Isabel turned aside. A prickling began on the skin of her neck, as if she could almost feel the barest touch of his lips.
She suddenly brought her leg up hard between his. He gave a loud grunt, his head smacking into hers. She pulled free her fists and boxed his ears, pushing him to one side. Though bent with pain, still he reached for her. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed her sword and headed for the window.
The pain was so intense, James wanted to curl up on the floor. His strength had momentarily deserted him. He expected her to leap over his body for the door, but she gracefully vaulted onto the window ledge and disappeared.
“Angel!” he shouted, unable to believe she could have so easily killed herself. He staggered to his feet and leaned out the window in stunned horror.
The inner ward was dark but for the occasional flickering torches of guards on duty. James expected to find the Black Angel in a broken heap on the ground, but instead saw the top of her head as she lowered herself down a rope. She looked up. For a moment they simply stared at each other, the mask a barrier between them. Then she broke the spell with a grim smile and continued toward the bottom.
Damn her, she knew he couldn’t cut the rope and deliberately kill her. James leaned out over the cold stone and grasped the rope. He tried to haul it back up, straining every muscle, but he suddenly fell back onto the floor as she dropped to the ground. With a groan, he got to his feet and threw open the door.
“Galway!” he shouted to his captain of the guards. “To arms! The Black Angel is in the ward below!”
Two soldiers appeared at the top of the stairs, one coming toward him, the other going below in a hurry. A door halfway down the corridor opened, and the two sisters leaned out, their mouths agape. They let out stifled screams on seeing James, and he realized he was still completely naked.
Sweeping into an elaborate bow, he said, “Ladies,” and retreated back to his room. He quickly donned a shirt and sleeveless leather jerkin, and pulled boots over his bare legs.
In the inner ward, he found Galway surrounded by milling troops. He was a fair-haired, burly man who usually fulfilled James’s confidence. But not tonight.
“Where is she?” James demanded, his breath a mist that hung in the cool autumn air.
The captain shrugged. “I’m not sure, milord. The gatehouse is closed, so she hasn’t fled.”
“Damn,” James said softly, his gaze darting across the stables and barracks and smithy. “Are the buildings being searched?”
“Just now, milord.”
They waited in silence, listening to the jingling of armed men, and the neighs of horses held saddled in readiness.
“There!” someone called in a hoarse voice. “On the battlements!”
Torchlight had ringed the high curtain wall as the search for the Black Angel went on. Now she stood looking down on them all, her black clothes and hair fading into darkness, her lower face a stark mask of triumph beneath the mask.
James raced inside the gatehouse tower and took the circling stairs two at a time. He came out on the battlements and found her perched on the curtain wall itself.
“Angel!” he shouted, but once again she bent and disappeared. Sure enough, a rope hung down to the ground and she descended it as ably as a black spider. He turned back to the inner ward and shouted, “She’s escaping! Open the gates and follow her!”
When he came out of the tower, Galway was waiting for him. “Milord, the gates are jammed shut.”
“Batter them open!”
“We tried, but she’s done a fair job of it.”
James sighed, realizing that once again she would elude him. “Wake the steward for the keys and unlock the rear gate. Horses can’t exit there, but a troop of soldiers can go clear the front gate.” He glared at the offending portal. “Blasted woman.”
4
In the middle of the night, James dressed in a black tunic and slipped out the rear gate of his castle. He was through waiting for the Black Angel to be captured by his men. She had made this as personal as she could, so there must be something she held against him. It was time he found out, before she got it into her head to disappear with his money for good.
He had a feeling the Black Angel kept a close watch, and would certainly come to him. The ground outside the curtain wall immediately sloped down a rocky crag to the river, so he hugged the wall until he reached the forest. He had no horse or heavy armor, only a light sword through a loop at his waist. Following a little-used path into the forest, he swept his cloak about him for warmth and walked.
The night grew colder, the full moon lower, but James kept warm with determination. It was time to finish this obsession—for the both of them.
He heard her coming before he saw her. Just the light snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, but he knew deep in his soul that it was the Black Angel, come to greet him. Anticipation burned through him, and a sudden fierce desire. Though she was a tall, muscular, unorthodox woman, the unknown had always secretly attracted him. He imagined her beneath him, and this time she, too, wore no clothes.
“Angel,” he whispered, his husky voice carrying softly. The rustlings ceased. “Angel.”
He saw the flash of moonlight on her sword, and with a dance to the side, he drew his own weapon and met hers, parrying it up and away. She let out a startled oath, and they turned to face one another, swords raised. The Angel wore only black, from her dark riotous hair and wild eyes, to her swirling cape and hose that molded to her wonderfully long legs. James forgot about his money, his humiliation. He only knew the exhilaration of facing her in battle. He couldn’t remember a moment when his life had seemed so vibrant.
