Page 87 of The Knight Who Loved Me
“I know most of the historical details,” he continued. “What I want to hear is what happened to your father. Tell me his story.”
Isabel found herself staring blankly at the dead grass at her feet. She had not spoken of it openly in a long time. Her problems with James went so much deeper. After a moment, she slowly said, “My father challenged your father at a melee. They fought, and your father unfairly wounded mine.”
“You say ‘unfairly.’ How do you mean? Did your father say mine cheated?”
“I—” She frowned and hesitated. “I’m not sure. He left my father a cripple.” She thought of her father’s bitterness, the endless drinking to dull the pain.
“Isabel, I was there. I was but a child, but I remember.Yourfather challengedmine. What did you want my father to do? Refuse? Dishonor himself?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“My father but defended himself, and he didn’t want to die. He was greatly sorry to have injured Mansfield, but it was a fair fight, witnessed by all who saw it.”
She felt her stomach twist with anxiety. “I—I hadn’t thought of it that way. Honor is important.” Her throat felt blocked. “He never let me forget,” she whispered. “I heard the story of that fight over and over. Why would my father…” Her voice trailed off and she felt lost.
“Maybe he, too, was raised to hate the Boltons by his own father. Maybe our families have done nothing but pass down hate. I want it to end with us, Isabel.”
James looked at her white face, and knew much of their marriage rested on what she said next. He saw fear in her eyes for the first time.
“I don’t know how to change things,” she said.
“Then let us begin with some truths. Did your father give you those scars on your ribs?”
She shook her head. “I used to bind my breasts.”
He imagined her a maturing young woman, hiding the proof of her sex. “Why?”
“It was easier to train that way.”
“There must have been more to it than that.”
She eyed him coldly. “There was nothing.”
He thought again of the scars that criss-crossed her chest. No one mutilated herself just for ease of training. But she was the only child of a man who wanted revenge on an old enemy. Did Isabel deliberately make herself into the son he always wanted, or did her father force her?
She turned her back again and bent toward the stream, but James didn’t think she was thirsty. He began to wonder if there were problems between them because of the things his ancestors had done—or for a newer reason.
He thought of when she’d asked him if the horse had stepped on his ears. She seemed to be treating his injury matter-of-factly. If she was no longer angry with him over the feud, and if his injury was more important to him than to her—then why was there still such discord between them?
He walked over and knelt down beside the stream. Isabel still crouched there, her hand dangling in the water, her eyes staring unseeing across the valley. Her profile was proud, remote, so very beautiful. He didn’t know what to do to reach her, to make things better between them. He looked down into the water in confusion.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked softly.
He looked up to tell her he could certainly drink with one hand, but she already held her cupped hands before him, dripping water sparkling in the sun. Part of him wanted to say he didn’t need her help, but that lasted but a moment. On his knees before her, he took her cupped hands between his and bent to drink. When the water was gone, he pressed his mouth into her palms for every last drop.
She was trembling when he finally looked up. He saw the same wonder in her eyes as when he’d given her the first pleasure she’d ever had.
Then he realized he was touching her skin with his bandaged, mutilated hand, and he pulled away and stood up.
“Let us return to my brother’s,” he said, not looking at her. “Tonight is to be a special feast.”
He mounted his horse, knowing she would follow.
~oOo~
That evening, the whole countryside gathered to celebrate the birth of the babe. The hall fair burst with people. The smells of delicious food filled the air. Isabel stood alone, watching as the tables were taken down and the minstrels began to play. Soon laughing couples were dancing through the rushes, dodging children and dogs.
James stood beside his brother, talking, gesturing with his left hand only, although Isabel could not hear the words. He had always been astoundingly handsome to her, but she saw deeper now, and was still drawn to him. She loved him. Why was she such a coward? Why couldn’t she admit it aloud?
