His gaze moved beyond her and she knew he watched his people. She heard the horrified gasps, the angry murmurs, even the clink of metal against metal from the armed men. But none would be so foolish as to rush her when she could so easily harm their lord.
Bolton laughed harshly. “Do you think I want to marry you? You are the last woman I’d choose. It is clear you have no idea what it means to be a wife, to be the mistress of a castle. Maybe you can defend it, but that’s all.”
She lunged forward with the knife, but he easily dodged it.
“This matter has already gone beyond us,” he continued. “The priest is sent by the king, ready to see us married. Do you think I can disobey His Majesty? Do you think I want his anger?”
“Maybe that’s just what I want. You deserve it.”
“Fine, but when he takes all my lands, he’ll take all of yours, too. What a find for King Henry. He wins either way. He’ll enjoy giving what’s ours to some other panting courtier. Well I’m not ready to be a pauper. Although I hate the notion, I will marry you. After all, many marriages are as horrible as ours will be.” He looked at someone over her shoulder, his eyes narrowed. “Galway, stay back!”
Isabel backed toward the heat of the hearth, keeping both Bolton and Galway within sight. She couldn’t believe the amount of people in the hall, all looking at her with anger.
“Lady Isabel,” Bolton said softly, “the king has given me your lands, your money, and your people. If you leave now, where will you go?”
She took a deep breath, and the first feelings of inevitability swept over her. She had never thought she’d marry, and certainly not to a Bolton. Yet, much revenge might be wielded from within marriage vows. A broken betrothal had begun the feud—would a humiliating marriage avenge it? Was it worth sacrificing herself? she thought forlornly. Yet what else was left in her life? She had no family, no friends. She only knew how to hate.
James watched Isabel slowly straighten and lower the knife. She glared at him darkly, unbowed, and he did not think she had totally surrendered. He held out his hand and she placed the knife in it. Returning it to his belt, he allowed himself to really look at her. My God, what was he doing? She was nothing like the woman he’d always thought he’d marry—she had not the beauty or refinement, nor even the virginity he so prized. Her hair was a wild, frizzled mass of black curls, her face was smudged with dirt and paint. Her size was monstrous. And she was wearing the same bedraggled doublet.
“Why didn’t you change into the garments I sent?”
“I don’t wear gowns,” she said coldly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steel himself to patience. Not wear gowns? God’s teeth, she was a woman, and soon his wife. This would not be tolerated. But the mood of his people was not good, judging by the dark looks and buzz of conversation. He wasn’t sure how they’d react if Isabel revealed any more of her lovely personality.
“I will force myself to marry you,” she suddenly said, as if there’d been a doubt. “But only on one condition.”
James wanted to laugh, yet the cold pride in her face held him back. “And that is?”
“If there is a son, he will inherit my family title, not yours.”
His firstborn son, not the Earl of Bolton? He tensed, then almost shouted that she was in no position to make demands. Yet the king’s priest looked on in avid interest, ready to report back that James was not willingly obeying His Majesty’s requests.
“Have you no male relatives to inherit the title?”
“None.”
“And I’m supposed to beg the king to break his laws for our child.”
“If necessary. He’ll have to give the title to someone.”
The priest continued to watch.
“Agreed,” James finally said through gritted teeth. “You do have hips large enough to comfortably bear children.”
He caught her fist before it could strike his face, then pulled her up hard against his body. For her ears alone, he murmured, “Comfortable to lie between, too, I’ll wager.”
They stood face to face, for she was barely smaller than he was. Her eyes burned like black fire, and he thought she would spit at him. Instead she gave him a grim smile.
“We shall see. But first there is the matter of the document.”
James was beginning to lose track of their discussion. He noticed her waist felt decidedly narrower than he had thought, almost—graceful.
“What document?” he asked, trying to concentrate. He looked at her lips, which were too full by half.
“The priest will write down the agreement about our heir.”
Her eyes, so close to his, were narrowed, angry, but triumphant. The king was forcing them to marry—could she work even this to her advantage?
