Page 44 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Three

Isobel had spent the first half of the day trying to restore her equanimity. The second half had been spent trying to work out how to persuade Manners to fit in with her escape plan. She’d seen nothing more of either Will or Maybury, but when Goody Cooper came to see about moving her into Will’s room, she’d refused. She’d created enough turmoil in Will’s life—no matter how furious at him she might be, it wasn’t right to steal his home comforts.

By the time the household was ready to retire, an unseasonable gale had risen up. This kept Isobel awake, fretting about her scheme to return to Marston House on the morrow. When she wasn’t chewing over that, her mind was busy chastising her for her response to Will’s caresses the previous night.

How had she fallen so far? Was she so in love with him, that she’d let him do as he pleased with her body? The only explanation for her behavior was that a recently bereaved and lonely woman must be easily moved by the attentions of an attractive man. She wasn’t her usual self—she was still vulnerable.

Nay. Had been vulnerable. Her mind was clearer now. After that altercation with him this morning, she knew it would be best for all concerned if she were to leave Will’s house. He confused and disturbed her. She irritated him—and had put his life at risk.

The howling of the wind against the panes made her increasingly melancholy. How could she sleep with her window rattling so, and the buffeting of the gale outside? She hoped it wasn’t going to rain, or she’d be splashing through overflowing gutters en route to Marston House. Was there a pair of pattens anywhere she could borrow to preserve the hem of her skirt?

Why had Will kissed her last night? Was she so irresistible that the most handsome man she’d ever met could not deny her? A bitter laugh escaped her at that idea. She, irresistible? She couldn’t even compare favorably to Paulina Mathieson. Her dark looks were hardly fashionable, and most of the time she’d spent in Will’s company, she’d been wearing either nightclothes or the garb of a servant.

Mayhap, having seen the invitation in her eyes, he was simply being gallant—he would not wish to hurt her feelings with a blunt rejection. Perchance, given a moment longer, he would have gently disentangled himself and sent her back to her chamber.

With a tut of irritation, she sat up. This relentless brooding was getting her nowhere, and she needed something to help her sleep. Something other than poppy juice, of course—a book would do. There’d be nobody about at this hour and, as far as she knew, Will was still out carousing in some alehouse or playing at cards.

As she crept down the stairs, illuminating her way with a pungent tallow candle, she heard no sound of human activity. The house now slept, oblivious to the gale outside. Below, in the heart of the building, the savage sounds of the wind were muted, and she felt pleasantly secure as she made her way to the parlor.

A flicker of orange light beneath the door made her pause, her hand frozen on the latch. Placing her ear against the wood, she heard the crackle and sputter of a fire and sensed Will’s presence therein.

Heart thudding, she turned away, but suddenly the door was wrenched open, and there he stood, gazing at her. He looked much as he had that morning, his hair tousled and his shirt collar untied, but he wore both upper and nether hose and was still shod. How long had he been home?

He went still at the sight of her. Only his eyes moved, glittering darkly from beneath lowered lids as he focused on her face. His body radiated weariness—an empty wine glass hung so limply from his fingers that she thought he might forget it at any moment and let it fall. She needed only one glance to see his soul was as exhausted as his body.

Had that weariness sprung from the same source as her own, an internal battle to deny his feelings? She read failure in his frowning brow, in his downturned mouth, in his mirthless eyes. Had her interference with his plans truly affected him so profoundly? Or was there something else that gnawed away at his peace of mind?

Remorse washed over her. “Oh, Will. Please let us not be at odds. I’ve been foolish and precipitate. I apologize.” She moved towards him and he backed away, allowing her to enter the parlor.

There was a clink as he set his wine glass down, then pushed the door closed. His eyes bored into hers and, leaning forward, he seized her chin in his hand, stealing her breath. What was he thinking? His face was so darkly shadowed, his eyes so bright—he was still furious, and she was right to plot her escape. They could never span the chasm that had opened up between them.

“Isobel.” To her amazement, he pressed his lips lingeringly against hers. “Sweet Isobel. I would give all the gold in the world to have you feel for me what I feel for you.”

Her heart ground to a halt. He was drunk. He must be—unless he meant to punish her with his tantalizing kiss. What meaning lay beneath his words?

“I’ve detested myself all day long for dealing with you so ungently. You were not the only one at fault this morn. In my conceited pride, I thought I knew what was best for you, but neglected to share my thoughts with you, and I deserve to suffer for that. I believe you meant well by lying to protect me, and I can only apologize for my lack of gratitude.”

Her heart beat frantically as his words filtered through her muddled brain. This was not turning out at all as she’d expected. After their skirmish earlier, she expected him to rail at her. But he wasn’t punishing her—he was blaming himself for their fight. Which exacerbated her guilt in the knowledge she planned to run away from him.

“Your way was better,” he continued, gazing deep into her eyes. “Mine would have hurt Paulina. Besides which, the very last thing I wish to do is trick or trap you into becoming espoused to me. I wouldn’t have held you to it, you know. We need only have kept up the pretense until Paulina’s attentions became centered on some other man.”

Why did that remark make her heart sink, when only a few hours ago it had incensed her? “There’s no need to be sorry. I thought you must still be angry with me.”

He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “Ah, my little witch, how naïve you are.” He held her face between his hands a moment longer, then released her.

He was undoubtedly right. She knew nothing of this world of pain and confusion, of power play and politics, of love, hate, and advantageous marriages. If only she could read his heart.

“What are you doing up at this hour, wandering about the house in your nightclothes?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” She wasn’t about to tell him why. “I came down here for a book.”

“Ah, don’t tell me—you’re overexcited after this morning’s unexpected entertainments.”

Excited? No. And she didn’t want to be reminded about her blatant lying.

“I regret what I did this morning, Will. At the time, I thought it was for the best.”

“As did I. Now, I don’t know what to think.”

His face was so shadowed, she knew not how to read it. There was an intensity about him that spoke of some deep emotion, tightly controlled. She prayed she hadn’t alienated the man who had been her savior.

Although if she had, leaving him would be less painful.

Wouldn’t it?