For once, a tight smile touched Isabel’s lips.
~oOo~
James sprawled in a chair before the hearth in the great hall, exhausted, frustrated, angry. His men had searched the forest for two long days, with not a sign of this woman who called herself the Black Angel.
She suddenly appeared in his mind as vividly as if she swaggered before him. What drove a woman like her? And why was he thinking about her with other parts of his body besides his brain? She had been clothed like a man, she talked like a man, she seemed to fight like a man. But that black doublet had swelled at her breast and hip, proclaiming her very much a woman. And now she was probably gone with her prize—his dowry.
He flinched as the wound in his cheek pulled. He vividly remembered the sight of the bleeding scab as he’d peeled the bandage away. She’d given him a scar—on his face, of all places—and for that, she’d pay.
He rested his chin on his hand and sighed. He knew the castle residents walked gingerly behind him. They were honest, simple folk. They looked to him as the man who shaped their futures, the man who could bring them prosperity or poverty. He could imagine what they were thinking, how their respect for him had lessened.
It was bad enough that Lady Katherine Berkeley had fallen in love with his brother and refused to marry him. But now he had allowed a woman to best him, to take the money that would have restored the estates and their farms. His stomach twisted until it burned. He almost wished he was a commoner. Every lecture from his parents and foster parents to be the perfect earl rang deafeningly in his ears. For once he was thankful they were dead. He could only imagine the look on his father’s face.
He thought of his brother, Reynold, enjoying the wife James was supposed to have, and his face heated with the anger of lost opportunities. His frustration continued to mount as the world he’d worked a lifetime to create slowly began to crack.
Why ever had he left London? He would still have Katherine Berkeley’s dowry money to spend as he pleased. But the life he had led since the broken betrothal had grown tiresome and depressing. He had spent months drinking, dancing, seducing, spending money, and trying to forget what had happened.
By heaven, what was wrong with him? Nothing seemed to make him happy. There was an aching emptiness inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it. He had thought returning home would ease his frustration, but a barbarous dark woman with the body of a female Viking had ruined his peace of mind.
James could not allow her to continue making a fool of him. He would find the Black Angel if he had to ride every path himself.
3
That same evening, visitors stopped for lodging on their way from London to York. James cursed their presence—he was forced to entertain Baron George Huddleston and his wife and daughters, rather than ponder his plans to capture the Black Angel. James could tell the evening would be long. The man talked of nothing but farming and sheep. The wife perched on the edge of her seat, nodding attentively to everything James said, while the daughters elbowed each other out of the way as they fought for a place beside an eligible earl. They were pale, mouse-haired, typical English girls, with nothing to say for themselves. And then one laughed and James saw why—protruding teeth. He withheld a sigh and gave a strained smile.
He should be flirting with them. He should be judging their merits as wives, though they be daughters of a minor nobleman. In the baron’s family, he sensed money—and he needed some. Looks were no longer so important when one was desperate.
But his wife-hunting skills were deserting him tonight. Only out of habit had he remembered to dress in a fine green velvet tunic. Every time he tried to think of a thing to say to these two country girls, an image of the Black Angel appeared full blown in his mind, leaning over his cot, her black curls brushing against him, her dark eyes burning with undiscovered passion. He remembered her breasts, lush and full as he held her against his chest. Why could he think of nothing but her?
Isabel sat at a trestle table in Bolton’s hall, dressed in a peasant cloak and hood, watching the earl hold court for his visitors. She had positioned herself between the baron’s people and the castle residents, trying to seem to each group that she was part of the other.
It had been easy to slip into the inner ward with the baron’s party of travelers. She only had to submit to a simple search. Her sword remained well hidden beneath her skirts. Bolton’s security had obviously never been tested—after tonight he would understand what he was up against. He would again feel the shame of knowing he could not best a “mere” woman. Isabel barely restrained her grin of triumph.
Yet while she voraciously ate of his delicious food, she studied James Markham. When she had first attacked him, she had been caught up in her own daring, and then concerned she had fatally injured him too early in the game. In the darkness of her hut, he had seemed reckless, amusing, charming to a degree she would not have thought possible.
Even now, though he seemed distracted, he captivated the baron and his family. The silly daughters gazed at Bolton with every intention written on their faces, and even their mother seemed to preen.
Bolton wore outrageously extravagant garments that almost glittered, clothes to impress the king. How did a man fight dressed like that?
And the great hall itself—Isabel had to struggle not to gape. The walls were white-washed, covered by woven tapestries of the most incredible colors. The rushes on the floor smelled like the outdoors, with nary a chicken bone in sight.
But soon Bolton would be able to impress no one. They would all know what he was, what he had done. His name would only inspire mocking laughter.
Isabel crept away when the meal was through, just as the merrymaking was beginning. She strode boldly down a hall, as if looking for the garderobe, then snuck upstairs to find Bolton’s room. She shadowed chatting maidservants as they aired rooms for the earl’s guests, until she deduced that the formal doors at the end of the hall opened into the master’s bedchamber. It was a simple matter to slip in when they weren’t looking.
A low fire filled the room with shadowy light. Candles in silver candleholders awaited the earl on tables on either side of the bed, a massive affair that filled almost a whole wall. Heavy velvet bed curtains were tied back, ready to encircle the occupant in privacy. Isabel wondered if this was the bed he had forced his betrothed to lie in. Had he simply misjudged her willingness? No, a man must know when a woman is unwilling, even if he won’t acknowledge it. She herself had once stabbed a soldier for daring to touch her intimately. After that, she had hidden her womanhood as much as possible, so that no one, least of all her father, would remember that she was a daughter, not a son.
While keeping an eye on the door, Isabel hung a rope from the window down to the ward below, just in case she needed a quick escape. Then she wove black ribbons through the bedclothes. She closed the curtains around the bed, hoping that as Bolton opened them, he’d be shocked and angry. Would he have a woman with him? The more people who saw his humiliation, the better.
Hearing nameless voices conversing in the hall, Isabel quickly darted behind the bed, covering her face with the mask. As the door opened, she shed the last of her female disguise, ready as the Black Angel to do battle with her enemy if necessary. A fevered excitement raced through her body as she imagined besting him again.
Holding her breath, she listened to the movements in the chamber. Just one person—a man. The bed curtains separated her from him, but she could peer through them as he moved about the room. It was James Markham.
Each time he passed before the openings of the curtains, he was wearing less and less clothing. Softly he whistled as he moved about the room, and the sound raised bumps across her clammy skin. She would actually get to witness her newest humiliation—as long as he didn’t find her.
“Have I displayed enough flesh for you yet?”
Isabel was frozen in shock for a long moment. Had he seen the ribbons already?
