by Jaide Fox
Rather than give him the upper hand, she slid upwards and on to her elbows and in her usual, obstinate manner, asked, “Who the devil are you?”
His head shot up and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes. Before he spoke, his eyebrow also shot up as his gaze traveled along her disheveled length. “I see Wolfe managed to describe what seems like every inch of you and did not lie about your attitude. I had hoped he was exaggerating.”
Rather than be embarrassed by his statement about her manners, she felt rather proud. Having been raised to be a lady, it had taken years to produce this all-encompassing shell and although it had been difficult, it was there for a reason. Protection.
She shrugged and watched as his eyes fell to her shoulders. From long experience, Isabeau knew that he would be studying her hair. Even she realized that the locks about her head were a curious mixture. Neither auburn, nor red, nor tinted with orange. It had the appearance of all of them and yet not a one of them. It was the color of the heart of a flame and was filled with life thereof.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized that both this stranger and herself had similar colorings. They were both of the light, where Wolfe was of the dark.
Why that was of any significance, she didn’t know. But the thought rebounded around her brain like a bouncing ball.
Cautiously, Isabeau watched him wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and then saw the slight infinitesimal twitch of his shoulders, which bespoke of his inner tension. Curious now, she waited for him to speak.
“Unfortunately for me, I’m one of your kind.” He grimaced. “Wolfe always did have the luck of the dogs.”
Frowning at him in confusion, for what did he mean, one of her kind? Human? What other kind was there? Did he mean that he too had the strange powers and talents she had inherited? And why was he inferring that Wolfe was not of a similar kind as this stranger and herself?
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged and replied, “We are of the light.”
His words uncannily picked up on her earlier thoughts, but again, what did he mean? Light as in good and dark as in evil? If so, why would he be friends with Wolfe, who was obviously of the dark and subsequently…evil?
Confused, Isabeau ducked her head and studied the carved wood of the bed stand.
When he seemed quite content to simply hover there, looking over her body with covetous eyes and saying little, she licked her lips and murmured softly, “Please may I eat whatever you’ve brought?”
A sheepish smile graced his lips and he muttered apologetically, “More used to being served than being the server, I’m afraid. Of course, you may eat and with my pleasure.”
He settled the tray on the bed and stepped backwards, almost as though her proximity would tarnish him somehow.
She tried not to be offended and had he not come bearing gifts, she more than likely would have been. However, she merely reached for the tray, set the legs either side of her and tucked into the hearty slices of sirloin with a poached egg and a chunk of churned butter, the color of spun gold, and two thick slices of wheat and seed-filled bread. She had developed quite a hunger during her slumber, she realized.
Eating with rather more relish than decorum allowed, Isabeau enjoyed every morsel and ignored the still-hovering man, who had yet to introduce himself to her.
When she eventually finished, he said, “Long time since I’ve seen a lady your age actually eat anything beyond slight wisps of vegetables.”
“I’m not your average lady though, kind sir. I can’t afford to faint decorously in the parlor nor can I afford to turn food down, when it is so generously given to me. I thank you for allowing me to break my fast.”
He nodded his acceptance but ducked his head, when she continued, “Who are you?”
“A friend of Wolfe’s,” was all he said.
She tutted her tongue and replied, “That is of little help. Considering I do not have a jot of an idea of who this Wolfe Sinclair, so called Night Rider, actually is, I’m therefore lost as to who you are as well! Is he friend or foe to me though, I suppose is the question I should be asking you…”
When her voice trailed to a halt, he picked up her words and answered quietly. “There are those who would wish worse upon you than Wolfe does.”
“How reassuring!” Isabeau had to hold back a snort at this evasive and non-answer.
“Why has he asked you to do his bidding? Has he left your manor?”
“My manor?” the man retorted with raised eyebrows.
“The last time I saw a servant wear rubies as red as those at your cravat and wrists, was in a particularly good dream. Your shirt is of the finest linen, your jacket and breeches tailored by the best.” She smiled coldly. “My father may have died four years ago, but he only wore the best that London’s tailors could produce. You, milord, are wearing the best. Your cravat has been tied by a master and your hair styled and cut to the latest fashions…If you aren’t the Lord of this manor then I’m a fairy.”
For some reason, that seemed to make him laugh, but he held up a hand and relayed, “You are indeed correct. In more ways than one.” The last was said with a slight smile. “Tis my manor, ever since my father died ten years ago. Old bastard, I was glad to see the back of him.”
“I see that you did not share my love for my parents with your own.”
“He was a confounded tyrant. Mother was a pussy cat. Not a damned hope of surviving the brute.”
“It is strange indeed, milord, that you’re willing to discuss your dislike of your father and your mother’s intimate past, yet you will not tell me who you are to Wolfe Sinclair or what he is to me.”
“Ah, but then we live in a strange world, do we not? And it is becoming stranger all the time.” He smiled faintly at her. “Drink your chocolate,” he ordered.
With raised eyebrows, she complied and said, “I thank you for your hospitality, milord.”
“You’re very welcome. Not often that I can welcome such a beauty as yourself into my home and without the matchmaking mamas and old tabbies coming along for the ride, as it were.”
Despite his loose words, she had a feeling that she was entirely safe with him. Why, she did not know for certain. Although Isabeau had the feeling that she was stamped with the mark of Wolfe’s possession and that to this man, was stronger than any attraction he might have felt for her.
Whilst she did not appreciate it, if it kept her safe from the man before her, then she was grateful. She did not doubt that were she not stamped as such, he would have been ripping through her petticoats and fondling her as soon as he’d settled the salver upon the bed. Instead he had shied away from her.
Why he had done so, she didn’t know, but again, was glad of it. Wolfe’s possession, she might be to this man, but surely placing a tray upon her lap was hardly dangerous! Was she that great a temptation?
She ducked her head into the large pot of chocolate to hide her face and the huge grin that had two dimples cutting into the soft flesh of her cheeks.
Her eyes flickered over the expensively decorated room, the lusciously appointed antiques, the gilt etchings and protruding plasterwork on the walls. She looked up at him and said, “It seems that Wolfe has a generous friend indeed. I can but hope that he is generous with me.”
“That is something that we all wish for, is it not? Generosity from those who are stronger, or more powerful than us. I’m sure that Wolfe Sinclair will not…disappoint.”
She frowned at his words, but watched as he collected the tray, bowed low over it and at her, then walked towards the door. It swung cleanly open and then shut.
Isabeau’s eyes narrowed as she tried to translate the conversation into something that was more understandable. She had the feeling that he had almost been speaking in a code of some sort, but she knew that was ridiculous. It had not been a code, simply the fact that he was withholding information from her and either purposely or inadvertently, kept slipping tidbits to her.
Be it confused about the strange and bewitching sensations her captor inspired in her. Or about his role in her parents’ deaths or whether he was the elusive someone she had been running from these last four years.
Isabeau wanted answers and knew she wasn’t about to receive any.
She settled back into her gilded cage with a sigh. Her shoulders were swallowed by a feather pillow and slowly she felt herself drift off to sleep.
Her mind felt heavy, filled with weight and her limbs were somehow similarly indisposed. Every inch of her felt drowsy and with a soft, sleepy smile, Isabeau realized that this was how it felt to be drugged.
She was far too tired and far too fatigued to care that the food had been poisoned with some kind of sleeping draft. The only thing that disturbed the happy haze circling her being were the shots of pain that her ring directed along the length of her forearm. Like stinging barbs, akin to the pins and needles that besieged a numb foot, they were most uncomfortable and difficult to ignore.
Isabeau knew from long experience that it was a warning signal. That impending danger was heading her way. But a sluggish lethargy was gradually creeping through her veins and her eyelids felt as though they were weighted down with anchors.
As they finally slipped down and covered the balls of her eyes, she both heard the click of the door opening and saw a dirty and bedraggled head walk into her chamber.
Rather than react with fear, she felt fearless and protected by the acres of space between the door and the bed upon which she was laying. Nothing could harm her, when she felt like a cream-sated cat…Especially when it was only a floating head…