She said, “I am perfectly capable of?—”
“Be quiet. You are a fool to be out here in such weather.”
She remained silent as the wind buffeted them. Bolton was solid as the curtain wall itself, but she refused to let him support her weight.
“I am traveling to Mansfield on the morrow,” he said.
She tensed, staring intently at his large, clean hands, so near to her own.
“I am going to see for myself what you brought to this marriage.”
“And if it’s not enough, you’ll set me free?”
His laugh was grim. “I’m sorry to say ’tis not that easy.”
Bolton hadn’t said that she was going. Did she really want to? Did she want to see with fresh understanding what her father had allowed to become of his lands, his people? Yet the more she saw of Bolton Castle, the more she realized she now had the money to help her peasants.
There was an uneasy silence, and when he spoke, his voice was close to her ear. “Aren’t you going to ask to travel with me?”
His breathing bathed the side of her neck, and she gripped the wall tightly. “Not if I have to beg.”
“No fear of that. I don’t trust you enough to leave you here alone.”
She didn’t blame him. She was rather pleased with her recent performances—except for the night by the fire, when she had forgotten her purposes and pushed him away. He obviously had forgotten nothing.
She ducked beneath his arm and started to walk away.
“Isabel.”
She slowly turned and looked at him.
Bolton’s dark hair was tousled by the wind, his cloak swirled about his body. He stared at her with a penetrating gaze.
“ ’Tis only a matter of time,” he said softly.
She remained still. “Until what?”
“Until I take what is mine.”
~oOo~
Isabel spent the day watching the preparations for the journey, but having nothing to do herself. Everywhere she went, from the kitchens to the armory, people loaded carts and followed orders. She felt useless as they ignored her.
She found William at the stables. Even he could spare her no time as he examined the horses for the journey. In frustration, she picked up the shovel he’d been using to muck out the stalls and finished the job he’d begun.
In an hour, she was filthy and perspiring, her boots caked in straw and manure. Just as she leaned against a stall to rest, she heard the horn announce visitors at the gatehouse. She watched the line of carts and knights enter the inner ward. A litter was lowered, and a cloaked woman emerged from behind the curtains. A handsome man of her party took her hands and kissed them. Another noblewoman rode a fine horse of her own, and she too dismounted to stand beside the couple.
The noble party caught sight of Isabel, and their blatant stares let her know this would infuriate Bolton. It would be a good day. She wiped her hands on a rag, and walked over to greet them.
The well-dressed man wore a cocky grin as she approached, and his eyes moved down her body with a familiarity Isabel found distasteful. The petite woman who clutched his arm gazed at her in shocked horror, her face blanched white. The second woman, the one who’d ridden in on her own, wore a baffled smile that slowly faded.
“I am Isabel Markham, countess of Bolton Castle. Who are you?”
The man’s eyebrows rose and he chuckled as he patted the shaking woman’s hand. “I am Sir Avery Cabot, and this is my wife, Lady Cabot. I am an old friend of your…husband. We are in need of a night’s lodging as we travel north.”
But Isabel was already looking beyond him, to the woman who had yet to speak. “And you?” she asked.
She heard gasps from the other women of the party, who’d begun to flutter around Lady Cabot like empty-headed birds. She ignored them.
