by Gayle Callen
She leaned forward, bracing her weight beside his shoulders and looking down into his face. The firelight flickered through the strands of her hair that curtained around him. His eyes were closed, his face intense, frowning. She raised her hips a bit, then sat back down, and was rewarded as he groaned.
"You feel so good," he said, reaching up to pull her face down for a kiss.
Soon the movement became natural and she rode her husband hard, controlling her pleasure and his, until the passion culminated in the most exquisite release pulsing through her body. She heard James groan, felt him pressing deep inside her, even felt the release of his seed. He pulled her down on top of his chest and she rested her head against his shoulder.
For what seemed like forever, James had heard only the sounds of his and Isabel's hearts, heard only her voice raised in cries of passion. The return of the noises of the forest almost surprised him. He forgot that he lay in the cold grass, next to a blazing fire, in the middle of a dark forest where others
most assuredly built their own bonfires. And he didn't care.
Isabel, his wife, had seduced him, had wanted him, had unashamedly stripped the clothes from his body. Never in his life had he met a woman with such strength, such determination once she'd set her mind on something. And tonight she'd wanted him, and was not content to wait for him to pleasure her. It hadn't mattered that they weren't in the privacy of their bedchamber. To Isabel, propriety and other people's opinions never mattered. Part of him thought he loved that best about her.
She slowly sat up again, making him sink deeper into her body.
With a groan, James said, "I could do this again."
He saw his breath as he spoke, and knew she must be cold. But instead of moving, he lay there and looked at her, silhouetted against the stars, the moon peaking over her shoulder, the fire flickering warmly across her skin. She lifted herself off him, and James sighed. He didn't want to leave, didn't want this night to end. She had given herself freely to him, and he wanted to savor the gladness and joy. He felt like it was their true wedding night. His wife loved him.
But it was freezing.
They found their clothes scattered in the grass, and donned them quickly. After making sure the fire was stamped out, they returned to Bolton Castle hand in hand, entering again the small door cut in the wall. Guards called out soft hellos in the night, and James saluted. In the great hall, people still gathered at the trestle tables or before the two hearths, some well bundled from their evening outdoors. James steered Isabel through them and up the stairs, saying countless good-nights.
In their bedchamber, James caught her to him and kissed her with all the passion he'd been withholding for weeks. She pushed him back on the bed and climbed on top.
"May we do that again?" she asked, spreading his arms wide and holding him down.
James groaned. "Please."
James awoke, still feeling exhausted and sore. He lifted his head, saw Isabel nowhere in sight, then collapsed back on the cushion wearing what was undoubtedly a silly grin. He felt wonderful.
A few minutes later, he heard the door open. Again he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. Isabel stood over him, dressed all in black, a sword belted at her hip, her arms crossed over her
chest. She surveyed him casually and he was aroused in an instant.
"Coming back to bed?" he asked.
"Soon. I have something to read to you first."
He saw a piece of parchment in one of her hands. She unrolled the letter and held it to the light. Very slowly, she began to read it aloud, and James was astonished by how fast she had taken to reading.
Then he began to listen to the words, and his stomach clenched with dread. When she was done, she lowered the parchment, put her hand on her sword hilt, and just looked at him.
"James, does this letter from the king mean that he has taken my family tide away?"
Looking into her wide eyes, James saw the ruination of everything he'd finally achieved— Isabel's love. He watched her face, waiting for her to scream, throw the letter into the fire, anything but look at him so calmly. That disturbed him more than any woman's tantrums.
"Yes, Angel, King Henry has decided to give the earldom—but not your lands or property—to a knight who has served him well." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He couldn't let her be hurt again, as she'd been hurt her whole life. "Put away your sword, Isabel. I will write to
the king. I'll travel to London and protest. He cannot do this to you. I'll—"
"You would do this for me?" she interrupted, as the parchment rolled to the floor. "Risk your lands, your wealth, in a court battle against the king?"
"Of course I would! I wrote him when we married, asking for permission for your family title to be inherited by our child. And this is obviously his answer. I'll—"
"Stop!" she said, taking his shoulders and giving him a little shake. "I need to know something."
"Anything."
"Could you ever love me for what I am, not some ideal woman you've had pictured your whole life?"
"I thought I proved that last night." James wanted to touch her, but he held back. "I love you," he whispered, and felt the words deeply.
Isabel closed her eyes and sighed. He tried to hold her, but she put a hand on his chest. "I need to know that this is more than just.. .mating."
He smiled and cupped her cheek with his hand. "I love you."
"Why?"
"Precisely because you are like no other woman I've ever met. You're strong in your own right. And you don't care about my title—or my hand. You are
the first woman who's ever seen anything else in me besides what's on the surface."
She gazed deeply into his eyes, before allowing a small smile to show.
"Did I pass your test of honor, wife? Can I go to London on your behalf?"
"No."
"No? You're not going, Isabel. The king would
"Don't you understand? It isn't important anymore."
He stared at her in amazement. "But Isabel—"
She smiled. "We can't win against the king. All that matters, all that touches me deeply, is your offer to risk all that is important to you, your security, your title, just for me."
"Isabel, I love you. You are the most important thing to me now."
"Then that's all I need," she said, leaning into his embrace. "My life is more than I ever imagined it could be, and I have that title—and an old feud—to thank for it." She lifted her head up, then glanced down his body. "You're not wearing anything."
He grinned and nodded towards the bed.
"Are you sure you're not too tired?" she asked, eyes narrowed in speculation.
"My bruises will heal."
Before supper, Isabel insisted she needed a moment of privacy, and sent James down to the great hall with instructions to send Annie up.
He awaited his wife before the fire, listening to William talk, but feeling a bit too happy to think about jousting, or whatever subject the boy was chattering about. A moment later, William's mouth sagged open and his eyes grew wide in astonishment.
James turned to follow his gaze, and he too felt like someone had punched the air from his lungs. Every sound in the great hall died away until just the gurgling of a babe could be heard.
Isabel was slowly coming down the stairs looking as regal as a princess, dressed in wine-colored silk that clung to her breasts and fell in rich, full folds to her feet. Her tight sleeves were embroidered with gold threads and pearls, and the design was echoed across her bodice and along the hem of the skirt. She wore no headdress, just a simple upsweep of her shining hair, almost blue-black in the flickering candlelight.
Around her neck, she wore his mother's gold and pearl chains. And tied to the chain was her father's ring.
The emotions coursing through James's chest had nothing to do with arrogant satisfaction. He ached to have her for all time, knowing that she had dressed like this just to please him.
Then he saw the wickedly sharp dagger in the jeweled girdle at her waist, and he wanted to laugh until tears of gratitude poured down his cheeks. Every day with Isabel was an adventure, and he so wanted to be worthy of a lifetime of such days.
As she came near, he slowly rose to his feet, then dropped to one knee and reached for her hand. He kissed her knuckles, then turned it over to press his lips into her palm.
He raised his head. "I love you," he said in a husky voice. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you." She leaned over him. "But I want you to know, this is only for special occasions."
His shoulders shook with laughter as he got to his feet. He turned and saw Annie at the top of the stairs, wiping away tears. He blew her a kiss, then presented his arm to his wife, leading her to a cushioned chair before the fire.
"A song!" someone called from the crowd.
Mort began to pluck the lute strings. "Until ye're ready, milord, I can play."
James nodded, listening to Mort's strumming. He recognized an old song of love and beauty. He sang
praise to her eyes, which rivaled the mysteries of the night, to her hair, in which a man could gladly lose himself. But there were no lyrics written to do justice to the spirit that was Isabel.
Epilogue
Isabel Markham was a most unusual wife, and her approach to childbearing bore that out. Through her pregnancy, James had to keep a constant watch on her, lest she remain too long at the tiltyard, giving advice, seeing to the squires' training—and forgetting to eat. She would not rest in the afternoon, as the midwife told her she ought.
When the actual labor began, only James seemed to be nervous. Isabel claimed not even to be in much pain. He was amazed, exasperated, sick with love, and paralyzed with fear that something would happen, and he would lose his Angel, the only reason he could imagine for living.
When Isabel finally agreed with the midwife that the babe was about to be born, she ascended to their
bedchamber. James walked beside her, arm about her shoulders, trying to help.
"Honestly, James, I am perfectly capable of walking," she said, looking amused.
Less than two hours later, with only a minimum of fuss, Isabel gave birth to an overly long, squalling girl. James couldn't take his eyes off his daughter as she lay in her cradle, flinging her arms, looking just like her mother.
James lifted little Elizabeth, the descendant of both their families, the beginning of a new peace. He didn't bother to count her fingers and toes, because she would be loved, no matter what she looked like.