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And not that he’d just broken her out of Trebigh clink.
Then again, surely one perk of being a duke was that he held himself accountable to no one – except perhaps the Prince Regent, and even then…
“Two chambers, if you have them. And a bath for the lady here,” he stated imperiously.
But Dylan the innkeeper merely squinted at Rhys’ bedraggled appearance. “Er… No offence, Your Grace, but I’ll have baths readied in both your rooms. We’ve no other guests as the stagecoach couldn’t get through, so you can have whatever you need.”
“My thanks, Dylan. I fear you might be right.”
“Anwen?” the innkeeper bellowed into a backroom. “Take the lady here to chamber five. Have the fire lit and the bed warmed.”
Isabelle glanced back as the maid took her arm, but Rhys nodded and a smile flitted upon her lips.
“Merci,” she rasped. “Merci beaucoup.”
Isabelle luxuriatedin the deep tub of lavender-scented water, had vowed never to leave but…a tinge of coldness had begun to inveigle the water and the pads of her fingers had shrivelled to prunes.
The chamber was a snug haven against the storm outside, the bed piled with blankets and thick rugs upon the wooden floor. Anwen the maid had thoughtfully arranged a table beside the bath and the glass of claret atop lured Isabelle’s arm from the warmth to reach for it.
Most decadent for a governess.
When she’d been shoved through that cell door at Cogran Prison, the same terror she’d felt in that storeroom had taken hold.
So dark. Entombed.
That weakness had seized her – the scurrying rats, the leering jailer, the shifting shadows. She’d shrunk to the wall and willed it all to perdition, fought the rising fear and striven to recall lines of poetry.
Then the magistrate had returned, marching her out with much bluster and shoving her into an old bonerattler of a carriage where she’d been too concerned with keeping her teeth within her head than the small confines. They’d trundled through the leaden countryside till they’d reached a small town and halted in front of a low slate building.
Hauled inside, another cell had confronted her, with bars and dank straw.
She’d quivered, knees weak; her fears had sharpened their teeth, readied to devour when…
The magistrate had waggled a key on an iron ring, licked his lips, eyes lingering on her bosom, and offered her freedom for the night…with one condition.
A temper, so wild, so brutal, had swiped at all her fears, snarling that they retreat, never to return. For Isabelle had not kept her virtue all these years to lose it to a bony old fossil with two teeth, would rather spend the hours alone in the pitch-black, than barter her body to that.
So she’d called him all the rude names she could think of – in all the languages she could think of, including Welsh – until he’d pushed her into that cell and stalked off with a sneer. Then, to keep the shadows at bay, she had continued shouting her anger, her fury.
Nothing would keep her quiet. No one.
Until the duke had arrived.
She allowed her head to fall back against the bathtub rim. He’d come for her.
Forceful. Attentive. Protective.
He’d been all those tonight and Isabelle knew she had no words and no will to keep the duke from her heart.
Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter.
The words of Racine.
And likewise she could no longer keep such a fire smothered.
It felt as though it would consume her, every act a betrayal of her emotions.
The only question was whether the duke felt the same.
