Heart of Darkness (7 page)

She was annoyed at him.

Thoroughly irritated by him and the situation
he had forced upon her, and yet...there was something inside of
him, perhaps his soul, that called to her. And Goddess help her,
she could not resist that call.

Her instant weakening upon the flicker of his
tongue about the sensitive flesh of her finger told her that he was
a temptation, from which she had no desire to abstain!

Grimacing inwardly, she watched as his firm,
but beautifully molded lips started to move and almost as though
she were suffering from a delayed reaction, his words eventually
penetrated her mind.

“...Jaegar must have used his own brand of
magic, Isabeau. Damn his legs! My guards must have been infiltrated
by one of his own.” He hissed. “I shall have to seek out the one
who has betrayed me!”

She blinked. “Jaegar is a sorcerer?”

Although she said nothing, Isabeau felt pity
for the man who had dared to deceive Wolfe. There was a bitter
anger on his face that did not bode well for the unknown man!

Wolfe shook his head.

“Then what is he?”

“The same as you, but not the same as
you.”

Isabeau clicked her tongue in annoyance and
murmured pleasantly, “Are you trying to be irritating? If so, then
congratulations, you have succeeded.”

He laughed again and she watched in shocked
delight, as this time, his entire face transformed into full
animation. His grin cut into his firm, taut cheeks. The skin beside
his eyes crinkled slightly. She saw his teeth and damned his hide,
for even they were attractive! There was no reason to be disgusted
by his yellow-caked, rotten stubs. He had a full set of pearly
white teeth, damn him.

She almost felt disappointed.

Was every part of this man perfect?

If so, was it any wonder she could not resist
him? The man was like a walking God, so it was only natural that
she would feel...she refused to say adulation, but it felt almost
like that.

She was not used to being attracted to
men. For the most part, she viewed them with suspicion and
distrust, fully aware that they could harm her and most dreadfully.
Even though she had been raised to consider men as her only form of
protection, her years alone had taught her that they were the
complete opposite. And sometimes the very reason
why
she needed to be
protected!

For the first thirteen years of her life, she
had lived in a very similar hall to the one she had stayed in this
past night. Her parents had been rich, very rich and kind with it.
She was not one to be blindly adoring of her mama and papa, simply
because they had passed.

She knew it to be true.

Knew that the servants thought kindly of her
family, for they had always been well cared for. The tenant farmers
had had little complaints, for her father had not charged high
rates and had been a good and generous landlord.

Even at thirteen
and
a mere girl, she had known this, because in
her family, being of the female sex was not a crime. It was
celebrated. She had been taught how to be the merriest lady as her
parents' wealth had dictated. But in the same breath, she had been
taught literature, history, the classics.

Her father had involved her in his
estate work. She had ridden about the land with him on a small
pony, greeting and speaking with the tenants, who had been hearty
and healthy
and
dare she say
it, happy with their lot.

At fourteen, however, something had changed.
The manor had been closed and they had retreated to a plot of land
in the deepest Yorkshire to live in a thatched cottage.

Admittedly, it had been a large thatched
cottage. Almost four or five times the size of a tenant farmhouse.
And inside, there had been all the luxuries of home, but it had
been rather confusing as to why they had moved from their manor and
to the cottage. She had at first thought them to have lost their
fortune, as it did happen.

During the few balls and house parties her
mama had thrown, Isabeau had rebelled against an early bed time,
when so many fascinating people had arrived at her home and she had
hidden behind one of the antique Chinese Coromandel screens many a
night. She had heard the women gossip about rake hells who had lost
their fortune at the gambling halls.

She could easily picture the shocked and
delighted expressions on the women's faces. There had been a
salacious ravenous look on their faces that told the young Isabeau
that people wished ill on others. It had been one of many lessons
that had led her on the sharp learning curve from childhood to
adulthood.

As far as she had been aware at that time,
they had not lost their fortune and until her mother had eventually
handed the ring to her, around eighteen months later, she had never
understood why they had so strangely transferred their life up to
the north of the country yet had still retained the same spending
power as before.

In the midst of Yorkshire, her parents
had still dressed in the
haute
mode.

Her father would dress as befit his station.
Luxurious materials, the best linens. Discreet yet opulent stones
and precious metals at his cuffs and in his neck cloth and she
could easily envisage the few jewels he wore in her mind's eye. He
had also worn a plain band wedding ring on his left hand. But on
the right, a huge cabochon sapphire had sat in state upon the
fourth finger of his right hand.

Her mother had been the same. She had always
dined in full dress, jewels draped upon her neck and adorning her
wrists. While her mother had precious stones aplenty, always,
always had the onyx ring been perched on her hand. Regardless of
ill-matching colors, she had constantly worn the semi-precious
gem.

Days before her sixteenth birthday, her
mother had placed the onyx ring in her palm and had curled her
fingers about it.

“This is your birthright, Isabeau. I pass it
on to you as your grandmother did to me. It is a rite of passage,
your sixteenth birthday draws near and with it, your powers.”

To this day, she could hear those words in
her mind.

It was only then that Isabeau had learned
that she was different from the other people about her. That her
parents and herself were somehow not the same as the rest of the
world.

“Wear this and it will become as one
with you. Wear it at all times, Isabeau. Would that I...I-I
cannot...” she had broken off and had looked visibly distraught. If
only Isabeau had realized then that her mother would die days
later. “...As you grow, the ring will
grow
with you and you will learn from it and it
from you. Trust in its power and its strength and know that with
it, you have a constant protector. Without faith in the stone, your
powers will never fully flourish. Trust in me and know that I speak
the truth, my beloved.”

Now, as she looked back and studied a memory
that had been under constant perusal since her parents' death,
Isabeau realized that her mother's hesitation implied that she
would not be around to teach her daughter. Her overwrought behavior
had been out of character for her mama, who had always been clear
of mind and level-headed.

Why had Isabeau not realized that before
now?

What had she not seen that her mother's
bequest to her had also been a warning?

Swallowing convulsively as tears washed the
back of her throat, she closed her eyes and almost from a different
plane, heard Wolfe say:

“What would occur if I placed it on my
finger? Hmm?”

Her eyes popped open and she watched horror
struck as he hovered the circlet over the tip of his finger.

“No!”

She sighed when he moved the ring away but
clenched it in his palm.

“Why not?”

“It's connected to me. I have already told
you that!” she retorted, her tone prim yet supercilious.

“Surely it would free you from the curse that
follows you, no?” he asked quietly, but his left eyebrow was raised
curiously.

“I do not know what follows me.”

“Why then do you run and hide?”

She licked her lips and shrugged.

“So that I do not share the same fate as that
of my parents. Burning to death as they cry out in pain as their
home is decimated by flames about their very heads.” Again, her
shoulder jerked. “I'm the only one with the power to use it. If you
put it on, then I imagine it will either be lifeless or cause you
grievous harm.” Her tone implied that were he to place the ring on
his finger, she would wish the latter on him rather than the
former.

Wolfe chuckled at her and she had to hold
back the desire to roll her eyes at him. Honestly, she was not a
funny man on the stage! Why was he continually laughing at her? She
had said nothing that was even remotely amusing!

“I will return the ring to you...only if you
promise not to fight me anymore...what do you say to that,
Isabeau?” he asked quietly, but his voice was firm and she knew
that he was deadly serious.

Knowing that he would withhold the ring from
her, the item which had become her lifeline over the years, her
dependency upon it had grown in leaps and bounds, she had to
conform to his words. She did not like it and wished it weren't
necessary, but the ring was as vital to her being as was her
heart.

Without either of these two important things,
she simply could not function.

While the ring was naught but metal and
semi-precious stone, it had long become an almost external vital
organ. Already she could feel her soul searching frenetically for
the source of power which was placed on her heart finger. The beat
of her heart had increased and the pace of her breathing was slowly
becoming erratic.

Internally, she was starting to panic.

Nodding calmly and betraying none of her
inner agitation, she said, “I will not fight you.”

What she did not say, was that no, she would
not fight him...but only for the moment.

Chapter Four

The sudden dig of Wolfe's hands at her waist
jolted Isabeau out of her restless sleep. Sitting bolt right
upwards, she uttered a cry as the jerky move had her almost falling
off the bedamned saddle. With a grunt, she sank back against the
safety and support of Wolfe's body.

She had taken comfort against his long, lean
length hours ago and had argued over the propriety of resting on
his chest as though he were a pillow or a mattress, but fatigue had
swamped her and she'd damned propriety to hell.

What she would only admit to herself was the
fact that she had felt as though she belonged there. Which,
considering he was her captor, was bizarre to the extreme. But she
could not deny how wonderfully relaxing it had been to hear the
bum-bum of his heart and feel the slow depression of his chest as
he exhaled and the slight brush of his breath against the sensitive
flesh of her jaw.

It was peculiar,
that
she did know. But still, while inwardly she
could take pleasure from his touch, Isabeau knew that to show it
outwardly, would be a dangerous folly.

Her vision slowly grew sharper as the effects
of her slumber slowly disappeared and the first object she actually
saw was a large castle. It might not have been a castle, could have
been a manor house, but in their current location, its silhouette
in the dim moonlight was far too difficult to discern. All she
could see was a great, black blob but the fact that it was great,
told her it was a property of some standing. It appeared her captor
had wealth.

Isabeau was unsure as to whether that was
reassuring or not.

If he was wealthy, he could easily conceal
her abduction or even her murder by greasing the right palms. His
servants would be paid to turn the other cheek and not notice a
damn thing.

She licked her lips nervously at the
thought.

Now, if he were poor, there could be a very
explicable reason behind this entire scenario. The intruder, sent
by a man named Jaegar, had obviously been sent to retrieve her and
the ring. Perhaps, Wolfe intended to blackmail this Jaegar for
money and then he would hand her over as though she were a gift.
Not a person.

The thought would have been enough to make
her fume, but she sincerely doubted that Wolfe Sinclair was
poor.

The shirt her cheek had been pressed against,
had been of the highest quality linen. And when he had attacked the
intruder who had attempted to slice off her finger, she had noticed
his clothes had been tailored by expert hands. His cologne had
hints of sandalwood--the most expensive of all the scents. His
horse was a stallion of magnificent breed. Perhaps even Arabian. In
the dark, and with his black hide, it was difficult to
differentiate, but she knew Wolfe's horse would be of good blood
stock.

The castle could indeed be in a poor state of
repair, but she doubted it. Everything about the man against whom
she rested, bespoke of wealth and power.