But no, not like this. He would have a willing Angel in his arms.
~oOo~
Isabel awoke in a cold, empty bed. She lay still, smelling fresh sheets and the faintest lingering scent of her husband.
She sat up with a start and saw sunlight streaming in the uneven gaps of the broken shutters. She had no idea how she’d gotten to their bedchamber. She scrambled to her feet and threw open the shutters. She’d slept half the morning away. Who knew what Bolton was doing with her people?
She found yet another gown upon the bed and threw it carelessly across a chair. She dug in his chest for a clean doublet and hose that were sure to droop on her legs. The belt at her waist was too loose for comfort. Would she ever become used to not wearing a weapon besides her eating knife?
When she descended into the great hall, few servants were about. The room was so clean as to be unfamiliar. She grabbed a loaf of bread and a slice of hard cheese left at her table, and hurried out the door. Where was everyone?
Isabel ran full bore into Wiggins, sending both of them sprawling. He “tsked” as he got to his feet and helped her up. He gave her a disapproving frown and wiped dirt from her broken cheese.
“My lady, where go you in such haste?”
She took back the cheese. “Where everyone else is.”
“I am sure the ladies are inside.”
“But my husband is out here, is he not?”
He hesitated. “Aye, my lady, but perhaps we can sit within, while you tell me the history of this fine castle. Surely it dates back to?—”
Isabel could take no more delay. She walked past him, glancing about the inner ward. The day was brisk with an early winter chill, although the sun played amidst the clouds. Chickens and dogs and pigs ran amuck, chased by merry children she’d never seen before. She could hear the hammer of the smithy, and the calling voices of the dairymaids. When had anyone ever spoken above a whisper before?
Yet why did a horrible feeling of foreboding hover low in her stomach?
“My lady—” Wiggins began.
She interrupted him. “Where is Lord Bolton?”
“My lady, surely?—”
“He is at the tiltyard, isn’t he,” she said, knowing the answer before seeing the bemused look on his face.
“My lady, he did not want you there.”
“What does he mean to do, Wiggins? These are my men, used to taking my orders. They will not listen to Bolton until I prepare them for?—”
She heard the cheers before they entered the outer ward. Saints above, her soldiers would not harm their new lord…would they? She broke into a run until she turned the last corner of the wall and found the tiltyard spread out before her. Soldiers stood in a huge group, their backs to her, cheering and shouting and thrusting fists into the air. Isabel pushed her way through them, and they good-naturedly let her by.
She wasn’t sure what to expect, but when the last man—Galway—moved aside for her, she stumbled to a halt and gaped at her husband and Sir Hugo. They battled with razor-sharp swords instead of blunted ones.
“Galway, what is happening?” she demanded. “Do they mean to kill one another?”
“Nay, milady, his lordship said he could take no more of Sir Hugo’s contempt. Aye, he’s teaching the man a well-needed lesson, if ye asks me.”
Isabel’s heartbeat slowed considerably and she turned back to watch the combatants. Bolton was a fine swordsman, that she knew from experience, but Sir Hugo, her most experienced knight, could surely best the man.
But not today. Bolton stood unscathed as the other man huffed for breath and tried to keep his sword raised. Her husband had forsaken his fine clothes for a sleeveless leather jerkin that left his arms and legs bare but for a pair of boots. His body was lean and well-muscled, still dark from the sun. She felt a sudden familiar weakening in the vicinity of her lower stomach as she stared wide-eyed at her husband.
He was magnificent in his victory over Sir Hugo, and then he threw an arm around his opponent to the cheers of hundreds of soldiers, both Bolton and Mansfield bred.
Isabel felt herself rather awed by the implication of this victory. She heard all the men discussing the battle with good-natured heat. Where was their loyalty to her father and herself?
She knew where—their new master was a charming, skilled man, who fed them well and treated them as men instead of worthless servants. They had all fallen under his spell. She knew there was nothing she could do, no way to stop this. Bolton rule was the future for all of them, herself included, and they didn’t seem unhappy about it. Even Sir Hugo gave a grudging laugh.
Anger swept through Isabel, stunning her with its sudden ferocity. He had taken over her life, ruined her vengeance, swayed all her people to his side. She had nothing that was not corrupted by him, even her own feelings.
