Beauty and the Wolf

by Marina Myles

  “No.” He smiled forlornly. “I told you, it was probably a pubescent hall boy.”

  Strangely, she believed him. “I want to ask you something else.”

  “Of course.”

  “The first night I was in your bed, when I said I cared for you deeply. Why did that statement provoke such violence?”

  Draven’s expression dimmed. “All my life, I’ve never considered the feelings of others. Therefore, I feel as though I don’t deserve to be cared about.”

  “Everyone deserves to be loved,” she said. “But you haven’t felt that in your life, have you?”

  To Isabella’s surprise, he knelt before her. She traced the outline of his diamond-shaped face with her fingertips.

  “Only two people have ever shown me love,” he said. “And to them I am forever grateful.”

  “Who are they?”

  “My father and . . . you.”

  Her eyes misted over at his admission. “I showed you love, but then I refused to help you, didn’t I?”

  Draven dropped his stare from hers and hung his head. “You’re not to blame. I asked more of you than most people would ever agree to.”

  “It’s odd,” she murmured. “I feel as if something led me here—to be with you and help you. I’m afraid I can’t resist you.”

  Concern lit his dark eyes. “Maybe the power of the amulet is the force behind that attraction.”

  “No. What I feel is real.” She paused. “Draven, we will find a way out of this. We have to.”

  “Thank God I found you, Isabella.” He rose up and caught her mouth with a scorching kiss. His touch warmed her like a blanket on a frigid night and she felt as if she were truly home. A surge of joy shot through her. At that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. Not the attack on Helena. Not her father’s mysterious behavior. Not even Draven’s violent personality. As she melted against him, all that was important was her vow to stand by him—despite the consequences.

  Draven wrapped her in his protective embrace and murmured to her between tender kisses, “My God, how I’ve longed to touch you while you recuperated. I adore everything about you, Isabella. Let me pleasure you.”

  Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers and his hand was drawing up her skirt. His fingers teased the curve of her ankle bone beneath her petticoat. He removed her shoe and stroked his fingers along the delicate bones of her foot. His hand made its way up her thigh and the lightness of his touch made her entire body quake. Gently, slowly, Draven untied the lace fastening of her pantalets and peeled away her stockings, leaving nothing but cool, bare skin beneath her dress.

  Wearing the sultriest of expressions, he urged her back against the windowpanes and lifted her hem to one side. Draven brushed her mouth with a kiss before he disappeared to work his magic between her parted legs.

  At first, his tongue felt like an airy feather against her anxious core. To her delight, he teased and licked the outer folds of her womanhood with quick, naughty flicks. Despite her best efforts to stay still, Isabella wiggled and shifted against the slickness that escaped. Surprised at her own aggressiveness, she fisted his hair and encouraged him to her pulsating center. With just the right pressure, Draven tugged and lapped and sucked at her sensitive nub. After moments of insane anticipation, he brought her to the top of a pulsating crest.

  Purring like a spoiled cat, she raised her hand against the steamed windowpane. They hadn’t made love, but Draven didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he appeared content with her satisfaction. In a gallant motion, he brought her up to a sitting position.

  “You, sir, are very talented at that,” she said.

  He grinned as he sat down beside her and nuzzled her neck. “And you, my fair lady, are a most attractive subject on which to perfect my talent.”

  They sat side by side for a while, listening to the rain fall. “If we are ever parted, no other man could ever measure up to you.” Isabella sighed.

  Draven encouraged her chin upward so that she could lock eyes with him. “No man shall ever touch you, my Bella. And you shall never be rid of me unless it is over my dead body.” He studied her with those intense, obsidian eyes. “I love you.”

  Her heart kicked inside her chest. She had longed to hear those words since the day she had agreed to marry Draven. What started off as a marriage of convenience had finally richened into a union of true feeling. For her, the words he had just spoken completed an essential circle.

  Happy and content, Isabella curled against his muscular body. “I love you too.”

  He drew her closer. “I will be a proud husband tomorrow night at the ball.”

  She smiled as they sat in a comfortable silence. Gradually, her eyes dropped to the soft lull of the rain and her mind started to drift along a wave of contentment. That is, until a horrible thought struck her. According to the Egyptian prophecy, she was doomed to kill the man she loved—once they became lovers.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The elegant strains of a string quartet drifted up to Isabella’s bedchamber.

  Standing before a full-length mirror, she eyed herself with admiration. The gold beaded evening gown Draven had commissioned for her on London’s fashionable east side accentuated the color of her hair to perfection. With its cap sleeves, flowing train scalloped in a brilliant bullion, and snug-fitting bodice that nested her impressive cleavage, she knew she would impress Draven at the party.

  Gwyneth had fastened Isabella’s dense mane into a soft chignon while allowing small curls to canopy her oval face. It was a popular look worn by the finest of Europe’s noblewomen and she felt very daring when she looked at the finished result in the mirror.

  After applying a dash of red-rose lip-stain and a rare spot of perfume, she stepped into the hallway. Making her way down the curved staircase to the heavily populated ground level, she took in a surprising sight.

  The ambience of the house was astounding. Never before had Thorncliff Towers looked so grand. Mrs. Eaton deserved praise for arranging for the ball so quickly and so thoroughly. Iron candelabras glowed with the light of a hundred candles while butlers in formal dress served guests from silver platters in subdued tones. And the music emanating from the ballroom was simply intoxicating. It had been much too long since Isabella enjoyed a dance but, considering her mood, it was going to be difficult for her to laugh and enjoy herself.

  Her eyes darted about the crowded room for any signs of her dark prince. She spotted him standing before a wall of draped windows. With one hand pressed to the small of his back, he was engaged in conversation with an elderly couple. The woman was fluttering a fan nervously beneath her sagging chin while her husband had his head thrown back in hysterical laughter. It appeared Draven was at his most charming this evening.

  He spun slowly around and when he locked eyes with Isabella, his dashing image stole her breath away. Dressed in a finely cut waistcoat of pale yellow silk that turned back into tails, he ignited that familiar spark within her. His debonair ensemble was completed by a pair of black britches worn over silver ribbed stockings and an outsize cravat that encircled his neckline. From beneath longish hair that waved about his ears, Draven flashed a devilish grin as his skin bronzed against the citrine color of his coat.

  Abandoning the elderly couple, he sauntered toward her like a graceful panther. Once he reached her, he sketched a charismatic bow. “You look positively beguiling tonight, Lady Winthrop.”

  “Thank you.” Isabella forced herself to echo his light tone.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked.

  “Certainly.”

  He waited patiently as she scooped her train off the floor and flung it over one wrist. Then, with a firm hand on the small of her back, Draven drew her close and twirled her onto the dance floor in time to a melodious quadrille. As Isabella promenaded with her hand planted in the center of Draven’s palm, she watched his powerful jaw clench and unclench as he spoke. He bent his head forward in an intimate gesture as he led her with
confidence. She gave a pleasurable shudder as his hot breath jiggled her ear baubles. And when he cradled her so, she never wanted him to let go.

  Could they ever become a force powerful enough to conquer his Gypsy spell—or her Egyptian prophecy?

  Last night they had made love, though it was a protected union since Isabella had insisted. Afterward, he had persuaded her to go to Romania with him. There, they planned to search for anyone who knew the Gypsy woman. Draven told her they would leave very soon and because she knew that the full moon, which was drawing dangerously near, might further corrupt his mental state, she decided to revel in this dance while it lasted.

  “You truly look stunning this evening,” she heard him repeat in a whisper.

  “Thank you.” She paused. “Do you remember the night we met?”

  “How could I forget? You were the only thing that sparkled at that dull party.”

  “It was the one and only time we danced together.”

  Draven grinned. “That’s when I suspected you were beautiful beneath that frumpy gown.”

  Her dark mood was finally lifting. She smiled. “Frumpy gown, was it?”

  “I believe every guest in this ballroom would agree that you’ve blossomed into the brilliant beauty I saw in you that day.”

  Isabella turned to see if Draven was right. But the smiles that greeted her told her that they were being stared at as a couple. She had melted disarmingly into the curve of his chest and it was obvious that people found them a well-suited pair. In fact, a crowd had formed in a semicircle around them since they were the only remaining couple on the dance floor.

  “Lord Winthrop is the black wolf!”

  Isabella halted at the words. She whirled around to see a withered Gypsy woman and an old man who appeared to be her husband standing by an open window. Behind them were at least five villagers grasping pitchforks and sickles.

  “You Gypsies have no place here!” Draven thundered.

  The woman stepped forward. Her boldness made several guests gasp.

  “I know you are the black wolf,” she cried.

  Draven’s face flushed. “How dare you come here and cast accusations. I was kind enough to give you a place to stay.”

  “You banished us from your property after we got settled,” the Gypsy man chimed in. “You’re heartless!”

  “I didn’t banish you,” Draven said from beneath a deep scowl.

  The woman clutched her scarf tightly beneath her chin. “Your messenger told us to pack up and abandon our camp. He said you wanted nothing to do with our filthy kind.”

  “Messenger? What are you talking about?”

  “The rauna curse,” the Gypsy cried. “I’ve seen the vision. You, Lord Winthrop, are nothing but a bloodthirsty werewolf!”

  Werewolf? Sickness inched its way up Isabella’s throat. Her balance began to slip away. Could Draven be the beast she’d seen outside her window? Could the baby I may be carrying be such a creature?

  She clutched his arm with ferocity. “Is it true?”

  Ever so slightly, Draven hesitated. “Of course it’s not true. They have no proof. No one saw me transform—”

  What? Isabella stepped back.

  Draven gasped. “I didn’t mean to say—”

  The villagers began to rush at him. He called for his male servants to form a barrier in front of the intruders. Some of the male guests did the same and no one was able to get through.

  “I am still magistrate of this region and I command you to leave,” he raged.

  “We’ll leave, ye black-hearted cad,” a villager threatened. “But ye never spent a shillin’ of yer precious money to help Dunwich. It’s washin’ out to sea and we hate ye for it. We’ll be back, before ye kill any more of our livestock or pets. Before ye kill one of us!”

  The room began to swirl around Isabella. I’ve been so stupid. Her psychological fear of werewolves had prevented her from seeing straight. From putting it all together. But now she knew: the beast outside her window had Draven’s eyes. And the wolf that had burst into Thorncliff Towers the other night was searching for its alpha male.

  Draven’s curse made him no “metaphoric” monster beneath a full moon—it made him a werewolf.

  Floundering for something to hold on to, Isabella’s legs gave way and she lost consciousness.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Isabella awoke she found herself staring at the ceiling of her bedchamber. No doubt Draven had deposited her on the bed and left her before she could demand an explanation.

  Her stomach wrenched as the sickening horror over his deception gripped her anew.

  How long was he going to let me go on believing he was a madman instead of a vicious wolf?

  She hastened off the bed and knocked something to the ground in the process. Peering down, Isabella saw Draven’s journal lying on the rug. She picked up the book and opened it to a passage marked with a ribbon.

  June 12, 1807

  Tonight Father died. Tonight I have been cursed.

  Killing that girl was a god-damned accident. I don’t know if that woman’s spell will come true. Time will tell, but her words shall haunt me forever:

  “On your twenty-seventh birthday, Draven, you shall see—the horror of the spell I cast upon thee. It is the night you are doomed to become—a bloodlusting wolf with a dark kingdom. Your outer self will match the selfish beast you truly are—have no doubt your sons will also be marred!”

  The rauna curse ...

  Isabella’s heart thundered and her lungs constricted.

  Draven had been doomed to become a bloodlusting wolf. It was all true.

  She thrust the book down and opened the door. Hurrying to the balustrade, she leaned over but she saw no one amid the hushed silence. Apparently all the guests had fled after the Gypsy cast her accusation.

  Where was Draven?

  Rushing to the foyer, Isabella found Rogers and asked after her husband’s whereabouts.

  “His lordship is in the cellar.”

  “The cellar?” she repeated.

  “Yes, m’lady. But his lordship is in no shape for a lady’s eyes.”

  Isabella swept past him and made her way to the kitchen. After asking Mrs. Eaton for some direction, she followed the housekeeper to a narrow doorway that topped a stairwell. The woman handed her a candle branch before returning to Mrs. Tidwell’s complaints about the mess the servants had left in the kitchen.

  Without wasting another minute, she gathered her train in her free hand. Raising the flickering branch to eye level, she inhaled a deep breath and descended the cramped stairwell toward the cellar.

  The bowels of Thorncliff Towers smelled dank as Isabella touched her foot off the last step. Along the dim corridor she saw no signs of life but released a shudder at the sound of rats scurrying about in the darkness. Much to her relief, she noticed a light coming from a storage room in the western half of the cellar.

  When she neared the lantern-lit room, laughter echoed in her ears and the aroma of expensive-smelling cigars and aged brandy filled her nostrils. She hesitated for a moment in the doorway. A swatch of dark green clothing had caught on the sharp, wooden doorframe. Removing the piece, she realized it was fabric from a male waistcoat.

  Could it be Draven’s?

  She doubted that he’d been down here recently, but then she remembered what Dr. Lamstein has said following Helena’s exposure to poison.

  If you have a still room, the poison could have been made in this very house.

  There was a still room in the cellar. Gwyneth had told Isabella so. If Draven was a werewolf he was certainly capable of poisoning someone.

  She marched into the storage room. Her husband was the first to see her. With his arms crossed over his chest and his solid form tilted away from the table in a grandiose manner, Draven appeared every inch the thick-skinned rogue he’d been when Isabella married him. Next to the nobleman sat a larger gentleman who was downing a swig of brandy. Beside him, a third participant twitt
ered as he scooped a disassembled deck of cards together.

  “Ah, Bella,” Draven said between puffs on a fat cigar, “I had no doubt you’d come looking for me.”

  She stood her ground.

  He took a sip of brandy then pounded the glass on the table. The ruby liquid swirled in violent circles. “While this may look like an ill-reputed game of chance,” he said in a drunken sputter, “it’s actually a high-stakes round of Shuttlecock. Do you care to join us?”

  “Lord Winthrop,” the larger of his two companions thundered, “a gentleman never asks a lady such things.” Then the man burst into laughter, nearly choking on his liquor.

  Draven met the jest with his own throaty laughter. Once his humor subsided, he took another gulp of brandy. “You’re absolutely right, my lord. I do owe the countess an explanation for my appalling behavior. But first, Lord Taverly and Sir Bartholomew, I must introduce you to this beautiful woman who is my wife.” Slurring his syllables he turned to face Isabella. “Did you know these good fellows came all the way from Warburton in Greater Manchester for this grand gala? Funny—they’ve been down here all night playing cards. Missed all the drama in the ballroom. Lucky bastards . . .”

  The beefier of the two men exploded with laughter again then wiped the perspiration from his brow. He acknowledged Isabella’s presence with a less-than-graceful rise.

  “This place smells to high heaven.” She directed the stench away with a wave of her hand.

  “It smells like a gentleman’s heaven and, in my opinion, the stench is far better down here than it is upstairs,” Draven muttered. “The sweet cologne worn by those old fatwits makes my stomach churn.”

  His face grew solemn as he held up his hand of cards.

  Anger still rippled inside of Isabella and she wasn’t backing down until they could speak. “My lord, how can you sit there and act like nothing has happened? I want a word with you alone.”

  “In a moment,” he replied without looking up. “There is the matter of one hundred guineas I must attend to first.”