Page 44 of The Knight Who Loved Me
Bolton murmured, “I think these feel rather like a woman—at least in my humble experience.”
She opened her eyes and saw his smiling, dark face just above her chest.
“But there is truly only one way to find out,” he said, his voice a low caress. “Taste.”
Just that one word sent a shock of desire through her body, centered where their hips met and strained. Isabel frantically shook her head and pressed at his chest.
“Angel, you’ve given me such a fascinating puzzle. I must disprove your conclusions.”
He leaned against her ribcage, holding her pinned with his body, while his mouth nipped playfully at her breasts through her clothing. She moaned and tried to writhe away from him.
It was the wrong thing to do. He shuddered and drew in a quick breath. She froze and they stared wide-eyed at each other. She was horrified to discover that she enjoyed the weight of him, holding her to the bed.
Bolton’s glance fell to her lips, then to her breasts. “The taste just isn’t right this way. Isabel, I vow to prove to you that you are shaped just like other women.”
“I believe you!” she said breathlessly.
She gasped as he tugged at the laces of her shirt, then pulled the garment wide to reveal her breasts. She was barely able to breathe as he studied them with an attentive frown.
“Isabel, I must say, they look fine to me. But we can’t base our judgment on looks alone.”
“Bolton—”
He suddenly traced his tongue up to the valley between her breasts. She twisted and shuddered beneath him, all her senses attuned to his smallest movement. “Tastes fine,” he murmured as if to himself.
“Please, don’t—” she began.
Bolton met her gaze and smiled. “You are right, of course. I must stop this. We were speaking about your breasts.”
Holding her gaze captive with his, he let his tongue circle her nipple. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t remember to breathe. He licked and stroked her until her flesh burned for more of him.
Isabel should feel victorious—he had broken first and showed a need of her. But he was laughing at her! His eyes were the merry blue of a sunny day, as if he had not shown once again that he desired her—a thief, his enemy. Surely a man such as he, with his reputation, could take whatever he wanted. He had all the control between them.
She squirmed and rolled to one side, gathering her shirt over her chest. She heard Bolton laugh as he released her. She bounded off the bed and marched from the room, tying laces as she went.
James lay still, his smile leaving as she did. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow. It had taken all his effort not to rip the clothes from her body. Was he so desperate? Why did he feel he needed her permission, her acceptance? She was his wife, his property. It had been a month or more since he’d had a woman.
He thought suddenly of Fiona, a village widow a few hours ride away, who always gladly welcomed him. She was a Scottish redhead who teasingly spoke her mind, but didn’t expect more than he offered.
For a moment he pictured Isabel, defiant, beautiful. She might be his wife, but that wouldn’t stop him from doing as he pleased. It had been a year since he’d last seen Fiona, and it was time to get reacquainted.
James rose, washed and dressed, inwardly berating himself for telling Isabel she could leave the castle with him. In no way was he through punishing her for her part in their dreadful marriage. But for an instant he had weakened, imagined himself confined to the castle. He would not be so foolish again.
15
Isabel was mounted on a fine gelding, which she walked in small circles as she waited impatiently for Bolton to wake his men. She heard grumbles from the barracks, a crash, then a bark of laughter. It was Bolton. He was easily amused, not the mark of a good leader.
She almost didn’t care how much time he took. She had the freedom of a mount, and he had even allowed her a dagger at her belt. He’d looked so confident as he’d given it to her. It galled her that he was right. Why would she use it on him now? As he had already said, where would she go? Her new methods of revenge were so much more effective and long-lasting than simple death.
His three men-at-arms straggled down the stairs from the barracks atop the stables. Bolton came last, herding them, a grin on his face. They looked bedraggled and half-asleep, except the giant, who emitted a calm watchfulness. She guessed that he did not sleep much.
Isabel forced such pointless wanderings from her head. She had to be alert, for who knew when Bolton would allow such respite again. She waited more minutes as they saddled their horses, then she wheeled her mount toward the gatehouse and led the way.
Bolton rode up beside her, and she saw his guards glance at each other in surprise as the party entered the tunnel.
“They think I do not bring enough protection,” Bolton casually said.
The darkness swallowed him but for the light retreating behind them.
