“Beg pardon, Lord Bolton?”
James swung around, then clutched the saddle as dizziness overwhelmed him. “She. The swordswoman.”
Wiggins shrank away and mumbled, “Oh.”
James turned forward again, swallowing back the contents of his stomach. In his mind he saw her, dark eyes, red lips, wild, wild hair.
A branch slapped him across the face and he cursed.
2
Isabel Atherstone, the Black Angel, slid the sword into the scabbard at her waist, its steel as cold and heavy as the revenge that crushed her heart. The weapon felt natural there, its purpose assured. A dagger was concealed in her boot, for she was taking no chances. She stood wide-legged before a low fire that sputtered meager warmth into the crude hut. Yet she barely noticed the sparse room. A fierce thrill hummed through her. Her vengeance had begun. She removed the leather strip holding her hair back, and shook the long, black curls about her shoulders.
She looked down at the men’s garments she wore. Her breasts showed she was a woman, but she no longer kept them bound flat. She wasn’t ashamed of what she was. There was no feminine weakness in her—she was hard muscle and bone. No softness had graced her life, no finery or pretty things. She needed none of it. Her purpose had been fated from the moment of her birth. She would be the instrument of her family’s revenge. She was all that was left of the Mansfields. The name would rise again.
Isabel would enjoy humiliating the Earl of Bolton, playing games he could not comprehend. A grim smile spread across her face. She remembered him lying helplessly on her pallet, a wound by her hand striking him low. Her father would be proud.
She had thought she would enjoy seeing Bolton weakened, but the feeling had eluded her. Ruining him would be a duty, not a pleasure, she realized. He had not seemed the monster her father had claimed him, but appearances were seldom reality. He had been charming and amusing through it all, the picture of a well-born nobleman. Lying at her mercy, he could still taunt her, could still imagine himself in control of her. The gall of him, to force her against his chest. She could still feel the hard, warm strength of him beneath her, the rise and fall of his ribcage against her breasts. She had looked into his eyes and wished desperately to see a vicious monster. But it had not happened.
No matter. His family had brought hers to its knees. His father had maimed her father, and the humiliation and bitterness had never left him. Her father had had a scarce amount of time for his daughter, and then only as an instrument of his vengeance. There had been no traveling, no family visits to court or to neighbors. No young men came calling on her, no young ladies befriended her. There had been nothing in her life but the decrepit Mansfield tiltyard. And now all her hard work and sacrifice were coming to fruition.
This latest Earl of Bolton deserved to suffer the revenge his entire family had earned. Her father had told her that Bolton had raped his betrothed, unable to contain himself until the wedding night. The girl had broken off the engagement and settled for his younger brother, but Isabel thought that was not enough punishment for the earl. The Boltons had to learn that there were people in the world they could not crush. Their line must end with James Markham. First the Black Angel would ruin him. And then she would personally lead him to the gates of hell.
The door opened with the sound of wood scraping against the dirt floor. Isabel tensed by habit as she turned, hand on her sword hilt.
William Desmond paused in the doorway. He was really still a boy, just fifteen years of age. But he was as big and solid as any man, and perhaps too loyal to her. When her father died, William should have returned to his own family, but he had refused to leave her alone, insisting she needed a squire. Perhaps he had somehow known what she intended to do. She had to admit that attacking the earl without William’s help would have been much harder.
“Is something wrong?” Isabel asked.
William’s dark blond hair hung in fine strands to his shoulders and his brown eyes were so full of compassion they made her almost uneasy. After a moment, he shook his head.
“It is nothing, I guess,” he murmured, stepping inside and closing the door. “I just cannot get used to you wearing a thief’s mask, leaving your hair loose.”
She wanted to smile, but she seldom could. “I am a maiden yet—surely I need not bind my hair like a village washerwoman.”
“But you usually bind your hair like a soldier. You are dressed like one.”
She narrowed her gaze. “What are you implying?”
“You are wearing a man’s garment, but showing that you are obviously a woman. Why?”
William stepped closer. Although he was broad through the shoulders, he was not exceedingly tall for a man—consequently, he was forced to look up into her eyes.
Isabel stared back. “You know it is not enough that Bolton die—else I could easily have killed him before now. Humiliation is an important part of my plan. What better way to embarrass him than to make all realize that even a woman can best him.”
“‘Even’? Are you claiming that men are superior to women?”
“Cease your word games, William. You know full well that the honor of my family rests in what I do here. Do not question me about this again.”
He lifted his hands in surrender and bowed from the waist. “As you wish, my lady.” He slowly straightened. “When do we move next?”
“Not yet,” she said, feeling her spirits come to life at just the thought of besting the earl. “We will let Bolton wonder how I’m spending the ridiculous amount of wealth he carried unguarded.”
“Hardly unguarded, my lady. The forest was full of his men. We barely escaped.”
“In a few more days we will strike at the heart of his empire, from within his own stronghold. He will feel violated.”
The boy sighed. “I hope you have a plan, because I surely don’t.”
