Wordlessly James took it, not even bothering to wonder any more how Wiggins always managed to anticipate his needs. He wiped as much dirt from the Angel’s face as possible. When he was finished, he didn’t let her go immediately. He searched her mysterious eyes, then glanced at her lips. The urge to kiss her was powerful, overwhelming, primitive. How many of her lovers had succumbed? He stepped away before he could act on such foolishness. His men-at-arms all discreetly managed to be looking elsewhere.
The castle gates were already open, and villagers streamed into the inner ward on their daily business. But all commotion ceased when James and his unusual companions approached the gatehouse. Smiles died, replaced by sullen stares and curious whispers. James felt a prickle of unease between his shoulder blades. He held the Angel’s elbow tighter in his grip, wondering how she felt.
She held her head erect, her face proud. She had high, regal cheekbones, and the dark complexion of one who spent most of her life outdoors. The mystery of her ate at his insides. She carried herself like the nobility, not a village wench. Who was she? Did the humiliation of her capture not touch her? Never before had he met someone who seemed to care so little about what others thought.
They walked beneath the dark tunnel of the gatehouse and entered the inner ward. Word of their arrival must have already spread, because it seemed as if every resident of the castle stood silent and watchful in the rain. The blacksmith’s hammer was still and the dogs didn’t bark. Even his three men-at-arms must have felt something odd, because they closed in around James and the prisoners.
But the Angel did not cower or look fearful. She strode beside him boldly, her steps matching his. A low hiss swept the crowd and someone booed. My God, he had never thought his people were upset that he had been humiliated. He felt strangely grateful. Maybe his little corner of the world wouldn’t change much after all.
Someone tossed a rotten turnip, and it hit the boy in the chest and dropped to his feet.
James stepped forward, thrusting the Angel into Wiggins’s hands. “That is enough!” he shouted. “This woman is my prisoner, and she will be treated fairly. Go back to your work.”
His people began to move, sending dark looks over their shoulders at the Black Angel, but the grumbling had ceased. James again took her elbow. She gazed straight ahead.
~oOo~
The trap door over Isabel’s head closed with a loud thump, and she was alone in the dungeon. Daylight stole through an arrow loop in one rock wall, for which she was grateful. Bolton Castle’s dungeon had been cut out of the rock cliff overlooking the river, and could only be entered by being lowered on a rope in one of the corner towers. William was in the next dungeon, separated from her by roughly carved walls.
She peered out the slim window, watching the swift flowing river and the expanse of sheep-dotted countryside, but nothing could keep her mind from dark thoughts. Once as a child, she’d been trapped for two days in her father’s dungeon, and by the time anyone had bothered to look for her, her throat had been raw from screams of terror. She’d had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and she’d almost died. Sometimes, in her dreams, she relived the feeling of being swallowed by blackness.
Now she desperately tried to memorize the countryside, so she could picture it tonight when darkness crushed her. If only Bolton had known how well he’d chosen when he’d confined her here. How long would she last? How long before the darkness and the pressure of the rock walls proved too much for her? She had to be strong. She was a grown woman now, not a little girl. Bolton would not abandon her here—he needed her information, although of course she wouldn’t give it to him. She’d go to her grave first. But why wasn’t he questioning her? Why had he defended her to his own people?
Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw his face, inches from hers, eyes wide and a deep, vivid blue. His lips had been thin, yet formed well, ripe for an amusing smile. He had held her firmly, but never hurt her, not even when she lay beneath him. She had not been able to still her heart, to bury the excitement his body had sinfully brought to her. Why had her flesh heated with the touch of his naked skin? Why did the thought of his erection, pressed hard against her hips, bring warm awareness low in her stomach? She must be a wanton, to have such a man, now her captor, linger in her memories.
Isabel knelt on the rickety pallet, leaned against the slitted window, and tried to pretend she was outside. When her dinner was lowered down in a bucket, she ate the bread and water voraciously. Still Bolton did not come.
Daylight faded, and she wished she could crawl into the window to be closer to the outdoors. Her supper arrived and she ate it. Still Bolton did not come. What did he plan?
Darkness settled in and she felt buried in a rock tomb. She sat on the pallet, knees drawn up to her chest, the open arrow loop above her. The breeze was cold, but it was the only thing she had of the outdoors. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried not to imagine the spiders hanging over her, the rats creeping to her pallet. Could they climb up? When she’d been trapped as a child, she’d become too disoriented to fend off the rats.
She decided to remain awake. She hadn’t slept much the night before, but she’d been fed decently enough today. Her strength should hold out. She got up to pace.
When the slitted window began to show dawn’s gray light, Isabel watched it with dull exhaustion. She had survived the night. She refused to think about the following night and what she would do to stay awake. Would Bolton come today to question her? She amused herself by imagining all the ways she could torment him.
No food came to break her fast. She paced beneath the trap door. Should she remind them that she was here? No, she thought, clasping her hands behind her back and counting out for the hundredth time the length of the floor. When the trap door finally opened, the rope was dropped in without a bucket.
“Angel?”
It was Bolton’s voice, sounding pleasantly refreshed. She gritted her teeth and refused to answer him.
“Would you care to come up and eat with me?”
She considered rejecting his invitation—after all, he only meant to pester her with questions she’d refuse to answer. But then her stomach growled. She stepped into the loop at the end of the rope and held on while they pulled her up.
Isabel squinted her eyes against the sun streaming in the open door. A small table was placed to one side of the tower with two chairs facing each other. Bolton occupied one. He was immaculately clean and she was layered in the grime of the dungeon. She had used some of her drinking water to wash the paint from her face, but that had probably smeared the dirt in streaks.
Bolton waved away the guards, who immediately left them alone. Isabel looked at the other trap door.
“Your partner has already been fed,” Bolton said. “Please join me—I’m famished.”
She took a step nearer. The table was covered with an ivory-colored linen tablecloth and set with fine plates and silver drinking cups. Bowls of soft cheese and butter rested next to platters of the whitest bread she had ever seen. Slices of apples and pears, coated in sugar, decorated her plate. Her mouth watered, and she tried not to appear starving. But she sat down. If this was Bolton’s torture, it would be hard to resist.
She looked at him closely. He was dressed in a fine blue doublet, with a white shirt showing in the slits along his sleeves. He was the very picture of an elegant nobleman, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He began to spread cheese on his piece of bread. She despised him.
“Are you not hungry?” he asked with polite consideration.
Isabel resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With dirty hands that shook, she spread butter on her bread and began to eat.
