm, stubbled skin of his face, and kissed James hard on the mouth. They touched in no other way but that, yet when she lifted her head back, they were both breathing hard. He looked shocked, wide-eyed, and then their bodies came together in a crash that almost knocked them down the sloping side of the hill.
Isabel wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, opening her mouth and joining her tongue with his. She felt his hands run down her back, then mold her hips against his. He was aroused, pressing against her, and she wanted more than anything to feel his body inside hers again.
Isabel pulled off his cloak and tossed it over her shoulder.
"We might need that to lay upon," he whispered against her neck, pressing kisses there.
"I don't care," she said, tilting her head back, lifting one knee high so that she could feel his hips between her thighs.
They pulled each others' clothes off, tangling laces, ripping hose, stretching seams. Isabel lifted James's shirt up over his head, then ran her hands across the muscles of his chest, touching him as he had touched her. She bent and kissed his nipples.
He groaned. "Isabel.. .Angel.. .what you do to me," he murmured.
When he was naked, she carefully held his penis, and it felt so different than when he'd thrust it inside her. He grasped her hands and held them away.
"No more," he said, his voice hoarse. "I won't be able to hold myself back, and I so want this to last forever."
"If I touch it, that makes you release your seed faster?"
"No more talking," he said, dragging the shirt off her body until she too was naked.
Isabel stood feeling deliciously frozen as James held the weight of her breasts in his hands, seeming to admire them by firelight. He bent and kissed each of them, bringing to her body the most unbearably wonderful feelings of pleasure and happiness. She wished never to be anywhere else but in his arms. She trailed her fingers through the thickness o
f his hair, then gasped as he dropped to his knees before her, spreading kisses in his wake. Kneading the rounded muscles of her buttocks with both hands, he suddenly pressed his mouth between her thighs.
Isabel let out a little scream and tried to push him away. "What are you doing? Don't do that!"
He was laughing at her as he pulled her down into his lap beside the fire. She found herself straddling his thighs, afraid to sit down farther. James slid one of her knees aside until she found herself sinking onto him, cradling the hot hardness of him where she wanted him to be.
"Men and women do such things, Angel," he said, kissing her face and down her neck.
She wanted to say such things were unnatural, but she forgot all her protestations when he arched her back and took each nipple into his mouth, one at a time, moving back and forth between them until she was whimpering. The sky whirled almost dizzily above her, his mouth worked magic on her breasts, and between her legs he pulsed against her, almost rocking, moving in time with the rhythm of their bodies.
A spasm of intense pleasure shuddered through her, and she didn't want to wait any longer. "Inside me," she gasped.
He lifted his head and gave her a languid smile. "Soon," he whispered, pulling her into his embrace to kiss her again.
It was almost too much—his tongue invading her mouth, his erection pushing hard between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to get closer, wanting to surrender to the delight he could give her. And then she felt his fingers between her thighs, caressing, rubbing, as he'd done before. The feeling was so much more immediate, so shocking, that she cried out, and her voice echoed through the stillness of the forest.
"How do you do that?" she gasped, dropping her head back.
"No talking," he repeated, his mouth again at her breasts. "I'll tell you everything—later."
He teased and caressed her with his lips and fingers until she was shuddering and shaking in his arms. Then suddenly he thrust up inside her, and it didn't hurt at all. He filled her, completed her, made her feel every inch a woman.
He lay back in the grass, arching his body and almost lifting her. "Ride me, Isabel. You're in control."