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  Slowly she turned and looked at him, uncrossing her arms as if ready to defend herself. Neither of them moved. A soft knock sounded, and James opened the door to find Annie, with red hair escaping a demure cap, carrying plenty of linens. She folded back a screen in the corner of the room to reveal a padded tub. She released the valves on the pipes and allowed in water that steamed.

  Isabel tried to appear disinterested, but James saw her eyes widen as she stared at the water. Finally, she walked over and put a hand in, then pulled back in alarm.

  The maid smiled. "We heated water for you earlier, my lady."

  Isabel looked at the pipes again. "But where?"

  "There are two cisterns on the roof. One is to heat the water, one is for cold. Is it not a wonderful idea? Lord Bolton brought such knowledge back from London."

  James watched Isabel stiffen and finally look at him.

  "I thought you would be taking me out to the river."

  He shook his head, forcing away a smile. "I like a small luxury now and again."

  She snorted her response, then said, "I won't use this. It will burn me."

  "Nonsense. We can add as much cold water as you need."

  She stepped back. "I prefer the river. I'll be able to move more freely."

  "And escape," he responded. Obviously, she had never bathed in a tub, only outdoors. What kind of father allowed his only child to be raised such a way? "No, you will bathe in our room from now on."

  "But this is your bedchamber."

  "And now yours, too. Do you think I'm going to wonder what you're doing all hours of the night?"

  He saw the little maid blush and lower her head.

  "Annie, help her ladyship disrobe and bathe. I'll be back in a short while."

  James closed the door before Isabel could protest. He strode past the guards and was about to go downstairs, when he halted. He suddenly imagined how everyone would look at him if he walked back into the great hall. Their expressions would run the gamut from lusty leers to pity. He suddenly didn't want to see anyone else on this wretched day. He walked back towards his bedchamber and leaned against the wall, shrugging at the looks from his two men.

  Isabel's voice, strong like the rest of her, carried through the wooden door quite easily—a good thing to know. He motioned the guards to wait farther down the hall. Annie, the maid-servant, was harder to make out. They were obviously in a disagreement about the Black Angel's choice of clothing.

  "I will remove it myself," Isabel said.

  "My lady, I just wish to have them.. .laundered for you."

  "Ha! I am sure he plans to have my garments burned. If you must clean them, do it here."

  "I don't think his lordship wishes me to remain, my lady. After all, 'tis your wedding night."

  He only heard a grunt from Isabel. He wanted to respond in kind. Some wedding night, he thought morosely.

  There was more general conversation as Isabel removed her clothes. James was partially successful in keeping a nude Black Angel from his thoughts. He was still tiying to nurse his bitterness at being manipulated.

  "Leave!" he suddenly heard Isabel command. He recognized the tone of her voice. She was probably looking for her sword hilt again.

  "But, my lady, I swear to you—"

  "I will not allow this torture!"

  James gritted his teeth and threw the door wide. He came to a halt, feeling as if someone punched him in the stomach. Isabel stood beside the tub, wearing nothing but a thin linen cloth wrapped around her body. Where the towel met, a slit revealed the side of her from thigh to waist. Her hair was a wild mass about her shoulders. She looked part savage, part woman—and she was trying to dunk the maid.

  Chapter 8

  Annie's backside was already soaked as she dangled over the edge of the tub, holding onto Isabel's arms. She looked like a mouse being shook by a very large cat, but surprisingly, she didn't seem afraid.

  "My lady!" she said, her voice still firm.

  James slid to a halt.

  "I assure you that this water is a pleasant temperature, and will not burn you. Please release me and I will gladly put my bare arm in to the shoulder."

  Stunned, James watched Isabel bodily lift the slight girl away from the tub and put her back on her feet. He expected Annie to run screaming from the room, but she merely looked over her shoulder at her wet rump, and calmly proceeded to unlace her sleeve. She pulled it off and immersed her arm.

  "See, my lady?" she said, smiling sweetly.

  James was appalled that a mere girl—a servant— had to tutor his wife about the merits of hot water. He felt his control splintering into a thousand pieces.

  "Enough!" he cried, trying to disguise the anguish ripping through his soul. "Annie, bring me ale—plenty of it—and then see that we are not disturbed."

  The girl bobbed a quick curtsy and left, closing the door behind her. James glared at his new wife, who stared back at him coolly. The meager covering hung from her body, as if she dared it to fall to the floor. He clenched his fists, and tried not to think of how badly his life had fallen apart, but how could he not, when the result stood before him?

  Annie brought the ale, but James barely managed a curt nod as she left. Without taking his eyes off his wife, he drained the first tankard, then refilled it from the pitcher. He wanted it to work its magic on his senses, to make him forget.

  "Get in that tub and wash the filth of the dungeon from your body," he said in a low voice.

  Isabel stiffened, remaining defiant and mute.

  He stepped towards her, and though she barely moved, he saw the imperceptible shrinking away. His warrior wife was afraid of him. It should make

  him feel powerful. It only made him angry. He gulped down another mouthful of ale, scowling. He had expected to clean up his wife, begat his first heir and go to sleep, but nothing was working out the way he had thought. The foolish woman was frightened of him, not in battle, where he could do her serious harm, but in their bedchamber, where she stood naked and vulnerable to him.

  "Angel, if you are not in that tub and scrubbing by the time I reach you, I will do it myself."

  Her chin came up and the wild look flashed through her dark eyes. How had he ever thought her a man, or even built like a man? Though she was tall and strong-shouldered, her waist was surprisingly narrow, her hips round and voluptuous. Her legs were long and smoothly muscled, and he could almost see clear to the juncture of her thighs. He was hard in a moment, but even that infuriated him. He didn't want to desire her, didn't want her to have this power over him. He drank half the tankard.

  God, what had he done in his life to deserve such torture? All he had wanted was a sweet, pleasant- looking, rich virgin to take to wife, to watch her unfurl before his eyes alone. But what had he received? A nasty-tempered, sword-wielding, rich strumpet.

  James slammed the tankard on the nearest table, where it rocked unsteadily for a moment. His wife actually flinched, setting his teeth on edge. He grabbed the cloth between her breasts and yanked. She was obviously caught off-guard, because she reeled forward as the garment fell away, then gasped and pulled back. Naked, she was even more stunning than he'd imagined, every curve lush, breasts heavy and dark-tipped. Between them a chain glittered in the candlelight, holding a ring suspended.

  "A gift from a lover?" he demanded.

  She straightened, still proud, and her hair fell in cascading curls over her body, hiding and revealing it. Her voice cold, she said, ""lis my father's."

  "Well your father would want you to bathe for your husband."

  "Not for a Bolton," she said.

  Before she could protest, he picked her up and dropped her in the tub. Water sloshed all over the rug and wooden floor. She came up gasping and coughing.

  "Doesn't that feel better, my dear Angel? There's a cloth on the table beside you. Now scrub."

  James turned his back before he could watch the water drip down her breasts. Just holding her for a brief moment had made his blood t
hicken and his

  pulse pound. What was wrong with him? Maybe if he drank enough, he could forget this whole night. He drained the last of the ale and poured another. When he felt under control, he turned and sprawled in a chair before the hearth, facing her. She sat stiffly in the tub, the cloth in her hand.

  Not looking at him, she soaped the cloth and began to wash her arms. James swallowed and deliberately looked into the fire.

  "All right, wife, let us play a game of 'what if.' Let us pretend you had killed me."

  She remained silent, but he sensed her tension.

  "What if you had succeeded in your revenge, not against something I personally had done, but against sins that my ancestors supposedly had committed. What were you planning to do after that?"

  Isabel kept her gaze on the water, soaping her other arm even more slowly. She was flushed and perspiring from the heat of the water and the familiarity of a Bolton. She'd been forced into marriage, ignored at the wedding supper, dragged upstairs, and dropped into a scalding tub. She couldn't even pretend to herself that she hated it. She'd only ever bathed in a river, and had not known water could feel so luxurious and soothing. She leaned back against the padding and closed her eyes, trying to forget her humiliating day,

  desperately trying to forget the coming wedding night. A shiver of fear and something more shot through her again as she remembered Bolton advancing on her, putting his hand between her breasts and stripping her of the towel.

  But something had stopped her from hitting him, or even running. His blue eyes had glowed as they looked down her body, with a dark heat Isabel had only understood in some deep, buried part of her soul. She remembered his hot kiss. After all she had done to him, humiliated him, wounded him, and now married him, he desired her. Or would any woman do? After all, he had raped his betrothed.

  His husky voice startled her. "Are you going to answer my question?"

  Isabel sank lower in the tub. "I have forgotten it."

  A white smile glowed in his dark face and he took another sip of ale. "You have not forgotten it. You merely don't wish to answer. So tell me, Your Ladyship, after you impaled me on your sword, and the last bit of my blood drained to the ground, what would have been your next move?"

  She looked up from beneath her hair. "How do you know I still do not plan it?"

  "True," he murmured.

  She thought his voice sounded the slightest bit slurred. Her uneasiness crept higher. She sank

  lower, until her chin touched the water and her knees stuck straight up.

  "Answer me."

  His whisper had a sudden power behind it and she gave his question consideration. After an endless moment, listening to water dripping and her husband's breathing, she said, "I had nothing planned."

  Bolton lowered his tankard and rested it atop his knee. "Nothing?"

  "Nothing. I assumed I would fight my way out of whatever situation I found myself in, and escape."

  "Escape to where?" he mused, his eyes narrowing as they studied her.

  She felt the trail of his gaze across her wet skin almost as if he touched her.

  When she didn't answer, he continued to speak. "You must have realized you could not return home."

  "My people would welcome me with open arms for killing you."

  He lifted one eyebrow, a mocking smile tilting his lips. "Well, no, they could not have done that. They could not risk angering the king, who would be quite upset by my senseless death. In fact, your people would have been lucky if the king did not take his revenge out on them."

  "Why would he?" Isabel demanded, straightening. She tried not to tremble when his gaze dropped from her face to the tops of her breasts. "My people have done nothing to King Henry."

  "As I have done nothing to you." His words dripped with triumphant sarcasm, but she saw the flaw.

  "You think you have done nothing?" she said, feeling righteous anger surge to replace her fear. "Every one of your ancestors conspired against mine—your father savagely wounded mine! It is only a matter of time before you show your true Bolton heritage. After all, look what you did to your betrothed."

  "And what do you think I did?" he demanded, coming to his feet to tower over the tub.

  Anger seemed to war on his face with bewilderment. He must be wondering how she discovered his dark secret.

  "That is between you and your priest," she said calmly, taking up the cloth to begin soaping her legs.

  "According to you, it is between you and me."

  Bolton leaned over the tub, resting his hands on either side of her. Isabel refused to look up. Though her hands shook, she continued to wash.

  "Why is that, Angel? What made you judge and executioner?"

  "My family's pain!" she cried, and stared up at him with all the hatred she could muster. But it wasn't much. Why now should she doubt her father's words? She couldn't get past these new feelings rising to take hatred's place, this awareness of him as a man and not a villainous monster. His body filled her gaze, the cool scent of him overpowering the soap. His breath bathed her face, and his eyes caressed her with a searing heat. He was her husband now.

  Taking a shaky breath, Isabel looked away and continued to wash. The silence stretched on forever, tense and uneasy. Still he hovered above her. She buried her face in the soapy cloth, scrubbed her neck, but she was beginning to run out of unintimate places to wash. She finally hesitated, staring at the cloth.

  "Wash your hair," he murmured.

  With a shock she realized he leaned even nearer. She had a sick feeling if she didn't continue, Bolton would be only too happy to finish for her. Holding her breath, she quickly dipped her head back in the tub, soaking the heavy mass until it was plastered to her body. Stinging water blurred her vision as she

  opened her eyes. If she sat up any higher, she'd bump her head against his face.

  Trying to ignore him, she lathered her hands with the soft soap and quickly ran them through her hair. She heard Bolton take a deep breath.

  "You're not finished yet," he said, his hoarse voice making him sound like a stranger. "You've just spent five days in a dungeon. Your hair is like a rat's nest."

  She gritted her teeth. "This is a perfectly acceptable hair-washing."

  After pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, he thrust his hands in the tub by her feet.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice sounding higher than normal.

  Without a word, he took the soap away from her and rubbed it all over his big hands. She stared in shock, half-mesmerized, half-appalled.

  "What do you think you're—"

  Bolton grabbed her head between his hands and began to scrub.

  Isabel desperately tried to push him away, but without rising from the tub, all she could give him was a good soaking—not to mention yanking on her own hair.

  "Leave me be! I can finish!"

  "You've not had much practice washing, have you?" he said dryly.

  She grasped his wrists and pulled.

  "Angel, the more you resist, the more painful this will be."

  Stamping down her burning humiliation, she finally let go of his arms and submitted. Oh, she would make him suffer endlessly for this. He scrubbed hard, shaking her whole body. She thought it was all over when he stopped, but from behind her he poured a bucket of steaming water over her head.

  Isabel cried out her outrage.

  "Oh sit still. I cannot believe a great warrior woman such as yourself has trouble with a simple bath. Now let's soap your hair again."

  Two more times he made Isabel submit to a scalp-mauling. She hoped she had hair left. Finally he stepped away and she sat huddled in the water, shivering.

  "Your bath is getting cold, my lady. I suggest you wash the more private areas you avoided earlier."

  He turned to pour himself another tankard of ale, seeming to take more time than was necessary. Isabel frantically scrubbed the rest of her body.

  "I am finished," she said loudly.

 
Bolton turned around, swallowing a large amount of ale before speaking. He peered into the tub and sighed. "Angel, your hair-washing seems to have left the water considerably.. .soapy."

  "I am clean, am I not?"

  "But not rinsed." He rubbed his face almost tiredly. "I'll fill another bucket."

  She frowned, watching him suspiciously as he opened up the pipes and allowed steaming water to flow. "I don't understand."

  He seemed to square his shoulders before turning to face her. "Stand up, Angel, and I'll rinse you."

  Her eyes widened in comprehension and she instantly sank lower.

  Bolton shook his head. "Angel, I have seen a hundred women naked, including yourself. You are my wife. Stand up."

  She shivered, realizing forlornly that she could not remain in the rapidly cooling water forever. Let him try to touch her, and he would find her foot directly between his legs. Very slowly she rose, refusing to cower, refusing to submit. Let him look his fill.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. She was caught in his gaze as it swept her body, felt it like fingers caressing her skin. Never before had she shown herself like this to a man. It made her feel

  vulnerable, exposed—and something else, something warm like a summertime river moving through her blood.

  Then Bolton lifted the bucket and dumped it over her head. The hot water cascaded down her body, leaving scarlet trails of heat. As Isabel wiped the water from her face, she felt the rush of air past her skin. She opened her eyes in shock to find Bolton standing against the edge of the tub, his arms reaching around her. Before she could even fight, he looped a towel around her body, then gripped the ends snugly in his fists. She was held immobile by the heat of him, feeling the backs of his hands between her breasts. His gaze held her, burned deep inside her in a way that was frightening— fascinating.

  Isabel put her hands against his chest and pushed. He didn't even resist, just stepped away and let go of the towel. She caught it and wrapped it around herself. Once again, it did not quite wrap enough. And her hair still streamed wetness. He offered another towel and she stared at it.