Emma Jensen - Entwined (22 page)

Wulfstan, he seemed to be everywhere Nathan was not. He had heard nothing of the man in days.

Rievaulx, Harlow, Witherspoon, Dennison, Brooke... five gone. Of course, in times of war, such things happened. Entire regiments died.

Certainly, more often than not, intelligence agents died, for they were inevitably the ones who got the closest to the enemy. Nathan wanted to find a connection between the deaths, something more tangible than war and the cleverness of Napoleon's own spies. But as the days passed and he pondered the same, sketchy information over and over, he was left frustrated and no closer to any answers than he'd had on that night when he had lost his sight and his closest friend.

Rotheroe, with his useless arm, seemed as likely to have orchestrated a series of fatal attacks as Mad King George himself. He had never been much of a soldier but had been useful to the Ten for his knack with languages and his uncanny ability to decipher French communiques. He had returned to England only a few weeks ago and, as foolish as it seemed, could not be eliminated as a suspect.

Sighing, Nathan set Isobel's napkin aside and rose from the table. Most likely, he and Rotheroe would do no more than reminisce about a time better left unremembered. Gerard would remain firm in his belief that none of his men could have turned against the others.

If Matthew felt guilt-ridden about the deaths, Nathan felt worse. Five good men were gone, and he could concentrate on only one matter: that of bedding his own wife.

Isobel had assumed her sister-in-law was developing an affection for her. Apparently she had been wrong. Mariah was clearly of the opinion that torture by pins had not been enough. She was now herding Isobel, rather like some mindless animal, into the milliner's.

"Do not be absurd," she chided, "every woman likes hats!"

"I did not say I disliked them." Isobel wondered if it would be too childish of her to grab onto the door frame and cling there. "I said I had no need of more."

"Nonsense."

Mariah gave her a shove and got her into the busy shop. Isobel offered a weak smile to several familiar faces. Mariah glared resolutely and set to examining the stock with a serious and critical eye. She selected a hat, placed it on Isobel's head, then stood and silently regarded her.

When she finally did speak, it was with a weary sigh. "Can you not smile a bit, Isobel? It is so very difficult to tell what becomes you when you are scowling."

Isobel shoved an encroaching spray of papier-mâché cherries from her brow. "I look ridiculous. Were I to smile, I would look witless."

"Well, perhaps the fruit arrangement is a bit much."

" 'Tis no arrangement. 'Tis a breakfast bowl."

The cherries were soon replaced by a profusion of silk lilies. "There!

Much better."

"Than the cherries?" Isobel muttered. "To be sure, but an improvement like going from pan to fire."

Mariah stepped back and planted her hands on her hips. She, of course, looked utterly charming, Isobel thought, with a feathery creation that resembled a swan perched atop her pale curls. "You are hopeless!"

"Aye, well, I've been telling you that for days now." Isobel returned the lilies to the counter. "I've an appalling taste for the unacceptable." Turning to the shopgirl, she pointed to a simple, high-crowned bonnet and said,

"Leaf-green silk, pleated within the crown, ivory ribbon."

"Yes, madam." The woman hurried away in search of the fabric.

"Really, Isobel. I am doing my best to put you in fashion, and you insist on thwarting me at every turn. Why, that red silk at the modiste's—"

"Made me look like a lobster with a carrot garnish." Isobel gave the other woman an unrepentant grin. "I am very much afraid you're destined to be disappointed by me."

Mariah's frown quickly turned into a smile. "I could never be disappointed by you, dearest. I never would have thought—that is, none of us..." A delicate flush stained her cheeks, and she turned back again to forage among the flowers and fruit.

"Mariah?"

"Hmm?"

" 'Tis all right. I understand. But it would help me if you were to talk about it."

"About?"

"Oh, don't, please. About Nathan and what happened to him, to your family."

For a moment, she thought her sister-in-law would refuse. Then Mariah gave a small sigh. "We thought we had lost him for good after he returned from the Peninsula. He went straight to Hertfordshire with no more than a brief message telling us not to come. William went, as soon as he could.

Nathan would not... would not see him."

Isobel's heart ached for her husband's siblings, for his parents who still did not quite know how to reach him. "His pride is a fierce thing," she offered gently. "It pains him even now to be seen with the cane."

"I know that. We all do. But it's more than pride. Nathan has never quite been like the rest of us. He has always taken so much upon himself, responsibility for things beyond his control. Has he spoken of Anne?"

"His first fiancée, aye."

"We all adored her. We all suffered when she died. But Nathan..."

Mariah shrugged, her eyes sad. "Nathan blamed himself and would not allow any of us near enough to tell him how foolish that was, nor to comfort him. Dear God, Isobel, after the funeral he stood by her graveside for hours, so straight and silent, even when it began to rain. We all tried to get him to come away, but it was as if he were deaf and blind in his grief.

No, in his guilt."

"He loved her," Isobel said softly. And she thought, irrationally, that this Anne had been a weak woman indeed to die when she'd had Nathan's devotion to live for.

"We were so frightened when he left for the Continent," Mariah continued, "sure he would take the country's future onto his shoulders alone. We were so frightened, yet none of us dared ask him not to go."

"He's back now." Isobel had no idea what else she could possibly say.

"He is, yes. But he is still distant around us. There's still that reluctance in his eyes. Except when he looks at you."

"Mariah."

"I think my brother can't help but be touched, perhaps too much, by those around him. It's his nature. It frightens him, though, so much that he closes himself off." Mariah gripped Isobel's hand tightly, desperation in her touch. "Don't let him go away again, Isobel. Please. Don't
you
go away."

Saddened and overwhelmed, Isobel could only give a silent shake of her head. How could she explain that her role was practical, nothing more? And that, should Nathan perceive himself unable to function in Society, he would close himself off again—from all of them, herself included. Even after mere weeks in Nathan's presence, she was aware it would hurt beyond comprehension if he should turn away from her.

She was both confused and frightened by her conflicting feelings. Each night, her knees went to jelly at the thought he might come again to her chamber. He would not break his promise, she knew, but her nerves skittered nonetheless each time she heard a noise through the connecting door. If it had been mere apprehension, she would have scolded herself and been done with it. But there was more: a vague anticipation that bewildered her. He charmed her at times, set her heart to rabbity jumps, and then made her so wary that she could have screamed.

Worried that anything she might say would cause more damage than solace, she stepped away from her sister-in-law to survey a display of beaded bandeaus.

She did not look up when the door opened, but could not resist a peek when a clear, soprano voice demanded attention. The new arrivals were, she decided, precisely what Mariah was hoping to make her. The shorter woman was fair, delicate, and bore a lovely resemblance to a china doll.

The taller was, to Isobel, nearly perfect. Slender and raven-haired, she had a face that belonged on a cameo and a voice that belonged on the stage.

"Why, Mariah! What good luck to find you here!"

From her vantage point several yards away, Isobel watched her sister-in-law replace a length of spangled ribbon with unnecessary care. "Good morning, Lady Bronnar."

Lady Bronnar, ignoring the coolness of the greeting, moved forward in a swirl of pristine white muslin and violet scent. She seized Mariah's hands and demanded, "You must set my mind at ease on a particular matter. I have heard your brother has married."

"He has, yes."

"So the report was true. We have just returned from Bath, you see." She leaned in, quite dwarfing the diminutive Mariah. "I arrived home to hear..."

One slender hand went to her bosom. "Oh, it cannot be true, my dear. I have heard he married the daughter of a Highland
crofter!"

Someone coughed. Someone else giggled. Isobel swallowed a sigh, stepped behind a display of military-style hats, and wondered if she ought to have a sign made to wear about her neck.
Lady Oriel,
it would read.
Scottish. Domesticated. References available through Her Grace, the
Duchess of Abergele.

"My brother," Mariah said evenly, "married the daughter of a Scottish gentleman, cousin to Lord MacLeod of Skye."

Isobel winced. They were related, to be sure, to the chief of Clan MacLeod, but it was a distant connection at best. Most of the ten-thousand-odd MacLeods in Scotland could claim as much. Beyond that, to call him Lord MacLeod of Skye was not quite accurate. He was MacLeod of MacLeod, and was about as likely to be found in any English book of the peerage as her "gentleman" father.

Sighing, she decided she'd best correct the mistake. She had taken no more than a step, however, when Lady Bronnar's companion chanced upon the green silk that the milliner had brought out for Isobel's bonnet.

"Oh, Cecily, look! Would this not be perfect with your new morning dress? I daresay it is precisely the same color!"

Cecily.
The title alone had meant nothing to Isobel. The name Cecily set her teeth on edge. She had heard it just a tad too often, whispered just loudly enough in her presence so she would be certain to hear. And understand.

This was the woman to whom Nathan had been engaged, the one who had broken their attachment with a careless letter while he lay wounded in a Portuguese field hospital.

The door opened again, admitting enough giggling ladies to make the shop crowded and to convince Isobel that someone had orchestrated this event and sold tickets. Such was the way of London, she was learning. All\

potentially unpleasant encounters must be had with at least a dozen gawking people in attendance.

Perhaps a good Highlander would never turn away from adversity, but a wise woman always retreated from an uneven battleground. Had Bonnie Prince Charlie and his hapless Scots been a bit less thickheaded, they might have avoided the slaughter at Culloden Field. Of course, there had been no women in their ranks.

Isobel was presently surrounded by the English, on their turf. What she had to say to Lady Bronnar would be much better done in a dark alley with a claymore. Pelting the woman with fake apples in the midst of a crowded millinery shop would not suffice.

"Mariah," Isobel called, relinquishing her hiding place, "I believe it is time to go."

"But the bonnet..." The modiste, arms full of silk, saw her sale heading toward the door.

"The green," Isobel announced coolly, "is bilious."

Doing her best to forget that her periwinkle sarcenet was a bit mussed from a day's shopping and that Mariah's ministrations with the papier-mâché fruit had left her hair in wild disarray, she gave Cecily Bronnar an even glance.

Mariah, clearly torn between dread and gleeful anticipation of some stinging Scottish wit, performed the introductions. Isobel vaguely registered that the other woman was Miss Julia Mewell. She would very much have liked to offer her condolences on having such an unpleasant mother, but stifled the urge.

"Lady Bronnar." She would have chewed on glass before expressing any pleasure in the meeting. "My husband has spoken of you."

This was clearly not what the divine Cecily had expected. Isobel had the impression that she herself was not what had been expected, either. Quite probably, this ravishing creature had expected the Highland crofter's daughter to be another ravishing creature. How else, after all, could she have snared a marquess?

One thing Isobel could say with some affection for the English was that they were amazingly easy to read. She had, in mere moments, been perused and dismissed. Lofty MacLeod connections or no, she was clearly not worthy of the lady's concern.

"Has he?" Cecily queried archly, flashing a smile that might have been truly dazzling had it not been so false. "I am gratified to know he still remembers me upon occasion. How very kind of him."

Isobel gave Cecily an equally false smile. "Oh, the recollection wasn't particularly kind."

The woman's eyes narrowed at the insult, but her smile did not falter.

What a picture they must make, Isobel thought: smirking at each other. It was all just too silly. And rather entertaining.

"We have all been much concerned for Oriel's health, my lady," Cecily announced.

"Have you? How kind."

That particular gauntlet remained down.

"His friends were much distressed. Why, he disappeared so completely from Society after his return, we could not help but comment upon the gravity of his injuries. I have since heard the physical wounds were not so very terrible, after all."

So you think he has a broken heart, do you?
Isobel wondered if Cecily fancied that Nathan was shattered beyond repair. How very vexing it must have been, if so, to hear he had married—and married a woman whose appeal could not have been money or position. "As we are in Town now, I imagine you will have ample opportunity to see how fully he has recovered."

"Mmm. We shall see, shan't we?" The woman gave an elegant shrug.

"Men must expect a bit of discomfort, traipsing off to war like that. I am sure he, like so many others, regrets his decision to enlist."

Isobel tilted her head and hoped her smile read as much of pity as distaste. "I believe, Lady Bronnar, he has no regrets at all on
that
choice.