Emma Jensen - Entwined (8 page)

She had seen the man once before, that very morning. Resembling nothing so much as a lichen-covered tree stump, stunted and whiskery, he had silently escorted her and her father toward the cavernous library, then disappeared just as quietly. Now he was regarding her from under hoary brows, only a single blink of his pale eyes to indicate that he was any more animate than the brass satyr.

Isobel hurriedly rearranged her features into a smile. "Good afternoon.

Lord Oriel is expecting—"

She flinched when his shoulder jerked, thinking she was about to receive a faceful of brass-mounted wood. But the man pulled the door fully open and gestured her inside.

Rattled, she entered the hall. There was a tense moment as her worn valise caught on the massive latch, but she tugged it free and, red-faced, followed the clearly unconcerned butler across the marble foyer. He moved slowly, from age or inclination she could not tell. Either way, it gave Isobel an opportunity to study the massive entryway.

Her second daylight visit to the Hall confirmed her vague recollections.

She had absorbed little in the way of decor earlier because there was little.

The walls were filled with portraits, certainly: hawk-nosed men in various amounts of armor and pale women weighted down with gems. Past marquesses and their ornaments, no doubt.

There were marble pillars, too, fat enough that her arms would not reach around them, rising to the vaulted ceiling and first-floor gallery. Other than that, the place was impressively, vastly empty. The butler turned a corner, and Isobel craned her neck for a last look at the foyer. There were no tables, no nymph-topped pedestals, none of the assorted antique vases and other useless knickknacks she would have expected in such a grand house.

And, oddest of all, was the complete lack of people. There was no sign of so much as a footman. Save for the butler and the austere, disquieting marquess, Isobel had not seen another living being at Oriel Hall.

Thus, when she was finally standing in the library doorway, she did not so much as blink when the grim voice announced, "Good day, Miss MacLeod. Welcome to the netherworld."

The greeting was no more incongruous than the sight before her. The marquess was standing behind the desk, neat as a pin in his simply tied cravat and midnight coat. His ebony hair was perfectly combed, his collar points sharp. In fact, had it not been for his taut, ravaged face, he would have appeared the perfect gentleman. He certainly did not match Isobel's notion of a man set on dastardly conquest.

When she did not answer his unorthodox welcome, he continued, "Miss MacLeod will be staying for a time, Milch. Take whatever she has brought with her to the Blue Room."

There came a grunt from behind Isobel. It might have been some new variation of "yes, milord" or, just as likely, the aged butler's bones protesting a sudden move. She handed over her valise, not particularly concerned with burdening the man. He had done nothing to make her welcome and besides, there was little in the bag. Packing, she had found in the past few years, was a rather simple process when one possessed naught.

She waited for the door to close before speaking. "You've a fair pair of ears, Lord Oriel."

It was hardly more proper a greeting than his, but Isobel, never at her best when nervous, spoke without thinking.

"Why, thank you, Miss MacLeod. I've always thought them overlarge, myself."

She blinked at him. Coming from another man, it might have sounded like a jest. "I meant, my lord, that your hearing is to be commended."

"Yes, Miss MacLeod, I assumed that was what you meant." He raised an eyebrow. "I am not certain, however, why you said it."

"I—well, I thought..." Curse her tongue for floundering now. "Since you cannot—I assumed you did not—er—see me. You seemed to have detected my step."

"Ah. Now I comprehend." He appeared to ponder the matter for a moment. "No. I am afraid my hearing is no more acute than it ever was."

"Then, how..."

"Sorcery, Miss MacLeod. Would you care to sit down?"

She noticed he was gripping the handle of a walking stick tightly and realized his leg must be paining him. Sitting did seem like a good idea, since her own legs were not quite steady. She chose the nearest chair.

"I—this is all..."

He lowered himself slowly into his seat behind the desk. "Ah, the stammering again. Is this to characterize all our encounters? I assure you, our discourses will go much more smoothly should you complete your thoughts."

"This is madness, my lord. Why in God's name would you make such a bargain?" There, no stammering.

"Very good. Two sentences." Oriel rested his stick against the desk, then leaning forward, steepled his hands in front of his face. "Tell me this. Did you come of your own free will?"

"Aye, of course."

"Your father did not force you?"

"Nay—he would not..."

"A telling pause there, Miss MacLeod. He would not demand such sacrifice from you, but he offered no alternative? There
must
have been an alternative. You will recall that I am well acquainted with your father."

Isobel sighed. "He thought to challenge you to a duel, my lord."

"Did he really?" Oriel chuckled, but Isobel did not find it a heartening sound. "Perhaps you ought to have let him. I daresay, even two sheets to the wind, he could put a bullet in me. My aim, I am afraid, is not what it once was. Ah, but I have not answered your question. I expect you are interested in hearing what I am planning to do with you now that I have you in my clutches."

Interested
did not even begin to describe her feelings at the moment.
Eager
would have been better,
frantic
quite apt. Isobel could not quash the sensation that her awkward step through the front door had somehow transported her into a place far removed from whatever reality existed elsewhere.

The marquess's disquieting calm was doing nothing to help. His words were polite, even easy, but something behind the genteel facade frightened her now, just as it had the night before. Letting one's guard down around a courteous Lord Oriel was, she found herself thinking, rather like trusting a purring cat. A pounce was sure to follow.

"I would make the most unsuitable of mistresses, my lord!" she blurted.

Lord Oriel was clearly not amused. Nor did he appear shocked. In fact, his expression did not change a whit. "Is that what you think I want of you?"

Humiliated, helpless, Isobel bit her lip. "I do not want to think it."

"Yes, the honest answer. I find I expect that of you." He paused. "And if it is such services I require? Will you accommodate me?"

Never in her wildest imaginings could Isobel have envisioned such a conversation. Her cheeks flamed as she considered, for the first time, how little she really knew of the ways of the world. "Nay, my lord. I would never—"

She jumped as his hand hit the desk, and she was even more startled when he gave a rough laugh. "Now you lie!"

"I do no such thing!" She was halfway to her feet before knowing it, the chair creaking with her sudden move. She returned only to the edge of her seat when Oriel impatiently waved her back.

"I am not impugning your honor, Miss MacLeod. Quite the contrary. It humbles me to know there is little you would not consider doing for your family." He leaned back then, a decidedly feline, unhumble smile on his face. "Trust me when I tell you I should have no trouble in finding a willing female body should that be my desire. What I want from you is what my gold will not buy."

More confused than ever, Isobel leaned forward warily. "I do not understand, my lord. 'Twas gold that brought this all about, and need of it that has me here now."

"Is it? I think not. I believe you are here for something far more important than money. You are here because I have offered your family freedom and comfort in exchange for yours. It is that part of your character I desire."

" 'Tis love, my lord. No more."

"And what if I wish you to love me?"

"Then you are daft!" The words hung heavily in the air. Gathering her wits, Isobel took a calming breath. "You are jesting with me again."

"I must say, your spirit is appealing. A bit hair-triggered, perhaps, but appealing nonetheless." His fingers slid along the empty surface of the desk. "I have a feeling what I require from you will change as we go along, but I'll phrase it as simply as I can: I need your silence, Miss MacLeod, and I need you to be my eyes."

"Your eyes?"

Gilded and unreadable, they rested somewhere in the vicinity of her top spencer button. Isobel could not resist lifting a hand to the spot. As if sensing the motion, Oriel gave another half smile.

"In case you have forgotten—and I feel compelled to inform you that you are the only person who was astute enough to notice—I cannot see. It is an inconvenience, I'm sure you will agree, but not an insurmountable one. In the past six months, I have managed to leave matters of importance to my solicitor, less important ones to your father. That, as you well know, ended badly."

Heat rose anew in Isobel's cheeks, and she resisted the urge to apologize yet again for her father's behavior. Instead, she asked, "Why have you felt it necessary to conceal your... affliction?"

"Affliction." He snorted. "Interesting choice of words, though no worse than inconvenience, I expect. As to why I have chosen to conceal it... Pride, I suppose and simplicity. Your cleverness has put me in an awkward position, however.

Isobel was uncertain how she was meant to respond. "How so, my lord?"

"It was either employ you or have you killed for knowing my secret," he said smoothly.

Isobel's heart lodged in her throat before she realized he was teasing once more.

"Satisfy my curiosity, Miss MacLeod. How did you know I cannot see?

Your father has been in my company for a number of months, and he never guessed. There is no satisfaction in fooling a fool, but I still considered it something of a feat."

Isobel did not bother to defend her father. Oriel had spoken no more than the truth. " 'Twas watching you grope for the pouch on the floor this morning that made me certain," she answered. "And even last night, there was something in your eyes..."

Oriel's bland expression did not change. "Your perceptiveness, Miss MacLeod, borders on dangerous."

Confused, Isobel hastened to assure him, "I would not have betrayed your secret."

He gazed toward her silently for a moment, as if not comprehending her words. Then he nodded. "Would not have. Well, it is the future I have in mind." Isobel thought she heard him sigh. "Now I beg you forgive me, for I am about to display the character so rightly attributed to me by the local populace."

He rose again to his feet and moved toward her, his uneven gait in evidence as he avoided the furniture. When he stopped, it was to tower over her. "All jesting and genial patter aside, I do not think I need to remind you what is at stake for your family should you decide you made the wrong choice in accepting my bargain."

"N-nay, my lord."

"Good. Because I would very much regret having to cause extreme discomfort to the one person I have met in quite some time who shows a vestige of heart. Now, I am going for a ride. At supper we will discuss the extent of your duties."

He was almost to the door before she found her voice again.

"Supper, my lord?"

"The last meal of the day, Miss MacLeod. Milch will show you to the dining room. I dine at eight."

"But I had thought I would take my meals with... your staff."

"You will take supper, at least, with me. Is that clear?"

"Aye, my lord. But I do not..."

He growled with impatience.
"What?"

"My clothing is not—suited..."

His snort made her flinch. "Of course. It has been so long since I last dined in the company of a lady that I seem to have forgotten what an event it can be. Trust me, Miss MacLeod, what you wear does not matter in the least. Come in armor—or nothing at all if it suits you. I couldn't care less."

It would have taken a far thicker skin than Isobel possessed to ignore the sting of his dismissal. "As you wish, my lord," she muttered as the door swung shut behind him. "How gratifying to know your blindness serves some purpose."

Unable to help herself, she went to the window. She was afforded a fair view of the front of the house. The familiar gray stallion stood by the stairs, saddled and clearly ready for a bit of exercise. There was no groom in sight.

Oriel appeared moments later. Isobel watched him navigate the stone steps. Only someone who knew of the man's affliction would see that the walking stick was used as much to locate the steps as for support. Once he reached the massive horse, he swung with surprising ease into the saddle.

Then, with the faintest touch of his stick to the horse's flank, they were off, careening down the drive.

Even as she wondered how he kept from breaking both his neck and his mount's, Isobel was impressed. She watched as the pair took a low fence leading to the fields. He was obviously a skilled horseman but it was just as obvious that he trusted the stallion would not refuse any command. She found it both odd and terribly sad that the only creature this man trusted implicitly was his horse.

Sighing, Isobel turned from the window. With several hours left until supper, she would do her best to compose herself and maybe do a bit of exploring. Perhaps if she were one of the ladies with whom the marquess had once been accustomed to dining, she would have spent most of the time dressing. As it was, she would need no more time than that necessary to change her gown and poke a few pins into her unruly hair.

He knew she was plain. Her father must have been thorough in his descriptions. True, Lord Oriel was blind, but Isobel knew enough of men to know that they had very vivid imaginations. Her brothers were forever speculating on the appearance of the dazzling ladies mentioned in day-old editions of the
Times.
They were convinced every last one was a ravishing beauty.

Lord Oriel would not even bother to speculate on how she looked.