reason why.
Isobel allowed herself a single sigh. At least it appeared her father had limited his sticky fingers to the decanters and his single attempt at petty thievery. There seemed to be nothing amiss with the records. It was a small blessing, perhaps, but a welcome one.
Interspersed infrequently among other hands was one she now knew belonged to the marquess. Cleaner then, but just as bold, it spoke of confidence, arrogance, and the best education money could buy. It stopped appearing altogether a year before. That must have been when he had gone off to the Peninsula, she decided, and felt a stab of pity. Whatever had happened there had taken the very control of his property from him. What a blow that must have been.
Isobel resolutely pushed all soft thoughts aside and turned to business.
Yes, she would read. And she would learn. Whether she wanted it or not, she had a job to do, and she would do it better than any before her. She would not have it any other way.
Fifteen feet above, hidden in the shadowed recesses of a balcony alcove, Nathan sat still and patient. He could not explain, even to himself, why he was there. He had relegated himself to quiet discomfort, perhaps for hours, but he had been unable to resist the impulse.
Some twenty minutes into her reading, Isobel had begun humming.
Nathan wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. It was, to his ears, a lovely sound, soft and lilting, but not a tune he recognized. And it seemed to change with each quiet slide of a new ledger. It was quick and airy, then low and melancholy, as if she were setting the estate's past years to music.
After perhaps an hour, he heard her rise and move through the library, most likely relieving cramped muscles. In those minutes, she stopped humming and sang instead. Nathan could not help smiling at her choice of songs. It was lively and undeniably bawdy, telling of a Highland lass whose love of morning dips in a secluded loch afforded the local men with the best of entertainment.
This was a side of Isobel MacLeod that Nathan had not expected, and it charmed him completely.
Well, there was no doubt about it now. He would bind her to him in any way possible. Somehow, in a brief two days, she had changed his future beyond imagining. A brief two days, and he could not imagine her gone.
He would go to London on Gerard's foolish errand, but even when that was over, he would have Isobel. As she returned to the desk and began humming again, he leaned back, more at peace than he could remember being in a very long time. She would read to him in that fluid voice, and sing. Music was a pleasure he had forgone, one whose return was poignantly sweet.
But there was more. Turning to face the sun-brightened room again, he smiled. It was not something he planned to tell Isobel just yet, but he got an even more stirring pleasure from seeing the fiery glory of her hair.
Oh, his eyes were useless, at least as far as the basic tasks of living were concerned. But in strong light he could perceive faint shapes and color.
With the sunlight coming through the window, he could see the red of Isobel's hair. The rest of her was hazy, except in his imagination. But it didn't matter how little he could actually see. That fire was enough.
When he had awakened in the Portuguese field hospital, he had kept his near-total blindness to himself in the desperate hope that it was temporary.
Later, only slightly improved and home in England, he had cursed the incompleteness of his ruin. He had been convinced there was nothing so cruel as to be taunted by the colors and faint shapes of life without being able to move easily among them.
Accepting the loss of sight as penance for Rievaulx's death had been simple enough. Living with that cross had been all but soul-crushing. Now, for the first time, Nathan gloried in what little sight had been left to him.
In all his thirty-two years, he had never thought anything as beautiful as the wavering, indistinct,
Isobel allowed herself a single sigh. At least it appeared her father had limited his sticky fingers to the decanters and his single attempt at petty thievery. There seemed to be nothing amiss with the records. It was a small blessing, perhaps, but a welcome one.
Interspersed infrequently among other hands was one she now knew belonged to the marquess. Cleaner then, but just as bold, it spoke of confidence, arrogance, and the best education money could buy. It stopped appearing altogether a year before. That must have been when he had gone off to the Peninsula, she decided, and felt a stab of pity. Whatever had happened there had taken the very control of his property from him. What a blow that must have been.
Isobel resolutely pushed all soft thoughts aside and turned to business.
Yes, she would read. And she would learn. Whether she wanted it or not, she had a job to do, and she would do it better than any before her. She would not have it any other way.
Fifteen feet above, hidden in the shadowed recesses of a balcony alcove, Nathan sat still and patient. He could not explain, even to himself, why he was there. He had relegated himself to quiet discomfort, perhaps for hours, but he had been unable to resist the impulse.
Some twenty minutes into her reading, Isobel had begun humming.
Nathan wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. It was, to his ears, a lovely sound, soft and lilting, but not a tune he recognized. And it seemed to change with each quiet slide of a new ledger. It was quick and airy, then low and melancholy, as if she were setting the estate's past years to music.
After perhaps an hour, he heard her rise and move through the library, most likely relieving cramped muscles. In those minutes, she stopped humming and sang instead. Nathan could not help smiling at her choice of songs. It was lively and undeniably bawdy, telling of a Highland lass whose love of morning dips in a secluded loch afforded the local men with the best of entertainment.
This was a side of Isobel MacLeod that Nathan had not expected, and it charmed him completely.
Well, there was no doubt about it now. He would bind her to him in any way possible. Somehow, in a brief two days, she had changed his future beyond imagining. A brief two days, and he could not imagine her gone.
He would go to London on Gerard's foolish errand, but even when that was over, he would have Isobel. As she returned to the desk and began humming again, he leaned back, more at peace than he could remember being in a very long time. She would read to him in that fluid voice, and sing. Music was a pleasure he had forgone, one whose return was poignantly sweet.
But there was more. Turning to face the sun-brightened room again, he smiled. It was not something he planned to tell Isobel just yet, but he got an even more stirring pleasure from seeing the fiery glory of her hair.
Oh, his eyes were useless, at least as far as the basic tasks of living were concerned. But in strong light he could perceive faint shapes and color.
With the sunlight coming through the window, he could see the red of Isobel's hair. The rest of her was hazy, except in his imagination. But it didn't matter how little he could actually see. That fire was enough.
When he had awakened in the Portuguese field hospital, he had kept his near-total blindness to himself in the desperate hope that it was temporary.
Later, only slightly improved and home in England, he had cursed the incompleteness of his ruin. He had been convinced there was nothing so cruel as to be taunted by the colors and faint shapes of life without being able to move easily among them.
Accepting the loss of sight as penance for Rievaulx's death had been simple enough. Living with that cross had been all but soul-crushing. Now, for the first time, Nathan gloried in what little sight had been left to him.
In all his thirty-two years, he had never thought anything as beautiful as the wavering, indistinct,
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