Emma Jensen - Entwined (16 page)

William about his experiments."

"His experiments?"

"We will discuss William's little hobby at another time."

"I see." Which, of course, she did not. "And the second warning?"

"The second," he said, repressing a grim laugh, "is that my father is rather fond of guns. Should you find yourself with one pointed at your chest, I would not advise any sudden moves."

He caught a flash of fire-touched red as she jumped to her feet. "What are you telling me?"

"I am not foretelling your doom, my dear." Nathan rose as well. He did not especially want to leave, but it seemed best. "I am merely arming you with a bit of useful knowledge. For the moment, we will leave it at that."

"Leave it at that? Are you daft?"

All he had to do was lean forward and give her a deliberately cold smile to still her tongue. It was a nasty trick and he knew it, but the very last conversation he wanted to have at present was a detailed one concerning his parents.

"I will bid you a good night, then, Isobel."

To her credit, she managed a reasonably even, "And to you, my lord."

"Nathan. I should like to hear you say my name, even if only when we are alone."

"Very well. Nathan."

He imagined she was relieved enough at his departure that she would probably call him Saint Augustine should he ask. He was smiling again as he headed, carefully, toward the connecting door. "Ah, one more small matter."

"Aye" She sounded wary again.

"For what it is worth, Isobel, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known."

He entered his own bedchamber and closed the door firmly behind him.

It was sometime later when Isobel made her way to her bed on shaky legs. Never in her life had anyone said any words remotely similar to her, and their effect was diminished only slightly by the fact that they had been spoken by a blind man.

"Vanity," she muttered, annoyed at her reaction "and you've no right to it, lass." She was not a vain woman, but she was proud, and it irked her that she could be so moved by shallow, patently untrue sentiments. But oh, how nice the words had sounded.

Cursing, scolding herself, Isobel crawled under the covers and leaned back against the lush pillows. It had been a mad day, ending the maddest of weeks. She felt drained and battered, the best of her defenses gone. She had spent her life battling familiar enemies: her father's drinking, her brothers'

carelessness, unending poverty. Now she was faced with a devil she did not know.

She was on foreign turf here in London, among an unquestionably foreign race of people. She could no more imagine herself moving with ease through the ton than through tribes of cannibals. And from what little she knew of those tribes, they had logical reasons for chewing on one another. English society did it for no reason whatsoever. She had a very good idea that this group of people whom she had never met would have a taste for simple Scot.

Above all, it would be folly to assume she knew the man she had married. He changed like the weather, alternating from saying words that made her melt to saying no words at all. And then there were those moments when he seemed more animal than man.

Shivering, she burrowed under the covers. "In for a pence; in for a pound" was but one of the axioms that tripped merrily from her father's tongue. He had never been much good at following it, but his daughters were. Not that she herself had had much of a choice, Isobel thought. She had made her promises, though, and she would keep them. Assuming, of course, the duke did not shoot her first or the ton devour her.

Wide awake and knowing there would be little sleep for her that night, Isobel stared at the ornate panels of the connecting door. She wondered, even as she did not really want to know, what was going through Nathan's mind as he slept in his lair.

Gabriel was whistling a cheerful tune about willing lasses and deep,
waving grasses. Nathan was glowering into the Portuguese darkness, since
glowering at his friend served no purpose whatsoever. "Idiocy," he
muttered. "Told you the second bottle was too much. We'll be an hour
finding our way to the docks."

"Can you not desist with the grumbling even for a minute? You are quite
spoiling my tune." Gabriel slowed his weaving pace so they were walking
even—or at least together. "I could have sent you off on your own, you
know. I had an unmistakable invitation from that barmaid to stay."

"Don't know why you didn't," Nathan grumbled. But he did know. His
friend was stumbling beside him for the same reason he had come to
Lisbon. "Damn, but I'm going to miss you."

"Oh, I'll be joining you at home soon enough. Comfort yourself by
thinking of all the splendid, uninterrupted time you'll have with your new
bride."

"You are still being altogether too glib about the matter."

"Just glib enough, I think. I do not envy you your shackles, my friend."

"Gabriel..."

"Plenty of time for me to forge my own chains." Indicating the subject
had been pounded into the ground, the man commenced with a new tune,
singing instead of whistling this time, about two sisters, four breasts, and
twenty roaming fingers.

Nathan shook his head wryly. God only knew who was writing this
drivel. Then he found himself humming— then singing along. Gabriel
paused long enough to give an approving laugh, which carried above the
tune and into the still night.

They never had the chance to complete the chorus.

Two figures erupted without warning from the shadows, dark specters
whose blades flashed even in the darkness. Nathan's reflexes saved his life.

He'd turned and the saber sank into his thigh rather than his side. The pain
was instant, blinding, and he went down. As he did, he saw the black stain
on his friend's shirt—and his white astonished face.

"Rievaulx!" he gasped. "Oh, God. Gabriel!"

Then Nathan was dealt a crushing blow to his temple. With fire behind
his eyes and pain screaming along his leg, he could not tell whether he had
been hit with a blade or cudgel. It did not matter. Desperate, in agony, he
fought the blackness, screaming his friend's name.

"Gabriel!"

Nathan came awake with a start, his chest slick with sweat, his cheeks damp with tears.

CHAPTER 10

Isobel flinched as another hurriedly placed pin bit into her skin. She accepted the flushed modiste's apology with far more grace than she was feeling. It was not the woman's fault, after all, that Nathan had swept into the establishment with all the officiousness of Wellington himself, demanding immediate and complete attention. Nor could the woman be blamed for the fact that none of the partially completed gowns on hand was a perfect fit for Lord Oriel's new wife.

Whoever had commissioned the pale green silk now draped over Isobel's weary form had been broader of hip, smaller of bosom, and would undoubtedly be less than pleased to learn her gown had been commandeered. Isobel decided the unknown lady could not be anyone of great title or fortune; the modiste had handed the garment over much too easily for it to have been intended for anyone of importance.

Even as she admitted it was a lovely creation, Isobel grumbled to herself over the inequities inherent in Society. How very irksome it must be, she thought, to have one's silk confiscated by a marchioness, even more so to have to take such theft with good grace.

"Voil
à
!"
the modiste cried.
"Parfaite,
Do you not think so, my lord?"

She had yet to address much more than apologies to Isobel. Nathan's severe and decidedly looming manner had that effect on people. They all but performed acrobatics to satisfy him.

His presence in the fitting room was apparently disconcerting to no one but his wife. Even the knowledge that he could not see any of her exposed skin did not offer much comfort. He was sprawled in one of madame's delicate chairs, nodding occasionally at the comments shot his way while, Isobel thought, his mind was quite probably somewhere else entirely.

He tilted his head now and frowned. He had frowned nearly as often as he had nodded. At first the severe expression had frightened the modiste's assistants to the point that one had dropped several bolts of fabric on Isobel's foot. Now the frown merely engendered a few discreet flinches.

"I am not certain," he said gruffly, "that the style does justice to my wife's charms. What is your opinion, my dear?"

They had done quite well, really, at this particular charade, and Isobel played her part with ease. "I am rather fond of this shade, my lord. It brings to mind the first blades of spring grass, does it not?"

Describing the differences in the dresses had not been difficult. Color, fabric, trim. Other than the riding habits, all had been high waisted and softly draped. This one, however, possessed a feature Isobel was having some problem putting into words.

"The bodice is perhaps a bit, er, it..."
It what? Plunges? Skirts the edge
of decency? Has created a very nice little shelf on which I can rest my
champagne glass?

Madame clucked her tongue impatiently. "The décolletage is the height of fashion, milady." She turned to Nathan. "And what do you think, milord?"

Without saying a word, Nathan all but erupted from his seat and, before Isobel could protest, was ascertaining the dress's edges for himself.

Isobel bit back a squeak as his hands slid up her arms, his thumbs flying quick and intimate over the silver gilt embroidery trimming the bodice. As before, her skin tingled in the wake of his touch, an insidious warmth spreading along the sides of her breasts. It tingled, too, in spots he did not touch at all. Mortified, she nearly lifted her hands to cover the visible signs before remembering he could not see the effect of his tactile assault.

He could not see. Odd, how easy it was to forget between one moment and the next. And she always forgot when he was touching her.

The disturbing perusal was over in an instant, done under the guise of turning her to face him. Still, the sensation lingered even after his hands dropped away. Perhaps she would have relaxed had he stepped back. But he remained less than an arm's length away, frowning down at her. There was an intentness in his unseeing eyes, and Isobel felt her own chin rising.

A ball gown did not a marchioness make. Nor did strange sensations bring her any closer to understanding the odd connection between her and Nathan. But she would dress in sackcloth and ride a goat down Piccadilly, she thought, rather than allow this situation to defeat her.

"It is a beginning," Nathan said at last.

He had, it seemed, somehow comprehended her thoughts. And Isobel understood, without a doubt, that he was not speaking of green silk.

"I will have it delivered this evening." The modiste, understanding nothing at all, clapped her hands at her assistants. "The rest will follow."

"Indeed," Nathan murmured. Then, blinking as if in sudden light, he demanded, "What is available for Lady Oriel now?"

"Décolleté armor," Isobel answered, and wished Nathan could see madame and her assistants scrambling to find a dress appropriate for launching Lady Oriel into London Society.

"Gray," she muttered sometime later as the carriage wended its way through Mayfair. "It would be gray."

"Madame said it was all the rage," Nathan replied, unable to resist mimicking the modiste's Paris-via-Yorkshire whine. "Madame la Marchioness weel resemble nossing less than a dove, weel she not?"

Isobel snorted. "With my hair? Madame la Marchioness weel resemble nossing less than a pin with a rusted head. A dove." She sighed then.

"Doves are nossing but pigeons with delusions of grandeur."

Nathan wanted to touch her. Well, he always wanted to touch her, but this time it would be to offer some small measure of strength. He clenched his hands more tightly around the knob of his walking stick. "You look lovely, Isobel." She snorted again. "Yes, yes, the blindness. Do us both a great service, my dear, and do not underestimate me. I can feel your presence, you know. It is lovely."

There was a softness to the following silence. Astonishing, Nathan mused, how he actually
could
feel her. She was pleased with the compliment and annoyed with her pleasure.

"I do wish I could have given you more time," he offered after a moment, "but the announcement will have been in the morning's
Times,
and my parents would never recover should they have to face the certain hordes of well-wishing friends without having seen you first."

He thought he heard her mutter something about first blood.

He had sent his announcement to his parents. What he had not told her was that he had timed its arrival to beat the newspaper by minutes. The duke and duchess would be able to say, with complete honesty and hauteur, that they had known of their son's marriage before the public. They would not, however, have had time to do much more than gape and stutter.

His father would do the gaping and stuttering, actually, Nathan thought.

His mother would sigh, square noble shoulders, and immediately begin mapping out her own strategy.

He had great faith in his mother's ability to master the situation. He had complete faith in Isobel.

"Have you any last-minute instructions for me, my lord?" she was asking now. He could sense her hands fluttering, smoothing dove gray skirts and copper curls.

"Have you any last words?" he shot back, knowing instinctively that humor would aid both of them.

Her silvery laugh was both comfort and torture. "Aye. If I do not walk away from this skirmish, Maggie is to have every last one of the dresses for which you just emptied your pockets. I'll not have you slipping 'round that one simply because your strategy proved poor."