Page 10 of The Knight Who Loved Me
She remained silent.
“Now where is my money?”
The missing money was her last chance to thwart him. It was a large sum, and she knew it might cripple him financially to do without it. She narrowed her eyes at William and remained mute, hoping the boy would understand.
“Angel, this is useless. I can easily retrieve the information from you. Don’t force me to harm your pretty face.”
Surely he knew such threats wouldn’t work. And calling her “pretty” only proved his deception. But William...she tightened her lips. She didn’t know what she’d do if they harmed her squire.
Isabel tensed, waiting for whatever torture Bolton deemed necessary.
After a moment of weighty silence, he sighed and said to his men, “Does one of you have some rope?”
The blond looked guilty. “Lord Bolton, your leave-taking was sudden, and we followed barely dressed.”
“But with our weapons, o’ course,” said the small man.
“Of course,” the first one echoed.
Isabel couldn’t see Bolton’s face. She took a quick breath as he ran a hand around her waist. She arched away from him in outrage. Did he mean to do something unspeakable in front of his men?
“Calm down, Angel,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “I need something to tie you and the boy up with, and I assume you have a handy black ribbon about you. Care to tell me where?”
He barely waited before responding. “Very well.”
While she was held immobile at the little man’s sword point, Bolton ran his hands down her hips. She felt her face drain of blood. Did he treat his betrothed this way? Had he forced his body on her before his own men? She saw William’s eyes go wild as he fought the grip of the giant.
When Bolton found nothing at her hips, he slid his hands up her torso. He stopped just below her breasts. Isabel felt as tight as a taut bow string, waiting in anguish for what her arrogance had brought her to.
“No!” William suddenly shouted.
“Cease!” she ordered the boy.
But her squire ignored her, breathing in ragged gasps. “She carries the ribbons in a special pouch sewn into the skirt of her doublet. Get your hands off her!”
To her surprise, Bolton did so immediately. “Thank you, boy. I don’t enjoy forcing women to reveal their secrets.”
She almost snorted at that one. She stood still as he lifted her doublet and removed the trailing length of ribbons. He handed one over to the dark giant, who wordlessly tied William’s hands. Her squire turned anguished eyes on her. She gave him as gentle a smile as she was capable of, then submitted woodenly while the earl tied her hands before her. When Bolton was through, he looked up and their gazes met and held.
“This isn’t necessary,” he said for her ears alone. “I don’t wish to humiliate you as you’ve done to me. Just tell me where the money is.”
Isabel narrowed her gaze, allowing it to casually roam down his body and back up. “Your humiliation has only just begun.”
5
As dawn lightened the forest and a soft rain began to fall, James trudged beside the Black Angel, holding her elbow tightly. She was exhausted, he could tell, but held herself proudly. Their swordfight had drained even him.
He found himself admiring her, regardless of the stolen money. She’d given up a normal life for her revenge—if only he knew what it was he had done.
He halted their little band at the edge of the forest and stared up at the castle, its towers pointing to the overcast sky. It would soon be over. He had captured the thieves, proving he could best a woman. He looked down into her face. The victory felt hollow. Dark smudges rimmed her eyes below the paint, and across one cheek there was a smear of blood that ran in the rain. But she did not look defeated. She met his gaze with a calm serenity he found unnerving.
What would his people think, when he and his prisoners trooped into the castle this disheveled? Did it look like he had physically beaten a woman? He stepped in front of her and put both hands on her face. She stiffened, her eyes wide.
“Peace,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He tilted her head, looking at her cheek. The wound was only a scratch. She stood frozen as he wiped it gently with his fingers. Wiggins offered a wet rag.
“My lord?” the soldier said.
