A Knight's Vow Page 15

"I am Isabel Markham, countess of Bolton Castle. Who are you?"

  The man's eyebrows rose and he chuckled as he patted the shaking woman's hand. "I am Sir Avery Cabot, and this is my wife, Lady Cabot. I am an old friend of your.. .husband. We are in need of a night's lodging as we travel north."

  But Isabel was already looking beyond him, to the woman who had yet to speak. "And you?" she asked.

  She heard gasps from the other women of the party, who'd begun to flutter around Lady Cabot like empty-headed birds. She ignored them.

  "I am Margery Welles," the woman said. "I had heard rumors of my brother marrying and.. .1 guess they're true."

  Chapter 18

  Isabel controlled her shock and thought about her good fortune. Bolton would be mortified. His sister was a beautiful woman, with the easy elegance of her brother and his dark hair. She wore such a stunned expression that Isabel wanted to laugh.

  "I didn't believe the rumors, because I couldn't imagine my brother not inviting me to his wedding," Margery said hesitantly.

  "There wasn't time," Isabel said. "Such things happen when one is dragged from a dungeon and forced into marriage."

  "Ordered by the king, I heard," Sir Avery said, cutting amusement in his voice.

  Before Isabel could respond, Margery motioned for Isabel to follow her inside, as if Margeiy were the mistress of the castle. Sir Avery and his wife trailed behind.

  They ascended the stairs and entered the great hall, the smell of baked bread wafting in the warm air. Trestle tables were being laid out with luxurious white tablecloths, and hundreds of candles reflected in the silver and glass.

  Isabel saw Bolton a moment before Lady Margery called to him. He had been laughing with some of his knights, looking relaxed. But at the sound of his name, he turned his head. Isabel watched his face harden, saw the wariness and unease register for but a moment, before a forced smile returned to his lips. Her stomach fluttered as he approached. He glanced at her briefly before pulling his sister into a tight embrace.

  "Margery," he murmured.

  Love and happiness shone from his eyes as he gazed at his sister. Isabel didn't think she'd ever seen such an expression on his face.

  "Margery, what are you doing here?" he asked. "It is getting too cold for you to be traveling."

  "Oh, James, stop your coddling. It is a beautiful autumn day, and we have just left London. The queen had invited me to court—can you imagine it?"

  "Bolton!" Sir Avery said too cheerfully. "We arrived just in time to meet your wife."

  Isabel straightened and faced her husband with a cool regard. His smile remained, in fact broadened. Oh, he was good.

  "Nasty scar on your cheek," Avery continued. "How did it happen?"

  "I did it," Isabel said, not waiting for Bolton's explanation. "He—"

  "It happened in our bedchamber," Bolton interrupted, winking broadly at the whole assembly.

  The ladies gasped, waving their fans as if they were ruffling their feathers.

  "Isabel is a bit clumsy and uncertain of herself," he continued. "I find such innocence endearing, don't you?"

  Isabel rolled her eyes. "Defending myself is necessary in a marriage like ours."

  With a little scream, one of the women swooned into the group, threatening to topple them all over as they caught her. Isabel almost laughed aloud.

  "Quite a woman, eh?" Bolton said, pounding Avery's back a little too hard.

  Avery coughed. "Certainly a fine addition to your household. Willing to help any way she can, I see. Lady Bolton, what was that you were doing as we arrived?"

  James thought his smile would crack in two and fall from his face as he waited for Isabel's response.

  She looked haughty and pleased with herself. She was covered in filth, her face was smudged with dirt, her tangled hair fell raggedly down her back, and she'd just admitted she'd cut him. Could matters be any worse?

  She coolly faced Avery and said, "I was helping out in the stables."

  Worse, much worse, James thought in disbelief.

  Avery's wife, Sarah, and her ladies tittered to each other. James well remembered a time when Sarah's sweetness was directed at him. Now he'd only get her pity. He wanted to groan, but he laughed instead.

  "That's my Isabel," he said, forcing himself to sling an arm around his wife's shoulders. To keep her still, he held her tight enough to leave bruises. "Always ready to help wherever she's needed." If he'd have come near her before, he'd have known by the odor where she'd been most of the day.

  Avery Cabot was an ass—but a perceptive one. He had heard the rumors already, and came to wallow in his superiority. It had galled the man no end when James's friendship to King Henry had become close. When James had expressed an interest in Sarah, Avery had pursued her with a fervor. And now he was happy to gloat, to see how far and fast James had fallen.

  Why the hell hadn't James gone with his instincts, instead of letting Avery have Sarah? She was a beautiful woman, with her delicate cheeks and tiny figure. She gave James a pitying stare as she whispered with her ladies. Inside he smoldered, while he bowed to her and flashed a grin.

  He felt a tug on his arm, and turned to find Margery smiling up at him through clenched teeth. "I didn't like missing your wedding, James. I'm quite upset with you."

  He smiled and leaned closer to whisper, "Do not worry so, sweetheart. Everything is under control."

  "As if that's all that matters," she whispered back. "We need to talk later." She stepped away and said aloud, "I'd like to dress for supper. Sarah, would you accompany me?"

  "Oh, do allow me," Isabel said, walking forward.

  James tried to think of a way to keep the two women apart. Who knew what plans were whirling through his wife's devious brain? But he was speechless.

  Margery arched her neck in stupefied shock as Isabel towered over her. James sighed. It would be a long, humiliating evening.

  Sarah wiggled her fingers. "Oh, Margery, do wait for us. I'm sure Lady Bolton could show us to our chambers, too."

  "They're not ready yet," James quickly said, watching as Annie went dashing down a corridor to move the most luxurious furnishings around. If only he'd had time to spend some of his newfound wealth.

  Isabel led the way up the main staircase, and James could only imagine the odor trailing after her. Sarah pouted and went to sit beside the hearth with her gaggle of ladies. Avery's knights and traveling companions headed for a table where ale was being poured. But Avery himself faced James, his amused smile a grating annoyance.

  "Finally a married man," Avery said.

  James thought Avery would soon giggle. "Feels good to have the deed done." He walked to the empty dais and poured a tankard of ale for his guest.

  "And it was a long quest, as I remember."

  James leaned back against the table, sipped his ale, and studied his old friend. "Just the right amount of time to find the right woman."

  He heard himself defending Isabel, and felt sick. But he couldn't blame Avery Cabot. Once he had roamed the streets of London with Avery, getting into one scrape or another, and drinking their way out of it. It had been a dark, depressing time in James's life, after he'd lost Katherine Berkeley.

  Avery had been a loyal companion until they'd begun competing for the same women.

  Avery sat on a bench at the head table, and James had no choice but to sit beside him.

  "So tell me true," Avery said. "Did the girl really rob you?"

  He had known this was coming, that someday he would have to face all his friends and acquaintances and explain his marriage.

  "Of course she robbed me," he said. "Trying to get my attention, you know. There's a long history between our families that's been hard to overcome."

  Avery sighed. "She does have great wealth, I'm told. That must make up for what she lacks. She is a rather monstrous woman."

  James had called her that himself, yet to hear Avery say it gave him a tight, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He forced a gr
in and tried to think how a contented husband would respond. Instead he found himself speaking words he hadn't planned, through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. "If you continue to disparage my wife, I'll make you wish you still had a throat to speak out of."

  Avery raised both hands and laughed. "Very well, Bolton. I ask your forgiveness."

  Isabel had no idea where Margery's bedchamber might be, but Margery did. Isabel followed her into a cold room she'd never been in before, with plenty of pillows, draperies, and tapestries. The girl hung her cloak on a peg, then threw open the shutters to let in some light. She slowly turned to face Isabel.

  "'Tis good to be home," Margery said hesitantly.

  Isabel folded her arms over her chest, raised one eyebrow and waited to see what Margery would do. Though the silence was long and uncomfortable, Margery's gaze never dropped. She seemed to be assessing Isabel.

  "I used to live here most of the year," Margery said, "but since I've come into two manors from my brother, Reynold, I've been living there. Perhaps that was a mistake."

  "Why? Do you think you could have protected your brother from me?"

  Was Margery trying to show Isabel how rich and happy she was, that she had two brothers she loved, and who loved her back?

  Margery shrugged. "I don't know. I just wish I would have been here. Perhaps I could have helped."

  Isabel felt anger surge through her. "Helped how?" she found herself saying as she advanced on the girl. "Could you have stopped Bolton from parading me in ropes before his people? Probably not. After all, I did rob him. Would you have stood over the pit he calls a dungeon, and thrown food down to me?"

  Margery's face blanched and she backed up a step.

  "I doubt it. Oh, I know! Perhaps you could have cheered him on when he used his mouth as a weapon against his helpless prisoner."

  "Stop it!" The girl put her hands over her ears.

  "You don't like to hear the truth about what kind of man your brother is? The kind of man who would —" Isabel's words came to a breathless halt as she realized how her voice had risen and begun to tremble. By the saints, what had come over her? She took a deep, gasping breath and stumbled back from Margery.

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  Margery's wide, frightened eyes never left Isabel as she called a shaky, "Come in."

  A young page entered with a basin of water. Isabel brushed past him and fled down the corridor. She found her bedchamber, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it. How had she lost control like that, in front of Bolton's sister no less?

  Her breathing was hard and fast, and she had to force herself to calm down. She still had the evening to get through. She absently reached for the pipes leading to the cisterns, then froze as she realized what she was doing.

  Was she taking a bath to please Bolton? Soon she'd be parading about in one of the many gowns still hung on pegs around the room. He'd certainly be happy with such a victory. Instead, without tidying her hair or washing her face, she headed for the great hall.

  James tried to keep all expression from his face as he watched Isabel descend the broad staircase. He wanted to smirk at his foolish hopes that she could transform into the perfect countess, the ideal woman. Hell, she hadn't even bathed. And what had happened between her and Margery, who'd come downstairs moments before, wearing a smile he knew was false.

  Isabel stopped at the base of the stairs. Even in his anger, he could still see her tall elegance, the natural, unstudied grace she didn't have to force. Of course, that came from sword fighting. Voices dropped to murmurs as Isabel glanced about the room with a haughty arrogance.

  She approached the head table and sat beside James, ignoring everything but the tankard of ale she deliberately took away from him. The smell of the stables hung between them.

  Sarah Cabot's face was pale again, and she leaned closer to her husband in obvious worry. James felt a moment's irritation that he didn't want to understand. He reached out and touched Sarah's hand, giving her his most captivating smile, the one she'd always responded to before. It took a moment longer, but the corners of her mouth finally tilted prettily, and her eyes brightened. James straightened and looked into Avery's uneasy gaze.

  "Don't worry, Cabot," James said as he broke into a steaming loaf of white bread. "I'm a married man now."

  He heard a sudden thump, and turned to find Isabel stabbing her eating knife through the bread and into the table. She tossed the rest of the loaf aside, picked up her piece, and tore a chunk off with her teeth.

  Avery smirked. "I notice you didn't say 'happily.'"

  "It goes without saying," he said with a laugh.

  James didn't know how he made it through the meal. He did his best to ignore Isabel, who wiped her mouth on her sleeve and slurped the food directly from her plate. He focused all his attention and charm on Sarah. Much as the girl wanted to stare at Isabel in horror, she was easily swayed by his eyes and his smile. She always was. Avery was obviously torn between gloating over Isabel, or worriedly keeping close to Sarah.

  James knew it wasn't a good idea to ignore Isabel, but he was so humiliated and frustrated, it was easier to pretend it wasn't happening. Margery continually glanced between himself and Isabel, wearing her most disapproving frown, but what could he do? Isabel had chosen her grand performance well. Short of hauling her over his shoulder and upstairs, which would cause even more talk, he was powerless.

  After the meal had dragged on all it could, James called in the minstrels who began playing lively music sure to start the whole room dancing. No one danced. The women clustered in groups to whisper and giggle, the knights sipped their ales in dejection, Margery glowered at everyone. James forced himself to flirt, keeping his back deliberately turned to Isabel.

  The next thing he knew, his wife had made her way to their female guests and stood among them, hands on her hips, as if listening intently to their every word. Isabel loomed above them with her black doublet, her dark wild hair, so out of place. As

  a group, the women inched sideways and Isabel followed them, like a fox chasing the chickens.

  James knew he should be laughing at the absurdity of it all, but being the butt of a joke made him seethe with humiliation and rage. He was almost relieved he wasn't alone with Isabel, because he didn't know if he could control himself.

  Isabel was completely satisfied by the reactions she'd garnered this bizarre evening. The ladies were aflutter and aghast, Margery wasn't even bothering to hide her concern, and Bolton was doing his best to ignore her. If only his best wasn't being directed at Sarah Cabot. Isabel wasn't a fool. She knew that something must have gone on between them once. Of course it didn't matter to her. She'd never wanted him as a husband anyway. Let him have Sarah even if he had to duel Lord Cabot to win her.

  She bit her lip and stepped away from the frightened women to stare into the fire. What must it be like to have men compete for your hand? Sarah had had her choice of Bolton and Cabot, and probably many others. Isabel didn't know what to do with one man, let alone many. She had not a clue how other women lived, what they conversed about.

  Isabel leaned her arm against the mantel as a wave of despair washed through her. She wondered if she could feel any more alone or hated. She had

  never imagined how tiring it was to be bad all the time, to be the object of so much scorn. She'd been living with it for weeks now, but it suddenly seemed as thick as black smoke in the great hall. Her throat tightened, breathing became painful, and something was stinging her eyes. She had to escape.

  Moving along the outskirts of the crowd was difficult, and at one point she found herself backed into a corner. She stumbled and put her hand out to brace herself, only to encounter the hilt of a sword, propped against the wall. Isabel didn't even hesitate. She clutched the scabbard against her thigh to keep it hidden, and turned into a dark corridor.

  The sounds of music and laughter faded behind her, muffled by thick stone. The hiss of torchlight and her breathing were all she
heard, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

  It slowly began to dawn on James that everyone in the great hall was too happy. People had begun to dance. Isabel must be gone.

  Before he could even formulate a plan, he heard one of his knights saying to another, "But I put my sword right here."

  James felt a chill of foreboding. He ducked down a side hall to the next staircase, only to find his bedchamber empty. He grabbed his sword, leaving

  the scabbard behind. He ran out a side entrance to the castle and skidded to a halt.

  James found his wife almost immediately. She was alone in the tiltyard, ringed by newly lit torches. Dressed in black, with her black curls wild down her back, she looked like the phantom of some dark dream. She swung a sword in powerful arcs, ducking and turning and weaving as if her imaginary opponent had great skill. Her breath was puffs of mist in the cold night. She looked skilled and competent, able to take care of herself. James couldn't help but admire her. And when had he ever admired a woman but for beauty?

  She suddenly turned and ran straight at James, bringing down her sword. He had no choice but to raise his weapon and parry hers aside.

  There was a sudden shout from the battlements above. "Who goes there?"

  "Lord Bolton!" James yelled. "Go back to your duties."

  Isabel crouched to face him, holding her sword ready. James felt a sudden exhilaration, but he tried to hide it.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Isn't it enough that you ruined the evening for everyone? Now you must go against my orders, too?"

  "You think I wanted to be with all those hypocrites? You keep me on display as if I'm your pet heiress. Well, I can still do tricks."

  She came at him again, thrusting straight for his chest. James blocked her and they spun apart.

  "Angel, are you trying to kill me? Haven't we had this conversation before?"

  "If I'd have wanted you dead, you'd be dead."

  Her casual disregard of everything she'd put him through this night roused his anger like nothing else could. She'd humiliated him, treated his friends and his sister abominably. Before he even realized what he was doing, he swung a hard blow. With a sharp crack of metal on metal, she met his sword with her own, then ducked away.