Page 9 of The Knight Who Loved Me
She circled slowly in the small, natural clearing, never taking her eyes from him.
James smiled. “What are you waiting for?”
“I have waited a lifetime for this,” she answered, her voice low, triumphant.
“A lifetime? I have been so much a part of your thoughts, and I never knew?”
He thrust forward and she whirled away, knocking aside his sword with her wrapped arm.
“Tell me how you know me,” he demanded.
“You are legendary in my home,” she said, and her teeth flashed in almost a grimace.
“My daring exploits travel far.”
“No, only your incredibly evil deeds—yours and your family’s.”
His smile died as she came at him, sweeping at his knees. He jumped over her sword, then parried the arc she swung back toward his head.
They both took a step away, breathing heavily.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asked in a soft voice. He didn’t need her answer—she gave none. “Wasn’t my money enough?”
“It was only the beginning.”
The Angel battled hard, thrusting, slashing, until James realized she could beat him if he wasn’t fighting at his best. His respect for her skills grew, along with his intense curiosity about her life. She was a dark shadow by moonlight, and it took all his concentration to match her stroke for stroke.
“Where did you learn to fight like this?” he demanded between deep, gasping breaths. They stood apart, their swords a bit lower. He was thankful that at least she seemed as winded as he.
“I learned it all for you,” she whispered, and the wild light in her eyes stunned him.
“What have I done to inspire such—dedication?” He wanted to say “hatred,” but the word wouldn’t leave his throat. He didn’t want this magnificent woman to hate him.
“Think back on your life, Bolton,” she said harshly. “Your crimes are apparent.”
When she thrust toward him, she was wild with passion and some unnamed emotion. He jumped to one side, knocked away her sword, and pulled her against him. She fought him, kicking and hitting, until he caught her arms to her body in a hard hug.
“Who are you?” he demanded, and when she didn’t answer, he ripped the mask from her face. She was a stranger, as he had known she would be. In the moonlight, her eyes were dark, angry pools, her mouth a grimace of anger.
Isabel glared her hatred at him. She was beyond outrage, beyond fear. Everything her father had instilled in her, all her plans for revenge, for triumph, were spinning away. She was captured, taken over a sword. She had thought herself invulnerable, and her arrogance had destroyed her in the end. Or had she forgotten herself, forgotten her heritage, and allowed thoughts of her enemy’s pleasing face to sway her? It was unthinkable. She could not give up, she couldn’t let him win. She kicked and she fought and she scratched.
Bolton gave her a bone-squeezing hug until she gasped for breath.
“Enough,” he whispered harshly into her ear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You already have,” she hissed, “my entire life.”
She knew he was puzzled, that he hadn’t a clue to her identity. It was unthinkable that he should be oblivious to all her family had suffered. But if she told him her story, spewed her hatred, her people would suffer, her castle would come under attack. And William—where was he? Perhaps he could escape.
That hope was dashed when there was a sudden rustle in the trees. Three of Bolton’s men stepped into the clearing, and the giant one had William in his grip.
“My lord Bolton,” the smug blond one said. “We found this man trying to escape.”
The smallest man removed William’s hood. “He’s a boy, milord.”
Isabel’s squire bravely lifted his chin, but she could see the despair in his eyes as he looked at her. She hated herself for involving him, for not insisting he return to his own home.
Bolton sighed, and she felt the expansion of his ribs against hers. “A woman and a boy. You’ve done well, my dear Angel. You should be proud of yourself.”
