“You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “Do you know how I know that?”
“How?”
“Because for one, he puts you here as his guard against me. He’s afraid of me. I know he is.”
“Perhaps he’s afraid for you.”
“No,” she said, her voice like steel draped in velvet. “Something is happening that I don’t understand. I think he doesn’t understand either, just as you don’t, Aubrey. Not even with all your wisdom. I must talk to him. Will you help me, or not?”
She was magnificent in that moment. The real Cleopatra had nothing on Isabel Lanscourt.
“Do you want to plea for your freedom?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” Their eyes met. “No…” she admitted.
Disappointment mixed with his jealousy as he tried to read her chaotic thoughts. She didn’t know the secret either, although she sensed its outlines in her mind and spirit. That secret was torturing her, he realized with a sense of amazement.
“I don’t know what I want. I just know I need to speak with Lord Delraven. Will you let me pass? As you did that first night, Aubrey?”
He stepped nearer, so only a scant few inches separated the tips of her breasts from his ribs. “You recall what I required as payment for passage on that night?”
Her eyes darted to meet his. “But…it harmed you.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Has no one told you I’m a magician, Isabel?” he asked in a low, seductive tone. “I can make miracles happen, given enough time. Let me touch you.”
She avoided his stare. “You will let me pass then?”
“Of course,” he murmured.
His cock throbbed with excitement as he raised his hand. His fingertips ghosted a breast. For a split second, he knew only the pleasure of firm, succulent flesh. Pain struck him at the same moment that she jerked away from him. She regarded him with sparking dark eyes, and he knew she was
angry at his boldness.
Nevertheless, he held up his hand and smiled. His spells had been working. His fingers were reddened, but no blisters rose to the surface.
In time, he would touch her whenever he chose. He would make it happen.
He laughed softly as he watched her rush past him into the crested corridor.
Delraven sat behind a large mahogany table, a long swath of silk heaped before him. She could tell by the way his eyes were trained directly on her when she opened the door to his quarters that he’d sensed her approach, but perhaps hadn’t had sufficient time to try and escape her.
“I tricked your guard to get in here,” she said when she noticed his nostrils flare with what she assumed was anger. He didn’t speak, but remained motionless, the silk poised in his hands.
The silence was so thick that the sound of the door closing behind her went off like a firecracker in her brain. She entered and studied the room, trying to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to walk in unexpectedly on Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She suddenly wished that her newest and closest companion, Royal, was there with her to help calm her nerves. Once Margaret had learned that she took comfort in the black wolf’s company, Royal could frequently be found sitting next to the fireplace when she exited the bathroom following her evening shower, her silent, peaceful, watchful companion. He was often there while she ate her solitary dinners in her suite, and afterward, while she read a book, curled up before the roaring fire.
But he wasn’t now. The only other occupant of the room was the male behind the table who watched her with an enigmatic, brooding stare that sent her skin to tingling.
She found herself in a large den, luxurious, but obviously a room for work, not show, Isabel observed as her gaze ran over stacks of books with dozens of pieces of paper sticking out of them as place markers and the maps lining the wall. Her focus tightened on the pile of opalescent cream silk he held, the flames from the fire causing the liquid jewel of fabric to shimmer and beckon, it’s luster every bit as rich as that of a precious pearl.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she approached. The metal lamp with an extendable arm that was clamped to the edge of the table looked starkly utilitarian next to the luxurious pile of silk. It cast its light directly on the patch of fabric he held. She touched the folds with gloved fingertips and experienced a longing to feel the sensual fabric with naked hands. “Is it from your factory?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing to it?”
“I’m examining it,” he said after a pause. “Searching for flaws.”
A strange feeling came over her—was it shyness? As a twenty-nine-year-old actress, it wasn’t a sensation she’d experienced often. She kept her head lowered, pretending to study the fabric she fingered, even if every cell in her body did seem hyperaware of the male sitting across the table from her.