“Do they so fear the criminals on your land?”
As they left the gatehouse, his grin was almost blinding. “Oh no, they only worry about the criminal at my side.”
She coolly looked him up and down. “Perhaps they should worry. After all, it took more men than these to hunt me down.”
Bolton leaned closer to her, and she kneed her mount aside.
“I seem to recall that it took but one special man to disarm you. Or are you claiming to have been so awed by my dashing appearance that you gratefully surrendered?”
She lifted her chin, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore his low, rumbling chuckle. She’d give him this one small victory, but the day was yet young.
Dawn brightened the eastern horizon, and above that hung a deep, dusky blue sky, with no clouds portending bad weather. Though the air was chilled, and Isabel could see her breath, she thought the day would be beautiful. She wondered with a start when was the last time she had considered the day except for comfort and ease of fighting. She would not be so weak again.
After a few minutes, the forest closed about them, sunlight scattered amidst the reds and oranges and yellows of the towering oaks and elders. She found the forest sounds strangely relaxing after the tension of her last few days as mistress of Bolton castle.
She allowed Bolton to continue riding beside her, his three men following behind. Although they probably wished to be abed, they were alert to protect their master. She wondered why they had not been so when she had robbed Bolton.
“You have not asked where we are going,” he said.
Isabel glanced at him, gave a deliberate shrug, and looked back to the packed earth road. “The freedom to ride is more important than the destination.”
“Does that include the freedom to take your leave of us?”
She smiled grimly. “That would be foolish. You have William.”
“Ah yes,” he said, giving a slow nod. “You are quite fond of the boy.”
The answer was already so obvious she left it unspoken.
They came out of the forest along a hedge-lined road. The sun was well on its way into the sky, brightening the sheep dotted across the dark grass. In the distance she could see a cluster of small wooden houses. As they approached, children ran barefoot to greet him. They were well fed and happy, calling hellos and looking at her with avid interest.
The elders of the village arrived soon after, displaying the wariness she was more used to. She stiffened her spine and returned their looks with a haughtiness she had never used before, but which might sufficiently embarrass her husband. With only a quick unreadable look, he introduced her. They scrutinized her with momentary wonderment, then ignored her for Bolton.
Isabel let their little speeches flow around her without listening to them. She deliberately looked bored, and even sighed loudly a few times. She almost enjoyed it—if only she knew for certain she was making her husband squirm. But he was so friendly and intent on his villagers, that she might not have even been there.
“Milord, we’d like ye to see the changes we made at the mill,” said one small hairy man, who seemed to be in charge.
Just as Bolton turned to look at her, Isabel said, “I am not interested.”
She heard low disapproving murmurs, saw a momentary blank look on Bolton’s face as he took in her comment. She held her breath, waiting for an explosion, but he simply grinned, and that was worse.
“Gentlemen, you must understand my poor wife,” he said with indulgence in his voice. “She has a hard time comprehending such weighty matters. I am sure she will be well occupied waiting for me out here. She has a good communion with animals, and I see plenty of cows here on the village green.”
Embarrassment swept through her as everyone in the gathering laughed. Before she could even form a retort, he had dismounted and walked away, with the crowd fawning over his every uttering.
She was alone, but for the small soldier with the ready smile. Red-faced, he looked casually about the village green, anywhere but at her. She seethed, she fumed, then eventually she fought a small measure of grudging admiration. By the saints, Bolton had a quick way with words.
After a few minutes, the soldier reined his horse in beside hers, grinned, and doffed his hat.
“I’m Mort, milady,” he said.
She gave him a cool nod, knowing he’d been chosen as her keeper.
He dismounted, then waited beside her expectantly.
With a sigh, Isabel stepped to the ground. “Why are we here, Mort?”
“Because ye didn’t want to see the mill.”
