Bella and the Beast (6 page)

Nevertheless, the audacity of his action made her seethe.

With effort, she kept her voice modulated. “I am indeed Isabella Jones. Who else would I be? And I fail to see how removing my hat would prove my identity, anyway.”

“That remains to be seen. Come with me.”

On that cryptic remark, Aylwin wrapped his fingers around her upper arm and pulled her deeper into the labyrinth of artifacts. Bella drew in a breath to object, but a whiff of his alien masculine scent warned her to be cautious. Aylwin was nothing like her openhearted brother or her mild-mannered father. By stark contrast, the duke had an intimidating nature that complemented his superior height and physical strength. In less than ten minutes, he'd proven himself to be harsh, dictatorial, unpredictable. His thoughts were as incomprehensible to her as the strange symbols chiseled on many of the stone relics.

At least she'd had the sense to hide the dagger on her person. If he tried anything untoward, she would make him very sorry.

But at the moment, he merely escorted her to the wall of windows and released her arm. Planting his hands at his waist, he surveyed her from head to toe and back up again. “Your hair is a middling brown,” he pronounced. “Hers was lighter than yours, almost blond.”

“Hers? Who?”

“Isabella Jones. Sir Seymour's daughter.”

Bella blinked. How could he have known her hair color as a child? Understanding struck in a blinding flash. “Are you saying …
you
were in Egypt, too? At the same time that
I
was there?”

He inclined his head in agreement. “I accompanied my father on the expedition and helped out at the work site. Whether or not you were the nosy little girl sneaking around the camp, peeking into everyone's tent, remains in question.”

She tried to absorb the news. How amazing to think that she'd met Aylwin already—although he had not been the duke then, only the heir. And she remembered the fragment of a scene that had come to her when Lady Milford had told her about the sojourn in Egypt.

“I was too young to remember very much,” Bella said. “I only recall one incident. I was trying to dig a hole in the sand and it kept refilling. I remember hearing a boy laugh at my efforts. Was that you?”

He gave a quick, impatient shrug. “I've no recollection of it. I'm afraid I'll need better proof than that of your identity.”

“How do I know
your
memories of
me
are accurate?” she countered. “How old were
you
?”

“Thirteen. And I shall conduct the questioning here. Tell me, why should I trust that you're Sir Seymour's daughter when your hair color is different?”

“It isn't uncommon for blond hair to darken with age. Surely you know that.” But he still looked skeptical, and Bella felt mired in frustration. The duke would never employ her if he believed her to be a liar. It didn't help matters, either, that he had already caught her in one fib. “Your Grace, I fail to see why you'd think I'm pretending to be someone else. What would be the purpose of such a deception?”

He stood before the backdrop of a lofty stone stela. His austerely handsome face appeared chiseled from granite, like one of the fearsome gods on display. “Ladies have a habit of trying to ingratiate themselves with me,” he said. “They use trickery in the hopes of deceiving me into marriage. I'll admit your ploy is cleverer than most. It required some research into my family's past.”

He believed her to be a husband hunter?

The notion was so absurd that Bella felt a trill of mirth bubble up into her throat. As a little choke of hilarity escaped, his face tightened and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. It's just that … at my advanced age, I'm too set in my ways to think of taking a husband, let alone
trapping
one. Rather, I came here because … because of the connection between our families.”

She paused, hesitant to make her application for curator while he looked so ill-humored. Better to flatter him first by asking questions about his Egyptian artifacts. Men always liked to talk about their particular interests. “You see,” she went on, “my father died last year and I'd hoped to find out more about his work in Egypt. When I heard that you had inherited many of the artifacts that Papa helped discover, I thought perhaps that you might show me some of them—”

“By damn,” Aylwin broke in with a snap of his fingers. “There
is
a way to confirm your identity. Something I'd nearly forgotten.”

“Oh?” A little bemused, Bella took a step toward him. “Do tell. I'm happy to lay your doubts to rest.”

His shrewd gaze fixed on her, the duke prowled back and forth. “Sir Seymour's wife fell very ill while in Egypt. Her daughter's nursemaid was a Berber woman who held many superstitious beliefs. She had Isabella's legs inked with symbols designed to ward off the
jnoun,
the evil spirits that bring disease. The markings are indelible. If you are indeed who you claim to be, you should still have those tattoos.”

A tremor quaked through Bella. He knew about the strange patterns on her ankles? When she had been old enough to ask, Papa had explained that the tribal woman had only meant to protect Bella from illness. He had led her to believe that the incident had occurred during a journey through Morocco …

But apparently it had happened in Egypt. Why hadn't Papa told her the truth?

Aylwin stood waiting, his arms folded across his broad chest. The directness of his stare increased her disquiet. Did he expect her to show him the markings?

He must.

The very idea of letting this man look beneath her skirts revolted Bella. Not just for the assault on her modesty, but also because she had never revealed the tattoos to anyone outside her family. At one time, she had considered them a disfigurement. In her youth, she'd attempted to scrub them off until her flesh had turned raw. But the ink went too deeply into her skin.

Now, she seldom spared a thought for the markings. They were simply a part of herself that could not be changed. A hidden secret that no man—not even a duke—had any right to see.

“Yes, the designs are still there,” she admitted stiffly. “But you will have to take my word on the matter.”

He made a sound halfway between a snarl and a laugh. “Your word? I think not. You will verify your identity here and now—or I will know you to be a charlatan.”

The gleam in his dark eyes spoke volumes. He expected her to refuse to comply with his command. The bully wanted to expose her as an impostor, to prove she was a husband hunter like those other women, so that he could toss her out of his house.

His ultimatum set her teeth on edge. But Bella could hardly refuse. If she didn't show him, she would lose any chance to convince him to hire her. She would never have the opportunity to search for the missing map—or to claim her half of the pharaoh's treasure.

“Turn your back,” she ordered. “I'll need to roll down my stocking.”

The duke cocked a haughty eyebrow, but did as she commanded. He swiveled to face the stone stela with its depictions of life in ancient Egypt. In an aggrieved tone, he said, “Hurry up. I haven't all day.”

It was likely the first time that he had ever obeyed a woman, Bella thought tartly. For added privacy, she stepped behind an enormous granite statue of an Egyptian god with a falcon's head. There, she bent down to reach beneath her petticoats. The starched muslin rustled loudly, and she cringed to think that Aylwin must hear it. Filthy dog! Wishing all manner of curses on the beast, she untied the garters on one thigh and rolled the white silk stocking down to her ankle.

Her hand brushed the dagger strapped to her other leg. With the fitted gown, there had been nowhere else to hide it. She could only hope he wouldn't see it.

Letting her skirts drop, she stepped out from behind the statue. Aylwin still had his back to her. But he was hunkered down now, studying the pictorial symbols chiseled into the base of the stone stela. As she watched, he traced one with his forefinger as if attempting to decipher it. Could he read the hieroglyphic language?

Now was not the time to ask.

She cleared her throat. He turned in a crouch and stared pointedly at her lowered hem. His lips curled in a sneer. “So. You've realized the impossibility of deceiving me.”

“Quite the contrary.” His gloating assumption emboldened Bella. He needed to see that she would not be intimidated. She marched forward and stopped directly in front of him. Grasping her skirt, she lifted the hem slightly and thrust out her foot. “There is your proof.”

From her vantage point, she could see the tiny crystal beads on Lady Milford's slippers sparkling in the sunlight. The rich garnet hue of the satin lining contrasted with the deep bronze silk of her gown.

“Fancy shoes for a spinster of such advanced age,” Aylwin said.

Bella scowled down at him. Was he teasing? No, he didn't have a humorous bone in his brutish body. “Just look at the markings. They're right above my ankle.”

“I can't see them. Your skirts are in the way.”

She raised the hem another modest inch or two. “That should be sufficient to confirm that I'm … oh!”

Without warning, Aylwin sat back on his heels, took her ankle in a firm grip, and lifted her foot onto his thigh. The action caught Bella off balance. Gasping, she was forced to steady herself by grabbing hold of his shoulders.

His very broad, very muscular shoulders.

Much to her consternation, she found herself leaning over the duke, so close that she could see each individual strand of his chocolate-brown hair. Her heart thumped against her breastbone as the heat of his skin seeped through the linen shirt. Again, she caught a whiff of his darkly enticing scent.

More startling than anything else, though, was the feel of his callused hands delving beneath her skirts.

Blood rushed through her body. She tried to pull away, but he kept a secure hold on her leg. “Excuse me, sir!” she said, her voice high-pitched. She drew a breath and strived for a firmer tone. “What do you think you're
doing
?”

Aylwin glanced up. His gaze flicked over her, lingering a moment on the low cut of her bodice, which was regrettably in his direct line of sight. The glance sparked a tingly warmth in her bosom that could only be due to acute anger at his boldness.

One corner of his mouth curled up in a half smile that made him dangerously attractive. “I should think it's obvious what I'm doing, Miss Jones. I'm checking your credentials.”

With that, he pushed the petticoats up over her knee, exposing her lower leg to his view. Bella clenched her jaw. She didn't like this man. She didn't like him one jot. He was a tyrant who did as he pleased without a care for common decency.

Placating him, however, was a central part of her plan to gain employment in his house. For that reason alone, she forced herself not to move as Aylwin examined the markings on her lower leg. Cupping her ankle, he leaned closer, so close that his warm breath feathered over her bare flesh. Her limbs went weak and she felt as if she might melt into his lap at any moment. How foolish!

“You've seen quite enough,” she said curtly. “There can be no more doubt that I
am
Isabella Jones.”

As if she hadn't spoken, he lightly rubbed his fingertip over the inked pattern that encircled her ankle. A corresponding prickle traveled up her leg and magnified her discomfiture. Never had she known that her skin could be so sensitive.

Or that any man could be so irksome.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “Do you know the meaning of these symbols?”

Bella shook her head. Perhaps she'd known at one time. But how was she to remember anything when his invasive touch engaged her entire attention? “Kindly release my foot, sir.”

Aylwin ignored the request. “I've seen similar markings on tribeswomen. The circle with the line through it represents the sun and its healing properties.” He traced one tattoo, then another. “The inverted semicircles around the stars are meant to ward off the evil eye.”

“They ought to ward off impertinent dukes.”

Looking up at her again, he let out a full-bodied laugh that made him appear almost … charming. A charm that threatened and allured at the same time. But any glimmer of warmth on his face vanished at once. His gaze took on a hard, analytical edge, and she wondered if the wretch had known all along that she was Sir Seymour's daughter.

It didn't matter; Aylwin couldn't possibly guess her game.

Bella gave her leg a hard tug to break his hold. This time, he let her go and she stepped back. Her skirts tumbled back down, and with both feet planted on the parquet floor again, she felt fortified by the restoration of clear thinking.

At least until she saw the object in his open palm. As he stood up, the ivory-handled blade glinted in the sunlight.

“My dagger!” she cried out.

Angered by his theft, she rushed straight at him. Aylwin raised his arm to hold the weapon high. She stretched up on tiptoe, heedless of the need to press herself to his muscled form, her only thought to retrieve her precious means of defense.

It was no use. The duke had the advantage of his superior height.

She stepped back, drawing in large breaths to cool her ire. How had the beast snatched the dagger from its sheath without her knowledge? “That was a gift from my father. Give it back to me at once!”

Aylwin glanced at her heaving bosom before returning his hard gaze to hers. “No. This is my house and no one here carries a weapon. It shall be returned upon your departure.”

He placed the knife atop the stone stela, out of her reach.

Bella fumed. The filthy dog! Only the requirement of her mission stopped her from voicing that slur on his character. She must remember her purpose here. The dagger could be retrieved later.