Page 41 of The Knight Who Loved Me
She shook off his grip and walked ahead of him. When they reached the torchlit great hall, everyone turned to stare at them. Too late, Isabel saw the grass stains in their clothing. They looked like they’d been rolling around in pleasant abandon. She gritted her teeth, ascended the stairs, and marched down the corridor to Bolton’s bedchamber. There were so many empty rooms, and she longed to have one of her own. But what would be the point in defying him? He’d only drag her back.
So once again, Isabel undressed down to her shirt and began to pace. Bolton didn’t come. Her anxiety became dread, and her dread became something darker, with a tinge of excitement. She tried to repress it, but her skin tingled in remembrance of his fingers trailing across her. How had he done it? How had he known? She shivered as she pictured his warm mouth covering her nipple. With a groan, she clasped her hands to her eyes. What had he done to her? Why couldn’t she be unaffected?
The door opened and she stiffened, but kept her back turned.
“Annie?” she whispered, hoping.
“I told her to find her bed.” Bolton’s deep voice rumbled in the room, through her body, and into her mind. “You don’t need her this night.”
Isabel forced herself to turn and face him. He leaned back against the door, tall, elegantly dressed, too handsome. The candlelight shone across his dark hair, reflected off his white teeth. He was laughing at her. Then he came toward her, one step at a time, and began to remove pieces of his clothing. She held her ground, trying to control her breathing when she saw his muscled chest. He untied his hose and codpiece, and dropped them and his braies to the floor. He was naked and aroused and seemed not to care that she stared at him.
The urge to flee these unnamable feelings was almost overwhelming. But she held her ground, trembling, until he stood so close to her she could feel the incredible heat of his body. He reached out a hand, she stiffened, but he merely retrieved a blanket from a chest behind her. He gave her a knowing smile and turned and went to his bed.
“ ’Tis cold tonight, Angel. Wrap yourself in a few more blankets.”
14
Isabel stood still, fists clenched and thought she should be happy that she had escaped Bolton’s attentions for another day. Yet the tension vibrating within her only increased, and she wanted to growl her frustration. It angered her beyond all bounds to feel this yearning for his touch, this need to know what else lay beyond the wondrous pleasure he had already given her. It gave her some satisfaction to know that he was not oblivious to this awareness between them, that even if he loathed her, his body wanted to possess her.
Yet he held himself back.Why?To prove that he was better than she, that he could control himself where she was concerned? After all, she was only a thief to him, one who belonged in a gaol but for a word from King Henry.
Could he be pushed to the edge, taunted beyond control? Would she want to suffer the consequences to win their private bedchamber war? Then perhaps she could hold it over his head that he forced her to bed, just like he’d forced his first betrothed.
Isabel’s cheeks flushed with the heat of embarrassment and excitement. No, she could not yet make such a decision. She did not know if Bolton was a man who could be pushed too far. Would he retaliate and hurt her—or perhaps William? Could she risk such results, just to say she’d won?
And yet perhaps there was a way to test Bolton’s resolve. She thought that earlier in the garden, without Wiggins’ interruption, he would have pressed her further. A dark heat coiled its way through her body, and she felt ashamed. Why should her captor—her husband—make her feel stirrings she’d never imagined in her life? She had to take the control of this marriage into her own hands.
“Bolton,” she said.
There was a pause, when she thought perhaps he might have fallen asleep.
“What?”
“I wish to learn how to use this tub.”
She heard him sit up, saw the fire and candlelight play across his skin, through his dark hair. She swallowed.
“You wish tobathe?” he asked, skepticism laced through his words.
“Yes.”
“At such a late hour?”
“Yes.” She forced her own words to sound clear, almost casual. She was anything but relaxed as he came to his feet. The rod that made him a man still swelled between his legs. The heat deep in her belly spread farther, until even her breasts ached. Why did the sight of him make her restless with needs she’d only just discovered? Why had she followed such a mad plan to taunt him?
“Isabel, think not that you can bend me so easily to your will,” he said, coming nearer.
She forced herself to hold still, when all she wanted to do was run.
“But for some peace—and a fresh-smelling wife—I will show you this once, and not again.”
She bit her lip, watching him bend over the tub. She hardly heard the words he said about the pipes and the cisterns up on the roof. She only imagined touching him. How could he even string words together, when she was so muddled by his nakedness? She turned her head away and closed her eyes, concentrating on anything but a naked man.
After the third repetition of her name, she looked up to find Bolton close, too close. He was staring down into her face, and once again his height startled her, made her feel…womanly, even delicate. Weak.
“What more do you need of me?” he asked.
She saw his gaze drop to her lips. She took a deep breath and said firmly, “Nothing.”
