by Marina Myles
Isabella inched tentatively toward the window. She pressed her face to the windowpane and gazed at him. The fact that she hadn’t fled washed encouragement and relief over Draven. He’d tried to scare her with tales of werewolves earlier, but now that she had seen him, things were different.
He pawed the ledge that supported him, and dipped his head out of respect. He would give anything to stay with his stare drawn to hers, but he couldn’t deny his burning hunger anymore.
Isabella placed one hand on the window. Thunder exploded behind Draven and rain sliced the night sky. With a final look her way, he sprang from the balcony and landed unsteadily on the wet railing of the next balcony below. Unable to keep his balance, he slipped and fell to the ground with a series of yelps. He heard Isabella open the window of her bedchamber. His gaze surged upward and he saw her face materialize in the pouring rain.
Will she come after me?
Afraid that he might become unhinged by the scent of her blood, Draven grappled to his feet and limped off into the shadowy darkness.
Isabella raced toward Draven’s bedchamber in a blind rush. She reached his door high in the south turret and pounded on the wood.
“Draven! Wake up. I saw it! I saw the black wolf!”
Her nerves thrummed as she waited for a reply. Maybe he couldn’t hear her voice over the pelting rain and deafening thunder.
She rapped louder.
Mrs. Eaton appeared, bleary-eyed. Rogers was directly behind the housekeeper, grasping a candle branch.
“What’s wrong m’lady?” Mrs. Eaton asked.
“My husband. Do you know where he is?”
“I’m sure he’s asleep in bed,” she replied.
“No, I’ve knocked loudly and there is no answer.”
The housekeeper looked puzzled. “Then I wouldn’t know, yer ladyship.”
“Master Draven is out for the night,” Rogers said a bit too carefully.
Isabella crossed her arms. “In this weather? I doubt it.”
Rogers stiffened. “He told me he was goin’ to the tavern.”
Rogers’s loyalty to Draven was admirable but at the moment she found it quite annoying.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“I’m sorry, m’lady,” the valet answered.
Harris appeared, tying the sash of his dressing robe. “What’s all the fuss?”
“Papa! Draven has disappeared. And the black wolf. I saw it!”
“You saw it?” His brows dipped together. “I don’t understand—”
“It was balancing itself on my balcony. I looked out my window and the wolf was staring at me. It had razor-sharp fangs and bristling fur—” She slumped against him.
Harris squeezed her tight. “It’s all right, my dear. Where is the wolf now?”
“It fell then limped off.” Isabella choked out the words. “I hope it’s too hurt to attack Draven.”
“Draven is outside in this storm?” her father asked.
“He isn’t in his room,” she said.
“I’m sure your husband can fend for himself, Isa.” Harris took her by the shoulders and led her down the hall. “Now, let’s get you back to bed.”
“No. I couldn’t possibly sleep now. Draven may be in grave danger.”
“What are you going to do?” her father asked. “Sit outside Draven’s door until he returns?”
“Wait for him? Yes!” Isabella’s eyes lit up. “That’s precisely what I’ll do.”
Rogers looked alarmed. “Are ye certain, yer ladyship?”
“Yes. Please bring me a chair.”
The valet left the hallway. Moments later, he returned with a chair from one of the nearby bedchambers. After he secured it against the wall, Isabella settled into it with a determined expression.
Chapter Fifteen
Dawn’s light brightened the hallway as Draven rounded the corner. He was tired and his leg ached. Though he wore fresh clothes, his face was dirty and streaked from the rain. If he could get to his suites without anyone seeing him, no one would notice the discrepancy in his appearance.
What a hell of a night that was. He wanted nothing more than to fall into bed.
Striding down the corridor, he looked up and saw Isabella. What the devil is she doing in that chair?
“Draven!” Terror shook her voice.
Was she still scared of him after the strange episode on the knoll? Had she recognized him in his canine form?
He limped forward and she rushed into his arms.
“You look pale. Aren’t you well?” he asked.
“I’m fine. But I was worried about you.” She tilted her head back and he could see the tears that stained her cheeks.
“You were worried about me?” He paused. “How long have you been sitting here?”
“All night.”
Guilt shot through him. What torment was he putting her through?
Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, Draven directed Isabella back to her chambers. Once he’d tucked her into bed, he drew the counterpane up and kissed her on the forehead.
“Draven, I was so concerned,” she said again.
He sat beside her and clasped her hand. She had waited all night for him to return, but he couldn’t tell her the truth about where he’d been.
“Why were you concerned?” he asked. “I couldn’t sleep. I rode Lucifer until the weather turned foul. When I tried to turn him around, I fell off my horse.”
Thank God I hid a set of clothes inside the stables.
“Then you didn’t see it?” Isabella grasped the cuff of his waistcoat.
“See what?” Draven asked.
“The black wolf. It was watching me from outside my window.”
“Are you certain?”
Her voice shook. “You were the one who warned me about it and it’s real. And menacing. And diabolical looking.”
“Were you frightened?”
“Yes, I thought it was going to crash through the window,” she said. “Until—”
“Until what?”
“Until I looked into its eyes. You might think me silly, but the creature’s eyes were human.”
Draven bounced off the mattress and took a clip around the room. “That isn’t possible.”
“They were real,” Isabella said. “And they were watching me.”
He wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. He was desperate to tell her the truth, but the truth would frighten her beyond repair. “You cannot be certain.”
“I am certain. That’s why I was so worried when I couldn’t find you.”
She began to cry. It was the worst sound he’d ever heard.
“Shush now,” he urged as he sat on the bed again. “You need to rest.”
She dropped her head onto his thigh and snuggled against it. The contact warmed him. Her eyelids dropped and she sighed as he stroked the soft rise of her cheek.
“Isabella, can you hear me?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she responded as her sniffling stopped.
“I’m sorry for hurting you on the knoll. I’m not myself lately.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said in a voice thick with sleepiness. “I could tell the wolf needed me. Just like you do.”
Isabella slept until late the following morning, something she had never done before. After she dressed, she went to the spot where the wolf had fallen to the ground.
As she stood there, she remembered the creature’s razor-sharp teeth and demonic posture. With ears that rose in points and winged away from its snout, the beast had looked ravenous enough to eat her alive—and forceful enough to crash right through the window and do just that.
Why didn’t it attack me?
Oddly, it seemed that the creature had been trying to communicate with her. She could have sworn it tried to speak to her through the piteous expression in its eyes.
The thought jolted sympathy through her, as did Draven’s disappearance last night. She was completely relieved when she saw him appear.
What’s more, Draven had been so gentle and patient with her last night. It was a side of him she’d never seen and she was surprised at how passionately she had responded to it. Their relationship was teetering on the edge of closeness, but she wanted to know all about the Gypsy’s spell he had made reference to in his journal. How could she prod the information out of him without revealing that she knew his spell existed?
She must speak with Draven. Only then could she set herself on a path that might help him.
Isabella rubbed her arms against the chilly air and strode back inside the house. Her growling stomach directed her to the breakfast parlor. When she arrived at the table, she was disappointed to find no one but Helena present. Unfortunately, her mother-in-law had seen her so there was no chance of Isabella escaping back to her bedchamber unnoticed.
“Good morning.” The countess dipped her chin in greeting.
“Good morning,” Isabella said, still standing. To her surprise, she noticed a rare show of concern on the noblewoman’s face. “Is something wrong?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Helena replied. “The beast was sighted last night prowling the outskirts of Dunwich.”
Isabella clutched the top of a chair. “Did the villagers destroy it?”
“No. Apparently they shot at it but they missed. I’m certain the entire village is terrified. I hope they catch and kill this monster,” the dowager fretted. “It destroyed a stray cat and three cows from a neighboring farm.”
Isabella swallowed an anxious lump. “It’s too dangerous for my father to leave right now. I must warn him about going into town at nightfall. Have you seen him?”
“We spoke early this morning, before he left for Dunwich,” Helena informed her.
“What did he say?”
“He intended to send correspondence to his old friend, Benjamin Rayburn.”
Benjamin Rayburn. The name brought back fond memories for Isabella. Uncle Ben, as she had referred to him in her youth, worked as a solicitor in London. He had been more of an uncle to Isabella than her father’s twin brother, Morton, ever was. It warmed her heart to know that the two men were corresponding.
An awkward silence lingered between herself and the countess. “Where is Draven?” Isabella asked.
At the mere mention of her son’s name, Helena’s face darkened. “How should I know? He’s more mysterious than a night owl. He spends the majority of his day dreaming of shipbuilding and rarely addressing me.”
Isabella pressed her lips together as Helena continued. “I know he’s your husband, but he raises my blood pressure.” The noblewoman dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “He’s careless and thoughtless and self-centered.”
“Draven seems to have some redeeming qualities,” Isabella offered.
“Redeeming qualities? Such as a smoldering arrogance you obviously find attractive?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Allow me to give you some womanly advice, my dear. A black cloud hovers over Draven. He will destroy all those who stand in his path.” With that, Helena dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and bid Isabella a curt good morning.
Astounded, Isabella sat alone in the room. The patter of rain drew her to the windows. She wiped the condensation away and peered out. Fog, brewed from the choppy sea, was rolling inland. She watched the rainfall for a few more moments before she gathered enough courage to begin her search for Draven. She was about to leave the room when Rogers emerged from a swinging door, muttering that Alice should be clearing the breakfast dishes instead of him.
“Rogers,” she said, “would you be so kind as to tell me where his lordship is?”
The elderly man released the dishes onto the table with a clank. He turned to Isabella with a ghastly look “’E’s in ’is chambers, but Master Draven strictly forbids anyone to disturb ’im while ’e works, m’lady.”
“Not to worry”—she smiled sweetly—“I’ll knock first.”
“I know it’s not me place, but if I were ye, I’d not mention the journal ye came across yesterday.”
She gave him another gentle smile without promising anything.
He shook his head and resumed his chore with a troubled look in his eye.
Rogers’s words stayed with Isabella as she climbed the grand staircase. She raised her hand to knock on Draven’s door but fear stopped her. Would her husband be infuriated if she interrupted him?
She turned to go when a voice inside her urged her not to be afraid anymore. Afraid of werewolves and her own husband. Afraid of never being loved and cherished as a wife. Afraid of never becoming a mother. She was here for answers about Draven’s supposed curse and answers were what she would leave with.
She rapped on the door and waited for a response.
“Not now, Rogers!” a voice boomed.
“It’s not Rogers,” Isabella called.
A brief moment passed without any sound. She held her breath and opened the door. Draven was sitting at his desk. He shot her a disapproving look.
“Won’t you come in,” he said sarcastically.
She stepped into the private library that adjoined the main suite. Wondrous in its masculine appeal, the room boasted shelf after shelf of colorful, leather-bound books while exotic masks and intriguing artifacts Draven had collected from all over the world hung on the walls. And the space smelled entirely of him.
Draven leaned back in his chair at a desk that was situated before a blazing fireplace. Between the desk and the hearth lay a remarkable tiger skin, complete with bulging eyes and sharp yellow fangs. Isabella closed her eyes for a brief moment, envisioning the werewolf’s dripping incisors.
She gulped the image away and squared her shoulders. “I’ve sought you out because you broke your promise. You didn’t send word that you would miss breakfast.”
Draven’s nostrils flared. “I told my mother in passing this morning.”
“Well, she didn’t tell me.” Secretly annoyed at his brooding manner, she clenched the fabric of her skirt.
“All alone with my mother at the breakfast table, eh?” he said. “I’d rather be trapped inside a mortuary.”
“It wasn’t as bad as that,” Isabella said.
She struggled to study Draven’s face at this distance. In the morning light, he appeared a bit more tired than usual, but his features still riveted her. She watched as he took in deep breaths through his arrow-straight nose and clenched his hardened jaw. And the intensity with which he stared at his paperwork was admirable.
Her knees began to tremble. She decided to make small talk so that she could muster up the bravery to ask about his curse. “Thank you for staying with me last night. I was truly frightened.”
“You’re welcome.” He continued to stare at the papers that littered his desk.
Isabella took another glance around the room. Her eyes swept over the intriguing souvenirs that donned his mantel. “I see you like to read. And travel.”
“Yes,” he responded without looking up.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“New Guinea, Europe, the Orient. I try to leave the confines of this godforsaken house at least twice a year. At the risk of sounding pompous, travel is why I’m drawn to the shipbuilding industry. Someday I would love to have my choice of vessel in which to further explore the world.”
“You must go to Egypt,” she implored.
“I’ve already been there.” He penned something on the paper before him.
Her cheeks grew hot. Refusing to be dismissed so easily, she strode closer to his desk and peered at the diagram board he was hunched over. “What are you working on?”
He looked up at her. A hint of pleasure at her interest crossed his face. “Sketches of various vessels.”
She smiled. “They’re lovely, although designing a ship looks very complicated.”
“It isn’t really.” He turned the sketch so she could get a better look at it. “You see, the building of a ship, whether it eventual
ly meets its fate as a barge or a clipper or a fleet, can be divided into seven distinct phases: design, construction and planning, work prior to keel laying, ship erection, launching, final outfitting, and sea trials.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the industry. Have you always been fascinated with ships?”
“Yes.” Draven’s eyes skimmed over her figure, making her pulse race. He put down his plume and continued on in a huskier tone. “And do you know why?”
“No.”
“Sea vessels resemble the female sex in many ways, Isabella.”
Her throat constricted at his provocative timbre. “H . . . how so?”
“First off,” he said, “a ship is traditionally referred to as a ‘she.’ Secondly, the wave of the future will soon have shipbuilders replacing wooden hulls with stronger, iron ones—much like a woman’s steely resolve contrasts with a man’s fragile ego.”
She felt her insides vibrate at the lovely analogy.
“And lastly—” Draven leaned forward with predatory eyes.
“Lastly?” she whispered as her lungs hitched.
“Never should a sea-worthy vessel be dry docked. Like a beautiful, young female, a ship must be continually submerged in something wet and slick. To ready its legs, so to speak.”
She would have fainted on the spot if the sturdiness of the desk hadn’t supported her weight. His lustful words trickled over her skin and raised the hair on her arms. She shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“I feel a draft,” she lied.
“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind closing the door on your way out.” His glance returned to his paperwork.
Defiance stiffened Isabella’s posture. How dare Draven dangle sexual innuendos in front of her only to dismiss her as if she were a servant? Leaning forward, she raised her voice and said, “I’m not leaving until I get some answers about your Gypsy curse.”
Chapter Sixteen
