by Marina Myles
Why is Draven treating me as if I have the plague?
Of course, Joseph Gossington was a man who had treated her quite differently. A tall, muscular gentleman with gleaming blond hair, Joseph had been introduced to Isabella at her cousin’s house two months ago. She had felt his eyes on her the entire evening. Because he had talked and flirted with her unabashedly, their time together sent tongues wagging all over London. Several weeks later, they met again by sheer happenstance in the market. During a walk to a local café, he had snaked a secretive hand around her waist and in a mesmerizing tone, mentioned her estrangement from her husband. He even offered to supply Isabella with carnal pleasures, if she so fancied.
Joseph’s sparkling sea-blue eyes could easily have seduced her but she didn’t react to him at all. Instead, her thoughts flew to Draven. Of how his touch had seared her skin like wildfire on their wedding night. Of how his deep kiss had blurred her senses—and how his ominous eyes would intrigue her until the end of time.
I need to focus on the dilemma at hand.
Stealing a look at the table clock, her stomach clenched. She was scheduled to meet Draven and Helena for breakfast but she’d be damned if she would eat with a man who had ordered her to become a prisoner.
After she asked Gwyneth to bring her a tray of eggs and toast, she busied herself with arranging her belongings inside the chiffonier. A tremendous banging began at the door.
“Isabella. You are my wife and you will come down to breakfast this instant!”
“I’m not hungry,” she called back.
“You are hungry or you wouldn’t have ordered Gwyneth to bring you a tray,” Draven thundered.
“I just lost my appetite.”
“You will eat with me or you will receive no food!”
“Very well. I’m perfectly content to sit here and stare at the walls.”
A silence passed. Then she heard, “I . . . I’m sorry I was such a brute last night.”
She said nothing.
“I didn’t mean to take away your freedom, Isabella,” Draven said. “It’s just that I want you to listen to me. I am still your husband.”
“A husband who denies his wife intimacy. Under those circumstances, you will never be anything but a monster to me,” she said.
A growl, more animal than human, rattled the walls as Draven’s footsteps pounded away.
A few hours passed and Isabella couldn’t ignore her hunger pains any longer. She summoned Gwyneth to help her into a worn empire-line dress of pale green before she started for the breakfast parlor.
Arriving at the airy room, she found that the dining table had been set with one egg cup, one oval serving dish layered in potatoes, one plate, and one teacup.
How had Draven known I would finally emerge?
Enveloped in silence, she sat down and unfolded her napkin. A large portrait gracing the east wall caught her attention. The painting showcased a gentleman dressed in a handsome riding habit. Wearing a sophisticated ascot, the man sat atop a beautiful white Arabian with his hand planted on his hip. Sporting wavy sable hair, chiseled cheekbones, and impeccable posture, the regal figure resembled Draven in the drawing room portrait. However, this gentleman possessed clear, blue eyes that leapt out at Isabella with straightforwardness—contradicting the madness she witnessed in her husband’s black ones.
Could this be Draven’s father? She strained to read the name plate that accompanied the painting.
“Cyril Octavian Winthrop 1791”
Earl of Dunwich
So this was the father her husband had known for only a short time. During their courtship, Draven told Isabella that Cyril Winthrop died from an illness, leaving him at sixteen to deal with a daunting title and his mother’s coldness.
Isabella peered closer. The resemblance between father and son was obvious. In fact, everything about the nobleman’s face reminded her of Draven except for his eyes and the shade of his skin.
Helena’s eyes were also blue and her skin was so pale that it bordered on alabaster.
So where had Draven gotten his dark complexion and black eyes? The more Isabella knew of him, the more he became an enigma of the most complicated and vile sort.
She dug into the food. It was cold but to her, it tasted magnificent. Downing the meal too quickly, she became nauseated. Her body was on the verge of malnutrition and she’d lost a considerable amount of weight. She had been watching over Phillip, her cousin Fiona’s youngest son with, alas, no salary. At Fiona’s house, Isabella often feigned fullness in order to take the food home to Papa.
Now she needed to ease her body into eating substantial meals again.
Feeling drowsy, she sat back in her chair and in the stillness of the room, she was relieved to be without Draven. Why was he trying to control their relationship with no degree of compromise? She must steer clear of him while he pondered her ultimatum.
Fatigued from the heavy meal and lack of sleep, Isabella decided that some outdoor exercise would rouse her energy. She made her way to the back of the house where she maneuvered down a flight of stairs. The manor resembled a maze but she knew she would never forget the escape route she had used on her wedding night.
As she neared the kitchen, she passed Gwyneth on the stairs.
“Oh, m’lady!” the abigail cried. “Can I help ye? This ’ere is the servants’ stairwell.”
“I didn’t know,” Isabella fibbed. She had rather hoped no one would see her.
“Where are ye headed?”
“To the fields behind the house. I’m going to take a walk.”
“If ye change yer mind and decide to go on horseback, be careful,” Gwyneth whispered. “The horses tend to be nasty.”
“Thank you, Gwyneth,” Isabella whispered back.
She continued on until she emerged into the bright sunshine. Thankful that the rain had stopped, she strolled across a wide veranda then veered off along a pebbled walkway. To her left, a neglected garden screamed for attention. Encircled by a low wall, the small space was centered by a stone statue formed in the shape of a Grecian goddess. Upon further inspection, Isabella saw that the garden contained crispy, brown flower beds and sparse bushes. Had it once boasted willowy orchids, plump wisteria, or rich, red roses?
She liked to think it had.
She gazed beyond the unkempt space and spotted a charming gazebo rising out of the mist. The structure’s white paint was badly chipped and faded and the land surrounding it looked untended.
All in all, Isabella reflected, Thorncliff Towers didn’t lack potential. It just needed some tender care.
Raising her skirts, she meandered toward the horse stables. A figure on horseback moving through the woods caught her eye. Her heart stopped. It was Draven. Why was he stealing into the forest?
“Good morning, your ladyship.”
Isabella whirled around at the unfamiliar voice.
A lad of fourteen or fifteen materialized from the stables. With warm, brown eyes, defined cheekbones, and hair as black as Draven’s, the boy possessed enough exotic features to make younger girls swoon. He had a saddle slung over one shoulder and was carrying a large, flat brush in his other hand.
“Good morning,” Isabella said.
“My lady.” He did a small bow. “I’m Viktor.”
She smiled though she was distracted.
“Are you planning to go for a ride, your ladyship?”
On horseback? The idea made her nerves race. “No. I was just going for a walk.”
The lad seemed relieved. “Glad to hear it. His lordship gave me strict orders that you are only to ride with him. He also instructed that you not wander far.” The boy set the saddle and brush on a patch of grass then rubbed his shoulder. “There is a wild wolf roaming the countryside.”
She felt her face go white. “Yes, I’ve heard the rumors.”
The sun peeked through a cloud and the stable boy shaded his eyes with his hand. “You’re safe on the grounds during the day. The werewolf only appe
ars during a full moon.”
Werewolves. Mention of the creature stirred a deep-seated fear Isabella could thank her uncle Morton for. On her eighth birthday, her father’s twin brother had come for supper carrying a children’s book filled with dark tales. Propping Isabella on his lap, he read her a story about a man who’d gone mad before he turned into a wolflike monster. Terrified, she had slid off Morton’s lap and sought refuge behind her mother’s skirts.
Now that she was grown, she chose to scoff at the existence of werewolves because she wouldn’t allow herself to be frightened like that again.
She raised her chin in the boy’s direction. “There are no such things as werewolves.”
He picked up the saddle and swung it back over his shoulder. “I don’t mean any disrespect, my lady, but something destroyed the neighboring livestock. Whatever it was had supernatural strength—and I assure you that in my culture, supernatural forces exist.”
“Your . . . culture?”
He nodded. “I am a Gypsy.”
“Whatever are you doing at Thorncliff Towers?”
“Master Draven was kind enough to let me stay and work here after he caught me stealing food from the kitchen. It’s not something I’m proud of, but his lordship gave me a second chance.”
Isabella frowned. It didn’t sound like Draven to be so kind. She wondered what had actually motivated him to help the boy. “Has anyone been hurt by this phantom werewolf?”
“No one has been attacked,” replied the boy. “But if I were you, my lady, I’d be glad that I was forbidden to go into the forest alone.”
The lad’s warning quelled her desire to take even the shortest of walks. Turning on her heel, she hastened back to the house. As she neared the back door, Isabella realized that living at Thorncliff Towers was going to be like visiting a carnival. Stomach-surging surprises at every turn.
Chapter Nine
Draven maneuvered Lucifer through the forest toward Dunwich.
When Rogers informed him that three Gypsies were seen milling about town this morning, his blood began to race. Apparently the vagrants had become separated from their tribe and Draven didn’t want to miss this chance to speak with them. Although he was still dealing with his disdain for Gypsies, he wasn’t going to chase them away this time. Rather, he was jumping at the chance to query them about his curse.
Emerging from the woods, he coaxed his stallion down a sea-hugging path. The wind off the slate-gray North Sea whipped his face and seeped beneath his frock coat, but he didn’t mind. He loved this countryside because it surrounded what had been his father’s home.
How Draven viewed the town of Dunwich was another story. With eight churches to its credit and an abundance of God-fearing citizens to fill them, the town judged him and his lack of involvement through righteous eyes. Knowing that he was already being judged by Satan’s wrath, the churches’ holiness was the last thing Draven needed.
Once he reached the center of town, he was greeted by the usual display of contemptuous looks. Ignoring the heated stares, he dismounted, secured Lucifer, and wandered about in search of anyone resembling a Gypsy. A man and a woman huddled together in the shadows of the tavern caught his eye. A girl, no older than fifteen, hid behind the couple, her eyes fixed on a mangy cat nestled in her arms. She reminded Draven of the unfortunate Gypsy girl he’d encountered long ago and his gut clenched.
He approached them. The man and the woman looked startled.
“We don’t want no trouble, your lordship,” the woman called out.
Draven fastened his hands on his hips. Memories of what happened the last time he stood face-to-face with a Gypsy woman stole his breath away. “Don’t worry, madam. If you answer a question for me, I shall give you no trouble.”
Pride surfaced in the woman’s eyes. She wrapped a shawl around her head and held it to her chin with gnarled fingers. “What is it you want to know?”
He motioned for the trio to move around the corner of the building for privacy. “Are you part of the Szgamy tribe?” he asked.
“The Szgamy tribe?” Horror darkened the woman’s eyes. “No. They are very powerful Gypsies. Extremely magical.”
“Yes. I found them on my property once,” Draven said.
“You did more than find them,” she accused him.
He looked at her with amazement. With her stooped posture and cragged face, she reminded him of a witch in a storybook. “How do you know that?”
“I have the sight. I know something happened when you encountered the Szgamy tribe.”
She waited for Draven to go on but he hesitated. “I unintentionally hurt a young girl and the tribe’s matriarch cursed me,” he finally said.
The woman shuffled a little closer to him. Her husband tried to stop her, but she shrugged him off. “You are plagued by a rauna curse, my lord.”
“Yes, damn it. A rauna curse.”
“And you want to know how to reverse it.”
“Is there a way?”
The woman spread her hands wide. “No, my lord. Unless the person who cast the original spell on you deems that you are worthy of its freedom.”
“I know that much.” Draven scowled. “But is there a time line attached to the spell? None of the books I’ve read provide a straight answer.”
The woman sucked in a breath. “There is no ‘dead-line’ for a rauna curse’s victim to show redemption, if that’s what you mean.”
Draven exhaled with relief.
“Regardless,” she said, “you must understand that this kind of spell becomes exaggerated over time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Listen carefully.” The woman lowered her voice. “The hex punishes its victim by exaggerating the faults that person had before they were cursed. For instance, if someone drank heavily before, they will drink uncontrollably now. If they were cruel before, they will become devastatingly cruel.”
Draven braced himself. “And this is done to make it harder for someone to change their shameful ways?”
“Correct. So you must ask yourself, my lord: what has become exaggerated in your life since you became cursed? The answer will reveal your greatest fault.”
“I see.” His voice rattled uncontrollably. He withdrew a small pouch of gold coins from his greatcoat and handed it to the old woman as a show of gratitude. “Thank you.”
He spun on his heel. As he made his way back to Thorncliff Towers, he couldn’t get the woman’s words out of his head. Mulling over his many faults took a while, but the answer to her question finally sprang up like an evil-looking wind-up toy. Over and over again, he had bedded women without feeling. He had treated them as objects only to cast them aside. He’d even been with another woman, a barmaid at the tavern, the night before he married Isabella. In his foxed state, he had allowed the sultry tart to attend to his bite—among other things.
My rakish sexual appetite is my greatest fault and now it is spiraling out of control around Isabella.
Draven pulled Lucifer to a halt. Peering beyond the edge of the jutting cliff, he could hardly breathe and his head pounded. He’d been given years to become a better person. To convert. To gain compassion. And what had he done? He had blazed across the countryside flaunting his roguish ways before cutting himself off from the world as a selfish recluse.
In that moment, he was struck with a cold, hard fact—one that he’d been unwilling to face before. He had been an insufferable brute all of his life, which meant he could never change. Even if he wanted to. He needed Isabella’s help.
If she were here to stay, she could provide a way to stop this madness. And if she wanted a child, then, blast it, that’s what she would get. He must seduce her into trusting him enough so that she would follow the fatal path of Tousret’s curse.
Damn the fact that I might impregnate her.
Because his bloodlust was growing every day, it was essential that he make love to her soon. Their intimacy would set the amulet’s curse into action. Once he got Isabel
la to fall in love with him and they consummated their marriage, she would kill him. The tricky part would be ensuring that his wife did not take her own life after she ended his. He knew he couldn’t live knowing that would happen.
Draven guided Lucifer away from the cliff and rode swiftly back to the manor. As he glanced at the setting sun, he realized that he’d missed lunch and now he was going to be late for dinner. No doubt Isabella was sitting at the table waiting for him, a frown upon her pretty face.
He entered the house through the rear door and pounded into the dining room. There was no sign of his wife. He sat and waited but his patience quickly thinned. Once he realized that Isabella wasn’t coming, he hastened up the stairs where he encountered Gwyneth. The maid told him that his wife was eating supper in the privacy of her bedchamber. Glowering, he rapped on her door.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s your husband. Let me in.”
“I’m not decent.”
“I’ve seen you in your drenched nightshift and the image has left little more for my imagination to feast on,” Draven said curtly. “Pray don a wrapper and open the door!”
As Isabella swung the portal open, he entered in a rush. Breathing deeply, he paced the length of the room before he wheeled around. She studied his flushed cheeks and his windblown hair before she resumed her seat by the fire.
“I’ve been waiting for you in the dining room,” he said. “Why didn’t you come to supper?”
“Why didn’t you appear for nuncheon?”
His eyes formed slits. “It isn’t polite to answer a question with a question.”
“Nor is it polite to leave your wife alone at mealtimes.”
His nostrils flared at her impertinence, but deep inside he was moved by her beauty and by her boldness.
She shrugged. “Perhaps you scared me into solitude with your talk of werewolves.”
“I’m growing tired of this game, Isabella. Please answer my question.”
“Very well, since you said ‘please.’ ” She crossed her fork and knife over her plate. “I assumed my presence at mealtimes would have no effect on you whatsoever.”
