“No, this is nothing. I’ll be down when it’s bandaged,” James said, ignoring his captain’s concern.
~oOo~
At supper, Isabel watched Bolton put on a fine show for the people of Mansfield. They all thought he was his usual self, but she watched his eyes closely. Galway had told her the extent of the injury, and she knew that it must pain Bolton. He drank more ale than usual, and his cheerfulness seemed forced. Every time he was clumsy trying to use his uninjured left hand, she saw the momentary narrowing of his eyes before he laughed at himself. For a man as proud as he was, this was a blow to his vanity. She should feel smug; instead she felt uneasy, sympathetic.
After supper, Bolton called for music, and soon there was dancing and singing and more revelry than Mansfield had seen in her lifetime.
The wind howled outside and the drafts occasionally made Isabel shiver. She sat near the fire for warmth. Bolton was in the center of the hall, the focus of all the attention, and she could hardly blame her people. He had a charming smile and brilliant, intelligent eyes. He drew people to him. He seemed to listen to everyone, old and young, villager and knight. But tonight it was all forced, and Isabel couldn’t help but admire his strength of will.
Occasionally Bolton would glance at her, his eyelids lowered, and grin languidly, as if he thought of their morning in bed instead of the merriment of the great hall.
Isabel tried to remain aloof to these onslaughts. She had won, hadn’t she? He’d lost control, he’d lusted for her. She’d thought it would give her all the power in their marriage, but maybe she’d been a fool. Would Bolton now demand such intimacies from her whenever he wanted? Would he then see that she couldn’t be like other women?
She was brought back to the singing by the wild laughter of the castle folk. Listening closely to the lyrics, she realized there was often a second meaning, one she had only begun to understand this morn. And then she heard one pure baritone voice standing out amongst all the others. An unwanted warmth moved through her body as she listened to Bolton sing.
Soon he was singing alone. There was a certain tension in the hall, an energy that had not been there moments before. She frowned as she saw people looking between her and her husband, knowing grins adorning their faces.
Bolton had shifted position and was staring directly at her, singing words that she realized with a start were meant for her.
“My lady, she carries a sword; on my knees I beg my reward.” He threw his head back as he sang, but never broke their shared gaze.
Isabel’s unease deepened. Did he think he could own her so easily?
“When she gives me a sign, I’ll unsheathe this weapon of mine!”
He ended with a flourish, rising to take his bows with great conceit. Unfettered laughter filled the hall until her ears hurt. She couldn’t take her eyes off Bolton. Although she was angry, she saw how white his face had become, how forced his merriment. She recognized her concern for him, and was appalled by it.
“I’m off to my bed,” Bolton said. “Have hot water sent up for my bath. I’ve had quite an exhausting day.”
More laughter greeted his words. Isabel glared at him. Did he think she would gladly join him?
23
Isabel walked slowly up to her bedchamber. She knew that nothing could be the same between Bolton and her after this morning. He was a man, after all, and she’d overheard enough stories from her knights to know that a man accepted bedding as his due, especially from a wife. Bolton had been humoring her all along, and now that she’d succumbed, he’d expect her to lie with him whenever he ordered her to. Even an injury to his hand wouldn’t stop him.
She didn’t want to be under the power of a Bolton, to be ordered about whenever he pleased. But she didn’t dread going to his bedchamber—she wanted it too much. She didn’t know how to be a wife, most certainly couldn’t be his lover. That involved love, and she would never give him that kind of power over her.
She finally arrived at their door and could hold off no longer. She opened it and thought she’d found what she expected—Bolton in bed. But he lay in the center of the bed, with his back to her, blankets pulled up to his neck. And he snored.
Although Isabel felt relieved, she was also uneasy. Was she so lacking as a woman, bedding her was not worth repeating?
~oOo~
By morning, whenever James moved or touched his hand, pain shot through him. He felt a momentary pang of guilt upon seeing Isabel wrapped in a blanket on the floor, then he banished it. He’d seen her face last night when she’d looked at his hand. She damn well knew what such an injury could mean to his sword-fighting. She, who valued skill and talent, was appalled by his wound. And James couldn’t blame her.
He’d show her how quickly he could recover. It was but a paltry injury. He’d use the hand for sword fighting again—and for caressing Isabel.
She began to stir as if his thoughts had summoned her. He watched her awaken, and knew he shouldn’t have. She stretched slowly, all long gorgeous legs and flowing hair. He was hard at the thought of her, and his arousal almost eclipsed the pain in his hand. But he’d wait to ease his lust until he had recovered, and was every bit the man he was before.
By mid-morning he was sick to death of everyone’s sympathies, the cautious queries about how he was feeling. It was just a broken finger. His own people would know to ignore it. It was time to go home, where he wouldn’t be the object of such attention. Isabel didn’t even try to persuade him to change his mind. He wondered what her game was, because she always had one.
~oOo~
The long train of carts and wagons and horses left for Bolton Castle early in the afternoon. James rode beside his wife, beneath a leaden sky brewing with stiff, cold winds. When they made camp that night, he crouched near the fire, feeling unusually cold. The rest of their party spread out, and more fires soon dotted the rolling meadow.
The gusts of wind were too great to allow the servants to set up James’s tent, so he spread blankets as close to the fire as he could. He saw Isabel watching him again, with that inscrutable look on her face, and he clamped down on his anger. He gazed pointedly into the fire and tried to ignore her. That was difficult when she lifted his blankets and slid in behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, infuriated that his voice sounded hoarse.
