Emma Jensen - Entwined (4 page)

Isobel slowly and quietly raised the sash, not wanting to alert any servant who might have the unfortunate duty of keeping hours with the master. As she pulled herself up over the sash the coins in the pouch clinked loudly, and she bit back a reflexive curse.

It was a moonless night, and the room was pitch-black. Jamie had said the desk was set in front of the window, and set in front of the window it was. At first, however, as Isobel slid her hands over the vast surface, she thought she had somehow ended up in the dining room—and began to curse her father for his miserable directions. But no, her fingers soon encountered a blotter and an inkwell. Like the Hall itself, the desk was crafted on massive lines.

Third drawer, left. Or had her father said right? Not that it mattered. If the lofty Lord Oriel had been so careless as to leave fifty pounds sitting in an unlocked drawer, he would most likely not notice should the money be in a different drawer.

With any luck, he would also be too careless to note that the fifty pounds had somehow become thirty-six.

Isobel gritted her teeth as the coins inside the pouch clinked again. Of course, the clinking ought to have been fourteen pounds louder, but that was hardly a comfort Inwardly cursing her father, brothers, and even the marquess, just out of spite, she slid a drawer out—then shrieked as a massive hand closed around her wrist

The next thing she knew, her cheek was flat against the desk and her right arm pinned painfully behind her back. She would have screamed again had there not been a crushing weight between her shoulders. The hood of her cloak slid forward, covering her face. When a hand swept roughly over her bottom and hip, she could do no more than gasp.

"Bloody hell!" The voice, coming from right above her ear, was deep enough to resonate and harsh enough to send her already thundering heart right into her throat. Then, to her astonishment, there came a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a weary sigh. "One of the Misses MacLeod, I presume."

She said nothing, more from shock than stubbornness. Instantly, the vise around her arm tightened, and she cried out. "Yes," she managed at last.

"Yes. I came to—"

The hood was jerked away from her face. "Speak up! You are one of MacLeod's daughters, are you not?"

She thought she had just said so, but decided not to mention the fact. "I am." She drew a shaky breath, then another. "Isobel."

"Isobel. Ah, yes. The plain one."

This was no time to wonder how he knew, or to be offended. Nor was there any need to ask who he was. The clipped, arrogant, thoroughly
Sasunnach
voice told her in no uncertain terms that her arms and ribs were being crushed by none other than the marquess himself.

"I—I am here—"

"I did not ask why you are here, Miss MacLeod." Isobel heard a now-familiar clinking as he hefted the pouch. "I simply requested an introduction."

Which was, Isobel decided, just as well. Despite the hour spent waiting in the gardens, she had not bothered to devise a plausible excuse for being there. Quite simply, she had not expected to be caught.

Her shoulders burned, and she found herself wondering just how terrible jail would be. And whether she would be there alone, or with her entire family chained beside her. The boys, she was certain, would not like it much; it was hardly the best showplace for brocade waistcoats.

She very nearly giggled. Lying facedown across a field of a desk, with what had to be the better part of a gentleman's weight on her, and she was thinking of waistcoats. Madness. She wanted to laugh, then wail. Instead, she did what any intelligent woman would have done in her position: She let loose with a string of Gaelic curses, passed down through countless generations of Island MacLeods, and fervent enough to strip the fine lacquer from the desk.

Suddenly the marquess's weight lifted from her back. An instant later, he pulled her off the desk, around it, and into the dark depths of the room.

"Damn it, woman, be silent!"

Tongue stilled in the midst of her tirade, Isobel stumbled behind him.

She heard a grunt as some part of his anatomy collided with some item of furniture, but he did not release her. Her own toes came up hard against a chair leg, followed immediately by her knee. She bit her tongue hard, harder still when he shoved her unceremoniously onto what turned out to be a divan.

Instantly she was on her feet, but before she could run, he sat down heavily beside her, grabbed a handful of her cloak, and jerked her right back. "If I ask you to be still, Miss MacLeod," he growled, "you will understand it is not a request."

Understanding was one matter; obeying was another, and Isobel edged defiantly away. Again, he pulled her back, and she found herself all but sitting in the lap of the man her father had robbed—a man who, if village gossip was to be believed, was not quite of the human race.

"I suppose I could try to convince you that I do not ravish virgins or sacrifice small animals, but somehow I don't feel I owe you the courtesy, Miss MacLeod. Besides, I doubt you would believe me."

Isobel started. Either the man read minds, or he took some interest in local gossip. Somehow, the latter seemed far less likely.

She herself had never formed an opinion about the marquess, but some of the villagers were convinced that he was perfectly capable of performing numerous atrocities. Several of the more foolish townsfolk had even gone so far as to ask Margaret for protective sachets. Maggie's gentle suggestion that perhaps such extremes were un- warranted had gotten no response whatsoever. Tessa's eager recommendation, involving hemlock, had been much more popular.

No one seemed to know the marquess at all, but everyone seemed happy to pass harsh judgment on his character. Except Jamie, whose only useful description had consisted of three words:
Sasunnach
and
bloody rich.

As if reading her thoughts again, Oriel muttered, "Your father, Miss MacLeod, is not a smart man."

"No," she replied, "he is not." She felt herself blushing with the looseness of her tongue. "But he means well. I-I can only apologize and hope—"

"That you will not see the blackguard dangling from the nearest tree?"

Isobel shuddered. "Please, my lord. 'Twas but a foolish impulse."

"That is certainly one way of looking at it. I might be inclined to choose another. Base thievery, perhaps."

Behind the polished, nearly polite tone of his voice was another tone, this one harsh and damning. It cut through whatever bravado Isobel had left. "I did not mean to insult you by implying the matter was not serious, my lord. I only intended my words as a plea. I am begging you—"

"Don't!" The word snapped like a lash, and she shrank back still more.

"You came boldly enough into my home. I will not tolerate spineless groveling now."

Aye, she had been groveling and would do so on her knees if it would make a difference. " 'Tis all I have to give, my lord. My pleas."

That earned her a derisive snort, followed by something that in another time and place, might have sounded like a laugh. Then there was silence.

Her senses all but screaming in the darkness, Isobel was far too aware of the hulking presence beside her. She was aware, too, suddenly, of the faint aroma of brandy. Growing up as she had, she knew she was smelling superior liquor. Countless occasions of helping her well-soaked father into bed had made her a connoisseur of sorts.

She considered making another dash for the door. But she did not know precisely where the door was, and even if she could find it and Lord Oriel was too drunk to catch her, he would know where to locate her later.

Better, she thought, to take her chances with the dark and ominous silence. If she was very quiet, Lord Oriel might just fall asleep where he sat. If she was very lucky, he might awaken to think it had been a dream.

And if she was very, very stupid, she might convince herself that either could happen.

His movement was so sudden she nearly shrieked again. The divan creaked as he pushed himself to his feet, an awkward move that caused one of his knees to knock into hers.

"I beg your pardon, Miss MacLeod." Lord Oriel's voice, now coming from well above her, sounded mocking—and cruel. She was not certain which was worse.

"You—where are you..."

"Your father has called you an intelligent creature, Miss MacLeod, but your inability to complete a phrase is doing nothing to convince me of the fact."

She opened her mouth, but found no words past a halting
I
.

"It is fortunate that I manage to understand you nonetheless. Where I am going is to the mantel as it has occurred to me that you might stop rattling the furniture with your shaking if I light a candle."

Again he knocked into her, this time as he made his way around her feet. She swallowed her cry and wondered how he had managed to move so silently earlier. If only he had encountered an object or two while she was at the desk...

There was a scuffling at the hearth and something clattered against the tiles. A moment later, the marquess gave a guttural curse. Then the candle sparked, blackness turned to shadow, and Isobel's breath caught in her throat.

CHAPTER 3

Were't not for gold and women, there would be no damnation.

—Cyril Tourneur

She promptly decided there was much to be said for darkness.

Lord Oriel was real enough in the flickering light, but no less terrifying than Isobel had imagined. He was taller still than she had expected, with shoulders whose width competed with the mantel. His hair, the unremitting black of night, was swept back to reveal a high brow and cheekbones so prominent that the hollows beneath them seemed fleshless. There was no softness to his face, the features bordering on savage.

He turned his head then, and a new tremor rippled through Isobel as she lifted her gaze to his. His eyes were the color of time-worn bronze, lion's eyes, cold and predatory.

Shaken, unaware of her actions, she started to rise, only to drop back when he snapped, "Sit
down,
Miss MacLeod!"

By now, her knees would not allow her to do much else. So she sat, hands clenched tightly in her lap, and waited. The marquess did not return to the divan but remained at the mantel, one massive hand wrapped around the silver candlestick. Long fingers, broad palm, a faint scar snaking along the thumb. It was, she thought somewhat vaguely, a hand capable of rendering the sterling to a tarnished lump.

As she sat, silently watching, Isobel saw Oriel rub his other fist once, hard over the outside of his thigh. She heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and her eyes went again to his face. The grooves beside his wide mouth were etched deep. Suddenly she realized that he appeared much less brutal and far more pained.

She blinked in surprise. She ought to have seen it immediately—the loose fit of his expensive coat, as if cut for another form, and the gauntness of his face. Lord Oriel was not a well man.

"If you have completed your scrutiny, perhaps we can turn to the matter at hand."

Isobel felt her discomfort sliding into embarrassment If Lord Oriel did not like the sensation of being examined, it was no wonder. No doubt he had once possessed a formidable, if unconventional beauty. Whatever plagued him had left its mark. His face was not ugly; it was simply unsettling in its harshness.

"I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to be rude."

"No, I expect you did not. Nor did you mean to insult me earlier or vex me with begging. It seems you have difficulty reconciling intent with action, Miss MacLeod. Is it a family failing?"

"I-I do not..."

"Ah, and again with the stammering. You really must get hold of yourself if we are to get anywhere. Am I frightening you, perchance?"

She had, if anything, difficulty reconciling honest words with wise.

"You are, and not without meaning it 'Tis cruel and needless."

Nay, she thought, baiting the lion was not wise, but her wits were still scattered. The entire scene had spiraled so far from any she could have imagined that she could only wonder if she just ought to suffocate herself in her cloak and spare the marquess the effort.

"Aye," she muttered with a sigh, " 'tis a failing family I have, Lord Oriel. And I'll not expect anything I say on the matter to change your decision, whatever it may be."

"No more pleas?"

She lifted her chin. "Would it help?"

"Unlikely."

"Well, I'll swallow them then."

There was a long pause. Then, "Tell me, Miss MacLeod, are you finding this as unpleasant as I am?"

She could not stop the choked laugh. "There could not be a comparison."

"You really believe I am enjoying myself."

Again eyeing the taut features, Isobel replied, "I've no reason to expect otherwise, my lord. And you've every right to do as you will."

"Generous of you," he drawled.

Isobel moistened her lips, wishing for a return to darkness where she would not have to see that ravaged face and he would not be able to see her confusion. "What— what are you going to do?"

"I have not yet decided. Do you care to make a suggestion?"

Oddly, it seemed a genuine question, and Isobel could not have been more surprised had he asked her to advise him on matters of finance.

Knowing she was standing on the shakiest of ground and desperate to choose the right words, she replied slowly, "I believe, my lord, that retribution should be dependent on more than just the crime."

"Yes? And what else ought to be considered, Miss MacLeod?"

"Motive. And circumstance."

The marquess lifted a dark brow. "Motive and circumstance. Is this Scots justice I am learning?"

"God's, I would say."

"Ah, interpretive scripture. What if I am a believer in an eye for an eye?"

Isobel cringed. "Then I have nothing with which to make reparation, my lord. My father is neither a noble thief nor a habitual one. He lost his way, taking the money because he had none."

"And just when I was beginning to believe I had brought a Robin Hood into my employ. 'Lost his way,' was it? Tell me, if you would, how much of my money would have found its way into your household coffers."