“Milord, Lady Isabel was seen leaving the hall with a plate of food and a torch.”
James nodded, throwing his cloak over his arm as unobtrusively as possible. “Is the drawbridge up?”
“Aye.”
“Make sure everyone in the hall is kept amused. I’ll return with her as quietly as I may.”
The captain nodded as James slipped from the hall. It was a cold night, with only a sliver of a moon to shine its weak light upon the inner ward. With little difficulty, he followed Isabel’s movements as related by the soldiers on guard. He was grateful that she was not trying to flee. He hadn’t relished the thought of a midnight ride down unfamiliar roads chasing her.
But God’s teeth, what was her destination on such a cold, windy night? He entered the outer ward, following the silent gesture of a soldier who looked too young and gaunt to be of much use in battle.
But he forgot the cares of his new retainers when he saw the small torch driven into the ground in a corner of the ward. It flickered ominously, about to surrender to the wind, but its owner wasn’t paying much attention.
James slowed his steps. He found Isabel asleep on the ground, shivering. And then he saw the graves.
21
James realized immediately that these were the graves of Isabel’s parents, inscribed with only a simple cross. Mansfield had spared little coin even on himself.
And yet Isabel had come here, to be near the man who had treated her so cruelly. What hold did he have on her, that reached beyond even death? Didn’t she see how much better off she and her people would be under the Bolton pennant?
He remembered Margery’s words about how unhappy Isabel was.
The weariness of dealing with Isabel and her problems hung heavily on his soul. He didn’t want to worry about her, didn’t want to care, but he did.
He knelt down beside her and shook her shoulder. “Isabel?”
She didn’t stir, just shivered in her sleep. He removed his cloak and wrapped it about her, lifting her into his arms. Her head fell to his shoulder and she sighed but didn’t awaken. He rose to his feet, adjusting himself to her weight. She was not a dainty girl, his wife. But in the last of the torchlight, he could see the smudges of dirt across her cheeks, and thought she’d been crying.
He trudged back to the inner ward, and up to the main entrance to the castle. He was as yet unfamiliar with the layout, or he would surely have snuck her into their bedchamber. Instead, he kicked open the door to the great hall and received shocked stares and startled questions.
“She’s fine, she’s fine,” James insisted, making his way through crowd. “Just fell asleep. We’ll be off to our bedchamber.”
Isabel chose that moment to snuggle her head under his chin and throw one arm around his neck. He heard chuckles, and relaxed as the people of the castle parted to let him through.
It was a chore to carry her up the steep and narrow circular stairs. After too many endless corridors, he shouldered open the door to their bedchamber and found a warm fire roaring in the hearth. Rugs were scattered on the floor, and candles had been lit. After sending away the trailing maids, he set Isabel down gently on the bed. With a sigh she turned her cheek against the pillow. Her dirty cheek.
He opened the door to call for towels and found a thin, timid girl bearing a basin of steaming water. She shook so badly that water sloshed onto the floor. He heard her soft cry of distress. Must he rescue absolutely everyone in this decrepit castle?
“Set it upon the bedtable, girl,” he said gruffly.
She tried to bow and curtsy at the same time, and he quickly took the basin from her.
“ ’Tis all right,” he said, watching her lower lip quiver. She certainly wouldn’t be able to handle bathing Isabel, who would probably roll over and crush the girl. “Just set the linens down and find your bed.”
Before she left, she gave him a grateful smile, her eyes large and wet and shining. He wondered if he’d get used to being treated like the second savior.
He went back to the bed and stood looking down at Isabel. She seemed strangely vulnerable and defenseless in her sleep. He didn’t want to care. She was an embarrassment forced on him. And if he found her desirable, what of it? He found most women desirable. He would bed her soon, and then whenever he wanted. She would grow used to her situation, even if he had to teach her step-by-step how to be a woman.
Grudgingly, he cleaned her hands with hot water, then wiped the dirt from her cheeks. She wrinkled her nose occasionally but never truly woke. When she emitted a soft moan at his touch, James had to pause at the uncontrollable shudder that moved through him. He wanted to disrobe her, to give her something to truly groan about.
He let his hand slide down her breast and hip before he removed her boots and hose. Her legs were generously long and supple, more well-formed than any woman’s he’d ever seen. He rolled her over, unlacing the back of her doublet with one hand, while her body rested against his thighs. He himself to stop when she was wearing but a shirt.
Isabel stirred in her sleep, long legs sliding against one another, arms raised over her head to taunt him with the swell of her breasts. James barely withheld a groan. He may have been forced to marry her, but his body did not seem to care.
He leaned over her, pulling a curtain of hair from her face. Why could he remember no other women when he looked upon Isabel?
He removed his clothing and lay down, letting his body rest lightly against hers. He smiled at his reward—she rolled against him, one knee over his. His smile died as his erection nestled against her hips. He gritted his teeth, knowing he was but a thrust away from the heaven his earthly body craved.
