He grunted and turned away, finding his bed again, leaving Isabel feeling vanquished. But she would not accept defeat so easily. He would be the one to lose control before she was through. She slowly removed her garments—his garments—feeling his gaze on her. But whenever she turned to look, his eyes were closed. Let him think he deceived her.
When she was naked, she sank into the tub, again wondering how something so simple as hot water could make her feel so good. Bathing was not going to be the intolerable chore she had originally thought. She slowly soaped her body, knowing her husband watched, wondering what he would do.
The bruises of the hard life she had led had already faded away. Would she ever know a quiet feeling of accomplishment again? Would he allow her to do the things she loved, or would he keep her prisoner? All her feelings were coiled in a tense knot as she bathed before him, waiting for his reaction.
There was none. He lay motionless, his eyes closed. When the water grew too cold, she rinsed and stepped from the tub, rubbing herself briskly with a towel. Of course he would not be lured into forgetting himself just by the sight of her body. Their encounter in the garden might never have happened. Were their “discussions” only to be on his terms, not hers? Not if she could help it.
She donned the same shirt and he said nothing. She found her cold bed before the fire, wrapped herself in a blanket, and stared into the flames long into the night. His breathing turned to soft snores, yet still she lay awake, her front warm, her back cold, and wondered what she could do with her life.
In the morning, Bolton was again gone before she awoke. A second blanket lay atop her, as if someone had covered her against the chill. Annie must have come, she insisted to herself.
When she arose, she saw immediately that another gown lay across the bed, this one simpler, yet of no less fine workmanship. The garments she had worn yesterday were gone. Isabel invaded the wardrobe room again, choosing the plainest tunic she could find. But why bother? Would this day end up as wretched as the day before?
Bolton had left the castle, leaving her to her own amusements. Again she tried to saddle a horse, or even walk out of the gatehouse, but found her way reluctantly blocked at every turn. She fled to the battlements, looking out over freedom. She circled the curtain wall all the way around, staring until her eyes hurt, anger burning a hole in her stomach, wishing she were free on the back of a horse.
She stood looking out for what seemed like hours, until finally she went to the tiltyard to watch the swordsmanship. She paced alongside, desperately aching to join. But they all ignored her. The need to move, to use her muscles, was so overwhelming, she almost grabbed a sword and dared them to refuse her entry. Yet she held back, and finally wandered to the stables. She trailed William for an hour, but he could spare her little time. The looks he cast her were so pitying, she didn’t wish to stay long.
Despair made her climb to the battlements once more. She forgot to eat dinner, as she stood looking out on all she would never have again. Perhaps even the king’s dungeon would be better than this.
A small party on horseback approached the castle. She recognized Bolton, saw him look up and take her measure, but neither of them acknowledged the other. Frowning, she remained where she was, the wind whipping around her, until Bolton sent a servant to bring her to supper.
She entered the great hall, sat at the table beside her husband, and said nothing as she waited for the meal. A juggler performed for the waiting crowd, but she kept her gaze downcast.
“Why are you not wearing the gown I laid out?” Bolton asked.
Isabel ignored him.
“I will not permit you to go about forever dressed like that.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, then looked away.
“So what did you do today?”
“Nothing.”
“Aah, you have a voice,” he said.
The amusement in his tone cut her deeply. She hated to be laughed at. She gritted her teeth and refused to be baited.
A basin was brought over and when she hesitated, Bolton frowned until she stuck her hands in the water. She rubbed them together, shook the droplets of water aside, and dropped her hands into her lap. None of his foolish games mattered.
“Angel, I thought I said—” He suddenly broke off, searching her eyes.
She glared at him.
“You will ride with me tomorrow.”
She tensed, waiting for the sarcastic laugh. None came.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded, suspecting a trap.
He shrugged and dropped his gaze. It made her even more nervous.
“Be ready before the sun, wife. I will brook no delays.”
Isabel was awake and dressed before gray skies heralded the coming dawn. She wore her own garments, and tied her hair back with a strip of leather. She was restless, longing to start the day, but still Bolton slept. She drew near the bed and stared at his face, relaxed in sleep. The cool amusement was gone, and he looked young and handsome.
How would she feel if he were not her family’s enemy, if he had come to court her? She tried to imagine herself happily married to such a man, content with family and hearth. The very thought was foreign. Most certainly a man like Bolton would never content himself with only his wife’s bed, especially not hers. But an image arose in her mind of waking up in his arms, his hands on her, and the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.
