her touch.
A fever overcame him. It enveloped Isabel as well, and together they existed at the center of an inferno. Again and again he took her, not understanding his need, but acknowledging he was ruled by it. His hunger never disappeared, but sometime close to dawn, he told himself it had at least eased. He untied Isabel’s hands and took great care in replacing her gloves.
“Come to bed,” Isabel said after her hands were covered, her voice roughened by passion spent many times over.
He hesitated where he stood next to the bed. She looked up at him so trustingly. Elysse had once regarded him thus, until she’d fully understood what he was. Then disgust—and worse, fear—had entered her clear, blue eyes. She’d been destroyed by that knowledge, ending her own life because she couldn’t bear the idea of having lain with him.
“What is it?” Isabel asked, and he realized his doubt and disbelief over what had occurred between them had entered his expression. Before she could ask him any more questions, before she had the opportunity to become repulsed, he placed his hand on her temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered roughly, not allowing himself to look into the wells of her dark, velvety eyes. He used his power to will her to forget everything that had occurred since she’d first entered his quarters earlier that evening.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Isabel recalled nothing about the night before. It only struck her as strange for a brief moment that she was not anxious about this. Her consciousness seemed to bounce and skitter off the vacant spot in her memory like a drop of water on a spot of oil.
She rose to the sound of water running in the distance and the smell of coffee, cinnamon and fresh-baked rolls. Her mouth watered. She pulled the covers around her breasts, sat up and stretched.
“I’ve started you a nice, hot bath, dear,” Margaret Turrow said as she stepped into the room and marched over to the table where she’d laid out the breakfast things. “And I’ve made you fresh cinnamon rolls.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Isabel mumbled. She placed her hand on her throat in surprise. Her voice had sounded rough and hoarse, as though she were getting a cold. Margaret glanced around, coffee carafe in her hand.
“Are you getting ill?”
“No,” Isabel said honestly as she got out of bed. “I feel good. Really good,” she added under her breath as she examined the brown silk nightgown she wore. Confusion flickered through her. She couldn’t recall putting it on last night.
“Here’s your robe, dear,” Margaret said, grabbing the silk confection at the foot of the bed. “Lord Delraven was right again, I see. He chose this gown special for you. You look scrumptious in this chocolate-brown color.”
Heat inexplicably flooded her cheeks at the sound of Delraven’s name. She suddenly became highly conscious of how sticky things felt between her thighs. For a moment, she felt disoriented, but then she suppressed the dizzy feeling and focused on the mundane details of the room and the woman bustling toward her.
“That’s all right, Margaret,” she said with a weak smile when the little woman held up the robe. “I think I’ll just have some coffee and get in the bath.”
“I’ll get it, dear,” Margaret insisted when Isabel headed toward the table and the carafe of coffee.
Isabel gave a small laugh. “You don’t have to wait on me, Margaret.”
“On the contrary, I do,” Margaret said as she poured the black, aromatic fluid into an elegant white porcelain cup. She glanced up as she handed over the coffee and noticed Isabel’s wry expression. “But of course I want this particular duty, as well.”
“I’m a duty?”
Margaret poured a splash of fresh cream into her coffee. “Lord Delraven wants me to see to you personally, and I told him I was glad to do it. He probably thinks you’ll grow lonely here, without the company of another mortal.”
“You
A fever overcame him. It enveloped Isabel as well, and together they existed at the center of an inferno. Again and again he took her, not understanding his need, but acknowledging he was ruled by it. His hunger never disappeared, but sometime close to dawn, he told himself it had at least eased. He untied Isabel’s hands and took great care in replacing her gloves.
“Come to bed,” Isabel said after her hands were covered, her voice roughened by passion spent many times over.
He hesitated where he stood next to the bed. She looked up at him so trustingly. Elysse had once regarded him thus, until she’d fully understood what he was. Then disgust—and worse, fear—had entered her clear, blue eyes. She’d been destroyed by that knowledge, ending her own life because she couldn’t bear the idea of having lain with him.
“What is it?” Isabel asked, and he realized his doubt and disbelief over what had occurred between them had entered his expression. Before she could ask him any more questions, before she had the opportunity to become repulsed, he placed his hand on her temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered roughly, not allowing himself to look into the wells of her dark, velvety eyes. He used his power to will her to forget everything that had occurred since she’d first entered his quarters earlier that evening.
Chapter Six
The next morning, Isabel recalled nothing about the night before. It only struck her as strange for a brief moment that she was not anxious about this. Her consciousness seemed to bounce and skitter off the vacant spot in her memory like a drop of water on a spot of oil.
She rose to the sound of water running in the distance and the smell of coffee, cinnamon and fresh-baked rolls. Her mouth watered. She pulled the covers around her breasts, sat up and stretched.
“I’ve started you a nice, hot bath, dear,” Margaret Turrow said as she stepped into the room and marched over to the table where she’d laid out the breakfast things. “And I’ve made you fresh cinnamon rolls.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Isabel mumbled. She placed her hand on her throat in surprise. Her voice had sounded rough and hoarse, as though she were getting a cold. Margaret glanced around, coffee carafe in her hand.
“Are you getting ill?”
“No,” Isabel said honestly as she got out of bed. “I feel good. Really good,” she added under her breath as she examined the brown silk nightgown she wore. Confusion flickered through her. She couldn’t recall putting it on last night.
“Here’s your robe, dear,” Margaret said, grabbing the silk confection at the foot of the bed. “Lord Delraven was right again, I see. He chose this gown special for you. You look scrumptious in this chocolate-brown color.”
Heat inexplicably flooded her cheeks at the sound of Delraven’s name. She suddenly became highly conscious of how sticky things felt between her thighs. For a moment, she felt disoriented, but then she suppressed the dizzy feeling and focused on the mundane details of the room and the woman bustling toward her.
“That’s all right, Margaret,” she said with a weak smile when the little woman held up the robe. “I think I’ll just have some coffee and get in the bath.”
“I’ll get it, dear,” Margaret insisted when Isabel headed toward the table and the carafe of coffee.
Isabel gave a small laugh. “You don’t have to wait on me, Margaret.”
“On the contrary, I do,” Margaret said as she poured the black, aromatic fluid into an elegant white porcelain cup. She glanced up as she handed over the coffee and noticed Isabel’s wry expression. “But of course I want this particular duty, as well.”
“I’m a duty?”
Margaret poured a splash of fresh cream into her coffee. “Lord Delraven wants me to see to you personally, and I told him I was glad to do it. He probably thinks you’ll grow lonely here, without the company of another mortal.”
“You
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