Page 7 of The Knight Who Loved Me
“Come, young lady,” he murmured, his voice deep, warm, cajoling. “This is not the way to satisfy your pleasures. And it will only get me challenged by your father.”
Did he toy with her? But no, of course he didn’t know her identity.
“You’ve seen enough. I suggest you return to your maidenly bed and whisper about me with your sister. I’ll rest content knowing I live on in young girls’ fantasies.”
Isabel clenched her jaw. He thought she was one of the baron’s giggling daughters. Why had she removed the cloak? She could have crept out, pretending to be thoroughly chastised. Could she don it in time?
She tried to reach the garment, but the space between the bed and the wall was too narrow. She heard the rustle of the bed curtains.
“Where are you, girl?” he whispered.
She detected the first hint of impatience in his voice. She heard him take a quick breath, and knew with grim certainty that he had seen the black ribbons.
He ripped the last of the curtains aside and they faced each other over the headboard. Isabel had a quick impression of dark hair and light eyes, and plenty of skin, before she darted out the far side of the bed and drew her sword. With the tip of her weapon, she looped his sword high in the air and out the window.
Bolton reached forward across the bed too late. With a curse, he straightened and faced her, naked. She wanted him to be humiliated, to cover himself, but instead he leaned casually against a bedpost and gave her a slow smile.
She clenched her jaw. None of this was turning out as she had planned. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Why, if it isn’t the Black Angel herself,” Bolton murmured, as his gaze raked her body insolently. “Come for some nighttime pleasures, love? Isn’t taking my money enough? Please say you don’t mean to take my innocence as well.”
Isabel remained silent, her sword a thankful barrier between them. But he was too close to the window, her only escape route. She wished he would charge at her, so she could do something—anything!—rather than stare at his nakedness. She had lived and trained with men her entire life, and she had seen plenty of them nude. As long as she didn’t do anything womanly, they treated her like one of them.
But James Markham was not treating her like a man. He stood brazenly before her, a smirk on his face, and dared her to act. He was tall, taller than herself, with a fine, leanly-muscled body he was obviously proud of.
“I choose the men I share my nights with,” she finally said, adding a lie to her wicked reputation. “And you have no innocence, sir. Would that God had given you and your family some meager share.”
“Heavens, Angel, don’t bring my family into this lovely moment between us. You’ll douse any passion I feel for you.” He looked down his body in sudden bemusement. “Damn, and I was just feeling a spark of desire. You’ve ruined it.” He glanced back up at her, his expression sobering. “I guess you’re not womanly enough to hold my interest.”
“God be praised,” she said.
His sudden attack took her by surprise. She never imagined him foolhardy enough to bound over the bed straight at her sword and knock it aside. She brought up her knee, but that too he thrust aside and fell on her. They landed hard in a tangle of limbs and long bodies, with Isabel bearing the brunt of it. With an outraged cry, she tried to bring up her sword, but Bolton grabbed both her arms and pinned them above her head.
Isabel kicked and rolled, but for once she was no match for a man’s strength. She was intimately aware that he was naked, and a part of her wondered what he intended to do with her. But most of her was too busy struggling to get to the window, and freedom.
“Stop this!” he said, then grunted as her elbow jabbed his wounded cheek. He finally spread her arms out wide and held them there. They were chest to chest, breathing heavily. Where he held her legs between his, Isabel felt a swelling hardness. Her anger burned, that he would dare to assault her.
Bolton gripped her wrists tighter. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to know why this is so personal to you.”
She stilled beneath him, trying to control her breathing and marshal her strength, but she was ever aware of the threat of rape so obvious against her body. She stared hard into his face, into eyes as blue as a fresh sky. She thought with a shock that he was handsome, that he must know and use such a gift on women.
He seemed to search her face intently, and she worried that he would rip the mask from her.
“Why have you chosen me?” he asked. “You already took so much—why come into my home and decorate my bedchamber with your emblems?”
Isabel gave him a cold stare. “Because you’re a convenient target.”
She watched a fire of anger light his eyes, yet nothing she said or did seemed to affect his arousal. It still pressed hard into her stomach, making her angry that men held such a threat over women.
“That’s all?” he asked hoarsely. His gaze dropped to her breasts, where they were pressed painfully beneath the expanse of his chest. She hoped he couldn’t feel her thundering heart.
His gaze moved back up to her face languidly, then seemed to linger on her lips. She compressed them into a tight line.
“You have caused me much grief,” he murmured. “I could take what you owe me.”
“And I would kill you.”
“It might be worth it,” he breathed, lowering his head until their lips were mere inches apart.
