Emma Jensen - Entwined (24 page)

She turned back just in time to see her husband struggling with a portly figure garbed in a tight blue coat and straining brocade waistcoat. The man's heavily ornamented watch chain, pushed outward by his belly, yet caught firmly at the watch end in the waistcoat pocket, had snagged on one of Nathan's sleeve buttons. Nathan, in his blindness, and the other gentleman, no more coordinated as the clear result of too much drink, were all but pummeling each other in an effort to solve the matter. Nathan was muttering vague invectives; the other man laughed with abandon.

Isobel stepped in and, with a deft twist, disconnected them. The man patted her cheek with force worthy of her father-in-law and bellowed,

"Splendid girl, splendid!" Then he gave Nathan an equally approving cuff.

Nathan grumbled something rude.

It was lost to a shouted, "Good man, Oriel! My regards to both of you!"

The figure tottered up the remaining stairs.

Isobel turned back to Nathan to find him scowling fiercely, recognition clear on his face. She laughed and patted his cheek. "Dinna fash yourself, laddie. He's too drunk to have heard you."

He grunted. "Very amusing. You might have warned me."

"I was too busy enjoying the scene." Isobel took his arm and guided him toward their carriage. She paused at the step to face him. " 'Tisn't every day a woman sees her husband wrestling with the Prince Regent. 'Twas too—"

Her breath went out of her lungs in a whoosh as Nathan's fist landed hard on her chest. The carriage shuddered; someone shouted. Isobel's only coherent thought, as her husband's weight shoved her backward through the open door and onto the floor, was that as she had been the one struck, there was no call for another woman to be screaming. Then Nathan was cursing and covering her body with his.

The entire scene was over in seconds. There were more shouts, the carriage rocked again, and Nathan's weight was lifted away. Isobel glanced up, gasping for breath, to see several gentlemen supporting him. One was examining the back of his coat.

"Did you catch him?" Nathan rasped. "Damn it, somebody stop him!"

Bewildered, Isobel looked past him. The crowd on the steps had turned to face them. Several faces were decidedly pale.

"Happened too fast," one of the men answered. "He just struck and ran."

Another let out a low whistle as he poked at Nathan's coat. "Someone above was looking out for you, Oriel. The blade sliced right through the tail."

Blade?
Isobel struggled to sit up. "Nathan?"

He was in front of her in an instant, his hands finding her shoulders with unerring ease. "Dear God, Isobel, are you all right?"

"I am fine. What happened?"

"Footpad," someone offered. "Must've been going for the purse. Bloody scoundrel could've killed you."

Nathan's hand did not go to his pocket. Instead, he pulled Isobel tightly against him. For a moment, she could feel his heart, beating hard, against her breast. Then he released her and stepped back, face taut. "Did anyone get a decent look at him?"

Everyone had. Only no one had gotten the same decent look. According to those present, the man had been monstrous, average, and the size of a young boy. He was blond, raven-haired, and hooded. The only matter on which everyone could agree was that he had moved extremely quickly.

There was little to be done, Nathan thought. The man was long gone.

Running after him was not an option. Nathan climbed into the carriage, bitterly cursing both his blindness and his leg, which ached from the event.

No, he could not chase the blackguard, but he could get Isobel away from the scene. He might not be capable of protecting her, but brick walls would.

He rapped his cane against the roof, willing the driver to get them away as quickly as possible. He wanted to get Isobel home— immediately.

"Nathan?" Her soft voice beckoned him and, heedless of pride, he shifted from his seat to hers, gathering her tightly against his side. "Nathan, he did not cut you?"

"No. He did not."

Nathan knew that the near miss had not been for lack of intent or effort.

It had been pure luck the knife had not found its target. He had felt a shove at his shoulder, causing him to lose his balance. As he was falling he had felt a tug, clearly from the blade, at the back of his coat. The fall into the carriage had, in all probability, saved his life, and possibly Isobel's.

His heart was still thudding. It had been a bold act, attempting such an attack in public, and a clever one. It was a simple matter for a man to approach his target unobserved in a crowd that size—and then to disappear just as easily.

"Disgraceful," Isobel was saying, "to be attacked just outside a ball!"

Belatedly, he realized that he had hit her rather hard. "My God, I must have nearly shattered your ribs!"

He lifted his free hand and held it, uncertainly, above her lap. She reached up to clasp it tightly. " 'Tis no matter. You merely knocked the breath out of me for a moment."

"But—"

"You might have wanted to go about it a different way, Nathan, but you protected me. I'm grateful for it."

The soft assertion nearly undid him. Protected her? He had dragged her into this bloody mess, all under the selfish assurance that she would care for him, help him get about while he humored Matthew Gerard on a fool's quest.

He was the fool now. Someone had just tried to remove one more member of the remaining Ten and had very nearly succeeded.

The carriage rattled to a halt. Nathan descended immediately and stared hard, for all it was worth, up and down the street before allowing Isobel to follow. It was there again, the feeling of eyes upon him. He knew that a man on foot could easily have moved as quickly as the carriage over the few blocks. Nathan hurried Isobel up the stairs. Clumsy in his haste, he nearly stumbled twice, his thigh protesting each jarring step.

Once inside, he let out a shaky breath. For the first time since Portugal, he felt fear sliding cold down his spine. This was not the war-torn Peninsula; this was London. Pride had kept him from admitting just how vulnerable he really was. And it was not merely his own sorry neck at stake. He had a wife, a smart-mouthed, warmhearted wife, whose value was well above his own. If he had not been jostled into Isobel, if the knife had been thrust in her direction...

"Nathan?" Isobel was gently urging him toward the stairs. "Come along.

I've a feeling some brandy would be welcome."

He was moving, she noticed, more stiffly than she had ever seen him move before. He leaned heavily on the bannister as they ascended. His face, too, was weary. Distressed, she trailed behind him.

He paused at the entrance to his chamber, ostensibly to bid her a good night. She was having none of that. Reaching past him, she opened the door and scooted into the room. He turned, frowning. "What are you doing?"

She had never been inside his bedchamber and took a moment to glance around. It was richly appointed, very masculine, and stark in its neatness.

Other than a single wrinkled cravat that had been tossed, in frustration she assumed, onto the massive bed, there was scarcely a single personal possession to be seen. She thought of her own room, neat but quickly filling with the small items that made up her life, and ached with the knowledge that Nathan had cleared his life out of necessity.

"Have you no brandy here?" she queried with forced cheer. "I thought gentlemen always kept a bottle near to hand."

He stepped through the door and gestured toward a Chinese cabinet. She found a bottle and several clean glasses. On impulse, she removed two and poured a generous shot into each.

"I'll join you, if I may," she said, trusting he would not refuse.

He remained standing just inside the door. "Isobel, this is my bedchamber. If you wish..."

"A delightful room. These chairs are Hepplewhite, are they not?" She made certain her silk skirts swished audibly as she sat. She wanted him off his feet. " 'Twas one of those bits of knowledge my father thought necessary to impart. We can all identify furniture at fifty paces." He did not move. "Oh, do sit down, Nathan, or I will be forced to get up again."

His mouth twitched faintly. "I believe that should be my line."

"Well, what's good for the goose and all that. Will you sit?"

He did, walking slowly but unerringly to the facing chair. She pressed a glass into his hand. "I am really not certain you should be in here, my dear,"

he said.

"Whyever not? I assure you"—she leaned forward and lowered her voice—"my husband is the most understanding sort of man."

He gave another brief smile. "Then he is a fool."

"Oh? Why?"

"Some treasures are not to be shared."

Warmth curled through Isobel's stomach. She took a hasty sip of her own brandy and coughed as it burned its way down her throat. Now she felt even warmer.

Nathan did not touch his drink. Instead, he sat stiff and upright in his seat, gold eyes fixed on her face. For once, she did not drop her own gaze.

He could not know she was studying him intently, and she took full advantage of the situation.

More than a week of good food had filled out the hollows somewhat.

His face was still lean, the cheekbones sharp, but he no longer looked gaunt. Isobel had not yet offered to trim his hair, so it waved dark and glossy over his ears and the back of his collar. But he looked better, she thought, much better.

Then he lifted his glass, and her gaze centered on those wide, perfectly curved lips. His mouth had fit so well against hers. So well. She pushed herself slowly to her feet. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, coming into this room.

"Isobel? Are you leaving me so soon?"

Are you leaving me...?
As if she could. As if she ever could. Nay, MacLeods were good to their word. And he needed her.

"I am merely... restless, my lord. Nay, don't get up." She turned and, clasping her glass tightly in one hand, wandered across the room, trying to put some distance between herself and whatever it was she was feeling.

She had not noticed before, but there was something spread over the top of the writing desk. It appeared to be some dark fabric. Approaching, she loosened her near-painful grip on her glass and set it down on the glossy surface. The fabric was black velvet. Resting upon it were three miniatures, each small enough to fit into the palm of her hand.

Isobel touched a fingertip to the first image, that of a young woman. She was lovely: pale, large eyed, and honey haired. "Who is this, the woman in pink?" She turned as Nathan's chair creaked. He was still sitting, but he must have moved suddenly. "Ah. I am sorry. I was nosing about your things."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No, it's all right.

That is Lady Anne Kedwell. I told you about her. We were... childhood sweethearts and were meant to marry."

The woman at whose graveside Nathan had stood, inconsolable, in the rain. "I am sorry," Isobel said again. "She was very lovely."

"Yes, she was. In character as well. Anne was the sweetest girl I have ever known."

Something very close to pain lanced through her. Of course Nathan's first love had been beautiful and sweet. Of course he mourned her still. His wife was neither. "It must have been a terrible loss for all."

"Yes." He gazed off toward the window. "It would have been a disastrous marriage in the end, I think, but we were young and could not see beyond each day."

"Why do you say it would have been disastrous? She seems perfect."

"Perfectly lovely, yes, and perfectly good-natured. But Anne was not...

sharp. I don't mean to say she was simple. It's just that she would never have understood my moods, would have been unable to strike back at my poor wit. I would have made her miserable."

He smiled humorlessly. "Amazing—isn't it?—what selfish beasts young men can be. I thought she would wait for me forever, would forgive my carelessness. I was away for a year, doing my damnedest to consume all of Britain. God only knows the reports she received while I was gone, and never a denial or confirmation from my own lips."

"You're hardly responsible for idle gossip, Nathan."

"Perhaps not, but most of what was said was perfectly true. For my part, I knew Anne was ill, had been for months. She wrote, her mother wrote, my own father summoned me. I returned home only to find she had died two days earlier."

Isobel did not know what she could possibly say. She did not think he would appreciate her telling him that he had been young and could not be held accountable for his sweetheart's death, no matter how selfish his behavior had been. So she left him to his remorse and lifted the second miniature. It was of a man, tawny haired and handsome, laughter clear in the gray eyes. "The gentleman?"

"Rievaulx," was the terse response.

"A relative?"

"My closest friend."

Isobel mentally reviewed the men she had met in the past days. The name was vaguely familiar, the face not at all. "He is not in Town?"

"He died. On the same night when I..." He gestured abruptly at his leg, then raised his fingertips to brush just above his right cheekbone. His mouth was drawn into a pained line now. Isobel barely resisted the urge to cross the room and embrace him. Only the feeling that he might push her away kept her in place.

She had never asked how he'd lost his sight, assuming it had been in the same Peninsular battle in which his leg had been damaged. Now it appeared he had lost something equally precious that day as well.

"Too many good men have died," she said softly. "I thank God some survived."

For a moment his features softened. Then the harsh mask returned. "He should not have died that night. He shouldn't have been there at all."

"Nay?"

"He was meant to remain in the hills. I was on my way home. He insisted on accompanying me to port. Damned fool. No man should die for—for—"

"For friendship? For love? Oh, Nathan." Isobel sighed. "It seems far nobler than dying for power, if you ask me. I would imagine he felt as strongly for you as you still do for him. And I daresay you would have done the same."