Beauty and the Wolf (14 page)

I
sabella awoke to find Draven grasping her hand with a fierce protectiveness. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with shadows. She assumed he had been awake all night.

He touched her hair with his free hand. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“I . . . fell and dropped my candle branch.”

Draven hushed her as he smoothed the bed-sheet and tucked it beneath her arm. “Rest now,” he said. “Dr. Lamstein has attended to your rodent bite and to the nasty bump on your forehead.”

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, blinking against her tears.

Lines of concern creased his forehead. “I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you, Isabella. This has made me more determined than ever to convince you to stay.”

His dark eyes moved in and out of focus, thanks to the painkiller Dr. Lamstein had administered. “Did you capture the wolf that got inside the house?” she said in a weak voice.

“Yes,” he said.

As Isabella drifted off to sleep, her mind flashed on the vision of Draven talking to the wolves in the courtyard.
How strange that he seemed to communicate with them.

 

After watching a pale and shaken Isabella succumb to sleep, Draven stood and paced the room with a deep scowl. Regret raged through his veins. He had practically raped his own wife before insisting she take the passageway back to her room. He, for one, didn’t have to imagine the degree of terror she had experienced in the pitch black. As a boy, he’d been imprisoned by the very same walls. Full of impertinence as a lad, he thought to worry everyone by hiding in the passageway. He’d waited for at least three hours before he was discovered. By the time Rogers rescued Draven from the darkness, he had used up all of his youthful tears and could barely breathe.

The memory reminded him that any barrier separating a person from their freedom is a powerful thing. It made him regret that he had insisted Isabella stay at Thorncliff Towers forever.

He had saved her and made love to her, but did she hate him regardless?

Assured by the doctor that his wife would sleep for several hours, Draven took the stairs back to his suite. He thrust the door open and plowed through his private library to the sitting room. That is where he came upon Rogers, who was drawing him a bath.

The elderly man smiled. “I thought ye could use a warm bath and yer concoction after the scare with her ladyship.”

“You’re a godsend, old boy.” Draven rubbed the back of his neck. He paced while the valet tended to the setup. “I was the one who suggested Isabella use the passageway back to her suite. She was frightened out of her mind—and who could blame her?”

Rogers nodded as he hung Draven’s blue silk dressing gown on the edge of the wardrobe door.

After the two men discussed Draven’s own boyhood peril, the valet helped his master undress and slip into the frothy suds. “I was scared for ye as a lad, but ye were nine years old. Her ladyship is a grown woman who can survive the worst o’ challenges.”

Draven raised an eyebrow. “Challenges like me?”

The skin around the manservant’s eyes crinkled. “Aye.”

“Isabella is rather like a tigress,” Draven murmured more to himself than to Rogers. “Quite remarkable, really.”

“She has impressive qualities, indeed. And I suspect she’d make a poised countess, if she weren’t leavin’ this place.” Rogers handed him a glass. “Yer nostrum, m’lord.”

Draven made a face as he accepted it. “She can’t leave, damn it!”

“Calm down, m’lord. Now remember. Yer to sip the drink as ye sit in the warm water.”

Several years ago, a fortune-teller in a traveling circus had suggested this combination of herbs when Draven had approached her about cures for lycanthropy. The nostrum consisted of echinacea to purify one’s blood, arnica for its healing properties, and butternut to expel impurities via one’s digestive tract.

It did seem to calm Draven’s nerves, as the fortune-teller had promised. The only problem was its wickedly foul taste.

Rogers laughed and placed his hand over his spindly knees. “Ye seem like a child when ye make those faces.”

Draven cocked his head back, finished the nostrum, then wiped his mouth. “I’d like to see you drink it, old boy.”

“No, thank ye,” the valet said before he took the glass.

Draven grunted.

The valet handed him a washcloth. “We must do all we can to stop these transformations.”

“Let’s not speak of them. They are a sore subject,” Draven said as he washed his body. After he was done, he dropped the cloth into the water and gripped the sides of the tub. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head underwater then popped out, shaking his hair to and fro.

Silence filled the room as Rogers shaved Draven’s face. When the manservant was finished, he wiped away the excessive lather with a towel and handed over a mirror.

“I like it,” Draven said. He stroked the tiny slip of a goatee Rogers had left beneath his bottom lip.

Rogers emitted a heavy sigh. Draven turned to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

“What are ye to do durin’ the next full moon, m’lord?” The valet’s eyes glowed with concern.

Draven emerged from the water and whipped the towel around his waist. “I don’t have the foggiest. Right now my goal is to convince Isabella to stay. She doesn’t know that I literally transform into the black wolf. I hope to find the Gypsy woman responsible for the spell before she learns the truth.”

Rogers smiled. “I suppose the warm baths and concoctions don’t do a damned thing to help ye.”

“Somehow they make me feel better.” Draven smiled. “As do you, old boy.”

A soft pink color rose in the valet’s cheeks. He lifted the dressing gown to shoulder height. After slipping the gown on, Draven went to comb his hair. Rogers followed. “Yer lordship, perhaps ye can woo her ladyship anew by showin’ her the heartfelt letters ye wrote her in her absence. As for liftin’ yer curse, I went ta town yesterday fer supplies and the villagers were dronin’ on about Gypsies makin’ camp along the pond.”

“I encountered a family of three who got separated from their band. But who gave them permission to stay on my property?”

“I did. And if ye don’t run them off, it will be a step to showin’ some kindness and redemption,” Rogers said firmly.

Draven slapped the man on the back with affection. “All right, old boy.”

“Nothin’ but good will come of it, I assure ye.”

“I hope you’re right. Now where are those letters?” Draven asked distractedly.

B
y week’s end, the bite on Isabella’s foot had nearly healed and the gash on her forehead had begun to do the same. The search for her amulet had led nowhere, yet her father remained at the house—determined to find the necklace before he went back to London.

Draven sat by her side all the while, reading her love sonnets, poems, and chapters from novels. She’d had no idea that he liked to read as much as she did. She loved to watch his full lips form the words, and the way his strong hands clasped the books warmed her heart.

Quotes from Lord Byron were lovely and a relatively new novel called
Mansfield Park
was intriguing, but what moved Isabella most were the letters Draven had written to her during their separation but had kept to himself. She could hardly believe the man who’d shown her such cruelty on their wedding night was capable of this kind of unhindered romance and tenderness.

On a cold Saturday morning, Isabella begged Draven to read her favorite letter again.

He gave her a sheepish look but acquiesced nevertheless.

“That is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” Isabella admitted.

Just as Draven rose out of his seat to kiss her, Gwyneth bounced into the room holding a tray of tea and confectionaries.

“Perhaps you can knock next time, Gwyneth.” He frowned.

“Yes, m’lord.”

After setting the tray on the writing desk, the abigail flittered to the bed in order to smooth Isabella’s sheets. “How are ye feelin’, yer ladyship?” she asked. “’Tis a good sign that ye have some color in yer face.”

“I’m feeling better every day, Gwyneth. Thank you.” She smiled. “I really don’t know why everyone is making such a fuss.”

The girl threw her hands in the air. “Ye had the staff scared out of our minds, m’lady!”

Draven turned Isabella’s face toward him. “You had me scared as well.”

“I’m just glad I survived the ordeal,” she said, touching the heavy wrapping that encircled her head. “When can I take this bandage off?”

Gwyneth tsked. “Doctor says ye might have a concussion. So, ye must leave it on for another week, yer ladyship. Now, is there anythin’ ye need?”

“No. Thank you, Gwyneth.”

The young maid nodded and left the room. Draven helped Isabella wrap a dressing robe around her shoulders. He supported her as they made their way to a window seat padded with silk.

“Are you really feeling better today?” His eyes looked tender in the morning light.

She nodded distractedly.

He followed her gaze to the steely haze that blanketed the waves below the house. “If the weather wasn’t so dismal and you weren’t recovering from that horrific ordeal, I’d take you to the fields behind St. John’s Abbey. They offer a spectacular view of the North Sea.

“That sounds lovely.” She put a hand to her head, which felt heavy from being out of bed. It took a moment for her to stabilize herself. “I wouldn’t wish the terror of being trapped on my worst enemy.”

He took her hand. “An enemy like me?”

“You aren’t my worst enemy.”

“That’s right,” he said puffing out his chest proudly. “I’m your husband . . . a husband who was delighted to make love to his wife for the first time a few days ago.”

She blushed as she took a sip of tea. “It was wonderful, if not worrisome.”

“Isn’t a baby what you desire?” he asked.

“It is. But—”

Draven looked her straight in the eye. “If you’re carrying our child, God would not be so cruel as to give you a marred son.”

She tore her eyes away. She could hardly wait three weeks—when her courses either came or did not. But there was no use in discussing it until then. “I survived that trauma in the passageway but I haven’t found my amulet.”

“I suspect you’ll come upon it soon,” he said sincerely. “And I hope you decide to stay after you do.”

The cool light of sunrise spilled into the room as Isabella pondered his plea.

When she said nothing, Draven pushed his shoulders back. “Right. We shall take this one day at a time. The doctor said you shouldn’t travel for a few more weeks . . . just enough time to persuade you that living here at Thorncliff Towers doesn’t have to be so gloomy.”

“Persuading me of that shall take a miracle, I’m afraid.”

He gave her a charming smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m adept at persuasion.”

“You’re off to a very good start,” she said as visions of their wild lovemaking rose to mind.

He stood. “Tomorrow we shall get you out of bed and outdoors. Fresh air will do you a world of good.”

The next morning, a dapper-looking Draven came to escort Isabella to breakfast in a dark blue waistcoat and breeches that fit him like a second skin. She could tell that he’d just come from his ride because he smelled of pine and salt air. After they ate a hearty meal of potatoes, eggs, and porridge, he convinced her to take a walk with him around the estate’s grounds. Striding hand in hand, they made their way from the back of the house, past the garden slope, to Thorncliff Towers’ stone façade. Isabella wasn’t thrilled about her head injury, but it had prevented Draven from suggesting she join him on his horse ride today.

The wind felt cold and refreshing. Draven provided a sturdy anchor as she strolled. When she noticed how the wind blew his coattails askew and flushed his cheeks, her pulse leapt. She forced her stare away as they meandered beneath a giant elm that must have been a sapling centuries ago.

Draven took a turn sliding a glance her way. His expression turned thoughtful while he gave her a long history lesson on Thorncliff Towers. Patience was a side to him Isabella hadn’t seen before and she didn’t know how to interpret his newfound kindness.

They had nearly completed a circle around the house when Isabella noticed a barn house at the edge of the headland. While she and Draven chattered on, Mrs. Eaton came streaming out of the structure carrying the hem of her skirt.

“Lady Winthrop! Come quick!”

There was no time to ask questions. Isabella lifted her own skirts and followed the housekeeper inside the barn. Draven was right behind her. He clutched her shoulder as they came to stand in front of a rabbit yard. Alice was there, leaning over the side of the low fence wearing a genuine look of concern. She pointed to a female rabbit, a doe, lying within the pen that was writhing in pain.

“We came to check on the animals and discovered that this poor rabbit is the only one left,” she said. “The door to the barn was left open last night. The other rabbits have mysteriously disappeared.”

The wolves,
Isabella thought. “Thankfully this doe survived,” she said. “She looks pregnant.”

“She is,” Mrs. Eaton replied. “But she’s havin’ a hard time givin’ birth. She’s ill. Maybe losin’ the others made her sick.”

“We’ve tried everythin’ to help her,” Alice interjected. “But we don’t know what to do. Since ye were a governess, m’lady . . .”

“I don’t know if that experience will help, but I did have a dog growing up,” Isabella informed them. Miss Blue had been the Farringtons’ English Springer Spaniel. A magnificent canine with shining fur, Miss Blue had been loyal and playful. Sadly, she died shortly after Isabella’s mother passed away. “I assisted when my spaniel birthed four puppies,” she offered.

Draven had been standing silently by as the women conversed, his arms crossed. But the more he looked at the pathetic rabbit curled up in a ball, he became more sympathetic and he released his arms and sat on his haunches. “Is it the end for the doe?”

“I don’t think so,” Isabella said.

From the look of the hole dug within the yard, the animal had made a typical birth-giving nest. Shallow and cup-shaped, the hole was inches away from the weak rabbit. Isabella, who was still weak herself, climbed over the low fence and stepped inside the yard. She peered into the nest and saw that it was coated with tufts of the doe’s fur. She didn’t know much about rabbits, but she did know that bunnies were born without fur. Her heart tugged. The pregnant animal had plucked its own fur in anticipation of caring for her babies.

“She needs to squat over the nest,” Isabella said quietly.

Picking up the limp rabbit, she stroked its back and talked to it gently. Mrs. Eaton and Alice were watching her with empathetic eyes while Draven’s expression held a cool disdain.

“What if it has a disease?” he asked.

“You don’t ask that when you eat Mrs. Tidwell’s stew,” Isabella replied sternly.

Draven made no comment as she tried to coax the doe to stand erect enough so that it could start pushing. Under normal circumstances, the rabbit would have bit her. Now it looked at Isabella with gratitude in its vulnerable state.

Making a mewing sound, the female began the birthing process. Isabella started to sweat as she knelt before the nest. After twenty minutes, her arms grew weary. Her head ached and her vision grew distorted enough to make the landscape tilt to one side.

“She’s nearly there,” she said. “But I can’t hold her anymore. Will you take over for me?” She shot a look at Draven who had distanced himself from the scene.

He put a hand to his chest. “Me?”

“Yes. This will take a while and you have strong hands.”

“I don’t know—” he sputtered.

“Go on, Master Draven,” Alice encouraged him with a smile. “The poor rabbit is too weak to do ye any harm.”

Exhaling, he took off his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up. He stepped intrepidly inside the yard and took the doe from Isabella. At first, he held it at arm’s length like it was something contagious. Isabella had to smile at how awkward he was with the quivering animal, but he managed to show a degree of tenderness at the same time.

After thirty minutes, the doe gave birth to seven adorable, closed-eyed bunnies.

“You did a first-rate job, yer lordship!” Mrs. Eaton cried.

Draven smiled as he let the housekeeper and Alice step in and take over the care of the exhausted female and her offspring.

“Wasn’t that amazing?” Isabella asked.

“It was bloody fantastic.” His face lit up while he put his jacket back on. “I’ve never been a part of something like that before. However, I’ll never eat rabbit stew again.”

She laughed. Then her smile faded. “I hope the doe will survive for her babies now.”

“I hope so too. The ability to give birth is truly a miracle.” He took her hand and squeezed it.

They walked away from the house and came to sit on a knoll that overlooked the bay. Isabella plucked at an arched vine while Draven’s broad shoulders bunched as his arms dangled over his drawn-up knees.

“It was a good thing you knew what to do with the doe, Isabella. You have kind instincts.”

“Thank you.” She looked beyond the bluff to the encroaching tide.

She put a hand to her belly as she studied her husband’s symmetrical profile. From this angle, his features were more exotically handsome than classically so. She gave a little smile as his charcoal lashes curled lushly against his eyelids and his dark, shimmering hair flapped enticingly in the breeze.

Instead of fighting the impulse to touch the fluttering strands, she reached over and threaded her fingers through them. He locked eyes with her and smiled.

“You impressed me with that rabbit today,” she said. “Did you ever have a pet growing up?”

“Never,” said Draven, taking her hand. “The closest thing I had to a pet was a bird I caught by the beach. It was a young seagull, but it managed to burst out of the lame cage I made for it. I suppose it wasn’t right for me to imprison it in the first place.” His palm grew moist despite the chilly air. “Just as I was wrong to insist that you stay here forever.”

“Caring for someone means giving them the freedom to make their own choices.”

“Said like a true governess.” He chuckled to lighten the mood.

She put her hands on her hips and feigned offense. “I should put you over my knee for that.”

He slid closer and kissed her seductively. “You can put me over your knee anytime.”

She blushed. “There you go persuading me again.”

He held her close as the salty sea air swept over them. “I just had a brilliant idea.”

“What is that?”

“We should throw a party to celebrate you being alive and well.”

Isabella drew away. Draven made her heart speed, but she still felt inclined to protest. “Joyous celebrations hardly fall under the Winthrop style.”

“Poppycock,” he said. “I can throw one hell of a fête as well as the next aristocrat.”

“It doesn’t seem like something you’d enjoy.”

“You mean: why would I want to throw a party when I loathe people?”