James found his wife almost immediately. She was alone in the tiltyard, ringed by newly lit torches. Dressed in black, with her black curls wild down her back, she looked like the phantom of some dark dream. She swung a sword in powerful arcs, ducking and turning and weaving as if her imaginary opponent had great skill. Her breath was puffs of mist in the cold night. She looked skilled and competent, able to take care of herself. James couldn’t help but admire her. And when had he ever admired a woman but for beauty?
She suddenly turned and ran straight at James, bringing down her sword. He had no choice but to raise his weapon and parry hers aside.
There was a sudden shout from the battlements above. “Who goes there?”
“Lord Bolton!” James yelled. “Go back to your duties.”
Isabel crouched to face him, holding her sword ready. James felt a sudden exhilaration, but he tried to hide it.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “You know my orders about you and weapons.”
“You think I wanted to be with all those hypocrites? You keep me on display as if I’m your pet heiress. Well, I can still do tricks.”
She came at him again, thrusting straight for his chest. James blocked her and they spun apart.
“Angel, are you trying to kill me? Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
“If I’d have wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
Before he even realized what he was doing, he swung a hard blow. With a sharp crack of metal on metal, she met his sword with her own, then ducked away.
James chased her. He knew this was childish, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He followed her out of the tiltyard, away from the torches. She slid deeper into the shadows, ducked around the stables, then slashed at him as he followed.
With a curse, he stumbled against the wall. He grabbed for a handful of her clothing, then heard a rip as she escaped.
He followed her toward the front of the inner ward, and this time she was forced to turn and meet his sword or be caught from behind. They fought their way toward the gatehouse, ducking around the decorative trees he already regretted planting. Isabel never seemed to get tired. Her sword caught the skirt of his tunic and ripped it to his hose. He thought he saw her grin, and to his surprise he wanted to grin in return.
With hard slashes he drove her back toward the castle, until she was pinned against the wall just beneath the entrance to the great hall. With his sword, he neatly cut the laces of her shirt, and the neckline sagged. Isabel looked down, distracted, and with a twist of his wrist, he sent her weapon skittering across the ground.
He pinned her to the wall and smiled. “My, my, Angel, you lose.”
Her eyes glittered with triumph. “I was only practicing in the tiltyard. I’m not the one who lost control like a madman.”
“Madman?” he echoed with a sharp laugh. Then he caught sight of her bare shoulder and the beginning swell of her breasts. Her skin shone like the moon against the shadows of her black hair and dark mysterious eyes. She looked like a goddess from another world, exotic, unreachable, seductive. His purposes changed with shocking intensity as the heat of desire blazed through him. Gazing deeply into her eyes, he pulled the neckline until it hung from her smooth shoulders and sagged below her breasts.
Her eyes widened and her breathing quickened. But she didn’t fight him. Her searching gaze swept his face and dropped to his lips. With a groan, James ran his hands up her arms, then pressed her shoulders back against the wall. He looked deep into her eyes, then bent and took her nipple into his mouth. She cried out, but he knew it wasn’t with fear. She trembled and whimpered as he made love to her breasts as he wanted to do to her whole body.
He forgot where he was, forgot who he was. There was only Isabel and the dark passion that bound them together. He lifted his head and kissed her, then groaned when her tongue swept his mouth. His body roared with an urgent desire as his hands skimmed over her clothing and up beneath her tunic.
She lifted her leg, rubbing her foot along his calf. He caught her knee and lifted it higher, pressing between her thighs. The spell that was Isabel wove through his mind, filled his senses, quelling the memories of every other woman he’d known. He was lost in her hot mouth, lost in the possibilities of pushing her garments aside and?—
Above them, Margery yelled, “James!”
19
James straightened and pressed his whole body against Isabel. She pushed hard against his chest and tried to kick him.
“Be still!” he ordered. “Unless you want all of our guests to see everything God endowed you with.”
She cursed under her breath, but she did stop fighting. He leaned over her as much as possible, while their hands tried to gather the edges of her shirt. She felt wonderfully soft and very feminine. If only there wasn’t an audience?—
“James!” Margery yelled again. “What are you doing?”
“Sword fighting.”
“With yourwife?”
“I thought you said you heard all the rumors.” While Isabel held the shirt up, James tried to tie the ragged neckline together.
