Emma Jensen - Entwined (9 page)

The absurdity of the thought struck her, but too late. It hardly mattered what she looked like or whether or not her new employer cared. But she could not shake the fleeting conviction that, perhaps, she had lost her one chance at being thought a beauty: working for a blind man who might have assumed her pretty and never known otherwise.

Annoyed with herself, she tugged at the bell. " 'Tis preening you'll be at next, my lass," she muttered. "And howling at the moon."

Nathan reined his mount to a shuddering halt several miles from the house. Ordinarily, he would have pushed until both he and the horse were shaky and drenched with sweat. This time, however, he felt the urge to press his mind harder than his body.

She had come. And, from all he could gather, she had come willingly.

He could not deny the fact that Isobel MacLeod would most likely march into hell should her family need her to do so. He had never met someone more quick to act on another's behalf. Most people of his acquaintance did little that was not aimed for their benefit alone. Isobel, he had decided mere minutes after their unorthodox meeting, put her own well-being at the very bottom of a long list.

He wondered what she would say if she was to learn just how much he knew about her. For instance, would she be mortified that her father spoke of her passion for Highland ballads—or merely resigned to her sire's loose tongue? Would she respond at all if she knew MacLeod had mentioned her love of bright colors and fine fabric? Most likely, she would stiffen in her aged muslin and snap out some bit of Scottish wisdom on frugality.

Nathan found himself wondering just what Isobel had to say about other virtues. To be precise, he wondered what she had to say on the matter of her own virtue. Something in her voice and manner told him in no uncertain terms that she was innocent in the ways of the flesh. She had been quick enough, however, to comment on her capabilities as a mistress.

It would be at least mildly entertaining to hear her conception of a proper paramour. No doubt her description would be clever, decided, and quite unlike anything a real courtesan would admit.

Isobel would quite probably make a poor mistress indeed. She possessed none of the requisite traits, most notably those of complete self-interest and cunning. In her opinion, however, she would be lacking elsewhere. She would think beauty necessary, and sensual allure.

Nathan sighed. He was certainly finding himself allured by Isobel MacLeod, and he could not even see her face.

Now, sitting in a sheen of sweat atop an equally warm horse in the midst of a spring field, he could not free his senses of her smell. It taunted him just as it did in her presence, hovering at the edge of every breath he took.

He had been hard pressed during those moments when he had loomed over her not to bend close and sniff at her neck like some rutting beast. In fact, only the knowledge that she would have taken flight had stilled the powerful impulse.

Perhaps it was madness, bringing her into his home. He was accustomed to solitude, had grown to appreciate the silence of empty rooms. Yet why, then, did he find himself eagerly awaiting each swell of that husky, musical Scottish voice?

All things considered, Isobel MacLeod could prove to be more thorn than rose. Already she pricked at his shell and registered under his skin. He remembered as a small boy rushing into the Hall's gardens to capture a rose for his mother. He had grasped eagerly at a crimson flower and ended up with a fistful of crushed petals—and briars.

It was the first time he had bled for a woman, and a sad lesson in acting on impulse.

Beneath him, the horse shifted impatiently, ready for a wild gallop.

Patting the massive neck, he murmured, "Ah, Chiron, I know precisely how you feel."

His hands nearly itched with the desire to touch Isobel. He knew from their encounter the night before that she was neither large nor petite. When standing, her head would perhaps reach his shoulder. He recalled, too, and smiled in the remembrance of his hand sliding warmly over the curve of her bottom. The lady, brief experience told him, was very pleasantly formed.

The thought of touching her so again was appealing. But he wanted more. He wanted to run his fingers over her face and through her hair, to sense just why she was considered plain and to ascertain the length and texture of what James MacLeod had called "de'il's fire." Isobel had the red hair to match her temper, it seemed. And it stood to reason that any pawing on his part would get him a blast of that temper at the very least. He would simply have to wait.

He had always hated waiting. He was a man of motion and deed by nature. The past months of helplessness had been hell. From the moment he and Rievaulx had walked out of the Lisbon tavern and into a silent, brutal ambush, he had been helpless—unable to fend off the savage blow to his head that had taken his sight, unable to save his friend's life. Since his return to England, holed up in the Hall like a wounded animal, he had been helpless to seek revenge.

Now, perhaps, he had been given a chance to live fully again—and to be useful. Isobel could help; she
would
help. He simply had to be careful and patient in his demands.

He did not want to be patient, damn it.

"You're finding this amusing, Gabriel, aren't you?" he muttered into the breeze. "Me, blind and bumbling, seeing salvation in a smart-mouthed Scottish spinster." Again, his mind filled with thoughts of Isobel.

"You would like her, I think. She has a way of cutting right through the husk of things to the core."

There was a fundamental problem inherent in her perceptiveness.

Nathan was, quite simply, concerned with what she would see when she looked closely at him. It was not physical. He knew he was not what he once was, but neither was she a beauty. Appearance meant nothing. No, there were other parts of himself he did not want uncovered.

Then, too, there was the worry that Isobel would balk at what he meant to propose. Nathan had no doubt she would be up to the demands he had made of her father. In fact, she could quite probably relieve his London solicitors of all their responsibilities and, in the process, make him an even wealthier man than he already was.

The question, of course, was whether or not she would accept the larger task he was to lay before her, and if he was making a terrible mistake in asking it.

CHAPTER 6

Dining with Lord Oriel was very much like sharing a meal with her brothers when they were well sotted, Isobel decided. She bit her lip as he missed yet again and spattered the linen tablecloth with soup. From her seat at the opposite end of the massive table, she could hear his growl of impatience.

All things considered, he managed very well for a man who could not see what he was doing, but the experience was still unsettling. Neither had spoken a word since the obligatory greeting. Oriel's complete attention was directed to getting the food from his plate to his mouth.

Isobel dragged her gaze from his efforts and surveyed the room. It was much like the rest of the Hall, at least what she had seen. The meager furnishings were of excellent quality but showed unmistakable signs of neglect. The silver was tarnished, the veneer of the sleek mahogany sideboard dulled. And over every surface was a faint coating of dust, as if the house's occupants had departed some short time before, leaving everything just as it was.

The chambers she had seen upstairs were clearly unused, the furniture draped with dustcloths. Even the windows were covered. With the exception of her room, of course, which was beautifully appointed and blessedly dust-free.

"I trust your accommodations are satisfactory, Miss MacLeod," Oriel said, interrupting her thoughts.

Isobel's eyes flew back to his face. Mind readers, she thought, should not have soup on their chins. She blinked as he promptly lifted his napkin and wiped away the streak.

"I, ah, the room is lovely, my lord. Thank you."

And it was. She had wandered about the chamber, reverently stroking the lines of the blue silk chaise, the applewood writing desk. Having half expected quarters in the recesses of the attics with the other servants—

assuming there were other servants besides Milch—she had found herself feeling like royalty in the richly appointed room.

"You have a beautiful home," she added.

"It comes with the title," was his terse reply.

She wanted very much to ask about the unnatural quiet, but sensed it was not a subject he would welcome discussing. She was spared the immediate necessity of finding a safe topic by the appearance of Milch, bearing the next course. Isobel had yet to see another person and was fast coming to the conclusion that the dour butler was Oriel's staff in its entirety. Hard as it was imagining the man cooking, it was harder still to see him in apron and mobcap, wielding a feather duster. Of course, considering the amount of dust in evidence, it would seem he had chosen to ignore that task.

An ominous clattering from the far end of the table told her that Oriel was having a bit of a problem with the fish. Isobel's own appetite was poor.

Part had to do with the fact that the food was barely palatable. Still more was due to the knots in her stomach. They had twisted and tightened through the afternoon. If she did not rid herself of some of the tension soon, she would be likely to do something foolish.

"My lord." She stilled her fingers as they worried at a worn spot in her napkin. "If you would not mind, I should very much like to discuss my...

duties here."

"Yes, I expect you would."

Instead of continuing, Oriel awkwardly speared another bite of the overdone trout. Isobel found her gaze centering on his mouth. When not twisted in cold amusement, it was rather nice—the upper lip wide and perfectly shaped. His face, with that mouth, sharp cheekbones, and near-gold eyes suddenly made her think of a cat. A large one, to be sure, and one not to be petted.

"If I am to assume my father's duties, perhaps we ought to work out a schedule. And"—she paused and drew a breath—"I really do not understand why it is necessary for me to stay here. I could arrive each morning and return to the cottage...."

"No."

"Really, it would be—"

"I said no, Miss MacLeod. It was a very clear part of our deal that you reside here at the Hall. There will be no bargaining on the point."

She was fast coming to the conclusion that there was no bargaining at all with this man. He got precisely what he wanted. "I thought only to—"

"I have a very good idea what you thought. One does not need one's eyes to comprehend human nature."

Isobel had no reason to doubt that his comprehension was quite remarkable on many matters. He had his share of misses, however, when it came to her character.

"If I might ask—"

"I doubt I would give the answer you wanted." Finally losing her temper, she slapped her palm hard against the table and had the satisfaction of watching the goblet jerk in his hand. So he could be startled. She had begun to wonder.

"If you would allow me to complete the question, you might surprise yourself with the answer!" she snapped. Then, "I do not mean to be impertinent, but you have—I mean—" She gave up and poked her nail through the napkin. "Oh, bother it!"

"No, by all means, continue." - She sighed. "I can only be bullied so much, my lord, before I lose my temper. Are you having yourself a wee game here, trying to make me do something I'll have cause to regret?"

Carefully he returned his glass to its place. "Trust me, Miss MacLeod, a wise man never plays games, wee or otherwise, with a woman's temper.

And I might suggest that spitting at me is not your best option."

" 'Tisn't wise," she muttered, "I know. But I cannot seem to help it."

"You could try," he replied equably.

"Aye, and now you'll go all polite and condescending. If this is how you go about managing your employees, running hot then cold, 'tis no wonder my father..."

There was no need for him to interrupt her this time. Her tongue faltered on its own, of course too late.

"No wonder he stole from me? Now that, I must say, is perhaps the best excuse I've heard yet for his behavior. He was goaded into it by my personality. Tell me, Isobel, do you find liking your employer a necessary qualification for loyalty?"

"Liking isn't necessary, my lord," Isobel replied after a long moment.

"Not when there is respect."

Nathan felt as if she had pricked something inside him, and he didn't like the sensation in the least. "You do not think you can respect me."

"To the contrary," she said softly. "I respect you, or rather what little I know of you, very much indeed. 'Tis a grand feat you've achieved. I cannot say how I'll feel once we're done with all this crazed circling and settle whatever there is to be settled, but I am impressed thus far."

"Well." Nathan sat back in his chair. "You humble me with your honesty."

"And you mock me with that tone!"

He could almost imagine her eyes sparking with annoyance. Green, he thought. Vivid and slightly tilted and every bit as telling of her mood as Jamie had once tipsily described. "I am not mocking you, Isobel. Honesty is to be prized as little else. I am genuinely awed by yours, even more so by the loyalty that accompanies it. Ah, but I daresay you do not believe me.

What you know of me, as you say, is very limited. In fact, you know little more than the fact that I am blind and have managed to conceal it."

"A feat worthy of respect," she said firmly.

"Perhaps. But you are still not certain I am an honorable man."

"I wasn't thinking of honor, precisely, my lord. I was thinking of cruelty."

"You think me cruel."

"You can speak cruelly, my lord. The two are not necessarily the same."

"Mmm.
I would venture to agree with you there." The sigh eased from his throat before he could stop it. "Has it ever occurred to you, Isobel MacLeod, that I might be every bit as nervous as you?"

Nay, it had not. And even when he said the words, it made no sense.