“No torture, my child,” the priest said, ignoring Bolton’s glare of warning. “The king has graciously given your hand in marriage to Lord Bolton. Joining your two vast estates will please His Majesty greatly.”
She took a swift breath and turned her intense gaze on Bolton. “You demanded to marry me?”
His eyes were the blue of winter ice. “Hardly. I wanted never to see your face again, but the king has other wishes, which I have no choice but to obey.”
“Well, I have choices.” She turned to leave, and Bolton grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong, almost painful. “Get your hand off me.”
“From now on, my hands will do what they want to your body.”
With a swift intake of breath, she went for her sword hilt, but of course it wasn’t there. “I’ll kill you before I let you touch me.”
“My children!” the priest said, stepping between them.
Bolton let her go.
“This is not the way to begin a marriage,” the priest continued. “Many marriages begin on less than friendly terms. With good will, your lives can be happy.”
When Bolton said nothing, Isabel realized he actually meant to go through with this farce.
“Father,” she said, never taking her eyes off Bolton, “you cannot force me to marry a man I despise. He and his family ruined mine!”
She heard Bolton inhale swiftly. “Father, allow me to speak to my betrothed in private,” he said. “I’m sure I can persuade her of the king’s wisdom.”
The priest bowed and left them alone, the entertainment for a crowd of hundreds.
Isabel faced Bolton, her chin up. She didn’t know what his plan was, but she would not submit.
“What fool notion is this?” he demanded, closing the distance between them.
She didn’t step back.
“When are you going to tell me what I have supposedly done to you? I’ve never seen you before.”
“Does the name Mansfield mean nothing to you?”
“Your father, the earl, is dead, and you are the heir of much of his property, although not the title, of course. What of it?”
She felt the blood rush to her face at his callous disregard of her father’s life. He had lived the last few years in horrible pain because of Bolton’s father. He had walked with a pitiable limp, and raged against his fate, or soaked his misery in ale. And he had never let her forget what the Boltons had done.
“You do not remember the tournament where your father so cruelly wounded mine?”
Bolton’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“And the siege where your grandfather killed many of my family.”
“I seem to recall there might be more to that story.”
“And the start of it all, when your great-grandmother betrayed my great-grandfather instead of marrying him, beginning a family hatred that’s gone down generations!” At each word, her voice grew louder and louder. They were the center of attention now, and more and more people filed into the hall.Let them watch, let them learn of Bolton cruelty.
“Of course, I’ve heard of this ridiculous feud,” he said, looking angry and exasperated, “but frankly I’d forgotten the family name involved.”
“Forgotten?” she cried, and quickly grabbed the eating knife from his belt.
7
Isabel took two swift steps back and held the knife before her. It felt at home in her hand. Bolton tried to take it back, but she eluded him.
“Angel, this is foolish,” he said in a low voice.
