She turned her back to slip on a clean shirt. When she looked at James again, the baby had reached for his bandaged hand, and he quickly pulled it away.
“I don’t understand you,” Isabel said with exasperation. “The baby doesn’t care about your hand, I certainly don’t, yet you are acting as if your world has ended.”
His face paled, then darkened as he scowled.
“James, you lost two fingers. You’ll do fine without them. You could have lost your life. How do you think I’d feel then?”
For a moment, she thought he would yell or walk out of the room. He finally lifted his head and gazed at her, asking softly, “Howwouldyou feel?”
She was taken aback by his question, by the soft yearning in his eyes. This wasn’t like him. “I—I don’t know.”
At that moment, Annie came into the room. “My lady, I’ve brought hot spiced wine—” Then her gaze took in the scene and she stumbled to a halt. “My lord—” she began, but James stopped her.
“It was nothing, Annie, just an accident. Would you mind taking Mary to bed? We won’t need you tonight.”
Isabel remained silent as Annie collected Mary and all the soiled garments and linens. The maid gave Isabel a worried, apologetic look, but Isabel just smiled and shook her head.
“Have a good evening, Annie.”
When they were alone, she briskly went to a trunk to find something to wear.
“Isabel, come here,” James said in a low voice. “I need to finish talking to you.”
“I said all I needed to.”
“Idid not. Please come here.”
He’d even asked politely, which was certainly a different side of James. With a sigh she went and stood awkwardly before him. His hands were resting loosely on his stomach, and he leaned his head back against the chair to look up at her.
“So how would you feel if I died?” he asked in a serious, calm voice.
She didn’t know what to say.
“You are happy I didn’t die? A few weeks ago, you would have been thrilled to run a sword through me yourself.”
She shrugged and looked away. She tried to remember what it felt like to hate him, to want him dead, but she was a different person now and saw James as he was, not through the filter of another’s eyes. He cared about his people and his lands, and had the strength to go against his whole family for what he believed in. She could have a good life with him—if only he could accept her for what she was.
It would never happen. The love inside her burst for release, but she was so afraid of his reaction, of his rejection. She felt tears building in her eyes, and to her humiliation, one slipped down her cheek.
“Isabel?” he whispered her name.
She felt his hands on her waist as he pulled her down onto his lap. She struggled, but he held her still, his arms around her.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying,” she answered sternly, trying to rub her hand across her face.
He stopped her, brushing away the tear with his thumb, then pressed his lips to the same spot on her cheek. She shuddered, feeling his warmth all around her.
“Please don’t,” she said forlornly.
He rested his face against her neck and just held her. “Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because—because you don’t mean it,” she cried. “You don’t care how much this hurts me.”
James held still, breathing in the scent that was only Isabel, wishing he knew the right words. He was afraid to hope, afraid to find the truth. To hear her say that she didn’t care about his hand—the relief was overwhelming and he found himself incredibly grateful.
“I mean it,” he whispered, pressing kisses on her neck and jaw. “I want to touch you, to make love to you.”
