by J. D. Robb
How could the inane words of that hymn have done this to him? He was no more afraid of God or of life, whichever it was, than he was afraid of the waif of a woman singing from the courtyard as if her life depended on it.
Sebastian had thought it would be entertaining to have someone new to sing. That a year would be just long enough to enjoy a new voice before boredom set in. He was already bored. He would send for the singer from the hotel even though her voice was failing and her songs were too modern for his taste. Then he would tell this amateur that he never wanted to see her again.
Five
Isabelle was not surprised when Esmé missed work for the next three days without explanation. Whether the healer’s absence was another test or the result of too much liquor hardly mattered.
What did surprise Isabelle was the message Cortez brought telling her that she was not expected to sing anymore. She was brushing her teeth on the second evening when she realized that her voice must have disappointed Dushayne and that was why he had no desire to hear her again. She cringed with embarrassment even though she was alone.
The third day was the busiest of all, and then Isabelle realized it was curiosity that brought so many with hard-to-diagnose headaches and upset stomachs.
It was almost dusk when Cortez came running to her. “You must come. You must come. One of the master’s servants is hurt and needs help. It is Riono and he is bleeding badly. You must come now, Mistress Nurse.”
Isabelle grabbed her bag and ran.
Riono lay on the kitchen floor, a bloody gash on his arm, a kitchen knife still in his hand. The radial artery, Isabelle decided instantly. She pulled a cord from her bag and made a tourniquet.
“Will he live?”
She sat back on her knees and looked up at the cluster of people, trying to find the one who had asked the question. Sebastian Dushayne stood among them, the servants having left a space between them and him.
He watched with a detached interest that reminded her of the doctor who had supervised her clinical work. Isabelle hated the man until she realized that after years of seeing students come and go his disinterest was the only way to protect his emotions. It was too hard to say good-bye over and over again. Did Sebastian Dushayne’s servants come and go with as much regularity?
“Riono will be all right in time.” She nodded to Dushayne but spoke to everyone gathered around them. “I will have to clean and stitch the wound. The healer is not well today, but there is no time to waste.”
“Not well?” Sebastian folded his arms and did not hide his cynicism. “That did not take long.”
Without answering Dushayne, Isabelle asked for help moving the man. Finally they settled Riono on a table moved near the sink.
She explained the procedure to the patient and to Dushayne, who had insisted on observing even though she had asked everyone to leave. “I will have to wash the wound for at least twenty minutes and it will hurt, but it is essential to remove any dirt from the knife blade. After that I have some medicine, a spray, that will block the pain, but you will still feel the stitches going through your skin.”
Riono’s eyes were wide with shock but he nodded. “I heard you sing the other night and cannot forget how beautiful it was. Can you sing while you wash my arm, Mistress Nurse? It will help me think of other things.”
“Yes, if you wish,” Isabelle answered without looking to Dushayne for approval. If the man did not want to hear her, he could go away.
Isabelle started the pump and let the water rinse the wound. Riono gasped and Dushayne took his hand. “Think of your woman in childbirth.” Riono’s grimace might have been a smile.
Isabelle did not look up, but was struck by the contradictions in the man. As she supervised the cleaning she let her mind wander.
Sebastian Dushayne’s ill humor kept company with an essential kindness that left her off-kilter, uncertain whether to allow herself to like him or keep him at a distance, and then she realized that uncertainty was exactly what he wanted.
When the wound was clean, she sprayed the area with li docaine and, as she took the first stitch, began to sing. “I live to serve, I live to love, I live to care as Christ once showed.”
Sebastian winced as the needle pierced Riono’s arm but the man lay there watching Isabelle, not flinching or seeming even to notice anything but the insipid words she sang.
“Let me share your pain. Let me share your joy. Let us share the sun and rain, Till our lives are soon fulfilled and we pass to God again.”
When she sang the last sentence, Isabelle raised her eyes to his, sincerity echoing in every word. Her goodness was more than Sebastian could stand. It tore into him like a double-edged sword. It was all he could do not to beg for forgiveness, and she was not even the one he had hurt.
It was time to show her how overrated virtue was. Once goodness did not shine from her, his pain would ease. “Tomorrow, come back to the castillo after dark, Isabelle. Dress for a party. I am hosting one for the tourists and I think you will enjoy it.”
“Thank you.” She did not smile but seemed pleased.
Oh, you will thank me, he thought. Tomorrow night he would know how bone deep her virtue was.
Of course the perfect dress hung on the hook in her bedroom. It was a gauzy floral print with filmy sleeves and a swirling skirt that made her feel fairylike and feminine. The man certainly did know how to choose clothes a woman would like.
The shoes were not quite as successful. There was no way she could walk to the castle on the four-i nch heels that were the only possible choice.
She had almost decided to go barefoot when someone pulled the string on the bell at her door.
Esmé stood there holding a pair of sandals, much, much better than the towering heels Isabelle had in her hand. The healer pushed them at her and then stood with her hands on her hips. “I tell you, girl, I will know if your soul is corrupted by Sebastian Dushayne or any of his guests. You will not be welcome here when that happens.”
“You can tell even that. How intriguing. Do you think my corruption is inevitable?”
“Yes,” Esmé said firmly.
Isabelle considered a debate, but suspected it would be pointless. “Thank you for the shoes. They’re perfect.”
“Of course they are.” She left without further explanation.
Isabelle walked slowly up toward the castle. She really had no idea what to expect. Cortez told her that the master had company at least once a week and that some of the guests stayed longer. Never the same group and none ever stayed more than a week. It was, by Cortez’s definition, a noisy party with endless drinking and dancing until the people began to play games with one another or wander off to a bedroom to sleep.
Isabelle walked into a party well begun. The men and women were dressed in clothes that were very twenty-fi rst century, but everything else about the gathering had an old-world feel. Even the music was played by a three-piece combo.
The food was not the typical island fare but looked as though it would be better suited to a European dining room. There were tables for cards and other sorts of gambling, but right now most everyone was gathered around a woman dressed as a gypsy, who was telling fortunes accompanied by much laughter and rude comments.
“People of all ages love to hear stories about themselves.”
She had felt him beside her before he spoke. Dushayne was dressed in a fabulous costume and she smiled at him, thoroughly entranced by the picture he made in early-nineteenth-century garb. He reminded her of a rakish Darcy, not in looks but in style, and definitely in the way he showed both pride and prejudice.
“What fun this is. It’s like a step back in time. I wish I had a dress that matched what you’re wearing. Something with a high waist and embroidery around the edges.”
“Next time,” he said with a smile of satisfaction. And yes, there were the dimples. “Everything will be better next time, Isabelle.”
“I hope that’s a promise.” She really wasn’t much o
f a flirt, but she had a desperate longing to know this man better, to understand him, to keep him smiling.
“Indeed it is.” Dushayne raised her hand and kissed it and then tucked her arm through his. “Let’s see what the fortune-teller has to say about you.”
“Will you ask her to tell your fortune? Or is ‘the master’ ”—she made the words sound as pretentious as they were—“above such things?”
“I never would have guessed that you were such a tease. A temptress, yes, but not a tease.”
“And I would never have guessed that you would not enjoy a little flirtation.” Isabelle refused to be embarrassed by his insulting tone, almost positive that he was trying to make her feel uncomfortable so that he would have the upper hand. Or, she thought, was he the one who was uncomfortable?
Neither one of them spoke as they made their way across the salon. Isabelle wondered why he would feel even a little threatened by her presence. He was the one who had given permission for her to come, along with Father Joubay. So it was not her presence as a medical person that upset him, but something about Isabelle Reynaud herself that bothered him.
Could it be the same thing that bothered her: attraction to a person he was not even sure he liked?
The crowd clustered around the fortune-teller made room for their host and eyed Isabelle curiously. The fortune-teller sat at a round table. The seat across from her was empty and she gestured for Isabelle to take it.
“May I hold your hands, please?” the fortune-teller asked.
The woman was heavily made up and dressed in traditional gypsy garb, but her voice identified her as one of the islanders.
Isabelle smiled and put her hands on the table. The woman took them; then she jerked her head up to look in Isabelle’s eyes. Between their touching hands and staring eyes, the connection between them was so strong that it was an effort to keep smiling.
The woman grinned at her and let her hands go. “You will live a long and happy life, for you have been blessed with optimism and a sense of adventure. You will find love; you will know its deepest meaning but you will also know pain and loss.”
The fortune-teller pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say more but then thought better of it. Leaning forward, she whispered, “Be careful. More than your heart is at risk.”
Isabelle closed her eyes. Yes, she knew that. Had known it from the first time she had sung to Sebastian Dushayne. Isabelle pressed the woman’s hand. “Thank you. I do understand.”
When she stood up, another woman took her place instantly. “Tell me something useful,” she demanded.
The fortune-teller laughed. “If you are not careful, you will lose more than your money on this trip.”
“What does that mean?” the woman demanded.
Isabelle moved away from the group before the gypsy answered. She had no idea what the fortune-teller meant but was equally certain that the woman would not like the details. Sebastian was nowhere to be found, so she accepted a glass of champagne from one of the servants and began to circle the room.
The next hour passed in a haze of names and amusing conversation. Several men and one woman tried their best to corner her for more than talk. Isabelle might look like an innocent, might actually be one, but she had dated enough and worked in some hard places. A party flirtation was easy enough to handle.
Sebastian Dushayne found her in the corner with one of the men who would not take no for an answer. Isabelle had just poured her glass of champagne down the man’s shirtfront when Sebastian pulled her from the nook and propelled her to the dance floor.
“This is a reel. A popular Regency dance. Follow the lead of the people in costume. It is not difficult to learn.”
It was fun. It reminded Isabelle of square dancing but was more elegantly done. By the time the dancers made their last bows to one another, all were a little out of breath and laughing.
The next tune changed the mood completely. “A waltz,” Sebastian told her, “but a Regency waltz. Much more decorous than a Viennese waltz, but for the people of the early nineteenth century it was very risqué.”
Holding her at arm’s length, Sebastian put a hand at her shoulder and one at her waist. They began to move through the steps and within a minute Isabelle felt as though there were nothing around them, only the two of them in each other’s arms.
Stepping closer to Sebastian, Isabelle used her body to tell him that she was going nowhere, that here was exactly where she wanted to be. She saw the pleased surprise in Sebastian’s eyes, but he still held her as if he were afraid she would run.
Finally he relaxed and sighed, a small sigh that she understood as appreciation for the sweetest of pleasures. Closing her eyes, she drew a mental picture of the two of them alone, dancing through clouds set in a dark velvet sky strewn with diamondlike stars glittering around them. A peek at heaven, she decided, or as close as she could imagine. Yes, she could go on like this forever.
“Forever?” Sebastian said, and Isabelle realized she had said that last out loud. “Not forever, only for as long as the thrill of it lasts. Let me show you.”
Isabelle opened her eyes just as Sebastian kissed her. Oh, this is paradise. To be so closely connected to someone you love, or could love. Like an invitation to the best party imaginable.
Then all thoughts evaporated in a rush of emotion, sensation that bound her to him more completely than the touch of his mouth on hers. Her soul opened to him, her heart begged his and she gave herself to him as fully as she could with her mouth and her hands, and every part of her body that touched him. It was not a branding, but a gift, happily given.
Sebastian did not give as easily. Isabelle realized that as the kiss ended. He straightened, his look of shock changing to fear, or was it pain? He pushed her into the arms of one of the other men.
“Take her, Leo. This one is more than ready for a quick fuck. You won’t even need to take your clothes off.”
Leo grabbed Isabelle from behind, his hands settling on her breasts, his arousal pressing into her buttocks. She could smell the scotch on his breath when he nuzzled her ear. Freeing her arms, she used her elbows to pound into his gut and was more than satisfied when he staggered back, cursing.
“A quick fuck? Is that what you said?” Isabelle could feel her temper cut loose. “You are a disgusting excuse for a gentleman.”
“And you are courting trouble.”
“You don’t scare me.” She proved it by closing the distance between them. She could feel anger, passion, even fear shimmering around him. What was he afraid of?
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her a little. “I should terrify you.”
“But you don’t,” she said gently, her anger fading as she realized what he was worried about. “Not at all.”
“If I took you, you would never be the same.” He was pleading with her. She heard no pride in his voice. “You would be no more than a whore because you would never find as much satisfaction with anyone else.”
“But then, neither would you because what is between us is about more than sex. If you are afraid—” She emphasized the word and paused. “If you are afraid to give more than your body, then we will never be together.”
Sebastian Dushayne had nothing to say. In the silence she could feel his fear disappear, along with his anger and almost all his passion. “Time will tell, my little nun.”
“Why do you call me that?” The description made her more defensive than anything else he had said, which, she realized, was exactly why he had used the word.
“Who else but a nun would know nothing but hymns and wear her virtue like it was her proudest possession?”
“What a waste. She has sky-high tart potential and she’s a nun?”
The words of the man nearest reminded Isabelle that they had an audience.
“No, she’s not a nun now,” Sebastian said, looking into her eyes as if he could read her soul. “I imagine they dismissed her for flirting with a priest.”
Isabell
e could feel the color drain from her face. “And you are filled with disdain because you’re afraid that if you care for another woman, she will leave you just like the first did.”
If it was possible to wound a person with words, Isabelle realized that they had each dealt a near mortal blow to the other.
She was not sure how Sebastian felt about revealing someone’s deepest secret, but his shock and distress at her accusation made her feel as sinful as Judas when he betrayed Jesus. “I’m sorry,” she whispered and ran from the room before they hurt each other any more than they already had.
Six
Once she was outside of the castillo, Isabelle slowed her steps and tried to calm herself. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She was sorry that she had not been able to control her temper, that his insult had made her retaliate in kind. It was so mean-spirited of her, the worst of all her failings as far as she was concerned. An apology would not change anything, but it was more than he had offered her.
The streets were quiet. The healer’s home the only one still with light. The open door showed people inside. Thinking that there had been an accident, Isabelle pushed her heartache aside, ran up the short path and went inside.
The people gathered were not patients. They were playing some sort of game with dominos and while it may not have required alcohol, every one of the five players took a sip of something after their turn at play.
“Aha!” Esmé called out. “The one we have been waiting for. Come over here.”
Isabelle did as asked, sure that Esmé was drunk and would remember none of this tomorrow. But Esmé surprised her. Her mug held the distinct smell of Earl Grey tea that appeared to have nothing in it but sugar.
“And milk if I had any,” Esmé agreed as if Isabelle had spoken aloud. “But the island has no milk until tomorrow so I make do with extra honey.” She pointed to a chair and then clapped her hands.
“My friends, you have drunk enough of my spirits. I appreciate your keeping the evening with me and will see you tomorrow if you need a headache cure.”