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“I was…although I always felt guilty that they had to pay for my education and welfare, so when my guardian suggested I marry his youngest son Armand, I…I felt obliged.”
“Yet you did not?”
She shook her head. Her jaw tensed. “I was like Mari at eavesdropping on conversations and I heard…” And in that moment, all of Miss Beaujeu’s spirit and life returned, eyes storming with iron wrath. “Armand didn’t wish to marry me, was remonstrating against it and… He shouted that my guardian only wished to wed me off because of his guilty conscience, because of his betrayal of my papa.”
Rhys’ teeth gritted. “A betrayal for his own hide, I assume?”
“And I couldn’t… I wouldn’t… Their whole family knew of this,” she cried. “That he had betrayed my father for their lives and although none of us can say what we would’ve done faced with such a choice, or even if he had meant to betray him, I could not stay there and marry one of them. Take their gifts and money and pretend for my entire life that it never happened.”
He gave a heavy nod, fumbled for words. “Were they a titled family? Would I know of them?”
Her eyelids slammed like a safe door. “It no longer matters. For I planned my own future.”
“As governess?”
A smile, the first he had seen this eve, flitted. “It began with French lessons for a friend. Her mother admired my teaching and helped me procure employment.”
“And a success ever since.”
A shy shake of head. “I have encountered setbacks but always I remember my parents. They gave their lives for me and I shall make them proud.”
Having drawn out the knotting of a linen bandage around her delicate foot for as long as he was able, Rhys had no recourse but to raise himself from the floor, sit aside her on the bed, put a hand to her nape and kiss her.
For her resilience and fortitude. For her sharp mind and sheer guts.
For her beauty – both on the surface and deep within.
Isabelle stole his wits but he’d give them to her freely anyhow.
The kiss began tender and intimate, lips brushing and his fingers tangling through her silken hair, but then she returned his kiss, her muted moan clattering his loins and bringing such desire to the fore, it almost pained him.
Pausing for breath, he watched Isabelle fall back upon the bed, lit by candlelight, curls scattered in abandon and lips swollen.
He so yearned to remove her sorrow, replace the hurt she carried with intoxicating pleasure.
To leisurely undress her – of gown, stays and chemise. To kiss every speck of skin, uncover her smooth curvaceous figure with urgent caresses till she moaned his name.
He craved to press deep within her, slake his lust and make her his.
Watch as she cried out her own surrender, back arched and legs tangled.
Damp skin, heady possession and searing satisfaction.
So he ventured hands to either side of her, observed a lick of pink lips before he dipped to her, allowed his torso to sink upon her and for a moment, the briefest of moments, allowed himself the vision of what would happen, the sheer bliss they’d find…
One day.
He kissed her cheek, her forehead, her eyes.
Then hauled himself from her.
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sending a maid up.”
“Oh, bu–”
“No arguments. Say you have a megrim, if you wish. She will help you undress, bring food and tidy the glass.” He stood and stared down upon her, all his primal instincts still demanding he take her. Rhys breathed deep. “Thank you, Isabelle. For confiding in me tonight.” He bent to brush a hand over her linen-wrapped foot, but no blood was seeping through. “May I keep your silver flask? I’ll place it in my safe but it may help with the hunt for the culprit.”
“I told you it doesn’t matt–”
“It does, Isabelle. To me.”
“I…” She sat up. “Yes, of course. With the cologne gone, I suppose the scent will fade altogether now. I used to turn to it for comfort. A foolish keepsake to cling to, mayhap.”
Rhys shook his head – understood grief all too well. “Comfort such as that is never foolish, for it is the type that yields remembrances of joyful times, inspires and gives hope.” He quirked a brow. “I still have Tris’ lucky pocket watch.”
“Lucky? How so?”
“Tristan was so admiring his new watch as he walked out the shop in Caernarfon that he barrelled straight into a young girl who called him an oaf and whacked him with her parasol. Two months later, they were married.”
Isabelle laughed, eyes dancing, and whatever the outrageous tale Hugh had concocted for his absence, Rhys was so thankful he’d come here tonight.
