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Her eyes raged hatred at him as she chewed her meat.

James knew he should not have mentioned her father. His curiosity about the Mansfields was growing stronger by the minute. He almost wished he had told Galway to return immediately. What kind of family had molded such a creature? And what was he to do with her?

He usually danced, sang, or played cards, but on this second evening of his marriage, people seemed to be keeping their distance. The minstrel’s songs went on depressingly about unrequited love. And Isabel was a statue before the hearth, legs spread, hands on her hips, frowning at everything in her path. She made everyone, including him, uncomfortable, and shortened the evening considerably. A few people made impromptu pallets on the floor, but most crept off to find their beds early, including William, whom James had given his own small room.

James got to his feet. “You’ve scared them all off,” he said tiredly. “Are you proud of yourself?”

He saw a genuine flash of puzzlement before she hid it. “I never made a threatening gesture.”

“You didn’t need to. Your mere presence is enough.” His anger spilled out as he walked toward her. “How do you think they feel, knowing a woman who robbed from us is now their mistress?”

He saw her jaw clench. “I certainly did not ask for this.”

“Yet it happened.” His gaze dropped down her body. “Go up to my bedchamber.”

“No. I want to have a room to myself.”

“Do I need to throw you over my shoulder again? You’re big enough to injure my back.” James thought of how she’d embarrassed him this evening with her ill temper and lack of manners. “Have no worries, my lady. I won’t give you anything to scream about.” Damn, but his mouth ran away from him.

“Very well,” she said evenly, as if she’d been waiting for his anger to bring on irrational oaths.

She turned and ascended the staircase, obviously taunting him with her barely covered backside. He drained another tankard of ale before following her.

His bedchamber was filled with lit candles, just as he liked it. It was warm, it should be peaceful, but Isabel stood in the center of the room, naked but for his shirt. She turned and saw him close the door behind him. Calmly, never breaking their shared gaze, she wrapped a blanket around her and sat down on the floor. She rolled onto her side to face the fire, her long legs not quite covered. He saw her feet and the beginning of a shapely calf.

With a curse, he slammed out of the room, descended into the great hall, then out to the inner ward. The smell of autumn was in the air, and he could see the mist of his breath. Maybe the weather could freeze the lust out of him.

But all it did was make him miserably cold, and ever more conscious of being alone. He walked the battlements, he rubbed down the horses, but he ran out of reasons to stay away from his own bedchamber.

Long after midnight, he returned to find Isabel sound asleep before the fire. He undressed and lay down in bed, watching her. He couldn’t shut out the cries of her pleasure still echoing in his ears. He remembered the moist heat between her thighs, and the merest thought of burying himself in her made him ache. But what stopped him was knowing that he could seduce her into accepting his seed, but she wouldn’t have freely given herself. And he didn’t want his marriage to be like that. Hell, he didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

~oOo~

Isabel opened her eyes to the morning light. She stiffened, then slowly turned her head. The bed was empty. Bolton must have arisen before her and was now gone. She looked down at her bare legs and shivered. Had he watched her while she slept? She would have known if he had touched her. Just the thought of his hands on her made her uneasy. Asleep, she would be even less likely to control her reactions.

She still could not believe the feelings he had coaxed out of her. She had never imagined mating could be so…pleasant. Oh, she knew there was more involved, but it now made so much more sense why maids foolishly became pregnant by men who did not mean to marry them. To forget one’s miserable life, even for a short while, was incredibly appealing.

But Isabel was not a foolish, moonstruck girl. She knew what kind of man Bolton was. He did nothing without purpose. She would be prepared this time. Now that she knew what to expect, she would not allow such feelings to overcome her, no matter what he did. She would think of…sword fighting instead.

She rose to her feet and stopped in astonishment. Spread out on the bed was a deep red gown, trimmed in gold, the sort those foolish baron’s daughters might wear. What could Bolton be thinking—that a bit of cloth would change her mind? She’d worn a gown once or twice, but they’d been uncomfortable things, and left her nether regions too exposed. How did one comfortably ride a horse like that?

She found her own laundered garments hung on a peg in the wall. Annie had been thoughtful once again, but it made Isabel uneasy. How could she ever repay such favors? She would just have to remember that Annie was a servant. And yet…Isabel had never had a friend, a woman who was decent to her for no reason except friendship. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone then.

Isabel came slowly down the stairs into the great hall. A few servants looked her way, but she was becoming a familiar figure. They didn’t stare as long this time, and turned back to what they were doing with cold indifference. She realized that she had missed the bells for Mass. She went out into the inner ward, but walked past the chapel quickly, for she didn’t want to meet up with Bolton.

Once again she tried to saddle a horse and was refused. Once again, she attempted to leave by the gatehouse and was refused. She gritted her teeth and returned to the great hall for her morning bread and ale. She never saw Bolton.

As the tables were cleared, Isabel sat there, feeling the emptiness of her days overwhelm her. What was she to do? She’d always trained with the Boltons in mind, knowing some day she’d use her fighting abilities against them. But her days as the Black Angel were through. She still planned to wreak havoc on Bolton’s life, but that could only occupy so many hours of her day. What did a wife do?

Isabel sighed and rose from the table. She was not that desperate. She left the great hall to explore the inner ward. Bolton Castle had only one curtain wall, massive though it was, and it protected an impressive assortment of buildings—barracks and armory, laundry and kitchens, storehouses and sheds. The chapel itself had beautiful stained glass windows, the likes of which she’d never seen before. All in all, Bolton displayed more wealth than Isabel could imagine. Yet, according to him, she was a rich heiress. Her father had had this kind of wealth, and hoarded it, rather than seeing to the comfort of his people? It was an unsettling thought. Could she do for her people what Bolton had done for his—make them happy and comfortable? Would he spend money on her villages, or would he enjoy abusing them merely because they were hers?

Deep in thought, Isabel rounded the corner of the castle, then sighed with delight. The tiltyard. She heard the sounds of warfare she so loved—metal on metal as men practiced with their swords, the squeal of saddle leather as one man on horseback made a pass with his lance at the quintain. The device spun and hit him in the back as he went past, and all who saw it guffawed, including Isabel.

They turned and saw her standing there, and their merriment died away. She heard the mutters, saw their hands grasp their swords. These men she understood. She had bested them, eluded them, and they would not soon forget it.

But they could not stop her from watching. She spent the morning standing where they could see her, perched on the balls of her feet as she played out how she would react to every sword thrust. Archers shot arrows at their targets, and though she was impressed, Isabel knew she was better. Yet how could she ask to practice? They’d only go to Bolton, who would again forbid her to do anything at all enjoyable. He was more than adept at his own means of revenge.

She ate dinner alone because Bolton still hadn’t returned from wherever he’d gone. She didn’t ask his steward for his whereabouts, and Galway she had not seen this day. She was restless, ill at ease, and when she returned to the tiltyard and they all turned to stare at her as one, she found she couldn’t bear another minute. She walked past them, taking turn upon turn of the castle walls, until she came upon an overgrown garden with a low crooked gate as the only obstacle. Curious, she went inside.