He shook his head. “Angel, I have seen dozens of 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 she 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—and 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.
“For your hair,” he said, impatience vibrating through his voice.
She held her towel with one hand, and clumsily tried to dry her hair with the other, all while staring at her husband. For the first time she could see shadows beneath his eyes, and the stubble of a dark beard. If he was so tired, why couldn’t he just leave her alone—or fall on her and be done with it? This terrible, waiting tension was rattling her more than an impending sword fight.
He suddenly cursed, ripped the towel from her hand and began to scrub her hair with it. It was all she could do to stay covered and upright. She shoved him hard and he reeled back.
“God dammit, woman, you are worse than a child in your ignorance!” he said. “You’re a nobleman’s daughter and you couldn’t learn the basics of cleanliness?”
She wanted to shout that there was no one who cared, but she held her tongue. Showing such vulnerability would only make things worse.
He reached into a chest and threw a linen shirt at her. “Wear this. I’m not waking the household to find you nightclothes. There’s a brush on that table. Use it, for heaven’s sake.”
Then he poured himself more ale, sank down in a chair before the fire and stared into it. While he wasn’t looking, Isabel dropped the towel and pulled on his shirt, so fine she could see the shadows of her body through the cloth. She found the brush on a table beside the bed. She sat on a hard wooden chair in the corner, keeping the bed between them, and began to work the snarls from her hair. But she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking. The night was far from over.
9
As the ale worked its way through his system, James prayed for drunkenness, but his prayers weren’t being answered. Instead he stared into the fire and seethed at his stupidity. He’d given her clothes to wear! It was his wedding night, and he’d just told his wife to cover herself. He should be taking what God and king had just granted him.
Instead, he was miserably aroused, and couldn’t bear to look at his wife. For all her admitted lack of virginity, she’d obviously had little experience kissing. Not that she hadn’t caught on quickly. The taste and feel of her, all hot and soft and forbidden, flashed in his mind, increasing his pain. What kind of lovemaking had she known? Had she been used by men, with no regard for her pleasure? She was frightened of his touch, for God’s sake, she who had gladly risked her life fighting him.
He glanced at her from beneath his lowered eyelids. She sat perched awkwardly on a chair in the corner, motionless, waiting. She held the brush clenched in her white-knuckled fists. Moisture from her hair slowly traced paths down the shirt.
“Come here, Isabel.”
She raised her cold gaze to him, but she didn’t rise.
He sighed. “The fire is warm. Come dry your hair before it.”
He thought she might protest, but she exhaled loudly and stood. She walked toward him with easy grace in her purposeful strides. No mincing, lady-like steps for the Black Angel. She stopped before the hearth and looked at him.
He couldn’t help the small smile that curved his lips. “Kneel down, Angel. Brush your hair out near the fire’s warmth.”
Without comment, she did as he asked. James immediately realized his error. The shirt was almost transparent in the light, and the dampness from her hair caused it to cling. He could see her dark nipples, and the darker area between her thighs. He shifted uncomfortably, wanting to look away, but unable to.
Pulling her hair forward over her shoulder, she methodically began to brush it out. She stared into the fire, her profile flawless—straight nose, high forehead, exotic cheekbones, and full lips made for kissing. He had tasted something new and different on those lips, and ached to discover what it was. If he wasn’t careful, he could become besotted with his own wife. He wanted to take her now, while he was still confident he only desired her because she was unconquered territory.
But he couldn’t force her into his bed. The merest thought was repulsive. He didn’t want to see the Black Angel afraid of him. Although it would surely kill him, he would contain his lust—for now. She had better get used to him sooner, rather than later, or all his good intentions would be for naught.
James lost track of the time, torturing himself by watching Isabel. Her hair began to bounce into soft, clean curls. He could smell her, could imagine tasting her fresh skin.
My God, he had a wife now. And he hadn’t done the one traditional thing every Earl of Bolton had done for the past four generations. He stood up, feeling the room spin for a moment. He noticed Isabel gave a little start, but she didn’t look at him. He opened one of his chests, and found the small box he’d hidden since his mother’s death. With a heavy heart, he wondered what his mother would think of his wife.
He walked to the hearth and held the box before Isabel. She stared at it suspiciously.
“Take it,” he said impatiently. “It’s for you.”
“You have a gift for me?” she asked sarcastically.
“ ’Tis really from my mother, to my wife.”
