Emma Jensen - Entwined (32 page)

"Nathan?"

He had not heard Isobel follow him into his bedroom. "Not now."

"But..."

"Not
now,
damn it!"

Isobel shrank back, startled by his tone and by his expression. Standing by the mantelpiece in his bedchamber, only the faint light of a single candle to illuminate him, he looked much, too much, as he had that very first night.

Uncertainly, she reached out one trembling hand. "Nathan, I—"

"For God's sake, Isobel, leave me be! I cannot speak with you now."

Stung anew, she let her arm drop. Nay, she wasn't leaving, but she needed more light to stay. She busied herself with stoking the fire, then moved about the chamber, lighting several braces of candles. When she had finished, she drew a deep breath and tried again. "My lord, I am sorry the lads allowed themselves to be fleeced. They are foolish, but—"

He slammed his palm hard against the mantel, sending a silver holder with its unlit taper toppling. Isobel flinched, waiting for the sound of metal clanging against the tile hearth. But with his free hand, Nathan managed to catch the candlestick as it dropped. "They were chosen!" he shouted. "St.

Wulfstan chose them."

Bewildered by what she had just seen, all she could manage was a faint

"Chosen?"

"A pair of sheep in a landowner's pen. No more important than that."

"I—do not understand."

His harsh laugh sent a shiver through her. "Come now, Isobel. You are a Highland Scotswoman. Don't tell me you are unfamiliar with the expansive curse: 'May your well run dry, your crops wither, your debts fall into the hands of the devil...' "

"Nathan, please. You are frightening me." And he was. There was an unholy light in his amber eyes, a deepening harshness to the lines around his mouth. He looked bitter, distant, and slightly mad. "You are speaking nonsense."

"Nonsense. If only it were so." He faced her fully now, his eyes burning.

"You were meant to be my redemption, Isobel. My saving grace. God, look at you, the brilliant halo above the celestial white. I should have known you would prove to be my greatest weakness."

He set the candlestick back on the mantel, right in the center, right where it had been. Then he reached for her. Isobel took a shaky step backward, prevented from taking another when her heel landed on the hem of her dressing gown.

"H-how did you know?"

"What, that St. Wulfstan chose—"

"How did you know," she interrupted, her voice shrill, "that my dressing gown is white?"

"Isobel... Ah, hell."

"How did you catch that candlestick and put it back precisely where it had been?" Images flashed through her mind, one atop the next and sharp as steel.
"Dia s'Muire.
All along. You've seen all along."

"Isobel..."

"How much, Nathan? Everything?" Cursing him, cursing herself more, she gasped, "Was it all a lie?"

She nearly went down, trying to back away as he came at her. For the first time, it was his hands that did the steadying. He pulled her to him, and she fought against him. "Listen to me!" His repeated pleas came through her helpless fury, but meant nothing. When she went limp, it was simply because she knew it was no use to struggle. He was too strong. "Isobel, there have been no lies. I have not lied."

"You can
see!"
she raged, blind herself now with hot tears.

"Only blurry shapes and colors in a well-lit room. The glow of firelight in your hair, for instance. So beautiful, my love. So beautiful."

She did not move when he buried his lips in her hair. She stood, rigid against him, silent, until he released her. "Isobel, please."

"Why, Nathan?" Then she shook her head. "Nay, I've no heart to hear you now."

He answered anyway, and his eyes were fierce and pleading as he told her, "You said you would never have accepted me had I been able to see. I thought you would leave me."

"I was
jesting,
you daft fool. You knew full well I was jesting!" Chilled now, Isobel pulled free of his grasp. He let her go. "Perhaps when you've readied your tale, I'll listen. Perhaps. But for now"—she turned away and headed for the door—"I cannot."

"I love you, you know. More than my own life."

She froze, wondering why she had not realized how much she had longed to hear those words. Yearned for them. And now that she had heard them, they were bitter to her ears.

"You must believe that," he continued, his voice rough and low. "If you believe nothing else."

"I read novels, my lord. More than you, no doubt, though perhaps you ought to try your hand at writing one. You certainly have the words ready."

"Damn it, Isobel!"

"I know I'm meant to turn now, listen and forgive. Perhaps next chapter."

For the first time, she bolted the connecting door between their chambers.

CHAPTER 19

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,

Had we never lov'd sae blindly.

Never met— or never parted—

We'd hae ne'er been broken-hearted.

—Robert Burns, "Ae Fond Kiss"

Nathan let the string of pearls slide through his fingers to pool on the desk. Then he lifted the necklace and let it slide through his fingers again.

He had been doing it for so long now that the act had become automatic. He had long since stopped feeling the satin ripple of the pearls, stopped hearing their rhythmic clicking against each other and the desk.

He looked up, startled, when the string was jerked from his fingers.

"Stop that!" his brother snapped.

"How long have you been there?"

William snorted. "Five minutes. I knocked, you know, but you're so immersed in your rosary and solitude that you didn't hear me."

"She left me, Will."

"I know. The entire household knows. Damn, Nat, I expect all of London knows."

Perhaps he had not been quiet on finding Isobel gone, but even as he had stumbled through the house, scattering small pieces of furniture and nervous servants, he had thought he might yet find her. In the morning room, the attics, the wine cellar.

Only when he had calmed down enough to talk to the staff did he learn that a pale, red-eyed Isobel, weaving brothers in tow, had climbed into the traveling carriage just after dawn and driven away. She would be halfway to Hertfordshire by now, gone as he had planned. Only not as he had planned, after all. He had not been able to ask her to go, not been able to countenance being in his home without her.

His need to have her with him had been selfish, he knew, and potentially dangerous. Perhaps her leaving was, in fact, an act of divine intervention.

Perhaps it was really punishment for his selfishness—and his refusal to tell her the complete truth.

It was some consolation to know precisely where she was going. He was relieved to know she was removed from danger, but his guilt-ridden loneliness was every bit as powerful as the comfort.

"Nathan." William's voice drew him from his grim musings. "Tell me something, would you, old chap?"

"If I can."

"What in damnation are you still doing here? You should have gone after her, should bloody well be tearing up the Cheshunt Road now!"

"Thank you, William, for that very helpful opinion."

"Well?"

Nathan sighed and held out his hand for the pearls. "Go away, William."

"But, really—"

"I mean it, William. Take yourself elsewhere."

"Very well." His brother plunked the pearls onto the desk. "At least tell me what you plan to do about St. Wulfstan. The man isn't going to react too kindly to the news that the MacLeods and his four hundred pounds left Town."

Nathan threaded the pearls through his fingers again and felt marginally better for it. "Give me a small amount of credit, if you would. And trust me to deal with the matter as I deem best."

"As you did with your wife's departure?" was the snide retort.

"William!"

"I'm going. But I have to say, Nat, you married a smashing woman, and you're a bloody fool to let her get away."

Nathan heaved an inkwell. It came nowhere near its mark, but William slammed the door with unnecessary force as he left.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Nathan heard the swish of skirts. His heart leapt. But no, the hazy image before his eyes was too small to be his wife. "Good morning, Mariah," he offered wearily.

"It is hardly a good morning, you great oaf! How could you do it?"

Before Nathan could respond with a few choice and not particularly loving words, he heard the swishing of more petticoats. They were not Isobel's this time, either.

"There are moments, Nathan, when I am forced to contemplate the possibility that I did something horrendously wrong as a parent!"

"Good morning, Mother. Where is—"

"Damn me, boy, what have you got inside that thick head of yours? Sure as blazes ain't the brains you were born with!"

"Father," Nathan finished wryly.

"William has given us the most distressing news!" The duchess's voice was the tiniest notch above normal volume, signifying her emotional state.

"He says Isobel left you this morning!"

"She—"

"Well, son, what are you doing still here? Get on that bloody horse of yours and get her back!" The duke, whose vocal volume never signified much of anything at all, pounded the desk in rhythm with his words.

Mariah, bless her heart, merely snapped, "Idiot!"

His own patience frayed, Nathan rose slowly from his seat. "If you would be so kind," he began, then gave up the fight when William bounded back into the room, muttering new insults. In an instant, his entire family was scolding at once.

And Isobel had been concerned they would not accept her. How surprised she would have been to know what a storm her departure was causing, Nathan thought. He rather suspected that had he been the one who disappeared, there would have been a comment or two at supper, then nothing save a brief mention at holidays. Isobel, despite having been a Paget for less than a month, had left a hole as large as Scotland itself in the family.

Pearls gripped in one fist, cane in the other, Nathan limped from behind the desk and toward the hall. He was immediately surrounded by his parents and siblings, all growling and snapping like mad dogs. A fist, owner uncertain, shook in his face, a hand tugged at his sleeve. When the duke actually called him "a damn fool
Sasunnach,"
his patience shattered.

"Enough!" he bellowed. "Enough. I appreciate your concern. Isobel, were she here, would appreciate your concern. But it was not requested and it damn well is not wanted!" With that, he cleared his path with a sweep of his cane and headed for the stairs.

"I beg your pardon, my lord..."

"For God's sake, Milch! She left. Yes, she left. I know the staff does not like it.
I
bloody well hate it! But if I hear one more word from anyone on the matter, I will not be responsible for my actions!"

There was a moment of complete silence. Then the butler hesitantly cleared his throat. "Yes, my lord. I quite understand, my lord. I meant, however, merely to inform you that Mr. Gerard is here to see you."

"Where is he?"

"He is in the morning room, my lord."

Brandishing his cane as a clear warning to all and sundry, Nathan turned and made his way back across the hall. There was no question in his mind why Gerard was there; he wanted to discuss Henry Stone. Nathan did not want to talk about Henry Stone. In fact, he did not want to talk about any facet of the hopeless Gordian knot that had brought him back to Town in the first place.

"I know about Stone," he muttered, without preamble, on entering the morning room.

"Ah." Gerard cleared his throat. "And I know about your wife. I am sorry, Oriel."

"It isn't permanent. I am considering driving to Hertfordshire this evening."

"You are certain that is where she went?"

"I am. Her brothers are with her."

"Of course. I know about St. Wulfstan's encounter with your brothers-in-law as well."

Nathan wearily lowered himself into a chair. "How quickly good news travels in this blighted town."

"It was hardly a quiet scene in Watier's last night, and I am well informed. As for Lady Oriel, I am afraid I could not keep from hearing you when I arrived. I had not meant to be listening."

"Oh, leave off, Matthew. Of course you heard me. According to my brother, all of London heard me. But as I said, it is merely a misunderstanding. Isobel and I will be reunited soon." He found Gerard's sympathetic murmuring a good deal less than welcome. "How is Stone?"

"Still alive, but barely."

"When can I speak with him?"

"I wish you could. I wish anyone could. He has been unconscious since he was found. The surgeon does not expect him to live, nor to speak again before he dies."

Nathan cursed under his breath. "It would have been too much to ask, perhaps. But he could have given us a name. Not that we need one."

"You know who shot him, then?"

"Ah, Matthew, you know as well as I do."

Gerard muttered the name that had been taunting Nathan all morning. "I cannot believe it."

"Yes, you can. You do." Nathan leaned back and rested his head against the chair. "Will you be able to forgive yourself?"

"For?"

"For not seeing it earlier? For not preventing Brookes's death, quite possibly Stone's. You couldn't have, you know."

"And you are wrong, Nathan. I could have prevented both. Dennison's, too. That is for me to bear."

Nathan suspected the man had already dipped into the brandy that day.

Danger had never affected Gerard in the least, but any failure for which he blamed himself sat like the weight of the earth on his shoulders.

"I will deal with the matter, Matthew," Nathan said. "I will leave it to you to explain, should the War Department ever ask, but I will deal with it."

"Nathan, I will not have you—"

"Don't waste your breath, man. I have already begun. Go home. Go anywhere. I will send word to you when... when it is done."