“I doubt it. Oh, I know! Perhaps you could have cheered him on when he used his mouth as a weapon against his helpless prisoner.”
“Please stop it.” The girl put her hand over her mouth, her eyes distressed.
“You don’t like to hear the truth about what kind of man your brother is? The kind of man who would—” Isabel’s words came to a breathless halt as she realized how her voice had risen and begun to tremble. By the saints, what had come over her? She took a deep, gasping breath and stumbled back from Margery.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Margery’s wide eyes never left Isabel as she called, “Come in.”
A young page entered with a basin of water. Isabel brushed past him and fled down the corridor. She found her bedchamber, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it. How had she lost control like that, in front of Bolton’s sister no less?
Her breathing was hard and fast, and she had to force herself to calm down. She still had the evening to get through. She absently reached for the pipes leading to the cisterns, then froze as she realized what she was doing.
Was she taking a bath to please Bolton? Soon she’d be parading about in one of the many gowns still hung on pegs around the room. He’d certainly be happy with such a victory. Instead, without tidying her hair or washing her face, she headed for the great hall.
~oOo~
James tried to keep all expression from his face as he watched Isabel descend the broad staircase. He wanted to sigh at his foolish hopes that she could transform into the perfect countess, the ideal woman. Hell, she hadn’t even bathed. He didn’t know what had happened between her and Margery, who’d come downstairs moments before, wearing a smile he knew was false.
Isabel stopped at the base of the stairs. Even in his anger, he could still see her tall elegance, the natural, unstudied grace she didn’t have to force. Of course, that came from sword fighting. Voices dropped to murmurs as she glanced about the room with a haughty arrogance.
She approached the head table and sat beside James, ignoring everything but the tankard of ale she deliberately took away from him. The smell of the stables hung between them.
Sarah Cabot’s face was pale again, and she leaned closer to her husband in obvious worry. James felt a moment’s irritation that he didn’t want to understand. He reached out and touched Sarah’s hand, giving her his most captivating smile, the one she’d always responded to before. It took a moment longer, but the corners of her mouth finally tilted prettily, and her eyes brightened. James straightened and looked into Avery’s uneasy gaze.
“Don’t worry, Cabot,” James said as he broke into a steaming loaf of white bread. “I’m a married man now.”
He heard a sudden thump, and turned to find Isabel stabbing her eating knife through the bread and into the table. She tossed the rest of the loaf aside, picked up her piece, and tore a chunk off with her teeth.
Avery smirked. “I notice you didn’t say ‘happily.’”
“It goes without saying,” he said with a laugh.
James ignored Isabel throughout the meal, as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and slurped the food directly from her plate. He focused all his attention and charm on Sarah. Avery was obviously torn between gloating over Isabel and keeping close to Sarah.
James knew it wasn’t a good idea to ignore Isabel, but he was so frustrated. Margery continually glanced between himself and Isabel, wearing her most disapproving frown, but what could he do? Isabel had chosen her grand performance well. Short of hauling her over his shoulder and upstairs, which would cause even more talk, he was powerless.
After the meal had dragged on all it could, he called in the minstrels who began playing lively music sure to start the whole room dancing. No one danced. The women clustered in groups to whisper and giggle, the knights sipped their ales in dejection, and Margery looked worried. James forced himself to flirt, keeping his back to Isabel.
The next thing he knew, his wife had made her way to their female guests and stood among them, hands on her hips, as if listening intently to their every word. Isabel loomed above them with her black doublet, her dark wild hair, so out of place. As a group, the women inched sideways and Isabel followed them, like a fox chasing the chickens.
James knew he should be laughing at the absurdity of it all, but he was too angry for that.
Isabel was completely satisfied by the reactions she’d garnered this bizarre evening. The ladies were aflutter and aghast, Margery wasn’t even bothering to hide her concern, and Bolton was doing his best to ignore her. If only his best wasn’t being directed at Sarah Cabot. Isabel wasn’t a fool. She knew that something must have gone on between them once. Of course it didn’t matter to her. She’d never wanted him as a husband anyway. Let him have Sarah even if he had to duel Lord Cabot to win her.
She bit her lip and stared into the fire. What must it be like to have men compete for your hand? Sarah had had her choice of Bolton and Cabot, and probably many others. Isabel didn’t know what to do with one man, let alone many. She had not a clue how other women lived, what they conversed about.
She leaned her arm against the mantel as a wave of despair washed through her. She wondered if she could feel any more alone or hated. She had never imagined how tiring it was to be bad all the time, to be the object of so much scorn. She’d been living with it for weeks now, but it suddenly seemed as thick as black smoke in the great hall. Her throat tightened, breathing became painful, and something was stinging her eyes. She had to escape.
Moving along the outskirts of the crowd was difficult, and at one point she found herself backed into a corner. She stumbled and put her hand out to brace herself, only to encounter the hilt of a sword, propped against the wall. Isabel didn’t even hesitate. She clutched the scabbard against her thigh to keep it hidden, and turned into a dark corridor.
The sounds of music and laughter faded behind her, muffled by thick stone. The hiss of torchlight and her breathing were all she heard, and she heaved a sigh of relief.
It slowly began to dawn on James that everyone in the great hall was too happy. People had begun to dance. Isabel must be gone.
Before he could even formulate a plan, he heard one of his knights saying to another, “But I put my sword right here.”
James felt a chill of foreboding. He ducked down a side hall to the next staircase, only to find his bedchamber empty. He grabbed his sword, leaving the scabbard behind. He ran out a side entrance to the castle and skidded to a halt.
