by Jaide Fox
And it was not something she needed at this exact moment in time.
Isabeau firmed her jaw and tried to ignore him, but the arm about her waist merely tightened until he released her entirely in response to her continued silence. His free hand then came up to cup her throat and he forcibly tilted her face towards him. "Do not ignore me, fair maid," he ordered, his tone mild belying the command of his words.
"My name is Isabeau! Not fair maid. Not sweet Venus! Isabeau!" she retorted fiercely, her words almost spat at him.
Even though it caused a slight strain in her neck, she pulled away from his hold, refusing to be cowed by his physical strength. She had dealt with men as big and as mean as he many times in the past, she was not afraid. Perhaps at this moment in time she was his hostage, but there would be countless opportunities in the future to rid herself of him.
She was certain and nodded her head resolutely at her thoughts.
"All right...Isabeau, it is," he compromised quietly. "What is this heat? If you're trying to kill me, then at least explain how...Are you perchance attempting to shrivel my manhood?"
She heard the teasing behind his words and glared her anger into the darkness. "I am attempting to ease the aches in my body that are the result of your frenzied pursuit!"
"Nay, ‘twas not I who insisted you run from us. Had you stayed, quietly, in that inn, we would merely have collected you."
She interrupted him furiously. "I am not a packet or a letter to be delivered and collected!"
He ignored her and continued, "You would have been free from injury and strain. But, no, you had to be difficult. Why that surprises me, I do not know!" He sighed. "And you are, you know."
"What? What am I?" she retorted imperiously, shaking her head to abate some of the tension that was steadily increasing in her body.
"A packet to be collected and delivered, however, you have disrupted the process and have done for the last four years!"
"I beg your pardon! I am not a piece of post!" she asked, confused and slightly startled by his reply.
"Hush!" he ordered abruptly and she jumped at the sudden and unanticipated harshness of his tone, when it had been distinctly lacking in acerbity for the entirety of the night. Regardless of her ill temper.
She felt his head snap upwards and she followed the movement. It was still dark, the moon still shone radiantly in the night sky and the stars still twinkled, but a change seemed to come over him.
Had he been determined before, now he was persistently and insistently so. Isabeau realized that the speed in which they had been traveling could be considered slow in comparison to the miles they were now eating.
In a shocking amount of time, a looming shadow came out of nowhere, and Isabeau found herself peering into the darkness and finding a gatehouse. The gate was open and the horses were led through the entrance to some secured manor land.
Within moments, they had traversed the lane that led to the property and she felt herself being moved away from Wolfe's lap and being plopped hurriedly on to the graveled drive way.
She did not even have time to huff her disapproval of being so mishandled, before she was being lifted from the ground and carried up a set of stairs and through an open doorway.
Almost like the packet he had accused her of being, she thought with pursed lips.
All of the men seemed to stampede in and in the faint light of a solitary candle, she saw that a butler stood before them. The delicate light eerily traced his features, giving him the appearance of an eccentric owl, with his somewhat inset and close eyes, a strange beak of a mouth and a portly figure merely adding to the image.
"There are rooms ready for us, Saiville?" Wolfe asked gruffly.
"Aye, sir. I'll lead the way."
In slow and torturous movements, Saiville walked up another set of stairs. These were considerably grander than those of the outside entrance and she imagined, that in the light of day, the sheer height of the ceiling would be awe-inspiring. As it was, in the semi-gloom, she could only guess as to its proportions, but the constant and loud echo of their footsteps against the staircase told her that she was right to believe the hallway was impressive.
Once they had reached a landing, Saiville led them down the length of the floor and one by one, the thirteen horsemen were shown to their chambers, until only she and Wolfe were remaining.
Saiville headed towards the last of the rooms on this floor, passing the chamber she assumed Wolfe would take, and opened the door to the room she presumed would be her own and with a flourish.
Isabeau took a hesitant step inwards and spun around at Wolfe's voice.
"There are no possible exits in this room, Isabeau. The windows are sealed and the door will be locked. Please, do not try and destroy any part of this room. I would find it most offensive to repay my friend's generosity with a chamber ripped to shreds by an overset female."
She glared at him and had to fight the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. He merely bowed and the door was slowly returned to its jamb.
The click of the lock was loud in the otherwise silent room. The clang of metal against metal had her nerves rising and the thought that there was no escape, made her even more anxious.
Of course, she couldn't trust his word and so, with squinted eyes, Isabeau headed around the perimeter of the room and encountered four. Each as locked as the next. When she reached the fourth one, she frowned out at the darkened view before her, realizing that it wasn't as dark as it had been. There was a slightly back lit radiance to the sky that informed her, morning was here.
Color had yet to shoot through the blacker than black scape above them, but she could already feel the slight sizzle of her powers recharging.
Her mind crossed to the sudden increase of speed and the haste in which they had arrived here ...there had been no other sounds, nothing that could have been of any danger to them. Had there been and had she been in any danger, then she would have noticed. Her ring would have reacted to it and warned her.
Therefore, there was another reason behind their need to take shelter here.
Perhaps, it was the dawn.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized it to be highly probable.
It would explain a few anomalies.
Such as how he had seen through her disguise, when his fingers had brushed the ring.
He was like her.
Whatever she was.
Only, where she was at her strength during the day, he was at his zenith, during the night.
It was how he had known that she was in an inn, when there had been no troops of horsemen near the ale house. It was how he had known to follow her into the woods, when he had been far behind her and there were other options open to her and other routes that she could easily have taken.
Suddenly, the term Night Rider took on a deeper meaning.
Slowly, she walked towards the bed that was slightly visible in the darkened room and when there, perched on the edge and started to remove her boots.
Leaving them to lie slovenly on the hardwood floor, she settled back against the mattress and sighed her comfort. A down mattress, like the one she had had at home. It was tenfold more comfortable than the bed she had slept in earlier and as exhaustion rode her hard, her comfort and feeling of security, which in the circumstances was laughable, had her lulled and soon, she dropped into a fatigued and heavy slumber.
* * * *
With a slight grimace, Isabeau rolled on to her side and realized that earlier that morning, before she had fallen asleep, she had failed to heal her injuries entirely. The pervasive ache of her buttocks against the mattress, the strain in her spine as she had turned over ... they were unwelcome reminders of the night before and the adventures in which she had been involved.
Keeping her eyes closed and her mind on the perch of sleep, she rubbed the onyx stone and allowed her body to heal itself. The heat that always came from the healing process had her toasty warm and nestling deeper into the cushion
ed comfort of her bed. She sighed with relief as the rough kink in her back and hips dissipated and she could move more freely and with less of the pain that only moments before had plagued her.
A murmur escaped her lips as she heard the click of the door only moments later.
Realizing that she was in the position of hostage, something her tired brain had yet to process, Isabeau slightly slitted her eyes and turned her gaze to focus on the opening door. She could not possibly allow someone to enter her chamber without monitoring their progress.
A man walked through. Young, in his late twenties perhaps, tall and strong of chest. He appeared to be dressed in refined cloth and even from this distance, she admired the glinting fiery gem that sat snugly amongst the billowy folds of his cravat and at the matching set of cufflinks at his wrist.
No butler or footman would have worn anything so grand and she could only assume that it was either the Lord of the manor or his son and heir.
He was handsome of face and well-proportioned in the body, she would give him that.
In fact, he was almost a perfect opposite to Wolfe. Where Wolfe was night, this man was day. Light blonde hair grew thickly on his head and was only tamed by the cut, which was in a Brutus style. From this distance, she could see the sparkling blue eyes and the lightly tanned and golden flesh of his face, throat and hands. Definite opposites.
She did not need to see Wolfe in the light to know that he was dark of skin, almost bronze. Perhaps from exposure to the sun, or the olive color could be his natural skin tone. Either way, he was at the other end of the spectrum to the man before her.
In his hands, there was a tray with food and almost as though it were on cue, her stomach began to grumble its hunger as the essence of whatever was upon the salver began to make its presence known.
Rather than give him the upper hand, she slid upwards and on to her elbows and in her usual, obstinate manner, asked, "Who the devil are you?"
His head shot up and he looked down at her with narrowed eyes. Before he spoke, his eyebrow also shot up as his gaze traveled along her disheveled length. "I see Wolfe managed to describe what seems like every inch of you and did not lie about your attitude. I had hoped he was exaggerating."
Rather than be embarrassed by his statement about her manners, she felt rather proud. Having been raised to be a lady, it had taken years to produce this all-encompassing shell and although it had been difficult, it was there for a reason. Protection.
She shrugged and watched as his eyes fell to her shoulders. From long experience, Isabeau knew that he would be studying her hair. Even she realized that the locks about her head were a curious mixture. Neither auburn, nor red, nor tinted with orange. It had the appearance of all of them and yet not a one of them. It was the color of the heart of a flame and was filled with life thereof.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized that both this stranger and herself had similar colorings. They were both of the light, where Wolfe was of the dark.
Why that was of any significance, she didn't know. But the thought rebounded around her brain like a bouncing ball.
Cautiously, Isabeau watched him wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and then saw the slight infinitesimal twitch of his shoulders, which bespoke of his inner tension. Curious now, she waited for him to speak.
"Unfortunately for me, I'm one of your kind." He grimaced. "Wolfe always did have the luck of the dogs."
Frowning at him in confusion, for what did he mean, one of her kind? Human? What other kind was there? Did he mean that he too had the strange powers and talents she had inherited? And why was he inferring that Wolfe was not of a similar kind as this stranger and herself?
"What do you mean?"
He shrugged and replied, "We are of the light."
His words uncannily picked up on her earlier thoughts, but again, what did he mean? Light as in good and dark as in evil? If so, why would he be friends with Wolfe, who was obviously of the dark and subsequently...evil?
Confused, Isabeau ducked her head and studied the carved wood of the bed stand.
When he seemed quite content to simply hover there, looking over her body with covetous eyes and saying little, she licked her lips and murmured softly, "Please may I eat whatever you've brought?"
A sheepish smile graced his lips and he muttered apologetically, "More used to being served than being the server, I'm afraid. Of course, you may eat and with my pleasure."
He settled the tray on the bed and stepped backwards, almost as though her proximity would tarnish him somehow.
She tried not to be offended and had he not come bearing gifts, she more than likely would have been. However, she merely reached for the tray, set the legs either side of her and tucked into the hearty slices of sirloin with a poached egg and a chunk of churned butter, the color of spun gold, and two thick slices of wheat and seed-filled bread. She had developed quite a hunger during her slumber, she realized.
Eating with rather more relish than decorum allowed, Isabeau enjoyed every morsel and ignored the still-hovering man, who had yet to introduce himself to her.
When she eventually finished, he said, "Long time since I've seen a lady your age actually eat anything beyond slight wisps of vegetables."
"I'm not your average lady though, kind sir. I can't afford to faint decorously in the parlor nor can I afford to turn food down, when it is so generously given to me. I thank you for allowing me to break my fast."
He nodded his acceptance but ducked his head, when she continued, "Who are you?"
"A friend of Wolfe's," was all he said.
She tutted her tongue and replied, "That is of little help. Considering I do not have a jot of an idea of who this Wolfe Sinclair, so called Night Rider, actually is, I'm therefore lost as to who you are as well! Is he friend or foe to me though, I suppose is the question I should be asking you..."
When her voice trailed to a halt, he picked up her words and answered quietly. "There are those who would wish worse upon you than Wolfe does."
"How reassuring!" Isabeau had to hold back a snort at this evasive and non-answer.
"Why has he asked you to do his bidding? Has he left your manor?"
"My manor?" the man retorted with raised eyebrows.
"The last time I saw a servant wear rubies as red as those at your cravat and wrists, was in a particularly good dream. Your shirt is of the finest linen, your jacket and breeches tailored by the best." She smiled coldly. "My father may have died four years ago, but he only wore the best that London's tailors could produce. You, milord, are wearing the best. Your cravat has been tied by a master and your hair styled and cut to the latest fashions...If you aren't the Lord of this manor then I'm a fairy."
For some reason, that seemed to make him laugh, but he held up a hand and relayed, "You are indeed correct. In more ways than one." The last was said with a slight smile. "Tis my manor, ever since my father died ten years ago. Old bastard, I was glad to see the back of him."
"I see that you did not share my love for my parents with your own."
"He was a confounded tyrant. Mother was a pussy cat. Not a damned hope of surviving the brute."
"It is strange indeed, milord, that you're willing to discuss your dislike of your father and your mother's intimate past, yet you will not tell me who you are to Wolfe Sinclair or what he is to me."
