Isabel had already seen the kitchen gardens, now harvested for the coming winter. But this was different. She recognized decorative plants only, beside the occasional fruit tree. What purpose did this serve? She continued to follow the paths until the curtain wall towered far above her. Here vines were threaded through wooden gates of sorts, and formed a tunnel. In the summer it must keep a person hidden, but now it was bare, forlorn. She ducked inside and found a bench to sit on.
It was very peaceful here. Distantly she could hear the sounds of the castle, the smithy pounding on his anvil, the dogs, the laughter of servants. But there were no prying eyes, no dark looks, no anger. She leaned back against the wall and tried to imagine what it must feel like to walk in this garden as mistress of a castle where you were respected, where you knew what to do every day, and you fit in.
She swallowed past an unfamiliar lump in her throat. She didn’t know anything but her hatred and her revenge, and she couldn’t see a way past it—nor did she want to.
Angrily, she pushed her way out of the vine tunnel, strode out of the garden, past the tiltyard. A man on horseback was just arriving through the gatehouse tunnel. Three men followed him—the soldiers who’d helped capture her and William. There was no need to shield her eyes from the sun to know the identity of the leader.
“My lady.”
Bolton’s deep voice made her shiver, and she inwardly cursed her weakness. He dismounted and walked toward her. The dark giant took the reins of Bolton’s horse, and the three men continued on, nodding respectfully in her direction. She arched a brow at them with the most forbidding expression she could manage. They all dropped their gazes together, though at least two of them were smiling, and the big one looked…amused. She turned to watch them enter the stables.
“Come to take supper with your husband, Lady Isabel?” Bolton said calmly. “Or are we just ogling the soldiers today?”
She turned back to look at him. He was dressed impeccably as usual, totally unsuitable to combat in any form. But she had begun to think he misled people with his manner and dress. He was a capable warrior. He had certainly bested her in swordfight. But why was he so quick to put on a different appearance?
“No more soldiers, so you’re ogling me?” he asked.
His smile was rakish, but she was not deceived. He coolly assessed her.
“I view whatever I please,” Isabel answered, continuing past him.
He took her arm and she looked down at his hand, then into his face silently.
“ ’Tis time for the evening meal,” he said. “You will join me and tell me how the mistress of the castle spends her day.”
Her gaze narrowed as she studied him. His height still caught her off guard, as did his strength. She sometimes forgot how well his hand held a weapon, when all she could remember was how feather-light it had touched her skin.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she replied evenly, shaking off his hand.
“But you’ll eat anyway, won’t you.”
Isabel turned and started across the grounds, knowing he was right about her appetite. Why should she deny herself the sustenance that she needed to match wits with him? She sensed another evening of opportunities stretching out before her, and for the first time, the day held promise.
13
James watched his wife walk ahead of him to the castle. Though she was wearing male garments again, disregarding his orders, he couldn’t help but admit to himself how much easier it was to study a woman’s body this way. Often in his various seductions, he had wondered about a woman’s hips and legs beneath voluminous skirts. More often than not he’d been disappointed when the hidden was finally revealed.
But not with Isabel. Naked or clothed, her body was inspiring. She’d led an active life, and the lean muscle only enhanced the elegant roundness of her hips. And wearing a doublet, with a skirt that barely reached the top of her thighs, well, the sight was enough to make a grown man fall to his knees and beg.
James caught himself in time. He was hardly at the begging stage of their little game. Of the two of them, he thought perhaps she was closer than he. He followed his wife up the stairs to the great hall, watching her round buttocks work efficiently. He reached up and caught one cheek in his fingers. She whirled fast, using her knee to knock his hand hard into the stone wall.
“Why did you put your hands on me?” she demanded.
He ignored the stares of the people around them. “If you wear such clothing, expect to be pinched, and not just by me.”
“Are you saying your people are so ill-trained that they would assault their master’s wife?”
“Oh, so you are enjoying the privileges of being another piece of my property.”
She gave him a frosty glare and continued on up the stairs, faster now. He stayed hard on her heels.
He noticed she didn’t even bother to try to sit below the salt. She marched to the dais, a princess expecting her due, seated herself, and waited for the meal to begin. He took his place beside her, and immediately one of the serving girls set a basin of steaming water on the table between them. She placed two clean towels nearby. James nodded his thanks.
Isabel looked puzzled. “Are we to drink this?” she finally asked.
He laughed. “No, my dear, it is for washing. Think of it as a little tub.”
“But I am not dirty.”
