“Elegant?” he repeated, catching her by the shoulders when she would have turned away. “I don’t need elegant—at least not immediately. But I need it to be livable.” He couldn’t help feeling appalled that she’d been forced to live this way.
She broke his hold and glared at him. “I am not so vain as you. I only need a bed.”
“At times a bed is all I need, too,” he said, deliberately raking her body with his gaze. He picked up the only personal item he could find. “But look at this brush. I wouldn’t use it on my horse.”
She yanked the brush from his hand. “This was my mother’s!”
“Then keep it as a memento, but I can buy you whatever you need.”
“I don’t need anything from you. In fact, this ismybedchamber, and I want you to leave.”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Not without you. Surely there is a grander bedchamber than this. Didn’t your father have guests?”
“No.”
“I do not believe you. Let’s look.”
Isabel turned her back, and in one swoop, he tossed her over his shoulder.
With a groan, he said, “I must be feeding you too well. Hold still.”
All the way down the corridor, she tried to escape him. He flung open door after door, apologizing to those he disturbed, leaving a trail of shocked and sleepy people.
He finally found a bedchamber with an actual four poster bed, two shuttered windows and some threadbare tapestries on the wall. He dropped Isabel on her feet. She staggered back against the bed, holding her stomach.
“I do not care whose chamber this was,” James said, “ ’tis ours now. Isabel, shake out the blankets. Let us pray for no bugs.”
But when he tried to start a fire, the smoke poured back into the room from a clogged chimney, mixing with the dust Isabel shook from the bed. He threw open both the shutters.
“We shall deal with all this in the morning,” he said. He started to remove his clothing.
Isabel thought desperately that now was the moment to let him seduce her, to make him feel indebted and needy, and her the powerful one. Images of Bolton’s flirtation with Sarah Cabot came to mind, making Isabel felt like a failure as a woman…and as a wife. The only time she could even tempt her husband was when she was naked. Not, of course, that she wanted to tempt him for any other reason than to throw his weaknesses back in his face.
Her husband stripped off all his clothes, his back partially turned. The muscles across his shoulders rippled with movement, and only a small scar lower on his side marred the perfection of his skin. He climbed into bed, and didn’t even try to touch her. She sighed in defeat.
She removed her travel-stained tunic and hose, leaving on her shirt. After finding an extra blanket in a mildewy chest, she wrapped it around her shoulders. But there was no warm fire, no carpet. She could see the mist of her breath.
She heard Bolton’s low voice. “This bed is large enough for three people, Isabel. Come be warm this night.”
The strangest flutter shot through her stomach as she looked at him. He lay bare-chested, propped up on cushions, lit with pale light by a candle. She felt torn inside. She wanted to refuse because he was her enemy; she wanted to acquiesce and let her enemy seduce her.
She dropped the blanket and climbed up into the high bed beside him. He had pulled back the coverlet, and she slid into the softness. It was warm, it was heaven—and Bolton was naked beside her.
She pulled the coverlet up to her chin. Though he wore a small smile, he didn’t make a move to touch her. He blew out the candle and lay back. She was strangely disappointed. What was the matter with her?
~oOo~
Isabel came slowly to consciousness, feeling as warm as a summer day. Her face was pressed against something hard and smooth. It took her a bewildered moment to realize she lay on her side, curled against her husband’s back.
Stunned, she struggled to control her breathing. Her arm was wrapped around his waist, trapped beneath the heaviness of his arm. Her cheeks grew hot as she realized that her hand rested low against his stomach, and she could feel curls of hair against her fingertips. If she moved, she would awaken him and be accused of deliberately asking for his favors.
Her hand began to tremble and she willed it to cease. She could feel the slightly rough skin of his legs along the length of hers. Her shirt had twisted, and her bare hips were flush against his. She suddenly wondered if this was how a husband and wife awoke each morning, safe, protected by each other. She sensed that he was the one man who could make her feel such protection. She had a wild impulse to touch him as he had touched her, to see if he, too, felt the pleasure she did. Yet that would be giving into temptation first, losing control. And he would never let her forget it.
She couldn’t bear it any longer, and slowly began to ease her hand away from his stomach.
Bolton suddenly gripped her arm with his elbow. “Going somewhere?” His whisper was wicked, amused.
Isabel flushed. “Release me.” To her horror, her voice came out as a squeak.
