Page 33 of The Knight Who Loved Me
What had she done?
She had let her enemy master her. She had practically begged him to pleasure her with every whimper and groan. And yet he himself had felt nothing except triumph. She must be utterly repulsive for a man like Bolton to be unable to finish the sex act, a man who’d literally forced his first betrothed into bed.
Why had she not fought? Where was her pride, her determination? Bolton had won.
With a moan, she put her face in a pillow and cried.
~oOo~
After James closed the door behind him, his body was taut with denial and anguish, but he could not regret his decision. He had seduced his wife, but he realized now that she had known nothing of a woman’s pleasure. What kind of brute had taken her virginity so harshly?
Perhaps the same kind of man as her father, who had let her disavow her womanhood, had molded her into a killer. Of course she knew nothing of a woman’s pleasure. She had never known pleasure at all. She never even smiled, except in a triumphant grimace.
He leaned against the door, listening. Isabel was crying. He felt grief for her lost childhood, and the confused young woman he must now deal with. But he didn’t go back into the room. He returned to the great hall, to the ribald cheers of his men and the fantasy that he could be a happily married man. Nothing had really changed. His life was a show for his people’s well-being, and Isabel would only make it harder. And he doubted she had forgotten her vow of vengeance. If anything, it would be stronger than ever.
~oOo~
Isabel’s tears finally dried, and she forced herself to leave Bolton’s bed. She may have lost this battle, but he was a fool if he thought he had defeated her. She refused to cower in his bedchamber like a submissive wife. She stared in anger at her garments, especially the ruined hose.
There was a soft knock on the door and she stopped, naked, in the center of the room, praying it was not her husband.
“Lady Isabel?” said the maid, Annie.
Isabel let out the breath she was holding and found her old shirt. She donned it and called for the girl to enter.
Annie walked in with a smile, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if her mistress wasn’t half-naked in the middle of the day. “My lady, Lord Bolton sent me up to help you change for supper. I’m sure I can find a gown I could alter for you.”
“Thank you, Annie, but that won’t be necessary. ’Tis true that my garments need to be washed, and my hose are no longer…wearable, but I will not dress to suit Bolton. I will need another doublet, or perhaps a tunic.”
The girl bit her lip. “But my lady?—”
“I promise I will not tell him that you helped me.”
“ ’Tis not that. I’m just uncertain whose clothing will fit you.”
“Aah,” Isabel said with a thoughtful nod. “Do your best. But what I need most right now is hose.” She looked about the room at the chests and cupboards. “Surely these are not all of Bolton’s clothes.”
“Oh no, my lady. His wardrobe room is next door, on the left.” With a shaky curtsy, Annie fled the room.
Isabel pondered this new information for a moment, a plan forming in her mind. She carefully opened the door, checked the hall for guards or her husband, then slipped into the next room. A glazed window let in enough light for her to see rows of pegs along all four walls, hung with more garments than Isabel had seen for an entire castle staff. There were at least a score of chests. The man was a peacock about clothing, she thought with disgust.
She found another black doublet, this one short, with slashed sleeves. She donned a fine white shirt and black hose, then the doublet, which well revealed the roundness of her hips. Out of habit, she almost discarded it for that reason, then thought better of it. They all knew she was a woman. There was nothing left to hide, and it would make Bolton angrier.
She arrived back in his bedchamber just as Annie did. The girl stared at her garments, wide-eyed, but offered no comment.
“I found hose made for a smaller man,” she said, offering a handful of black fabric.
Isabel pulled off Bolton’s too-large hose and donned the new ones, tying them into place beneath her garments. She pulled on her own boots. “I am ready.”
“My lady,” Annie said, picking up a brush. “Allow me to fix your hair.”
“No.”
“It has become quite tangled. Please sit.”
Reluctantly, Isabel sat at a small table and let the girl brush out her hair. The lulling motion of the brush moving across her scalp was strangely relaxing. She found herself pillowing her head in her arms, drowsing, trying to forget.
“Has no one ever brushed your hair before?” Annie asked softly.
