When she made no move to touch it, James lifted the lid. The firelight sparkled on gold chains set with pearls. Her face showed no emotion.
“I will not wear Bolton jewels.”
A fierce anger gripped him, and he was thankful he was too drunk to do anything about it. He lifted the lid of his trunk and tossed the box back in, slamming it shut louder than necessary. He went back to his chair beside the fire, beside Isabel, and forced himself to take the punishment he so richly deserved for getting trapped into an unwanted marriage.
When she rose to her feet, he blinked at her in a drunken haze.
“Do you have another blanket?” she asked.
He couldn’t speak. He nodded toward the chest at the foot of the bed. Lifting the heavy lid effortlessly, she unfolded a woolen blanket, wrapped it about her shoulders, and lay down on the rug near the fire.
His mouth sagged open. He was either stunned, or terribly drunk. It took moments for him to form words. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She closed her eyes. “Attempting to sleep.”
“On the cold floor?”
“Yes.”
Anger surged anew inside him. He had tortured himself to be noble, to give her time, and now she wouldn’t even sleep in the same bed with him. Perhaps it was just as well.
“I hope you’re comfortable, my lady,” he said between gritted teeth.
“I have slept in worse places.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
She opened her eyes, black, fathomless, framed in lush, feminine eyelashes. She gave him a cool, amused stare, as if she very well understood his meaning. To hell with her.
James pushed himself to his feet and staggered, but didn’t fall. Holding her gaze, he removed his tunic and let it fall to the floor. He stretched, pulling the shirt up and over his head. She stared, silent, eyes wide. Let her believe the worst. He was beyond caring. He untied his codpiece and peeled his hose down his legs, never looking away from his wife. When he was wearing only the narrowed braies across his hips, he hesitated.
But she’d already seen him naked—and aroused at that. He loosened the laces and let the last of his garments drop. His erection was so huge it hurt, but still he stood above her, allowing her to look. He held onto the ragged edges of his self-control for a moment longer, while he could see more and more of the whites of her astonished eyes.
Then he turned and crawled into bed. He pulled the covers up to his chest, threw his arm over his eyes and tried not to groan in frustration. He was too noble by half. He’d never be able to sleep, knowing his near-naked wife lay only a few feet away.
Isabel jerked as something light dropped onto her feet from the direction of the bed. A cushion. She eased it beneath her head, grimly trying to ignore the fact that her new husband might have been showing her consideration. What seemed like hours later, she finally heard a soft snore. Only then did her cramped shoulders begin to relax, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She slid one arm beneath her head and contemplated the fire, too wide awake for sleep.
Bolton had not touched her except to scrub the filth from her hair. She tried to decide if she was insulted or relieved. The latter of course. She did not need his sweaty body pumping on top of her. She’d seen such things many times in her youth, when she’d walked into the stables with too soft a footstep.
And yet, disgust had been the last thing on her mind when she’d stared up at Bolton’s nakedness. He’d looked at her with drunken animosity, but his body had proclaimed his desire. Heat flushed her cheeks, seared her breasts, moved downwards into the depths of her stomach with startling, embarrassing speed. What was wrong with her? She should be happy she had lived unscathed through her first night shackled to Bolton. She had emerged victorious—hadn’t she?
Then why did she feel mortified, even angry that she was not worthy of being touched? He desired her, it was obvious. Or would any naked woman do?
Stop it, stop it!her mind insisted. She squeezed her eyes He was her enemy. She did not want his filthy hands to touch her. He had forced her to marry him. Imagine trying to make her wear the tainted jewelry of the Bolton line! It was time to make him pay for his sins—and his ancestors’.
~oOo~
James opened his eyes just as the first rays of dawn struck his window. He lay still for a moment, wondering why he felt weak, disoriented, queasy. He remembered with a suddenness that was almost painful. He was a married man this morning—a very frustrated married man. With a groan he came up on one elbow and saw his wife.
Isabel lay asleep on the rug before the hearth. The laces winding through the neckline of her shirt—his shirt—had come loose, sagging to reveal one perfect breast. He stared at it almost greedily. He was already aroused by just the thought of her lying in his room, but this wasn’t helping his self-control.
He slipped from the bed and knelt beside her. Her face was relaxed in sleep, and she looked very young. He didn’t even know her age, really knew nothing about her. His gaze traveled down her throat to the round breast offered so enticingly. He looked closer, then frowned. Careful not to disturb her sleep, he leaned in and very slowly pushed the shirt farther beneath her arm. He saw pale white lines, scars, etched across her ribcage, beneath her breasts, even over the skin of the breast itself. He spread the shirt wider, revealing the same web of pale scars on her other breast.
Her eyes suddenly snapped open and she stared at him.
James raised his hands slowly. “Isabel,” he began, but got no farther.
She yanked closed her shirt. “Did you mean to force yourself on me as I slept?” she demanded, her voice deadly quiet.
