A Knight's Vow Read Free Page B

ponder his plans to capture the Black Angel. James could tell the evening would be long. The man talked of nothing but farming and sheep. The wife perched on the edge of her seat, nodding attentively to everything James said, while the daughters elbowed each other out of the way as they fought for a place beside an eligible earl. They were pale, mouse-haired, typical English girls, with nothing to say for themselves. And then one laughed and James saw why—protruding teeth. He withheld a sigh and gave a strained smile.
    He should be flirting with them. He should be judging their merits as wives, though they be
    daughters of a minor nobleman. In the baron's family, he sensed money—and he needed some. Looks were no longer so important when one was desperate.
    But his wife-hunting skills were deserting him tonight. Only out of habit had he remembered to dress in a fine green velvet tunic. Every time he tried to think of a thing to say to these two country girls, an image of the Black Angel appeared full blown in his mind, leaning over his cot, her black curls brushing against him, her dark eyes burning with undiscovered passion. He remembered her breasts, lush and full as he held her against his chest. Why could he think of nothing but her?
    Dressed in a peasant cloak and hood, Isabel sat at a trestle table in Bolton's hall, watching the earl hold court for his visitors. She had positioned herself between the baron's people and the castle residents, trying to seem to each group that she was part of the other.
    It had been easy to slip into the inner ward with the baron's party of travelers. She only had to submit to a simple search. Her sword remained well hidden beneath her skirts. Bolton's security had obviously never been tested—after tonight he would understand what he was up against. He would again feel the shame of knowing he could not best a "mere" woman. Isabel barely restrained her grin of triumph.
    Yet while she voraciously ate of his delicious food, she studied James Markham. When she had first attacked him, she had been caught up in her own daring, and then concerned she had fatally injured him too early in the game. In the darkness of her hut, he had seemed reckless, amusing, charming to a degree she would not have thought possible.
    Even now, though he seemed distracted, he captivated the baron and his family. The silly daughters gazed at Bolton with every intention written on their faces, and even their mother seemed to preen.
    Bolton wore outrageously extravagant garments that almost glittered. They must be clothes he wore to court to impress the king. How did a man fight dressed like that?
    And the great hall itself—Isabel had to struggle not to gape. The walls were whitewashed, covered by woven tapestries of the most incredible colors. The rushes on the floor smelled like the outdoors, with nary a chicken bone in sight.
    But soon Bolton would be able to impress no one, Isabel thought fiercely. They would all know what he was, what he had done. His name would only inspire mocking laughter.
    Isabel crept away when the meal was through, just as the merrymaking was beginning. She strode boldly down a hall, as if looking for the garderobe, then snuck upstairs to find Bolton's room. She shadowed chatting maidservants as they aired rooms for the earl's guests, until she deduced that the formal doors at the end of the hall opened into the master's bedchamber. It was a simple matter to slip in when they weren't looking.
    A low fire filled the room with shadowy light. Candles in silver candleholders awaited the earl on tables on either side of the bed, a massive affair that filled almost a whole wall. Heavy velvet bedcurtains were tied back, ready to encircle the occupant in privacy. Isabel wondered if this was the bed he had forced his betrothed to lie in. Had he simply misjudged her willingness? No, a man must know when a woman is unwilling, even if he won't acknowledge it. She herself had once stabbed a soldier