Beauty and the Wolf

by Marina Myles

  “Do you ride every morning?” she asked breathlessly once they’d guided their horses to a stop at the foot of a dangerous-looking cliff.

  He met her stare with interest. “I intend to start. After you’ve spent any length of time at Thorncliff Towers, you will want to escape its dreary atmosphere as well.”

  Isabella pushed a curl from her eyes. “I don’t know if my legs could stand this kind of riding every day.”

  “That’s a shame. I hoped you would join me outdoors every morning.”

  She gave him a smile. “Am I not an enemy to be avoided?”

  “Please forget what I said yesterday, Isabella. I acted impulsively and out of anger. I regretted it all evening.” Draven flashed a devastating grin. “Can we be pleasant with one another?”

  Hope sprang in her chest. Considering her husband’s good mood today, persuading him to make love to her might not be as hard as she thought.

  “I suppose there’s no harm in joining you for a ride every morning,” she said.

  He crossed his hands over the saddle horn. “Good.”

  “Perhaps we can spend some time in the library afterward.”

  “I would love to, but following my ride, I seek the solitude of my suites.”

  “What keeps you holed up there all day?” Isabella asked as her breath misted in the morning chill.

  “I am in the process of starting a shipbuilding business. Before he died, my father spoiled me by purchasing property in the Canterbury docks.” Draven inhaled the fresh air. “Keeping my mind on business helps me maintain a sense of sanity in this dreary place.”

  “I thought I was the only one who thought this estate was dreary.”

  She watched the front of his hair flap about in the wind. With a charming tilt of his head, he smiled at her and the way his face transformed wrapped pleasure around her spine.

  “We should dismount and sit awhile,” he said. “I’m sure the horses would like to graze.”

  He swung himself to the ground then skirted his horse to help Isabella down. A breeze from the shoreline fluttered over them once they settled on the swaying grass. Isabella plucked up the last flower to survive the autumn chill and spun it in circles by its stem. “Speaking of Thorncliff Towers, doesn’t it bother you that the house is so remote?”

  Draven shrugged. Most of his shoulder-length hair had fallen from its queue. Isabella resisted the urge to touch the shimmering strands.

  “The public at large has never been very kind to me. One could say I prefer solitude,” he said.

  “What about friends?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you have any?”

  “Not really.” His voice caught slightly. “From way back, even my schoolmates thought me odd.”

  Empathy pinged through her. “I had the same problem. When I was growing up, my nose was always stuck in a book. The other children teased me for being so serious.”

  “They say serious children grow into serious adults,” he teased.

  “I suppose that’s true. But I became even more solemn when my mother died.”

  Draven dropped his smile. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged but inside the hurt came back. “At least I have my father.”

  “Presuming you have more friends than I, you must prefer to be among people.”

  She nodded then looked into his eyes. “I hated being alone when my mother died and my father was in Egypt.”

  “But it taught you to be independent. Correct?”

  “Yes,” she answered as a sense of vulnerability crept along her spine. “Out of necessity, I’m not a submissive type of woman.”

  Draven examined her as if she were a science experiment. He had begun to pry into Isabella’s deepest recesses and she wasn’t at all comfortable with the intrusion.

  “It appears that you’ve always placed the care of others before yourself,” he said.

  “Perhaps. When my mother was alive, she suffered from poor health. I attended to her quite diligently, but I don’t deserve a medal. I was raised to believe that sacrifices are sometimes necessary.”

  “And now that you are here, you find yourself in an ironic situation,” Draven said as he hung his elbows over his bent knees.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a wealthy countess and you’re still making sacrifices. Sacrifices such as being married to me.” His eyes twinkled engagingly.

  She laughed. “At least my wardrobe will improve.”

  He laughed as well. Then he paused. “You also have more authority than you’ve ever had. Come now. What will you change about Thorncliff Towers now that you’re its countess?”

  Highly aware that Draven had shifted closer, Isabella chose her words carefully so as not to offend him. “The estate looks a bit neglected but it’s the garden that bothers me most. It’s crying out for some color. Rosebushes, perhaps? Red roses are my favorite flower.”

  “And I forgot to supply you with a bridal bouquet made from those flowers, didn’t I?”

  “Yes,” she said as her cheeks warmed. It appeared that he hadn’t forgotten completely.

  He reached out and squeezed her hand by way of an apology. A brief silence accompanied the electricity that passed between them. They sat studying the waves cresting in the distance. The silence exaggerated the warm touch of Draven’s broad shoulder against hers.

  “Well”—Draven cleared his throat—“I’m pleased that you have an interest in Thorncliff Towers. Perhaps drawing up an improvement plan is something we can do together.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  Draven cast her a sly smile. “In fact, we can do quite a few things together, assuming you drop your ultimatum.”

  Things like what? Make love?

  If he was willing, she must try and seduce him right here and now.

  The sun broke through a cloud mass, showering them with heat. Isabella forced herself to hold his gaze. She unbuttoned her lace collar in slow motion and moistened her lips in what she assumed was an inviting gesture. “I won’t have to abide by my ultimatum if you invite me into your bed,” she whispered.

  Draven raised a winged brow. Remaining silent, he removed his greatcoat. As he leaned closer, off came his frock coat. Then in slow tugs, he unbuttoned his shirt.

  Isabella ran a finger down her neck, lower and lower inside the fabric of her dress, until her hand rested at the rise of her breast. Draven stared at her. It was his turn to wet his lips. They locked eyes and he reached over to take the daffodil from her hand. Her heart sped.

  Securing the flower behind her ear, he bent over her as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’re very beautiful, Isabella. A beacon of goodness in my eyes.”

  Her soul stirred at the compliment.

  “And you could be a wonderful husband, if you’d try,” she murmured.

  “Do you know what I think?” His voice purred with eroticism.

  “What?”

  “I think you are as aroused as I am.” His fingers stroked her arm before they reached the nape of her neck.

  Will he kiss me?

  Draven’s stare shifted from her eyes to her mouth. Cupping the back of her head, he bent forward and seared her lips with a slow, scorching kiss. Isabella’s heart thudded like a caged animal’s. As sensual energy roared through her, she let out a moan.

  She never suspected seducing Draven would bring her so much pleasure.

  He gathered her to him with urgency. His tongue plunged its way past her lips while her body shuddered. Swelling against him until the sensitive tips of her bosom heaved against his open shirt, Isabella longed to feel his hand at her breasts. Fondling them. Kneading them. And she wanted to feel his hard, smooth body intertwined with hers.

  Draven forced her head closer with a firm yank. The fervor between them escalated as he bore her down and shifted his weight on top of her. His fingers sought her tangled hair while he devoured her neck and throat with his lips. He traced her leaping pulse wi
th the tip of his tongue and Isabella’s eyes fluttered shut. She wanted him to do much more than kiss her.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Draven ran his hand along her bodice until it reached the mound of her breast. With the ease of an expert, he found its nub through the fabric and tweaked it until she groaned with ecstasy.

  He gave her another hard kiss and she could feel his shaft grow monstrously erect against her leg. As he bunched up the fabric of her dress, his breathing came in ragged spurts. He slid a hand up her thigh. Hot and completely aroused, Isabella sucked in a sharp breath. Her folds flooded with moisture in anticipation of his fingers reaching her center.

  Like a silent thief, Draven’s fingers stole inside her pantalets and combed her soft curls. Carefully but very firmly, he located her damp petals. As he captured her mouth, his fingertips caressed the sensitive skin of her flanges and while his hand moved in tighter circles toward her center, she spread her legs so that he could delve a finger inside her.

  At the feel of it, Isabella swore she could see the gates of heaven. “Oh, Draven—”

  Draven’s hard prick continued to press against her leg but at that moment, his mouth turned cruel. He extracted his finger only to grope her breasts in a painful grip.

  “My Bella—” he murmured gruffly. “My beauty.”

  She commanded her inner voice to be quiet and enjoy the moment. If she didn’t stop him, perhaps they would make love here under the cloudless sky. It’s what she wanted. Yet Draven’s frenzied actions reminded her of his rough behavior on their wedding night.

  He continued on in impatient motions but she recoiled. Panic seized Isabella. She tried to jerk her head away from the crush of his mouth but he wouldn’t let her. Grunting, he yanked her chin back in his direction and bit down on her lip. She screamed and slapped his face. He rolled off of her while she sat up and put her fingers to the bleeding wound.

  Draven’s eyes widened at the sight of her blood. “Christ—”

  “How could you?” she screeched.

  He clutched her hand, blood and all, and brought it to his nose. His body began to tremble while his eyes flashed an unnatural shade of red—as they had on their wedding night.

  Isabella bolted to her feet and stumbled to her horse. “I must clean this off.”

  “Wait!” he ordered.

  The fierceness of his voice stopped her. Her legs quaked.

  “I’m sorry, Isabella, but I warned you not to come back.”

  Giving him no answer, she hurried onto Dante’s saddle and galloped away in a blaze of terror.

  Chapter Twelve

  Temper flaring, Draven handed Lucifer’s reins to Viktor. He saw Isabella disappear into the house as he approached it. Good thing. If she hadn’t run away when she did, he may have ravaged every inch of her.

  What the hell is happening to me? The Gypsy spell was getting the better of him without the appearance of a full moon.

  Guilt gripped him as he marched toward the steps that led to the shingle beach. The feel of Isabella’s freed locks against his freshly shaved skin and the confectionery taste of her lips had spawned his wildness in the light of day. Worse yet, he had sliced her mouth open, spilling blood that smelled salty and bittersweet—different than the blood of the animals he’d conquered. And much more enticing.

  He cringed to think he’d allowed Isabella even the slightest glimpse at his inner demon.

  She must think me deranged.

  His lack of power against his other half churned his stomach, as did the shame that accompanied it.

  Straining to order himself, Draven shoved his gloves into the pocket of his frock coat and breathed in the moist, billowing wind. A group of waterfowl squawked overhead as he reached the beach.

  The breeze that swept over the small bay calmed him momentarily. He crossed the pebbled beach and watched the cold seawater rise into whitecaps. The warm colors of sunset that glimmered above the bay reminded him that a full moon would rise tonight. He scowled. For Isabella’s sake, he hoped that she had safely locked herself away in her suites.

  Isabella put a hand to the windowpane and watched Draven storm to the beach below the manor house.

  Had she made a mistake in trying to seduce him? He’d become violent, cruel. Was he capable of anything but aggression? Will he ever make love to me gently?

  If she was so determined to have a baby with Draven, she needed to find out all she could about his so-called “affliction.” Considering the possibility that this condition may affect their child, she must know what lay ahead of her. After all, what kind of person smells someone’s blood?

  She was a wreck. As she managed to force her jittering nerves aside, a plan formed in her mind. Maybe she should look for clues in Draven’s suites that would explain his bizarre actions.

  Touching her bleeding lips, she made her way to the south turret. The essence of Mrs. Tidwell’s words replayed in her head as she arrived at the doors that marked her husband’s chambers. Draven is capable of much more than spying. He spent three years in an asylum following his father’s death.

  The possibility that Draven was mad alarmed Isabella. Although it didn’t negate the rumors of him being a murderer, it would explain his violent demeanor.

  Letting out a shudder, she entered his suite and bolted the lock behind her. She struggled to breathe as she pressed her back to the door. Her encounter with Draven on the knoll seemed like a nightmare, an unsettling blur. When he brought her blood-smeared hand to his nostrils, he had convulsed without control and a shadow of evil had passed over his face.

  What will he do if he catches me going through his personal things?

  Suppressing the fear churning inside her, Isabella rushed to the dressing room. The space smelled of sandalwood and tobacco, just as she remembered. She ran her hand over a mahogany-topped bureau displaying Draven’s personal effects. A shaving brush stood within a matching mug and an ebony-coated razor lay beside it in its wrapper. Behind a Truefitt and Hill toiletry jar rested a herringbone comb.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled her husband’s lingering scent. Sliding the tip of her tongue over her lips, she wondered if she’d missed her only chance to know Draven’s hard body against hers.

  Gathering a clean handkerchief, she pressed it to her injured mouth. She crouched down and began to search her husband’s wardrobe. There on the bottom shelf sat a plaid blanket. She removed it and saw nothing behind the folded material on the same shelf. But when she returned the blanket to its original position, a brass key tumbled from its folds. Isabella picked it up and flipped it over in her hand. What did it unlock?

  She tried the key at Draven’s desk to no avail. Would it give her entry into the mysterious library?

  She moved to the window Draven had leapt through on their wedding night. To her dismay, it faced the courtyard and not the beach. She wondered if her husband had reentered the house yet. If not, perhaps she had time to try the key in the library’s door before he returned.

  She decided to take her chances. Rushing to the manor’s first level, Isabella slipped the brass object into the lock. She sucked in a breath and turned the knob. It opened! After stepping quietly into the dark, circular room, she clicked the door shut behind her and threw back the curtains. Then she set about searching for anything that might enlighten her about Draven’s family history.

  A writing desk stood in the corner of the vast library yet held nothing of importance. Shelves of novels and various textbooks yielded nothing noteworthy. She was about to search the drawer of a side table when Draven’s booming voice shook the walls.

  “Rogers, I’m going to my chambers and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Will ye want supper brought up later, sir?”

  “No.”

  “As ye wish, m’lord.”

  Isabella heard Rogers’s footfalls on the back stairwell while Draven’s boots pounded on the main staircase. Her pulse raced. There was only one place she hadn’t searched: a decorative chest
hidden behind a three-setting sofa. Stretching a hand forward, she pulled on the latch. Locked.

  Her hopes sinking, she looked about for something she could use to open it. Hastening to the writing desk, she extracted a letter opener. She returned to the chest and fumbled with the sharp object, cringing when it made noise inside the lock. She was ready to abandon the task when she heard a pop. The chest’s lid swung into the air by its hinges, releasing a whiff of musty air. She peered inside and saw that deep in the shadows sat an ornate notebook. A journal of some kind.

  Isabella sat on a nearby stool and ran her fingertips over the binding. On its cover was an embossed symbol of a moon. After she flipped the cover open, she thumbed through the pages at a rapid speed, glancing through illustrations of lunar phases, schedules of forthcoming full moons, and recipes for herbal remedies. Intrigued, Isabella stopped at the most recent entry penned yesterday.

  October 12, 1820

  The scent of Isabella’s blood beneath her skin is driving me mad. I’ve become transfixed. The flow of her blood naturally makes her pulse throb. As her pulse rises and falls against the cream of her neck, I long to run my mouth along it and gently bite down.

  Damnation!

  Why has she returned here? Simply to torture me? No. She has done the honorable thing by resuming our marriage. Therefore I must be a gentleman and do the same. How I wish I could tell her of my curse. But she would surely leave me again. In my silence, I will have protected relations with her. I hope I can stop myself from hurting her, for God knows, I care for her deeply.

  Will I ever tell her of my affections—or of my Gypsy hex?

  The entry made little sense. Isabella’s heart beat in triple time. What hex could Draven be referring to? She was happy that he planned to make love to her, but his attraction to blood still alarmed her.

  Her hands trembled and she felt light-headed. Draven’s words offered proof of his violent thoughts but it also gave her a glimpse at his emotions. Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes. By the torment Draven recorded here—and considering the reference he’d made to a Gypsy hex—it was obvious he hadn’t been fully cured before he left the asylum.