A Knight's Vow Read online

  The keep itself rose up massively before him, with many towers and levels. James knew deep inside that he would never know worry again, with such a fortress behind him. But there was still so much work to be done.

  Then, suddenly, the barracks seemed to empty of soldiers and knights as men streamed into the ward. Isabel gave a glad hail and dismounted to run into the center of the troop. She was caught up in giant bear hugs, and passed from man to man. James felt his gut tighten, and he didn't know why.

  Most of the soldiers wore beards or dark stubble, with long unkempt hair and stains on their brigantines. They looked like time had stopped for them hundreds of years ago. James's anger seethed inside him. Had one of these men taken his wife's virginity?

  He dismounted and approached Isabel while she was deep in conversation with a gruff knight. When she saw him, her eyes narrowed.

  "Bolton," she said. "This is the captain of my father's—my guard—Sir Hugo Naughton."

  She didn't say anything else.

  And then the devil inside James came to life. He put his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers tease her ear. She gaped at him.

  "My wife just can't keep these things straight in that pretty head of hers. I am James Markham, Earl of Bolton."

  For a moment, James thought the soldiers would attack him for touching their mistress. He kept his hand on his sword, daring them to. Sir Hugo finally gave a formal bow, his lip twitching beneath his overgrown mustache. The man narrowed his eyes and gave James a deliberately assessing stare.

  "We were worried when Lady Isabel did not return home after her father died. Even the steward did not know her whereabouts. We had begun searching for her, thinking she was thrown from her horse. And then we heard that the king has given her to you in marriage."

  His stance made it very clear that there was little besides death he considered worse than marriage to a Bolton.

  "Your loyalty is to be commended," James said. "Carry on with your duties. I'll have my wife show me the castle." Sir Hugo gave a brief nod and turned to his troop. Isabel began to follow the captain.

  "Isabel, you heard me," James said.

  He saw her back stiffen and she turned very slowly to face him.

  "I would like to spend time with my men," she said.

  "They are also my men now, and you can converse with them in the great hall. Your duty should be to prepare for their meal and see to their comfort."

  He thought for a moment she would rebel, and he would have to chase her across the ward, but instead she gave him a cold black stare and went inside the castle. James tossed his reins to a page and followed her. The stench of rotting rushes and moldy food

  was almost overwhelming. The walls were bare rock, no tapestries to keep out the drafts. He turned to watch Isabel closely, and thought even she looked surprised.

  Servants appeared to greet her, and they were warm enough to her, but cast wary glances at James. One old man stood before the rest with an air of command, and a frown of distrust. Probably the steward, the man James most needed to see.

  He decided to wait on Isabel's words. There was silence for a moment, broken by the wail of a child somewhere down a corridor. She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow.

  She took a deep breath, then turned to address the small crowd. "This is James Markham, the Earl of Bolton. As you know, I have been given to him in marriage by King Henry." She stopped speaking, and gave him a cold look. "He is your lord now."

  Chapter 20

  James winced at Isabel's poor choice of words. He was their lord, true, but it was not the most delicate way to handle the situation.

  He eyed her coldly, then faced his newest servants. "I am pleased to have all of you with me. Be patient. I may not be your former lord, but I am a fair man, and will treat you as you treat me."

  He heard a few grumbles, but thought his little speech sufficient for the moment.

  "I must ask that you prepare the hall for supper. I require things to be slightly different than you're used to." That was not quite the full truth, and he saw Isabel give him a quick glance. Yet he could not ignore the condition of the trestle tables, which seemed not to have been cleaned since dinner.

  Soon the tables were being scrubbed with hot, soapy water, and a girl was sweeping out the old

  rushes. Plenty of rats scurried out of the way and James grimaced. Knights and soldiers and laborers arrived in small groups, and bowed with grudging respect to James, yet eyed all the changes uncertainly.

  Just before supper, James came downstairs dressed in gold and black, and he shone before the easily awed knights. Appearances were how he had always won any awkward situation.

  He had ruled his people by showing them exactly what they wanted to see, a powerful man in control. After all, what else mattered besides his title, his face, and his reputation?

  Supper was a strained meal, with Sir Hugo and Galway sharing the head table with James and Isabel. The two captains sat beside each other in disapproving silence. Conversation was absent, the food was abysmal. Even Isabel stared down at her trencher and sighed before eating. Watching Sir Hugo, James realized that someone actually had worse table manners than his wife. He wanted to throw a napkin in the man's face and demand he wipe the food off his mustache. But he restrained himself.

  The Mansfield knights leered at and pinched the serving maids whenever they passed by. The Bolton knights were offended, and by their dark looks,

  James wondered if all would come to blows. There were no minstrels to enliven the evening, but a few half-hearted games of tables and chess were started and quickly ended. Isabel took up her stance before the fire, speaking with no one. James called an end to the evening.

  "Isabel, show me to your bedchamber," he said, thinking now was not the time to demand the lord's chambers.

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her face flushed red, and a few of her knights got to their feet, hands on their hilts. James stood his ground. Let them all just try to keep their new lord from his wife. Isabel seemed to square her shoulders before taking him to a corner staircase that wound its way tighdy up to the second floor. The corridors were dimly lit with sputtering, ill-made torches.

  When she opened the door to her bedchamber, James braced himself, but still he was stunned. She had nothing but a pallet on the floor and a trunk. The walls were damp and narrow, with only a single shuttered window that didn't keep out a draft.

  "We can't sleep here, Isabel."

  "I am sorry it is not elegant enough for you," she said with a faint sneer.

  "Elegant?" he repeated, catching her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. "I

  don't need elegant—at least not immediately. But I need it to be livable." Deep inside, he couldn't help feeling appalled that she was forced to live this way. He didn't like feeling sympathy for her.

  She broke his hold and glared her anger at him. "I am not so vain as you. I only need a bed."

  "At times a bed is all I need, too," he said, deliberately raking her body with his gaze. He picked up the only personal item he could find. "But look at this brush. I wouldn't use it on my horse!"

  She yanked the brush from his hand. "This was my mother's!"

  "Then forgive me! Keep it as a memento, but I can buy you whatever you need."

  "I don't need anything from you. In fact, this is my bedchamber, and I want you to leave."

  James gave a mirthless laugh. "Not without you. Surely there is a grander bedchamber than this. Didn't your father have guests?"

  "No."

  "I do not believe you. Let's look."

  Isabel turned her back, and in one swoop, he lifted her into his arms.

  With a groan, he said, "I must be feeding you too well. Hold still!"

  All the way down the corridor, Isabel tried to escape him. James flung open door after door,

  apologizing to those he disturbed, leaving a trail of shocked and sleepy people.

  He finally found a bedchamber with an actual four
-poster bed, two shuttered windows, and some threadbare tapestries on the wall. He dropped Isabel on her feet. She staggered back against the bed.

  "I do not care whose chamber this is," James said," 'tis ours now. Isabel, shake out the blankets. Let us pray for no bugs."

  But when he tried to start a fire, the smoke poured back into the room from a clogged chimney, mixing with the dust Isabel shook from the bed. He threw open both the shutters.

  "We shall deal with all this in the morning," James said. He started to remove his clothing.

  Isabel felt her eyes widening, and thought desperately that now was the moment to make him take her, to make him feel indebted and needy, and her the powerful one. She suddenly thought of Sarah Cabot, and how Bolton had flirted with her. Isabel felt like a failure as a woman.. .and as a wife. The only time she could even tempt her husband was when she was naked. Not, of course, that she wanted to tempt him for any other reason than to throw his weaknesses back in his face.

  Her husband stripped off all his clothes, his back partially turned. The muscles across his shoulders

  rippled with movement, and only a small scar lower on his side marred the perfection of his skin. He climbed into bed, and didn't even try to touch her. Isabel sighed in defeat.

  She removed her travel-stained tunic and hose, leaving on her shirt. She found an extra blanket in a mildewy chest and wrapped it around her shoulders. But there was no warm fire, no carpet. She could see the mist of her breath.

  She heard Bolton's low voice. "This bed is large enough for three people, Isabel. Come be warm this night."

  The strangest flutter shot through her stomach as she looked at him. He lay bare-chested, propped up on cushions, lit with pale light by a candle. She felt torn inside. She wanted to refuse just because he was her enemy, and she wanted to acquiesce to let her enemy seduce her.

  She dropped the blanket, and climbed up into the high bed beside him. He had pulled back the coverlet, and she slid into the softness. It was warm, it was heaven—and Bolton was naked beside her.

  Isabel pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Though he wore a small smile, he didn't make a move to touch her. He blew out the candle and lay back. She was strangely disappointed. What was the matter with her?

  Isabel came slowly to consciousness, feeling as warm as a summer day. Her face was pressed against something hard and smooth. It took her a bewildered moment to realize she lay on her side, curled against her husband's back.

  Stunned, she struggled to control her breathing. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, trapped beneath the heaviness of his arm. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized that her hand rested low against his stomach, and she could feel curls of hair against her fingertips. If she moved, she would awaken him, and be accused of deliberately asking for his favors.

  Isabel's hand began to tremble and she willed it to cease. She could feel the slightly rough skin of his legs along the length of hers. Her shirt had twisted, and her bare hips were flush against his. She suddenly wondered if this was how a husband and wife awoke each morning, safe, protected by each other. She sensed that he was the one man who could make her feel protected. She had a wild impulse to touch him as he had touched her, to see if he, too, felt the pleasure she did. Yet that would be giving into temptation first, losing control. And he would never let her forget it.

  She couldn't bear it any longer, and slowly began to ease her hand away from his stomach. Bolton suddenly gripped her arm with his elbow.

  "Going somewhere?" His whisper was wicked, amused.

  Isabel flushed even hotter. "Release me." To her horror, her voice came out as a squeak.

  "But this is so pleasant. It brings to mind our night spent under the stars. Do you remember?"

  "No."

  "Hmmm."

  He rubbed his hips back against hers and she flinched.

  "Does that not feel good, Angel?"

  She closed her eyes, reminding herself over and over to lie still, to submit. He would give in first and show his need of her. But her cheek was pressed to the warm flesh of his back, and with very little movement, she could turn her head and touch him with her lips. It was suddenly overwhelming and frightening, how much she wanted to touch him.

  But she wouldn't. Isabel gritted her teeth, barely breathed, and waited.

  "If you hold your breath deeper," he murmured, "I'll be better able to feel the shape of your breasts."

  She exhaled in a gasp and yanked her arm away, rolling to her side of the bed. Listening to Bolton

  chuckle, she fled the blankets, and yanked down her shirt.

  "Pity, that," he said. "I think you should sleep naked from now on."

  She glared at him over her shoulder as she pulled on her tunic and hose. Of course he wanted her to sleep naked, so he could accuse her of desiring him.

  "I'll have a gown brought to you."

  "I am too famished to wait."

  But before she could open the door, Bolton was there, bracing both hands against the wood on either side of her. She kept her back turned, breathing rapidly, feeling him on either side of her, all around.

  "Isabel, look at me."

  His voice was low, rumbling through her in a way that always made her shiver. She didn't understand the feeling, but it drew her on. She found herself obeying, turning until her back was against the door, his arms braced near her shoulders. She stared directly at his chin.

  "Look up, Angel."

  She slowly raised her gaze, past his well-formed lips, his narrow nose, into his brilliant blue eyes. Their color was vivid and shocking as he studied her face. In the cold room, he was the only source of heat, and she felt suffused with it.

  "We cannot keep going on like this," he said.

  Her stomach twisted with sudden anxiety. He would send her away, now that he had all her lands and money. Once it had seemed appealing, now she was not so sure.

  "Isabel, we are married. I am entitled to certain rights, which I have not claimed as of yet."

  She suddenly understood. She took a deep breath and once again boldly met his gaze. "I have not stopped you."

  He half-groaned, half-laughed, and began to play with a strand of her hair where it lay across her breast. The back of his hand slowly rubbed against her nipple. Her thoughts were fleeing her mind until only sensation was left. She wanted to lean into him, to feel more of this aching, painful pleasure that shot deep into her stomach, between her thighs. Instead she pressed her palms flat against the door behind her.

  His lips just above hers, he whispered, "Every time I touch you, you stiffen as if I'm a demon. Afraid?"

  "I was never afraid," she answered. He taunted her, she knew. But his nearness, his breath, the back of his hand endlessly rubbing, all combined to seduce her, to woo away her instinctive fears. My God, she was such a fool. Let him bed her, get it over with. But what if, once again, she wasn't like

  other women? She didn't even know what to do with a man. He would ridicule her—or pity her, which was even worse.

  "You were afraid," he murmured, lightly kissing her cheek, "I could see it in your eyes whenever I touched you. I want to touch you now."

  Isabel should feel triumphant. She was winning, he was demanding the physical intimacy he felt his due. Instead she wanted to melt at his feet, to lean into his embrace, and beg him to hold her.

  A knock shook the door behind her.

  "Lord Bolton, are ye in there?"

  Bolton lifted his head but didn't release her. "Galway, go away."

  "Sir Roger is awaiting you in the great hall. He has all the Mansfield records ready."

  Isabel didn't try to move. She studied Bolton's face, saw the muscles in his jaw clench. He finally pushed away from the door, and her. She had been so close to getting him to admit his need. But it was Aerbody that seemed empty and alone without his touch.

  "This discussion is far from over, Isabel."

  His warning hastened her flustered retreat from the room.

  Isabel spent m
ost of the day with Bolton, conversing with her steward about the scope of her father's estates. At first Bolton hadn't wanted her there, but it was her inheritance, her life. Even Sir Roger agreed she should stay. But shock slowly seeped through her at the enormity of lands and manors and castles that were now Bolton's dowry. His second dowry.

  But that was inconsequential compared to the sick feeling that grew inside her stomach. Her father had been a wealthy man, but had lived like a pauper. Isabel had less luxuries than a yeoman on Bolton's estate. Her own people, thin, starving, whom she thought would look on Bolton as the enemy, today treated him as a savior. And she could not blame them. She had seen how even the poorest of his people lived, how he provided whatever they needed.

  Isabel had known he needed money, that his first dowry meant much to him. She had thought he spent it all on himself, his clothes, his travels, his luxuries. But that had been another lie she had believed with gullibility. The people on Bolton estates lived well. It was her people who were starving and mistreated.

  The parchments spread out on the table were gibberish to her unschooled eyes. Bolton perused

  them with an intelligence she grudgingly admired. He was an educated man. For a moment, she had an inkling of how he must feel being married to her.

  She knew in that moment a cold truth. She couldn't have helped her own people without Bolton. She was too ignorant about learning, too different for anyone to ever look at her like the lady of the castle. There was no use in even trying to learn how to be a real woman. Her failure at attracting her husband was proof of that. There was an ache in her chest that would never go away.

  That night, more people gathered in the great hall than she had ever imagined lived so near. She knew it was not to see herself, but her husband, resplendent in his court garments. Yet they greeted her with warmth, the women curtsied, the men knelt with bowed heads. She became caught up in the magic of hundreds of candles gleaming on silver table settings, the clean smell of the rushes, new tapestries from Bolton's own looms keeping the warmth in the hall.