Beauty and the Wolf (7 page)

As if he had read her thoughts, Draven ran his hand along her bodice until it reached the mound of her breast. With the ease of an expert, he found its nub through the fabric and tweaked it until she groaned with ecstasy.

He gave her another hard kiss and she could feel his shaft grow monstrously erect against her leg. As he bunched up the fabric of her dress, his breathing came in ragged spurts. He slid a hand up her thigh. Hot and completely aroused, Isabella sucked in a sharp breath. Her folds flooded with moisture in anticipation of his fingers reaching her center.

Like a silent thief, Draven’s fingers stole inside her pantalets and combed her soft curls. Carefully but very firmly, he located her damp petals. As he captured her mouth, his fingertips caressed the sensitive skin of her flanges and while his hand moved in tighter circles toward her center, she spread her legs so that he could delve a finger inside her.

At the feel of it, Isabella swore she could see the gates of heaven. “Oh, Draven—”

Draven’s hard prick continued to press against her leg but at that moment, his mouth turned cruel. He extracted his finger only to grope her breasts in a painful grip.

“My Bella—” he murmured gruffly. “My beauty.”

She commanded her inner voice to be quiet and enjoy the moment. If she didn’t stop him, perhaps they would make love here under the cloudless sky. It’s what she wanted. Yet Draven’s frenzied actions reminded her of his rough behavior on their wedding night.

He continued on in impatient motions but she recoiled. Panic seized Isabella. She tried to jerk her head away from the crush of his mouth but he wouldn’t let her. Grunting, he yanked her chin back in his direction and bit down on her lip. She screamed and slapped his face. He rolled off of her while she sat up and put her fingers to the bleeding wound.

Draven’s eyes widened at the sight of her blood. “Christ—”

“How could you?” she screeched.

He clutched her hand, blood and all, and brought it to his nose. His body began to tremble while his eyes flashed an unnatural shade of red—as they had on their wedding night.

Isabella bolted to her feet and stumbled to her horse. “I must clean this off.”

“Wait!” he ordered.

The fierceness of his voice stopped her. Her legs quaked.

“I’m sorry, Isabella, but I warned you not to come back.”

Giving him no answer, she hurried onto Dante’s saddle and galloped away in a blaze of terror.

T
emper flaring, Draven handed Lucifer’s reins to Viktor. He saw Isabella disappear into the house as he approached it.
Good thing.
If she hadn’t run away when she did, he may have ravaged every inch of her.

What the hell is happening to me?
The Gypsy spell was getting the better of him without the appearance of a full moon.

Guilt gripped him as he marched toward the steps that led to the shingle beach. The feel of Isabella’s freed locks against his freshly shaved skin and the confectionery taste of her lips had spawned his wildness in the light of day. Worse yet, he had sliced her mouth open, spilling blood that smelled salty and bittersweet—different than the blood of the animals he’d conquered. And much more enticing.

He cringed to think he’d allowed Isabella even the slightest glimpse at his inner demon.

His lack of power against his other half churned his stomach, as did the shame that accompanied it.

Straining to order himself, Draven shoved his gloves into the pocket of his frock coat and breathed in the moist, billowing wind. A group of waterfowl squawked overhead as he reached the beach.

The breeze that swept over the small bay calmed him momentarily. He crossed the pebbled beach and watched the cold seawater rise into whitecaps. The warm colors of sunset that glimmered above the bay reminded him that a full moon would rise tonight. He scowled. For Isabella’s sake, he hoped that she had safely locked herself away in her suites.

 

Isabella put a hand to the windowpane and watched Draven storm to the beach below the manor house.

Had she made a mistake in trying to seduce him? He’d become violent, cruel. Was he capable of anything but aggression?
Will he ever make love to me gently?

If she was so determined to have a baby with Draven, she needed to find out all she could about his so-called “affliction
.
” Considering the possibility that this condition may affect their child, she must know what lay ahead of her. After all, what kind of person smells someone’s blood?

She was a wreck. As she managed to force her jittering nerves aside, a plan formed in her mind. Maybe she should look for clues in Draven’s suites that would explain his bizarre actions.

Touching her bleeding lips, she made her way to the south turret. The essence of Mrs. Tidwell’s words replayed in her head as she arrived at the doors that marked her husband’s chambers.
Draven is capable of much more than spying. He spent three years in an asylum following his father’s death.

The possibility that Draven was mad alarmed Isabella. Although it didn’t negate the rumors of him being a murderer, it would explain his violent demeanor.

Letting out a shudder, she entered his suite and bolted the lock behind her. She struggled to breathe as she pressed her back to the door. Her encounter with Draven on the knoll seemed like a nightmare, an unsettling blur. When he brought her blood-smeared hand to his nostrils, he had convulsed without control and a shadow of evil had passed over his face.

Suppressing the fear churning inside her, Isabella rushed to the dressing room. The space smelled of sandalwood and tobacco, just as she remembered. She ran her hand over a mahogany-topped bureau displaying Draven’s personal effects. A shaving brush stood within a matching mug and an ebony-coated razor lay beside it in its wrapper. Behind a Truefitt and Hill toiletry jar rested a herringbone comb.

She closed her eyes and inhaled her husband’s lingering scent. Sliding the tip of her tongue over her lips, she wondered if she’d missed her only chance to know Draven’s hard body against hers.

Gathering a clean handkerchief, she pressed it to her injured mouth. She crouched down and began to search her husband’s wardrobe. There on the bottom shelf sat a plaid blanket. She removed it and saw nothing behind the folded material on the same shelf. But when she returned the blanket to its original position, a brass key tumbled from its folds. Isabella picked it up and flipped it over in her hand.
What did it unlock?

She tried the key at Draven’s desk to no avail. Would it give her entry into the mysterious library?

She moved to the window Draven had leapt through on their wedding night. To her dismay, it faced the courtyard and not the beach. She wondered if her husband had reentered the house yet. If not, perhaps she had time to try the key in the library’s door before he returned.

She decided to take her chances. Rushing to the manor’s first level, Isabella slipped the brass object into the lock. She sucked in a breath and turned the knob. It opened! After stepping quietly into the dark, circular room, she clicked the door shut behind her and threw back the curtains. Then she set about searching for anything that might enlighten her about Draven’s family history.

A writing desk stood in the corner of the vast library yet held nothing of importance. Shelves of novels and various textbooks yielded nothing noteworthy. She was about to search the drawer of a side table when Draven’s booming voice shook the walls.

“Rogers, I’m going to my chambers and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Will ye want supper brought up later, sir?”

“No.”

“As ye wish, m’lord.”

Isabella heard Rogers’s footfalls on the back stairwell while Draven’s boots pounded on the main staircase. Her pulse raced. There was only one place she hadn’t searched: a decorative chest hidden behind a three-setting sofa. Stretching a hand forward, she pulled on the latch.
Locked.

Her hopes sinking, she looked about for something she could use to open it. Hastening to the writing desk, she extracted a letter opener. She returned to the chest and fumbled with the sharp object, cringing when it made noise inside the lock. She was ready to abandon the task when she heard a
pop.
The chest’s lid swung into the air by its hinges, releasing a whiff of musty air. She peered inside and saw that deep in the shadows sat an ornate notebook. A journal of some kind.

Isabella sat on a nearby stool and ran her fingertips over the binding. On its cover was an embossed symbol of a moon. After she flipped the cover open, she thumbed through the pages at a rapid speed, glancing through illustrations of lunar phases, schedules of forthcoming full moons, and recipes for herbal remedies. Intrigued, Isabella stopped at the most recent entry penned yesterday.

The entry made little sense. Isabella’s heart beat in triple time. What hex could Draven be referring to? She was happy that he planned to make love to her, but his attraction to blood still alarmed her.

Her hands trembled and she felt light-headed. Draven’s words offered proof of his violent thoughts but it also gave her a glimpse at his emotions. Tears sprang to Isabella’s eyes. By the torment Draven recorded here—and considering the reference he’d made to a Gypsy hex—it was obvious he hadn’t been fully cured before he left the asylum.

She flipped backward through the book. Stopping at an entry marked “
rauna curse,
” she read more.

She turned the page, but Draven hadn’t continued the entry.

A drop of what? She was dying to know. To add to her confusion, she knew Draven had no Gypsy blood in his veins.

Cupping a hand over her mouth, she raised herself on unsure feet.

She bent to replace the journal when a hand clasped her shoulder.

I
sabella’s heart slammed against her ribs. When she whirled around to meet Rogers’s gentle face, relief brought her shoulders forward.

The valet slid the journal from her hands. “M’lady, ye shouldn’t be lookin’ at things that don’t belong to ya.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She fought to regain her composure.

“Not to worry, yer ladyship.”

She offered him a smile.

He returned it. “I ’ave good news, m’lady. Yer father just sent word that ’e has arrived in Dunwich.”

“My father?” she cried. “That’s wonderful!”

“I’ll take ye to him, m’lady.”

“Thank you, Rogers.”

The manservant glanced down at the journal and ran a weathered hand over the moon symbol on its front cover.

Isabella started to explain why she had been snooping but the valet interrupted her.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady. His lordship may enter here at any moment. I think it best if ye leave ’ere this instant.”

“Of course.” She tried to step around him.

He put his hand out. “The key?”

She gave it to him, disappointed that she’d no longer have access to the room. Rogers returned the notebook to the chest and locked it. Still, there was no doubt in Isabella’s mind that he would find another hiding spot for it soon.

“I guess I’ll be on my way,” she said. She hastened to the door but stopped at the threshold. “Do you know anything of the Gypsy curse his lordship referred to in his journal?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say as I do, m’lady. I’m the sort ’a man who only believes in things I can see or touch.”

She nodded.

The hunched figure took a step forward. “And I see one thing for certain, yer ladyship.”

“What is that, Rogers?”

“There is love for ye in Master Draven’s stare.”

Isabella was at a loss for words. She stared down at her hands and decided to change the subject. “Has the Winthrop carriage been readied?”

“By me personally, m’lady.”

She wasn’t about to ask permission from Draven to fetch her father. “I’ll just refresh myself in my room.”

“I’ll be waitin’ outside, yer ladyship.”

Isabella picked up her skirts and hurried to her suites. What would she say to her father when she saw him in Dunwich? Her thoughts were as convoluted as a twisted tree trunk. Nerves racing, she moved to the mirror. Her reflection stunned her. Blood crusted her upper lip and her entire mouth was swollen from the mad kisses Draven had thrust upon her. Her mane resembled a rat’s nest complete with thin blades of grass lodged in her snarled curls but oddly enough, the wild daffodil Draven had secured behind her ear remained.

Lord above!
What had Rogers thought of her disheveled appearance? Years of learning to hold his tongue must have kept him from commenting on it.

After Isabella wiped away the stains that coated her face and marred the muslin day dress which doubled as a riding habit, she began to move about the room in tense circles. Draven had stunned her with his aggression. Yet it was that same urgency, combined with the journal entry asserting that he cared about her, that proved he didn’t trust himself in her presence.

The fear she used to feel at her husband’s wrath was now hardening into a distinct purpose. She wasn’t going to let anything prevent her from finding out the true nature of Draven’s affliction.

After re-pinning her hair and rinsing the last of the mud speckles from her forehead, Isabella left her suites and boarded the awaiting carriage. The vehicle clattered toward Dunwich and the solitary ride soothed her.

The carriage stopped in front of the coaching station a half hour later. Her father was waiting on its wide, front step, balancing on a cane. She flew out of the carriage and flung her arms around his neck. “Papa, I’ve missed you terribly!”

“Isa,” he murmured into her hair.

She never wanted to let go but eventually Isabella pulled away to study her father’s face. The kindly, chartreuse eyes were just as she remembered and the wave in his silver hair caught the sunlight as it always had. Leaning forward, she welcomed his signature fragrance of peppermint.

He smiled. “My darling—or should I address you as Lady Winthrop?”

“Papa,” she said with reproach.

“Gracious. That was quite a journey from London. It’s astounding how remote this village is.”

“Frighteningly so.” She paused. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you.”

He chuckled. “You’ve already said that.”

“I can’t believe you traveled alone.”

“You aren’t the only one. When I told Fiona I was coming here, she made the same face you’re making.”

She clasped his hands. “Well, never mind that.”

His smile vanished. “The question is: are you well, my darling?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“Are you sure?” He eyed her deep scratch.

Isabella ran a finger over her lip. “Draven and I went for a ride this morning. You know how clumsy I am on a horse.”

“You fell off?”

“Is it any surprise?”

He took her hand and patted it. She felt badly for lying to him, but she was too confused by her own thoughts to reveal anything at the moment.

“Let’s walk, shall we?” Limping against his cane, Harris started down the path toward the sea.

Isabella picked up her skirts and followed. Treading over clusters of white and pink pebbles and pockets of sparse vegetation, she listened as her father relayed the conversation he’d had with his chaise driver about Dunwich.

“A most charming place, but in a dire state I understand.”

“ ‘A dire state’?” she repeated. She was ashamed to think she hadn’t bothered to learn anything about the place her husband governed.

“Yes,” he said. “Apparently the Winthrop family refuses to help stop the erosion of Dunwich’s land mass.”

“Erosion?”

“It’s quite a shame. This place used to be one of the biggest merchant ports in England. Until a devastating tidal surge washed most of it out to sea.” He was clearly upset. “The town’s location invites battering tides and fierce coastal storms. The beaches are eroding at an alarming rate.”

“It’s disappointing that Draven hasn’t offered to fortify them. I shall discuss it with him since I should have some influence as countess.”

“Will Draven listen to your opinions?” her father asked.

“I hope so.” She halted. “Papa, I’m glad you changed your mind about coming here.”

He stopped walking as well. “You don’t understand. Something changed my mind for me.”

Puzzled, Isabella raised an eyebrow.

“This letter arrived the day you left for Thorncliff Towers.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she took an envelope from him and opened it.

Isabella looked into her father’s face. Lines of distress creased his forehead and his frail eyes were overflowing with concern. If he had arrived an hour ago, before she had read Draven’s delusional words coupled with his astonishing admission of affection in his journal, she would have coddled her bloody lip and left Thorncliff Towers without looking back. But now things were different. She couldn’t leave Draven. Not in his mental state.

She looked at the letter again, studying each word as if she were deciphering a riddle.

“You can tell me the truth, Isabella,” her father said. “Your lip. Did Draven strike you?”

She gasped. “No! He’s done nothing of the sort. I told you it was an accident.” She needed to protect Draven until she could find out everything about his past.

Harris breathed in a stream of fresh air. “Considering the ill will between you, I was hoping this letter was just a lot of nonsense drudged up by Draven to keep you away.”

She feigned a smile. “Now that I’ve returned, we are getting along quite well.”

Her father took her gently by the shoulders. “Are you being direct with me, Isa?”

“I’m sure you could tell if I were lying,” she said lightly. “You’ve always had that ability.”

He studied her for a moment then released a sigh. “Very well. But I don’t appreciate Draven Winthrop playing games with my girl.”

Playing games?
That was the grossest understatement Isabella had ever heard. She slipped her arm around him and led him back to the center of town.

“Since you don’t seem to be in danger, I’ll be heading back to London,” he said.

“You will not,” she said, clasping his elbow. “It’s too much traveling for one day.”

He smiled. “I am rather tired. But I don’t want to intrude.”

She clasped his elbow. “I insist you stay at the manor. There is plenty of room.”

He frowned. “I won’t be in the way?”

“Not at all. You are family—and family is never in the way.”

They made their way back to the carriage and Isabella instructed Rogers to return them to Thorncliff Towers.

Her father settled against the plush velvet squabs and smiled at her. “Tell me all about your reunion with the earl,” he said.

Isabella’s knees quaked beneath her dress.
What should I say?
If Papa knew any more about his son-in-law’s dark side, he would surely insist that she leave him.

“At first it was awkward, I must admit. But civility has grown between us.”

“Civility, eh? Sounds like true love.” His eyes teased her.

She swatted him playfully on the arm. “You’re incorrigible.”

Harris looked out the window at a row of thatched-roof cottages. “You know, it’s the oddest thing. Inside the coaching station, two men were discussing the existence of a mad wolf.”

She said nothing. He glanced at her.

“Judging from your pale face,” he went on, “I see the rumors in town have reached you too. I understand several animals were killed by this beast.”

“They were probably killed by a wild dog, not a wolf. Anyway, what I am truly afraid of is Helena.” She joked to lighten the mood.

His eyes darkened. “Helena? Is that old witch visiting your household? Turn this carriage around at once!”

She laughed. “Helena isn’t visiting. She’s in residence at Thorncliff Towers. It’s another thing I need to discuss with Draven.”

“That’s my Isa! Always thinking. Always organizing her future.”

She smiled.

He reached over and patted her hand. “No worries. I’m certain there is an explanation for what killed those cows.”

She broke eye contact with him and studied the landscape rolling by.

“I have an uncanny ability to read your mind, you know,” Harris said.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “What am I thinking?”

“You won’t admit it, but the story Uncle Morton read to you when you were a child stayed with you.”

She cringed.
Why must I be reminded of it again?
“Speaking of Uncle Morton, did he visit you at Fiona’s home as he promised?” she asked.

Harris flushed a deep shade of pink. “I shouldn’t have planned a meeting with him at all.”

“Why?”

“Morton never showed up. After making some inquiries, I learned he’s been thrown in the Fleet.”

She gasped. “What happened?”

“Morton was a buffoon, as usual. He stole money from his employer.”

“How awful,” she said, recoiling.

Fleet was a debtors’ prison. It was alleged to be the worst place on Earth. The prisoners were left to rot in its stench, unless their debts were paid, which Isabella surmised, wasn’t very often.

Harris shrugged. “My brother has gone and done it this time. But I suppose it’s high time he paid for his mistakes.”

She and her father lapsed into silence. Never before did she remember a falter in their conversations before his disappearance. In the awkward moment, she reached for the amulet and rubbed it between her fingers.

“That’s a lovely necklace,” her father said. “Where did you get it?”

Isabella flung him a confused look. “You gave it to me, Papa. This is the amulet of Tousret. You were searching for its counterpart, the bracelet of Amenhotep on your last dig. Don’t you remember?”

He sank back in his seat. “My memory hasn’t fully returned. I’m sorry.”

He went silent again and Isabella felt an ache in her heart.