She answered without thinking about it. “Not that I remember. My mother died when I was very young.”
Still Annie stroked her hair and Isabel felt her tension easing.
“Shall I tie your hair back, my lady?”
“Perhaps later,” she said with a sigh, getting to her feet.
Annie arched her neck to look up at her. “My lady, might I say something?”
She nodded warily.
“You could have a good life here.”
Isabel turned away and started for the door.
“Please, give us a chance—givehima chance. This isn’t the way to do that.”
Over her shoulder, Isabel said, “Bolton doesn’t deserve a chance.”
12
James sat on the dais, wearing a false grin, trying to enjoy the minstrel’s performance. He was still uncomfortably frustrated, still angry at his momentary weakness. Why hadn’t he just taken Isabel when she’d been willing?
He downed his third tankard of ale, clapped along with the rest of the hall’s occupants, and waited impatiently for his meal. He ignored Isabel’s glowering squire.
A sudden silence descended on the hall, and James knew immediately that the Black Angel would never be a woman to hide from her problems. She swaggered down the stairs, wearing one of his doublets, by the saints. It was too big through the shoulders, but it showed the enticing curve of her hips. When she turned away, he could see the indentation of her backside.
James’s mouth went dry and he gulped more ale. She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had stolen his clothing and paraded it before everyone, pretending to be a man except for that incredible mane of black curls flowing down her shoulders. She wore an eating knife in her belt—his belt.
And she’d just been crying.
He forced the memory away and watched as she strode over to one hearth. She stood with her hands riding low on her hips, surveying the hall as if she owned it, daring anyone to comment. He felt a reluctant smile tug his lips. He certainly could not deny her bravery.
He doubted she would tell everyone that he had not consummated their marriage. He almost hoped she would try. It would leave her open to whatever twist James wanted to put on their afternoon together.
The minstrel’s voice choked to a halt as he realized who the lady of the castle was. James’s smile vanished. Another story for the minstrel to spread at every castle he visited.
Sighing, he gave a nod to his steward and the meal began. James merely wanted to get the evening over with—and what? Return to his bedchamber with his wife, who cried when he pleasured her? He suspected she’d never known pleasure in her life. Feeling depression settle over him, he simply stared at the first course, wondering if he would have trouble eating.
Isabel had no such problem. She reached the table before he did and sat down, looking toward the kitchens expectantly. She motioned for William to join them, but as the young man began to sit, James gave him a stern look and shook his head once. William froze, then smiled apologetically at Isabel and went to sit elsewhere.
She frowned at James.
“He is my squire, the son of a baron,” she said. “He cannot eat with the common folk.”
“He had better become used to it, Angel. He has a long way to go before he proves to me that he deserves to be here.”
She set down her eating knife with a clatter. “ ’Tis my fault he is here at all. Punish me instead of him.”
“I thought I already did that this afternoon.”
He was startled to see a slow blush redden her cheeks. But she met his gaze.
“Yes, it was a trial,” she said calmly, as if she’d never cried out in bliss.
“I don’t think you thought so at the time.”
“I am a very good liar.” She found a spoon beside her bread trencher and began to eat her soup. Noisily.
