If James had to speak to one more blushing, giggling maidservant, he would erupt into an angry defense of his chivalrous behavior. What were his people thinking? That he should just force his attentions on a woman who could barely come to terms with her married state?
At dinner, the soldiers and servants flooded the great hall. Isabel entered, William Desmond beside her. Though she tried to sit at a far table, James had her escorted to his.
“Your place is beside me, wife,” he said sternly. As William bowed and turned away, he added, “Sit with us, Desmond. My wife seems to enjoy your company.”
No one else made any move to join them, and James wasn’t surprised. Who would want to sit between a rumor-mongering wife and her frustrated husband. But Father Carstairs suddenly waddled forward and sat at James’s left hand, after nodding to Isabel. Isabel practically turned her back to talk to her squire. James sighed and began to eat his fish stew.
For a few tense minutes, he watched Isabel eat as if she were starving. Then Father Carstairs tugged on his arm.
“Lord Bolton, might I say something…indelicate?” the priest asked in hushed tones.
James gritted his teeth. “What is it, Father?”
“My son, I have heard whispered rumors that disturb me.”
James rolled his eyes. Didn’t even a priest care that he showed a woman mercy? He sensed every eye surreptitiously glancing their way.
“I worry about the legality of your marriage in the eyes of the law, my son. Perhaps you need to?—”
Before the priest could utter another word, James slammed his hands down. The hall fell into immediate silence, as if they were all just waiting for an excuse to openly listen.
“That is enough!” James shouted, and his voice echoed from wall to wall. “If respecting my wife’s fears is such a terrible thing, then by all means, let us consummate this farce!”
11
Isabel stood so quickly her chair fell in a clatter. This was not what she had meant to happen.
“Not so fast, my loose-lipped wife.”
Bolton grabbed the back of her doublet. She staggered and found herself spinning toward him. He caught her full against him and she struggled. Bedlam erupted as knights and serving girls and travelers roared with laughter.
“Of course I shall kiss you,” he said loudly. “I promise to do more than that.”
Holding her body against his with one hand, he gripped her chin with the other and forced their mouths together. Before she could even think how to react, he broke the kiss and gave her a triumphant grin.
Then her world turned upside down as he bent and flung her over his shoulder. Her breath left her lungs with a giant whoosh, and she found her face against the rump of his multi-colored hose. She reared away and tried to punch him.
“None of that, Angel,” Bolton said. “I can tell how eager you are. I will hasten to our bedchamber.”
The laughter almost hurt Isabel’s ears. How dare he turn her revenge around on herself?
Bolton started to walk and came to an abrupt halt, bouncing her against him.
“William, sit down,” he said coldly.
She tried to see what was going on, and failed. Her squire mustn’t interfere and risk his own safety, not again.
“But, Lord Bolton?—”
“Learn your place, boy.”
William must have given way, because Bolton was on the move again, taking the stairs two at a time which slammed her into his shoulder repeatedly. The cheers and laughter mercifully died away as they turned down the stone corridor.
Isabel heard him fling open the door, and a moment later she found herself flat on the bed. As she came to her feet, he slammed the door shut, then pushed her back onto the bed.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he demanded, standing over her, dark and angry. “You made sure everyone knew I’d been a gentleman, so I’d be forced to bed you.”
“No!” she cried, trying to sit up.
