James felt irrationally angry. Lying, she called it? And she was slurping soup all over one of his best doublets. Just as she was about to put the spoon in her mouth, he calmly said, “Shall I imitate the sounds you made while lying?”
The spoon caught on her lip and she dribbled half of the soup down her chin. Damn, another splatter on the garment, but it was worth it.
She slammed the spoon down and proceeded to wipe the back of her forearm across her mouth. James winced.
“What game do you play, Bolton?”
The few voices still speaking died down.
She continued, “Do you want to hear aloud how unsatisfactory you were?”
James heard the collective gasp of every person in the hall. He stood up, leaning over her. “Unsatisfactory? They could hear your screams of ecstasy from the village!”
Isabel got to her feet, her face inches from his. “Screams of pain from your clumsiness!”
They breathed hard into each other’s faces, teeth bared in angry grimaces. A lone voice spoke up from the back of the hall—Father Carstairs.
“My children, perhaps your private chambers would be a better place to?—”
“Father, cease your prattle,” James said, never looking away from Isabel’s cold eyes. “It was your fine suggestion that put us there in the first place.”
But he did want to end this. He was concerned that Isabel, if pushed too far, would reveal that he once again had not bedded her. Part of him couldn’t stop wondering what men she’d had. God’s teeth, it was not supposed to be like this with his wife.
He glared at her. “Sit down and finish eating.”
“I may be married to you, but I shall do as I—” Isabel’s gaze followed the platter of sliced venison. “But I must keep up my strength for training.” She sat back down in her chair and ignored him.
James sat down with a grimace and began to stab at his meat. So this would be his married life. The sun had only risen and set once and already he needed to escape his wife.
They ate in silence, alone at the head table, while all around them people carried on lively conversations and enjoyed each other. The air between them was frozen with distrust and bitterness.
Near the end of the meal, Isabel suddenly spoke. “Why were the gates barred to me today?”
She had soup on her chin, and James almost used his own sleeve on her in exasperation. “We’ve been married one day, and I am supposed to trust you?”
“What more do you want of me? You have taken everything, including my people and my lands—and especially my freedom.”
He shook his head. “I don’t trust that you will not do something foolish in your ridiculous attempts to humiliate me.”
“Ridiculous?” She seemed to study him with cool amusement.
He should be angry, instead he looked at the curve of her lip and wanted to kiss her. What was it about her that made him forget everything a woman should be?
“My attempts are hardly ridiculous,” she said. “They are working, aren’t they? Tell me you are not mortified by our marriage, by me. I am not what you wanted for a wife, admit it.”
He grinned. “And did you expect to be married to a Bolton?”
He saw the self-satisfied pleasure leave her eyes. He’d struck a blow.
“Tell me how your father would react to his new son by marriage,” he continued.
She clutched her eating knife and James pinned her hand beneath his.
“Now, now, Angel, this works both ways,” he said. “I’ve humiliated you, you’ve humiliated me. Can we not call it even and have peace?”
“Never!” She stood up, stabbed her knife in a slice of pork and walked to the hearth to eat it. “Am I still your prisoner?” she demanded in a loud voice.
“In every way.”
