A Knight's Vow Read online

  "Isabel?"

  The women turned towards him, talking all at once about his wife's clumsiness and impatience, but James ignored them. He met Isabel's gaze over their heads. She actually blushed and looked away from him. A maidenly blush from Isabel?

  The two of them were herded into the hall, and the sewing room door was shut firmly behind them. They stood there awkwardly as Isabel tried to wrap her wound in a length of cloth.

  James rolled his eyes. "Come to our bedchamber and I'll bandage that."

  "'Tis nothing," she protested, not meeting his eyes. "I've had far worse."

  "So have I," he said wryly, "but you still need to take care of it."

  She followed him to their room, then stood stiff and silent while he found some strips of cloth and heated water. He laid everything out on a table before the fire, then looked up at her.

  "Isabel, come here." Even the sound of her name on his lips made him shudder with a need he could no longer fulfill. He didn't even know if she'd accept the touch of his mutilated hand. But she came forward readily enough and sat across from him.

  "I can do this," she said quiedy.

  "Not easily. How did this happen?" he asked, as he awkwardly bathed her wound with his left hand. "For someone so good with a sword, how could you possibly injure yourself in the sewing room?"

  She bit her lip and looked away. James again saw repressed merriment in her eyes, and he wanted so badly to share it with her.

  "Cutting fabric," she finally answered. "I couldn't line it up right, and my hand.. .was in the way."

  With clean strips of cloth, he began to wrap her hand, taking his time, enjoying the only touch of her skin that was left to him. He suddenly caught a distinctive odor, and he leaned forward to sniff.

  "Is that ale I smell on your breath?"

  Her eyes widened, and he saw a fleeting dimple in one of her cheeks. "You told me to learn to brew."

  "But you aren't supposed to get drunk!"

  Did a soft giggle escape her lips?

  "I'm hardly drunk. They told me to taste the ale."

  James smiled despite his resolve. He wanted to lean closer, draw her laughter inside himself with kisses. He wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong with him, that she might fall willingly into his arms. But he looked down at his botched attempt to tie her bandage tight, and his smile died.

  After a moment's silence, Isabel said, "You should join the men at the tiltyard tomorrow."

  He glanced up at her and sat back, the contact between them broken. He gave her a smile, but he knew it wasn't a successful one." 'Tis too soon."

  "You could use your left hand to sword fight. With your right, it might be best to start with a dagger's weight."

  He remained silent.

  "If you prefer to train alone—"

  "Isabel, how would you feel if you had to appear before all your men, holding your sword as poorly as a babe just out of swaddling clothes?"

  "It would be difficult," she admitted after a moment. Her voice seemed to soften. "Do you not think your knights would admire you even more for not giving up?"

  James sighed. "You may be right."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I said—" He stopped himself, lost again in the sweet possibilities of her laughter. "I think you like hearing me say that you're right."

  Her gaze slid from his with all the natural ability of a born flirt. "Perhaps," was her only concession.

  After another frustrating night trying to keep away from Isabel in bed, James stood beside the tiltyard and watched her. He came to the conclusion that one of the reasons she failed so much at domesticity was that she was always thinking ahead to each hour in the tiltyard. He had predicted wrongly about her effect on the men as she and William began to train.

  At first the soldiers and knights had watched her warily, then they ignored her, then they became reluctantly impressed. Soon they were treating her like a little brother, teaching her drinking songs or challenging her to single combat—until James arrived, when they went back to their duties.

  He couldn't help but feel excluded. Of course the soldiers would turn to Isabel, a talented swordswoman, now that James could no longer lead them in combat. He was an outsider.

  The self-pity of it all was making him sick. He went back to his bedchamber and spent an hour

  practicing his sword fighting maneuvers left- handed, away from pitying eyes. When he heard footsteps in the hall, he grabbed the scabbard and tried to ram the blade home, but ended up dropping everything in a clatter. Isabel opened the door and looked at him silently, no expression on her face.

  James felt himself blush, but was powerless to stop it. "I...uh.. .accidentally kicked my sword over."

  She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. Of course she didn't respond. What was there to say? He was obviously lying.

  "Shall we get to your letters, then?" he asked quickly.

  James and Isabel spent a tedious hour working on her reading. Soon he was torn between throwing the wax tablet across the room, or pulling her into his arms for a kiss. He longed to touch her, but he couldn't bear to see disgust in her eyes.

  James knew he was not the only one who was relieved when they were interrupted by news of a visitor. Together they went down to the great hall. James did not recognize the earnest young man standing before the hearth, twisting his felt cap. A small troop of the man's guards were already eating hungrily at the tables.

  Isabel came to a stop in the rushes, her face white. Obviously she knew their guest. Before either of them could say a word, the young man's face brightened in a relieved smile.

  "Lady Isabel! It is so good to see you."

  He came forward, took her hand, and kissed it. James thought he was decent-looking, in a pale, blond sort of way.

  "Have we met, sir?" James asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

  Before the stranger could say anything, Isabel said, "This is Sir Wallace Desmond, heir to his father's barony. He is William's older brother."

  Sir Wallace gave the correct, polite bow, but he smiled at Isabel. "It has been many years since I have seen you last, my lady. My sympathies on the death of your father, and my congratulations on your marriage."

  He gave James a quick glance, and James realized he knew everything, that the story of the Black Angel had spread the length of the land.

  Isabel thanked him coolly, and James guessed that her father was still not a subject she wished to discuss.

  "Forgive me for arriving without notice, my lord, but I am bound for the continent. I will not see my brother for some years. When I heard that he was

  continuing his fostering here, I thought I would say my farewells in person."

  "By all means," James said, calling for a page to fetch William.

  "Allow me."

  James knew it was his wife's voice, but it didn't sound normal. As he turned to face her, he saw why. She was smiling at Desmond, something James had never seen unless she was bearing her teeth in a triumphant grin. And she had a dimple in one cheek.

  He watched them walk off together, and the most horrid feeling invaded his stomach. He told himself that it was anger, but he suspected it was something more.

  Isabel walked silently beside Wallace and allowed him to talk on about his approaching trip across the sea to France. But her mind traveled back to her childhood. Even when she was a young, awkward girl, more a boy than anything feminine, he had always been kind to her, and never tried to change her. When he had visited Mansfield Casde, she had followed him everywhere, trying to get his attention. She had daydreamed like a foolish girl, mooning over whether he might ask her father if he could marry her. After he had left, she immersed herself in her training, but never quite forgot him.

  "Isabel?"

  She heard Wallace repeat her name and she shook her head. "Forgive me. I have been... distracted."

  He smiled, and his face and hair seemed golden. He walked her to the tiltyard, where together th
ey stood and watched William train. Her squire was growing to be an accomplished man, and she was proud of him. They spoke about William's fostering, and Isabel tried to enjoy the attention Wallace gave her.

  But she couldn't keep James from her thoughts. She wondered why he had not accompanied them to the tiltyard, when he usually took every opportunity to impress a guest. Was he still not feeling well?

  That would explain their nights, when James often retired to bed before she did. He never touched her, never kissed her. She knew the loss of his fingers bothered him. Was he punishing her for making the decision that saved his life? Or had one hour exploring her body been all that he needed to quench his curiosity?

  Chapter 25

  James entered his bedchamber just as Isabel was changing for supper. For a moment, he thought she might want to impress her friend, and he didn't know whether to be happy or jealous. Then he saw the doublet she'd chosen to wear, instead of one of the many gowns hung up on pegs on the walls. And his temper snapped.

  He tossed every male article of clothing into a chest and locked it. Isabel calmly watched him, wearing only a white shirt that showed the intriguing shadows of her body. He could see the dark indentation at the top of her thighs. He tried not to stare at her, but he glanced again over his shoulder.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice layered with amusement.

  By the saints, she was laughing at him. What kind of earl was he, if no one could respect him?

  "You're wearing this lovely dress I have picked out for you." He held up a gown, the color of the sky just after sunset, shot with silver threads.

  She looked at it impassively. "It would look adequate on your sister. Why don't you give it to her as a gift?"

  He tossed it onto the bed. "Because I had it made for you."

  "You're wearing out your seamstresses making things I will not wear."

  "You have no choice," he said smugly. "You either wear it or go naked."

  "Fine." She loosened the laces of her shirt and it fell from her body.

  She was utter perfection in female form, so tall and rounded and definitely not delicate. Feeling triumphant, James held out the dress with his good hand and tried not to think of throwing her down on the bed.

  Instead, unabashedly naked, she went to the door and opened it. He gaped as she began to walk down the corridor.

  She wouldn't, James thought in disbelief, his triumph fading. Her lovely backside moved in a hypnotic rhythm. Her long black hair hid her back.

  Her breasts and everything else would be in full view to whoever walked out of a room or came up the stairs.

  Yet still he didn't call her back. She would turn modest coward soon enough. He slammed the door closed and waited for her frantic knock. Minutes passed but nothing happened. He broke into a sweat.

  James told himself he didn't care if she embarrassed herself, that the whole casde would see what was only for his private pleasure. Isabel may not look much like a woman in her male garments, but she was all woman underneath, more than any of his men could bear.

  He slammed open the door and went running down the corridor, but she was gone. He called her name, causing more than a few servants to look at him in consternation. He ran down the stairs, and came to a stop.

  Knights and soldiers, travelers and servants, all were beginning to take seats at the trestle tables for dinner to be served. Wallace and William were speaking together before one of the hearths, and both turned to him with almost identical looks of bewilderment. Isabel was nowhere to be seen.

  James beamed a wide grin and did what seemed to come harder and harder lately—entertain his guests no matter what his mood. It was so difficult to keep his bandaged, mangled hand hidden. He still wanted to gesture with it, hold a tankard with it. He had grown resigned to eating at a slow pace so he wouldn't drop food down his doublet.

  But there would be no meal until Isabel arrived. Where had she gone?

  Isabel ducked into James's wardrobe chamber and closed the door, panting from exertion. She had hidden in the first room she could find, waiting for Bolton to go running past. When he'd gone, she hadn't dared enter their bedchamber. Instead, in the dark, she grabbed the first garment she could find and hurriedly dressed. She took a deep breath, opened the door and walked down the corridor.

  The great hall was ablaze with candles, heated to comfortable warmth by massive fires—and suddenly very, very silent. She kept a cool facade as she watched every face turn towards her. William looked uncomfortable, Wallace looked amused. Her husband's face was blank.

  She wasn't quite certain why they all stared. What if this was her future, always the outsider, never a true woman or wife, scared because she finally wanted to be one?

  James tried to smile at his guests. He held his hand behind him, and it ached with pain as he tried to move it, reminding him of everything he'd never do again. He was less a man now. Isabel looked better in his clothing than he did.

  Yet he couldn't take his eyes off her. Although she meant to garb herself as sport, she was stunning in the rich blue velvet. The embroidered sleeves were slashed to show her white silk shirt. In a gown that color at court, she would steal every man's breath away with her dark, exotic beauty. As she came the rest of the way down the stairs, head held proudly, James was shocked to recognize the silence for what it was: appreciative. Isabel was very easy to look at, although he'd once sworn it wasn't so.

  She approached their small group and gave the Desmond brothers a smile, flashing the dimple in one of her cheeks. His stomach clenched with a surge of jealousy he no longer tried to deny. James looked from one brother to the other, and they practically stepped over each other—and in front of James—to bow before her.

  James stood behind them and gave a loud cough. They each stumbled back a step and had the decency to look embarrassed.

  "Lord Bolton," Wallace began, his face reddening. "I did not mean to give offense."

  "None taken," James said. "It's good of you to humor my wife."

  William and Wallace looked confused, but Isabel said, "Wallace, I'd like to meet your traveling companions." She took his arm and walked away.

  William remained at James's side, obviously uncomfortable. "My lord..." he began, then trailed off.

  James well understood the boy's confusion. He smiled. "As I've said before, what a woman, eh, William?"

  A half-hearted smile appeared on the boy's face, then faded. "She's not herself anymore, my lord. And I don't understand."

  James turned a serious gaze on Isabel's squire. "What do you mean?"

  "All I know is, the look in her eyes has changed." William shrugged. "Please don't tell her I've said this, but she looks.. .sad."

  Frowning, James followed William to the dais, and sat beside Isabel at the head table. His sister had said the same thing. He wanted to look in Isabel's eyes, but she was deep in conversation with Wallace about horses.

  Through the meal, James tried to pay attention to the bantering of his guests, but it was very distracting to be able to eat with only one hand. He

  soon stopped eating altogether and merely drank. He kept remembering William's comment, that Isabel looked sad.

  She seemed anything but sad. In fact, she was pleasant. James admitted to himself that it annoyed him no end that Wallace Desmond was the cause. He hated feeling jealous. He did the only thing he hoped might annoy her. He turned to the women.

  Charm was difficult at first, but it was so second nature to him, that soon he found himself surrounded by the wives and ladies of Wallace's party. Such concern expressed over his hand, such obvious worry over the wife he'd been forced to marry. James smiled and bowed and kissed hands, playing on their sympathies.

  And he remained unmoved by them, much to his horror. He'd always adored women, all kinds. He touched, laughed, teased until they blushed prettily. Tonight it bored him, but he didn't want to examine the cause. He was almost happy when the group enlarged to include husbands. James found himself movi
ng between clusters of guests, listening, yet not listening, his gaze lingering on his wife time and again.

  He suddenly noticed that his was not the only gaze to wander. While the pretty wives blushed and

  fluttered their eyelashes, their husbands were glancing with interest—at Isabel.

  The realization left him stunned. Had it always been this way, that she seemed fascinating and different to other men? Was he actually envied because he had an unusual wife?

  Isabel tried valiantly to pay attention to Wallace's conversation, but every time James glanced at her, she felt it clear to her toes, a yearning for his attention. His eyes were bright, piercing, almost too intense. For a moment, she was afraid to hope, and then the thought came to her again. Could he be jealous? She turned her back, and wondered how she could put her conclusion to the test. Wallace smiled at her, and Isabel found herself saying, "I should like to see this horse you brag about."

  "Surely not this evening. 'Tis cold and your husband—"

  "Now—please." She moved towards the double doors, not even turning to see if he followed.

  The air was bitterly cold. A few early flakes of snow blew about the inner ward. Isabel led the way to the stables, her stomach tightening more and more with each step. James must have seen her slip outside with Wallace. What would he do?

  They finally leaned over a stall, their breaths misting.

  Wallace chuckled. "My horse doesn't know he's of interest. He's asleep."

  Isabel shrugged. As if her thoughts had conjured James, he appeared out of the darkness into the dimly lit stable. He carried a tankard in his left hand. Still watching them, he drained it and tossed it aside.

  Wallace grinned at him. "My lord, your wife seems to think my horse—"

  "Go back inside, Desmond."

  Wallace's smile faded. "My lord, you don't think that I—I intended to..."

  "No, I believe you innocent. My wife on the other hand..." He let the sentence trail off, and the low menace in his voice excited Isabel. Was she right?

  "Go back inside, Desmond."

  Wallace bowed. "Good evening, Lord and Lady Bolton."

  He disappeared into the darkness, leaving Isabel and her husband standing in the light of a small lantern. She couldn't see James's face very well.