He turned to find William watching him.
“My lord,” the boy said softly, “they were all worried about you. The hall was shrouded in grief for many a day.”
James didn’t know how to answer that. He wanted to say they should still grieve because he wasn’t the same man. He stopped himself, remembering his vow to put aside such self-pity. Instead he simply thanked William.
Over the next few days, James did his best to turn Isabel into the ideal wife, but nothing worked out as planned. She was hopelessly clumsy at embroidery, forever picking out the strings and starting over. Instead of learning to bake, she licked bowls, and praised Cook. In the dairy, she gazed out the window at the tiltyard instead of churning, ruining a batch of butter. Isabel had no sympathy to heal the sick, whom she thought should be up and about rather than pitying themselves.
James’s frustration reached a boiling point when he was called to the sewing room to remove his wife. He had been prepared to yell, to lecture, but he found her towering above a group of scolding women, dripping blood from her hand. He pulled up in the doorway and just looked at her. Her dark eyes were crinkled in amusement, and her lips twitched at the corners, as if she were trying desperately not to laugh. The sight of her made him ache inside, and his anger fled.
“Isabel?”
The women turned toward him, talking all at once about his wife’s clumsiness and impatience, but James ignored them. He met Isabel’s gaze over their heads. She actually blushed and looked away from him. A maidenly blush from Isabel?
The two of them were herded into the hall, and the sewing room door was shut firmly behind them. They stood there awkwardly as Isabel tried to wrap her wound in a length of cloth.
James rolled his eyes. “Come to our bedchamber and I’ll bandage that.”
“ ’Tis nothing,” she protested, not meeting his eyes. “I’ve had far worse.”
“So have I,” he said wryly, “but you still need to take care of it.”
She followed him to their room, then stood stiff and silent while he found some strips of cloth and heated water. He laid everything out on a table before the fire, then looked up at her.
“Isabel, come here.” Even the sound of her name on his lips made him shudder with a need he could no longer fulfill. He didn’t even know if she’d accept the touch of his mutilated hand. But she came forward readily enough and sat across from him.
“I can do this,” she said quietly.
“Not easily. How did this happen?” he asked, as he awkwardly bathed her wound with his left hand. “For someone so good with a sword, how could you possibly injure yourself in the sewing room?”
She bit her lip and looked away. He again saw repressed merriment in her eyes, and he wanted so badly to share it with her.
“Cutting fabric,” she finally answered. “I couldn’t line it up right, and my hand…was in the way.”
With clean strips of cloth, he began to wrap her hand, taking his time, enjoying the only touch of her skin that was left to him. He suddenly caught a distinctive odor, and he leaned forward to sniff.
“Is that ale I smell on your breath?”
Her eyes widened, and he saw a fleeting dimple in one of her cheeks. “You told me to learn to brew.”
“But you aren’t supposed to get drunk.”
Did a soft giggle escape her lips?
“I’m hardly drunk. They told me to taste the ale.”
James smiled despite his resolve. He wanted to lean closer, draw her laughter inside himself with kisses. He wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong with him, that she might fall willingly into his arms. But he looked down at his botched attempt to tie her bandage tight, and his smile died.
After a moment’s silence, Isabel said, “You should join the men at the tiltyard tomorrow.”
He glanced up at her and sat back, the contact between them broken. He gave her a smile, but he knew it wasn’t a successful one. “ ’Tis too soon.”
“You could use your left hand to sword fight. With your right, it might be best to start with a dagger’s weight.”
He remained silent.
“If you prefer to train alone?—”
“Isabel, how would you feel if you had to appear before all your men, holding your sword as poorly as a babe just out of swaddling clothes?”
