Page 47 of The Knight Who Loved Me
Isabel folded her arms across her chest and let her husband attempt to humiliate her. She didn’t have anything to lose, but he certainly did. She had already seen how he cultivated people’s opinions.
But the girl surprised her. “My lord, be easy with her. It must be difficult to be new in a place such as Bolton Castle. Does she have any of her ladies from home to attend her?”
Bolton smiled. “Isabel, have you ladies to bring with you?”
“No.”
“Aah, then we must obtain you some. Agnes is right. You need women to sew with. And I could use a new tapestry in the library.”
“Only if I can cut it with my sword.”
Bolton laughed. “You will have to practice your wifely skills.”
He dazzled even her eyes, standing in the sunlight with his brilliant nobleman’s garments, shining like a gemstone in maroon and gold, conversing with the most common peasant girl as if she were his equal. He even knew of herbaby, by the saints.
He suddenly slung an arm around Isabel’s shoulders and she staggered at his weight. Agnes blushed and smiled, looking pleased. For just a moment, Isabel felt the elusive warmth of belonging, but she let it go. She was not that much a fool.
“Come, wife, it is the brewer’s turn to feed us and she’s waiting.”
She tried to shrug him off. “I have not yet had some water.”
He didn’t release her. “Agnes, have you a dipper for my lady?”
The girl laughed and cast a glance at her baby. “Aye, my lord. Give me a moment.”
While Agnes brought up a bucket of water, Isabel fumed at having to endure Bolton’s nearness. She could feel the length of his body, the lean hips. Why couldn’t she hate the touch of him? Why did she always remember what he looked like unclothed?
Agnes brought a dipper of water to her. Isabel thought Bolton would release her now, but instead he stood against her and watched as she drank. It was too unnerving. Isabel had but a few sips and tried to hand the dipper back.
Bolton took it from her fingers and brought it to his mouth. His eyes met hers as he drank from the same place she had. She couldn’t tear her gaze away as she watched his lips form to the rounded dipper, saw his throat muscles work as he swallowed. A single drop of water fell down his chin and she almost reached to wipe it away.
Bolton had seen, heknewthat she’d meant to touch him. There was triumph in his brilliant eyes, and a dark intensity that surged through her. How could he make her so aware of him, of his body? This was his own brand of revenge and it was working too well.
Isabel ducked beneath his arm and walked to her horse.
“Lady Isabel,” he called. “We’re off to the brewer’s. Did you not remember?”
The little boy holding the reins of her horse looked happy and relieved to continue petting the animal. Isabel sighed and turned to follow her husband.
The brewer was a large, merry woman, with a makeshift ale sign outside her timber-framed house. Isabel recognized the crude drawing of a tankard easily enough. She ducked beneath the thatched roof and stepped down inside. Smoke and the odor of many people filled the air. The house had one large room on the first floor, with several trestle tables set up. These began to fill with villagers and yeoman, come to see the lord—and surely to stare in horror at his wife.
Isabel was determined to put on a show. She stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, declining what was obviously the best stool, placed next to her husband’s. Her head touched the dried plants hung from the ceiling. The brewer went by her carrying a tray, and Isabel picked up a tankard before being offered one. Her eyes on Bolton, she drained half of it, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
The room was eerily silent, a solid wall of disapproval.
Bolton’s long legs were outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He grinned and patted the stool beside him. “Isabel, wait until you taste the food.”
She hesitated, but what else could she do? She wasn’t about to wait by the horses for hours while Bolton ate. She approached him, but his long legs were in the way. Just as she stepped over them, he deliberately moved, tilting her off balance. He caught her waist and neatly pulled her onto his lap.
The laughter reverberated through the room and Isabel smoldered with frustrated anger. She tried to stand up, but he gripped her hips tightly and had the gall to kiss her cheek.
“She’s such an eager bride,” he said.
He practically dumped her onto her own stool, then proceeded to ignore her for the meal and the company of his friends.
Isabel only wished she could ignore Bolton as easily. His thigh pressed the length of hers, and their shoulders overlapped. She practically had to lean sideways to avoid the touch of his arm against her breast.
What was she stopping herself for? she suddenly thought in exasperation. Didn’t she want him to lose control, to see him as he was, a seducer of women, a man unable to control his baser impulses? She finally straightened, even though it pressed her breast against him. She stared straight ahead, although she knew he glanced at her. She wouldn’t look at what was surely his amused smile. Let him think he had the upper hand now. At night he would know who wielded the true power.
