“I’d not hurt you for all the world, but we must get your blood flowing to ease your injuries. Please forgive me.” He returned grimly to his task and she nodded slowly, acquiescing to his good sense. But there was more to it.
Isabel paid no heed to the tears on her cheeks as she studied her rescuer for the first time. The sincerity in his face was a strange balm that removed her from discomfort. By the firelight, his wire-rimmed spectacles gleamed like copper and his handsome features were accented by the glow. He had the soulful look of a poet, with arched eyebrows and sweet eyes, but his face was chiseled as if nature had hoped to fashion him for war. He was calm and careful as his strong hands gently worked over her flesh until the pale skin finally began to glow pink and become pliant to his touch, and when he looked back up at her, Isabel’s breath caught in her throat.
“Better?” he asked. “No frostbite, I’d say.”
He’d said he’d not hurt her for all the world and it made no sense in the world she’d experienced to believe him. But there she was, sitting in front of his fire with her bare feet tucked into his lap, half frozen and miserable—and inexplicably feeling safe for the first time in months. It was impossible but she wanted to trust this man.
She nodded and opened her mouth to answer him but a crisp knock at the door ended the spell.
“All’s prepared upstairs, Mr. Thorne. I’ve a roaring fire going and a tray of hot broth and fresh pastries to follow, but I thought I’d see her up and settled first.”
“Yes, brilliant, Mrs. McFadden.” He stood, unfolding from the floor, and Isabel winced out of habit at the sudden movement. “Are you unwell?”
She shook her head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”
“Here, let me help you.” He lifted her up effortlessly as if she were a small child and made his way toward the doorway and his impatient housekeeper. “Lead on, Mrs. McFadden.”
Isabel closed her eyes and swallowed any protest she might have made. Pride urged a lady to insist that her legs worked and that she couldn’t allow him to exert himself on her behalf, but a small practical voice inside of her won the day by noting that she couldn’t really feel her toes, that every part of her ached, and that the room was starting to spin.
The haze of exhaustion reasserted itself as they moved up the staircase, and Isabel fought to stay alert in his arms. The transition to his guest bedroom was smooth and well choreographed by the firm instructions of Mrs. McFadden as he set her down on an upholstered couch at the foot of the bed. The room was as warm as toast, and while Mr. Thorne waited dutifully outside the door, Mrs. McFadden saw her out of every stitch of her wet clothes and into soft woolen stockings and several layers of an old flannel nightgown. And then Mr. Thorne returned and lifted her up to carry her to bed as Mrs. McFadden tucked in a heated brick wrapped in cloth to serve as a bed warmer and turned back the covers.
Ensconced under mounds of bedding, Isabel sank into the feather mattress and lost the battle to keep her eyes open.
“There you are,” he said softly, before he retreated. “Safe and sound.”
Safe and sound.
Isabel slid into the darkness that opened up around her, welcoming oblivion before one last thought bubbled up.
I’ll never be safe again.
***
“She’s English,” Mrs. McFadden noted, her lips pressed into a thin, worried line.
“Yes.” Darius headed down the stairs with his housekeeper on his heels.
“And that’s no maid run off from service!”
“No.” At the bottom of the staircase, he encountered a very surly looking Hamish blocking their path.
“It’s a crime, I tell ye! Anyone who’d take a bit of horseflesh like that and ride him into such a state!” Hamish, his driver and houseman, crossed his arms, openly furious. “If you don’t take the gentleman out that did this and beat him bloody, I will!”
“Hold, Hamish!” Darius had to take a deep breath to keep his own emotions in check. “First of all, no one is beating anyone for anything or speaking out of turn! Whoever the lady is, she is in need of our help and our sympathy. I’m sure she never meant to harm her horse and will thank you when she recovers for your skilled nursing of the animal, Hamish, and your care for him.”
“L-lady?” Hamish asked, looking appropriately chastised. “The harridan there didn’t say a word of it, sir. Naturally, I’ll see to the beast and have him set to rights.”
Mrs. McFadden gasped at the insult and glared at her nemesis with an unspoken promise of dirt in his next bowl of porridge.
“Thank you, Hamish.” Darius spoke deliberately, dismissing the man so that he could have a private word with Mrs. McFadden.
Hamish turned and went back to the stables, and Darius invited Mrs. McFadden into the library, where the woman immediately busied herself by picking up the soggy cushions from the floor.
“Mr. Thorne. What are ye thinking?”
“I’m thinking that nothing matters but her health and comfort.”
Mrs. McFadden dropped the cushions onto the chair. “I think that woman’s in some trouble. Ye should’ve sent Hamish to fetch the constable.”
“No.” Darius turned back to his housekeeper. “We’re not sending for anyone until she requests it.”
“This isn’t a stray cat we’ve plucked from the snow, sir, if you don’t mind me sayin’ it!” Her thin faced was pinched with disapproval and unhappiness. “Poor thing!”
For Darius, everything ground to a halt at her words. His instincts had been raging ever since he’d laid eyes on the woman, and when she’d pleaded for him not to contact the authorities, a part of him had guessed at the truth. “How bad is it?”
Mrs. McFadden averted her eyes but dutifully answered. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Her back looks like she just took a serious flogging. Whoever it was used a cane, I’d say, but somehow managed not to break any of her ribs. It’s . . . it’s a horror, sir.”
Shit.
“We’ll keep ourselves to ourselves, Mrs. McFadden. Tell Hamish to keep that horse out of sight, and when the lady is ready, I shall offer her whatever assistance she needs. But under no circumstances are you to tell anyone of her presence here. If it’s what we suspect, then the authorities will provide no relief.” Darius ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the taste of rage in his mouth at the man who would inflict such harm on a woman. “Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Yes, but—”
“No. No, Mrs. McFadden. I told her she was safe and sound, and by God, I mean to do everything in my power to see that she is. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Thorne. Not a word to anyone.” She bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, leaving him alone with his books and papers.
Darius waited until the door closed behind her and the startling realization that he had an unexpected houseguest sank in. He bent over to retrieve all the notes he’d scattered in his rush and tried to reorder his thoughts.
The shock of it wasn’t lessening and so he gave up for a minute and sat down at his desk. When he’d seen her lying in the snow, his heart had stopped. Her horse’s saliva had frozen into a wreath on his bridle from laboring for so long, and his sides shimmered with frost. The beast had apparently failed to clear the garden’s low stone wall and then stood over his mistress unsure of where to go.
At the first scream, Darius had instinctively grabbed a decorative sword from over the fireplace and launched from his study, prepared for anything. Tossing the useless sword from his hands, he’d slid on the icy path to kneel next to her, praying her neck wasn’t broken. But she’d been intact. Ice cold and nearly frozen to death, but intact. Pale blond hair and skin almost as white as the ground around her, she was ethereally beautiful with fine, delicate features so perfectly formed it was like stumbling onto a life-size porcelain figurine.
She was so slight and frail that he’d worried that her spirit might have already departed, but when she’d cried out and then struggled against him, his relief ha
d been palpable.
Alive.
He’d been carrying her inside when she’d opened her eyes and begged him not to send for the surgeon. One look into her eyes and he’d simply known.
He’d known that Mrs. McFadden would find bruises.
He’d known that nothing would ever be the same.
And not because she’s English and well-off. Her riding coat was velvet, her jacket tailored, and the buttons were carved jet. Even her boots bespoke privilege, not to mention that horse—not that I’m gifted with Galen’s eye for horseflesh, but that wasn’t a common pony.
She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, God help me.
She’s a lady of high quality and she’s in trouble.
No need to ask who hurt her.
Because the beautiful lady with blue eyes like white opals had a band of gold on her left hand. Darius had seen it when he’d removed her gloves.
What have I gotten into?
His guest was married.
Chapter
2
Isabel awoke slowly as layers of her nightmarish dreams shifted into more tangible forms of discomfort. Her back ached and the pain of the bruises made even breathing a little daunting. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, wondering if she could will herself back into a dislocating sleep and claim a few more hours of temporary respite. But she abandoned the notion as the gray light stole into the room and opened her eyes to try to gauge where she’d landed. Of her arrival, she remembered very little.
Except for him.
There’d been a man—a stranger with kind green eyes and wire-rimmed spectacles who’d given her his name—Darius Thorne. A man with a handsome face and gentle hands who’d lifted her from the snow. She’d begged him not to send for a doctor or alert the authorities and he’d said he wouldn’t. But words were meaningless things and Isabel knew it.
The constable’s probably downstairs waiting—or Mr. Jarvis.
The image of her husband’s man lurking somewhere nearby was enough to propel her into action, terror setting pain aside.
Isabel struggled to sit up, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, but she managed it by pressing back against the pile of pillows for leverage and pushing out with her legs. Finally, she’d propped herself up, though without any grace by her own reckoning, to at least get a better view of her situation.
The bedroom was comfortable and well-appointed and the corner grate was blazing cheerfully with a fire that warmed the room. She touched the lace and flannel around her throat and absorbed the details of a borrowed nightgown, unfamiliar woolen socks, and the lack of her own clothes.
A large wardrobe against the far wall beckoned as a possibility.
I can hardly run or make much of a case for myself if I’m wearing nightclothes.
But Isabel’s heart began racing at the stupidity of her flight.
She pushed back the covers and slid her feet over, wincing at the protest her back was making. A smarter woman, she chided, would have had a plan. Or even thought to take some of her jewels from her bedroom and tucked them away into her pockets before . . .
Before mindlessly running away.
This was the first time she’d allowed herself to stop and think. Only because it had been sheer folly to bolt as she had, and by the time her initial panic had faded a little, she’d been too far to turn back. The impulse to just go had been replaced by a greater terror: the knowledge that she’d defied her husband and that the punishment he’d repeatedly promised was now fast on her heels.
Even if she limped back and threw herself on his nonexistent mercy, Isabel feared she’d supplied Richard with exactly what he needed to justify shutting her up in an asylum or imprisoning her in a new hell of his design. Her husband was a powerful man and a peer of the realm, and she’d naively played directly into his hands.
He’ll kill me—or worse. Make me wish I were dead while I’m chained to a wall somewhere in a mental ward.
The firm surface of the wooden floorboards against her feet brought her back to the present. She glanced down to learn that the thickly knitted, nearly manly socks she wore were a reddish orange that almost made her smile, but Isabel’s attention returned to the wardrobe.
She stood on unsteady legs and made her way toward it, as quietly as she could, wary of creaking floorboards or any sound that might give her away. But when she pulled open the large carved doors, they revealed bedclothes and a single flannel robe.
Where are my riding clothes? My boots?
A wintery wind blew outside the window, the lonesome sound of it framing her thoughts. No escape. There’s no escape today.
“Aaah!” A woman’s screech of surprise made Isabel wheel around, instinctively holding up her hands in defense.
“P-please . . .” Isabel gasped, miserable at being startled and caught out of bed like a naughty child.
The woman who approached was a forbidding-looking thing, with her thin frame and hair pinned back so tightly it made her narrow face appear even more wraithlike. But the impression was softened almost immediately by the sight of a tray laden with steaming dishes in her hands, and her words. “Bless you! Out of bed, poor mite! I thought I was seein’ a ghost over there and I’ve lost a slice of my soul from the fright!”
She set the tray down on a table by the door and came over to Isabel with her hands out—as if she were approaching a wounded animal. “I’m Mrs. McFadden and you—are going to catch your death, madam, if you roam about wearing nothing but a nightgown, yes?”
Isabel nodded. “Yes, I remember you. I don’t . . . mean to . . . be any trouble, Mrs. McFadden. I’m very sorry.”
“Of course you don’t! Trouble comes where it wishes without anyone’s permission so no need to apologize. I should say it’s a pleasure to have a guest.” Mrs. McFadden put her hands on her hips and assessed Isabel’s lack of progress back toward the sanctuary of warm bedclothes awaiting her. “Now, to bed.”
Clearly, Mrs. McFadden was a woman used to being obeyed without argument.
Isabel reluctantly released her hold on the wardrobe door and made it only one or two steps before her hostess intervened and offered a gentle hand to steady her and guide her back to her nest. “You’re too kind, Mrs. McFadden.”
“Never!” Mrs. McFadden smiled. “I’m a terror. That’s what I’ve got ’em believing anyway, so I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret.” She settled Isabel and readjusted the thick goose-down-filled coverlet. “I made you a hearty breakfast, madam. You’re too thin. Bad enough I can’t get the professor to eat when he should, but I’ll not have you starving under my roof!”
“The professor? Is Mr. Thorne a professor?”
Mrs. McFadden’s look of mortified shock melted away to amusement. “Mr. Thorne is my employer and the owner of the house and I suppose . . .” The housekeeper’s brow furrowed. “Professor’s a bit of a name I’ve given him since he’s apparently got more degrees and education than sense, if ye ask me. Any man that can speak ten languages and sleeps in his library should remember where he put his hat!”
“If I lose things, I’m sure it’s to make you feel appreciated, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius interjected from the open doorway.
Isabel’s eyes dropped to her hands. He’d caught her prying into his business and she hated the bite of fear that whipped through her. But when she looked up, he was smiling at his housekeeper and cheerfully standing in the doorway. “May I come in?”
“She’s to eat! So you can visit for a minute or two or I’ll blame you if she’s forced to eat a cold meal or faints for lack of it!” Mrs. McFadden growled. She turned back to Isabel and whispered, “You’ll ring the bell if you need a thing and I’ll pretend to complain but I’ll come as quick as a wink. All right?”
Isabel nodded, unable to stop a smile. “Yes, Mrs. McFadden.”
Mrs. McFadden withdrew and Darius stepped inside, politely leaving the door open. “She’s all show,” he said. “Like a kitten that spits and hisses but has
no claws.”
“She’s—remarkable,” Isabel agreed. “I should thank you. For . . . I’m not even sure how I came to be here, but . . .”
“There’s no need. I have a firm long-standing policy of harboring anyone who lands in my garden and consider it my sacred duty to keep any women who attempt to freeze to death from succeeding in their efforts,” he said, his tone light and teasing.
“It happens often, then?” she asked.
“Oh yes.” He nodded and pulled up a chair to sit next to the bed. “It’s practically a weekly occurrence, so I’m going to have Hamish just put in a wider gate and set up fairy lights to help more lost souls find their way a little easier.”
The man was a puzzle to her, but not an unappealing one. “I’m grateful to you, Mr. Thorne, and I have no intentions of . . . rudely intruding on your life any longer than necessary. I’m sure I can be on my way by tomorrow morning to—”
He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze alone ending her declaration to depart. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
Anxiety seized her by the throat. “Wh-why?”
“Because you’re safe here.” He waited patiently as if aware of the internal war waging inside of her.
“Not because you’d like me to wait for the constable to arrive once the weather has passed?” she asked, the words like bitter copper on her tongue.
He shook his head. “I honor my promises and my word is not something I give lightly. I sent for no one. There is no one coming.”
No one is coming.
Isabel nervously rearranged the crocheted edges of her nightgown’s sleeve. “Thank you.”
“Will you tell me your name?”
And there it was, the inevitable question that would open a floodgate of inquiries and obligations, that would force him to break his word or make him regret his promises. Isabel’s eyes filled with tears and her throat cinched closed at the pain of it.
Such a simple question, really. I tell him my name and then it all changes and whatever safety I’d started to feel evaporates like mist in the sunlight.
Obsession Wears Opals Page 2