Had she no shame? Did she care nothing for everything she’d been taught, everything her family had suffered through the decades because of a Bolton?
And there he stood, laughing and triumphant in the Mansfield tiltyard, having defeated the captain of the guards. She could take it no longer. She strode forward and yanked the sword from Hugo’s hand before he saw her coming. He began to protest, but she gave him the coldest glare she could. He stepped back and bowed.
“Bolton!” Isabel cried his name.
He turned, still laughing from something Mort had said. When he saw her weapon, his smile grew a little less brilliant, touched with sarcasm.
“You may have defeated my captain of the guards,” she said, “but you will not defeat me this day.”
She waited for him to bring up their past sword fights, but he didn’t. He merely pulled the sword from his scabbard with a swish of metal, and grinned at her.
“Angel,” he said loudly, “are you sure you want our bedchamber battles waged before your men?”
She heard bellows of laughter from the soldiers, even her own. Sir Hugo stood beside Galway and the two men gave each other uneasy glances of worry. Somehow, seeing two such opponents in league in their concern only incensed her more.
“Can you stand to lose, Bolton?” she demanded, giving him a tight smile.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Men, I won the Black Angel to wife by sword point. I guess I can win my way to her bed this night.”
He made it sound like he’d fought for her, desired her for his mate. It was all a show for his people, as his whole life had been. But she was touched by it. She found her gaze dropping down his body. Aye, he was a well-formed man.
She brought up her sword and heard the men fall back, laughing and wagering amongst each other. But soon it all receded from her mind. The only thing she saw was James Markham, her husband. The sunlight shone in his dark hair, glistened on his bare skin. He looked better in a plain jerkin than in his finest court clothes. He laughed aloud as their swords arced and met with a clash of steel. She felt his power shake her weapon and shiver down her arm.
Isabel thrust straight at his body, as if he wore armor she needed to pierce. He parried her blade aside, then blocked her slash to his knees.
“Well done!” he cried.
She warmed to her task and their battle, but try as she might, she could not so much as scrape his skin. He seemed even more skillful by daylight.
Bolton finally knocked the sword from her hand and threw his own down beside it. He caught her in a hot, sweaty embrace, and kissed her hard before the entire castle complement. She opened her mouth, let his tongue duel with hers as their swords had done. He swept her up in his arms and continued to kiss her.
Isabel only vaguely heard the cheers of the soldiers, only remotely understood they’d entered the great hall and were moving through it. He drew from her any resistance, any care but the sensation of his body making her feel like a woman, desired, needed. He carried her up the circular stairs, bumping her feet against the walls. In the corridor he buried his face against her neck and she dropped her head back. He murmured hoarse words against her skin as he kicked open the door to their bedchamber and slammed it shut by falling against it.
And then she was on her back on the bed, and he was ripping the clothing from her body. And she let him. She reveled in his desperation, in the first power of desirability she’d truly felt as a woman.
Her bare legs hung over the bed. Bolton stood between them and flung the jerkin from his body. He came down on top of her, hot flesh to hot flesh, holding her head as his lips tasted every part of her face. She encircled him with her arms, needing to get closer as if she could make them one. She heard moans and knew they were coming from her, but she was unashamed, for his voice matched hers in intensity.
Her skin burned for his touch, longed for the attention she’d denied herself. He licked a trail down her neck to her breasts, teasing and tormenting her nipples with his tongue and teeth. She thrashed beneath him, torn by shattering pleasure. She remembered these feelings, relived the bliss he had given her before. Only this time it was so much better, with he just as wild as she was.
Her body trembled, her fingers clutched at his back, then pressed his head harder against her. With a groan he came up on his arms, his legs braced on the floor. He arched his back, his face intense. She realized her legs were spread, that the incredible, pulsing heat she felt was him riding against her. He lifted and with a single thrust entered her body.
She screamed.
22
James froze in shock, staring down at Isabel. She squeezed her eyes closed. A long shudder took him. He was painfully hard, and her body was hot and moist and ready for him—except for her maidenhead.
“Angel,” he whispered hoarsely. He dropped onto his elbows, his face just above hers. He held rigidly still, unable to make himself leave the solace of her body. “Why did tell me you’d known men?”
She opened her eyes, which glistened with pain and pride.
He groaned and kissed her. “Why did you lie to me?”
“I was the Black Angel,” she whispered fiercely, “I was playing a part. It just…came out.”
But his mind was already losing her words. She was a virgin. She’d had no other man use her, no other man to take what was his by marriage.
He lifted his upper body to one side, resting on his elbow. He reached between them, to where their bodies joined, and began to caress her gently, slowly. He saw her eyes widen.
