Obsession Wears Opals (3 page)

She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen, God help me.

She’s a lady of high quality and she’s in trouble.

No need to ask who hurt her.

Because the beautiful lady with blue eyes like white opals
had a band of gold on her left hand. Darius had seen it when he’d removed her gloves.

What have I gotten into?

His guest was married.

Chapter

2

Isabel awoke slowly as layers of her nightmarish dreams shifted into more tangible forms of discomfort. Her back ached and the pain of the bruises made even breathing a little daunting. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, wondering if she could will herself back into a dislocating sleep and claim a few more hours of temporary respite. But she abandoned the notion as the gray light stole into the room and opened her eyes to try to gauge where she’d landed. Of her arrival, she remembered very little.

Except for
him.

There’d been a man—a stranger with kind green eyes and wire-rimmed spectacles who’d given her his name—Darius Thorne. A man with a handsome face and gentle hands who’d lifted her from the snow. She’d begged him not to send for a doctor or alert the authorities and he’d said he wouldn’t. But words were meaningless things and Isabel knew it.

The constable’s probably downstairs waiting—or Mr. Jarvis.

The image of her husband’s man lurking somewhere nearby was enough to propel her into action, terror setting pain aside.

Isabel struggled to sit up, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, but she managed it by pressing back against the pile of pillows for leverage and pushing out with her legs. Finally, she’d propped herself up, though without any grace by her own reckoning, to at least get a better view of her situation.

The bedroom was comfortable and well-appointed and the corner grate was blazing cheerfully with a fire that warmed the room. She touched the lace and flannel around her throat and absorbed the details of a borrowed nightgown, unfamiliar woolen socks, and the lack of her own clothes.

A large wardrobe against the far wall beckoned as a possibility.

I can hardly run or make much of a case for myself if I’m wearing nightclothes.

But Isabel’s heart began racing at the stupidity of her flight.

She pushed back the covers and slid her feet over, wincing at the protest her back was making. A smarter woman, she chided, would have had a plan. Or even thought to take some of her jewels from her bedroom and tucked them away into her pockets before . . .

Before mindlessly running away.

This was the first time she’d allowed herself to stop and think. Only because it had been sheer folly to bolt as she had, and by the time her initial panic had faded a little, she’d been too far to turn back. The impulse to just
go
had been replaced by a greater terror: the knowledge that she’d defied her husband and that the punishment he’d repeatedly promised was now fast on her heels.

Even if she limped back and threw herself on his nonexistent mercy, Isabel feared she’d supplied Richard with exactly what he needed to justify shutting her up in an asylum or imprisoning her in a new hell of his design. Her husband was a powerful man and a peer of the realm, and she’d naively played directly into his hands.

He’ll kill me—or worse. Make me wish I were dead while I’m chained to a wall somewhere in a mental ward.

The firm surface of the wooden floorboards against her feet brought her back to the present. She glanced down to learn that the thickly knitted, nearly manly socks she wore were a reddish orange that almost made her smile, but Isabel’s attention returned to the wardrobe.

She stood on unsteady legs and made her way toward it, as quietly as she could, wary of creaking floorboards or any sound that might give her away. But when she pulled open the large carved doors, they revealed bedclothes and a single flannel robe.

Where are my riding clothes? My boots?

A wintery wind blew outside the window, the lonesome sound of it framing her thoughts.
No escape. There’s no escape today.

“Aaah!” A woman’s screech of surprise made Isabel wheel around, instinctively holding up her hands in defense.

“P-please . . .” Isabel gasped, miserable at being startled and caught out of bed like a naughty child.

The woman who approached was a forbidding-looking thing, with her thin frame and hair pinned back so tightly it made her narrow face appear even more wraithlike. But the impression was softened almost immediately by the sight of a tray laden with steaming dishes in her hands, and her words. “Bless you! Out of bed, poor mite! I thought I was seein’ a ghost over there and I’ve lost a slice of my soul from the fright!”

She set the tray down on a table by the door and came over to Isabel with her hands out—as if she were approaching a wounded animal. “I’m Mrs. McFadden and you—are going to catch your death, madam, if you roam about wearing nothing but a nightgown, yes?”

Isabel nodded. “Yes, I remember you. I don’t . . . mean to . . . be any trouble, Mrs. McFadden. I’m very sorry.”

“Of course you don’t! Trouble comes where it wishes without anyone’s permission so no need to apologize. I should say it’s a pleasure to have a guest.” Mrs. McFadden put her hands on her hips and assessed Isabel’s lack of progress back toward the sanctuary of warm bedclothes awaiting her. “Now, to bed.”

Clearly, Mrs. McFadden was a woman used to being obeyed without argument.

Isabel reluctantly released her hold on the wardrobe door and made it only one or two steps before her hostess intervened and offered a gentle hand to steady her and guide her back to her nest. “You’re too kind, Mrs. McFadden.”

“Never!” Mrs. McFadden smiled. “I’m a terror. That’s what I’ve got ’em believing anyway, so I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret.” She settled Isabel and readjusted the thick goose-down-filled coverlet. “I made you a hearty breakfast, madam. You’re too thin. Bad enough I can’t get the professor to eat when he should, but I’ll not have you starving under my roof!”

“The professor? Is Mr. Thorne a professor?”

Mrs. McFadden’s look of mortified shock melted away to amusement. “Mr. Thorne is my employer and the owner of the house and I suppose . . .” The housekeeper’s brow furrowed. “Professor’s a bit of a name I’ve given him since he’s apparently got more degrees and education than sense, if ye ask me. Any man that can speak ten languages and sleeps in his library should remember where he put his hat!”

“If I lose things, I’m sure it’s to make you feel appreciated, Mrs. McFadden,” Darius interjected from the open doorway.

Isabel’s eyes dropped to her hands. He’d caught her prying into his business and she hated the bite of fear that whipped through her. But when she looked up, he was smiling at his housekeeper and cheerfully standing in the doorway. “May I come in?”

“She’s to eat! So you can visit for a minute or two or I’ll blame you if she’s forced to eat a cold meal or faints for lack of it!” Mrs. McFadden growled. She turned back to Isabel and whispered, “You’ll ring the bell if you need a thing and I’ll pretend to complain but I’ll come as quick as a wink. All right?”

Isabel nodded, unable to stop a smile. “Yes, Mrs. McFadden.”

Mrs. McFadden withdrew and Darius stepped inside, politely leaving the door open. “She’s all show,” he said. “Like a kitten that spits and hisses but has no claws.”

“She’s—remarkable,” Isabel agreed. “I should thank you. For . . . I’m not even sure how I came to be here, but . . .”

“There’s no need. I have a firm long-standing policy of harboring anyone who lands in my garden and consider it my sacred duty to keep any women who attempt to freeze to death from succeeding in their efforts,” he said, his tone light and teasing.

“It happens often, then?” she asked.

“Oh yes.” He nodded and pulled up a chair to sit next to the bed. “It’s practically a weekly occurrence, so I’m going to have Hamish just put in a wider gate and set up fairy lights to help more lost souls find their way a little easier.”

The man was a puzzle to her, but not an unappealing one. “I’m grateful to you, Mr. Thorne, and I have no intentions of . . . rudely intruding on your life any longer than necessary. I’m sure I can be on my way by tomorrow morning to—”

He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze alone ending her declaration to depart. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Anxiety seized her by the throat. “Wh-why?”

“Because you’re safe here.” He waited patiently as if aware of the internal war waging inside of her.

“Not because you’d like me to wait for the constable to arrive once the weather has passed?” she asked, the words like bitter copper on her tongue.

He shook his head. “I honor my promises and my word is not something I give lightly. I sent for no one. There is no one coming.”

No one is coming.

Isabel nervously rearranged the crocheted edges of her nightgown’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

And there it was, the inevitable question that would open a floodgate of inquiries and obligations, that would force him to break his word or make him regret his promises. Isabel’s eyes filled with tears and her throat cinched closed at the pain of it.

Such a simple question, really. I tell him my name and then it all changes and whatever safety I’d started to feel evaporates like mist in the sunlight.

“It’s understandable,” he spoke.

She lifted her head and stared at him through her misery, uncomprehending.

But he went on. “To go through such a traumatic fall and endure that cold, it would rob anyone of their senses or their memory. It’s understandable if some of your history is lost to you. It’s a temporary state, I’m sure, and nothing to worry about.”

She nodded, wary but oddly relieved at the path he was deliberately laying out at her feet.

“Amnesia. The loss of memory can be so profound that a person doesn’t even remember their name or anyone associated with them.” His gaze was steady and sincere. “It must be very distressing, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should have all the time you need to heal and to remember when you can. Unless—” He sighed deeply but there was no judgment in his eyes. “Can you recall that there was somewhere you were specifically trying to get to? Someone who was waiting for you? A rendezvous with a friend?”

She shook her head, the tears spilling down her cheeks unheeded. “No. There is no one. I don’t think I have . . . anywhere to go.”

He pulled a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his wool coat. “Here. The answers will come, and in the meantime, there is a hot breakfast to be seen to. Claws or no, I’d like to avoid the fiery dressing-down when Mrs. McFadden’s authority has been thwarted.”

She took the handkerchief from him and dried her eyes. “Is Samson all right? My horse?”

“Hamish is spoiling him back to health and I’m sure he’ll recover. He’s lame, but if anyone can see him set right, it’s Hamish. He has a way with horses.” He stood and retrieved the tray, bringing it to her bedside table. “I’ll leave you alone to sample your breakfast at your leisure.”

“Mr. Thorne?”

“Yes.”

“I want to say thank you, but it seems a paltry way to repay you for—all of this.”

He smiled. “It’s more than enough.”

As he set the tray down, he knocked the bell from the narrow stand over onto the floor, and within seconds, Mrs. McFadden was in the doorway, breathless and unhappy.

“A minute or two, Mr. Thorne! You overstay and you’ll wear her out!” she scolded, bustling in to take over. “How can she eat if you keep her? And aren’t you expected in town?”

He gave Isabel a sheepish look of apology and she smiled back, sharing an instant alliance. “I lost track of the time, Mrs. McFadden.”

“The weather’s not getting better, so you’d best head off now.” Mrs. McFadden’s hands landed on her hips, and even with their acquaintance being so new, Isabel recognized the signs. The man had his orders.

“It seems I’m off.” Darius bowed slightly before heading out the door. “I’m meeting an old friend in town, but I’ll be back before nightfall. Mrs. McFadden, if you would?”

The housekeeper followed him out and Isabel was alone again, left to marvel that the impact of Darius Thorne’s presence wasn’t diminished by the light of day.

***

Every soldier in the front ranks sat precariously awaiting the trumpet’s notes that would herald their fates and the White King surveyed the battlefield and held his breath. Here was the moment when the line would either hold or yield. A kingdom would be won or lost.

Sweat glistened off the horses’ ebony flanks, their hides twitching with tension as their riders reined them in with brutal hands. The line seemed impenetrable, and the look of swarthy confidence on each carved face drove home the point that here was a formidable army not to be taken lightly.

And then it was on.

A chaotic dance ensued of clashes and cowardice, minor victories and wretched sacrifice, all choreographed by the kings behind their lines.

The White King waited patiently until he saw the Black King smile as momentum appeared to carry the day—and the black line broke just as the white general had predicted. Arrogance drew them out and the white lancers he’d hidden from sight swept in to inflict a brutal justice and deliver conquest into the White army’s hands.

The White Queen rushed to his side, protected and safe, and the king savored the sweetness of her presence and—

“Thorne.” His opponent sighed, knocking over the ebony king in defeat. “It’s extremely annoying when you beat a man effortlessly at chess and appear to be daydreaming all the while.”

Darius Thorne snapped back to the realities of the small game room above the coffee shop. He’d lost himself in a ridiculous fantasy of war and strategy and felt a bit embarrassed at the easy win, and the indulgence of including a pale queen in his mental gambit. “I apologize, Professor Warren. I assure you, I was engrossed entirely in the game.”

“Not over there calculating ancient stone arch angles and conjugating Chinese verbs?” Warren asked kindly, beginning to put away the black carved pieces in a wooden box. “You can confess if you wish.”

Darius smiled. “I may be guilty of such feats, but generally it’s only during academic teas or—”

“Mrs. Warren’s forays into musicales?” the older man interrupted with a laugh. “God, I’ll never forget the look on your face after an evening of impromptu performances! You were so young then, but already, I could see that mind of yours working away while the rest of us suffered through three renditions of my wife’s butchery of songs about nightingales.”