Heart of Darkness (10 page)

She felt him stiffen and groaned again. Her
legs clung to his hips as she sought that elusive something she was
seeking, but to her horror, she realized that he was not trying to
help her seek what she needed, but was slowly disentangling himself
from her clasp!

“W-W-What?” Isabeau moaned with a gasp and
her heavily lidded eyes blinked open to stare up at the man, who
was looking disheveled from her touch and his hair was kinked and
knotted from her grasp.

Her eyes met his and she saw the sudden and
fierce anger there. It shocked her into stillness and she watched
as he stalked off quickly towards the door, opened it then slammed
it closed with a bang. The sound of the lock was loud in the
silence and she gulped, wondering what had happened.

Lifting a hand, she rubbed it over her face
and attempted to awaken herself from the stupor in which she had
been hovering. Slowly raising herself so that she rested on her
elbows, she looked down at herself and blushed. Her legs were
spread, her breasts were bare and her nipples were red and peaked.
She looked like a whore.

Only moments ago, she had yelled at him for
placing her in a room that was so close to his, for she did not
want his staff to actively seek gossip, and now she had practically
handed it to them. Having opened herself up to him to this extent,
he would only expect more and more until there truly was something
to gossip about!

* * * *

What on earth was happening to her?

What had she been thinking to allow him to
touch her so intimately and to actively enjoy it? She felt almost
as though she had leapt out of her body and become someone else for
the moment.

Isabeau had never allowed any man to touch
her in that way and yet, to start believing that there was some
deep well of emotion behind it...was she merely being delusional?
Somehow hoping to convince herself that the intimacy she was
sharing with him was right and true, because there was something
deeper than animal lust behind it?

A part of her, the part that was ashamed,
wanted to believe that it was just that. But her common sense told
her that life was never so simple. What they had shared...well, it
was so...She huffed, irritated at herself for not being able to
understand her own feelings. But it was so primal. So earthy.

Was that right or wrong?

Isabeau did not know.

For the majority of time, she hated him. In
the last two days, she had spent more time despising and cursing
his hide than she had admiring it! So to be bombarded with powerful
emotions that were to the contrary had come as a great shock. When
had she stopped wanting to escape him and started wanting to kiss
him?

Was this a new development?

A frisson of fear crawled along the slender
line of her neck as she wondered what had come over her. Had the
loss of the ring suddenly transformed her into something completely
different? Was it the ring that had kept her grounded?

At that moment, she wished for the ring with
all of her being.

Even at this moment, when she was
continuing to react to his now-absent touch, from the amazing
passion he had inspired in her, she could feel the dull thump as
her soul sought the power in the minerals of the onyx stone. She
knew it was a conduit for her to use her gifts, but she disliked
the term magic. If Wolfe wished to call it that, then that was his
choice, but
she
could not call
it such a name.

Perhaps, it was magic.

Perhaps, he was correct and she was wrong,
but to her, it was her talent, her gift. And if the onyx tapped
into that, then that was how it worked. She refused to believe
herself a witch. For witch's controlled and manipulated magic and
usually not in a good way. She had only ever used her powers for
her own safety and wellbeing.

Witches existed, of that she did know, but
they were never, ever caught. They were far too clever for that.
Before she had even known that the women in her line had the
ability to channel power through the stone, she had known about
witches. While her mama had kept her in the dark about Isabeau's
own power, she had told her about the different talents that were
about in the world.

From those that could read minds, to those
who could turn common stones into gold. They were no bedtime
stories, but the truth. And Isabeau had always known that.

While other debutantes may have scorned the
existence of such power, this knowledge had been interwoven into
the very fabric of her life. Even though she had not realized that
her family had powers of their own, she had known that others
yielded them and with ease.

The women who had been classed as
witches were a part of these
others
and those who had died because of being branded by that
epithet had only been healers. There had been no magic involved
when they attempted to cure the sick.

It was still dangerous to even jokingly call
someone such a horrid name as that of a witch. The atrocities of
the past, of the ducking stool and the women who had died at the
stake, because of their knowledge of the natural world, were still
too close to be forgotten.

Well, it had been for her family. Isabeau
could easily remember the time, when she had been studying the
natural properties of local flora. Herbs that could be used to heal
as well as to adorn dishes. Plants that could be used to soothe as
well as be aesthetically pleasing. Her mother had come upon her in
the library and had asked to see what she was studying.

Her mama had looked somber as she had stroked
the coverlet and had said, “Women who have had this knowledge and
had the ability to cure the sick and heal the poor were killed for
it, as little as eighty years ago, my love. Knowledge is power, but
with it, it can bring danger.”

“But why, mama?” Isabeau had asked, her voice
filled with confusion and incomprehension.

“Because they were believed to be witches, my
sweet. Anyone who opens themselves up to the community, opens
themselves to scrutiny. A woman with the knowledge of the plants
and herbs of our country can easily make an error. She is not
infallible. One wrong amount of a certain herb and a person can
die. Or become even more ill. Where once that woman was celebrated
and adored by the village, she was quickly shunned and cast as a
witch.

“The majority of the peasants in this country
are poorly educated and have little understanding, but they have a
large voice and their lack of understanding has a lot to answer
for.

“A witch is...I hate to use the word, but she
is evil. The magic she brandishes can do harm and cause pain and
suffering. They are cunning and sly and bad-natured. A healer is
the opposite. She gives of herself to prevent pain. To stop
suffering. She is good. Whilst one yields magic as her weapon, the
other uses her knowledge for the common good. And while the latter
is amazing in itself, there is no spiritual assistance required.
Whereas a witch, she uses sorcery and incantations to do her
bidding. Can you understand the difference, little one?”

Isabeau had nodded with a puckered frown on
her small face.

At this moment in time, Isabeau had enough
riding on her shoulders without the curse of being branded a witch
by her captor adding to those troubles! She was not evil and never,
ever wished pain upon anyone. Even Wolfe! She might curse at him
and damn him for taking her hostage, but she didn't wish him to
suffer! That totally went against her nature.

She didn't honestly know what she was.
But she knew that she was not,
not
, a witch!

Her mama had handed her the ring but little
else by way of information about the Hart power. Of other powers,
she knew plenty, but not of her own. What she could have possibly
discovered amongst their belongings had been lost in the fire. She
had been cast out unintentionally and the ring had been her sole
source of knowledge. The little she had gleaned was not enough in
the confusing world in which she found herself.

Deciding that her thoughts were only adding
to her confusion, she determined not to think any more about what
she was. About what her mother or grandmother was. It only raised
more questions.

Shaking, almost as though she were suffering
from tansy-root poisoning, she started to cover her breasts with
the chemise. He'd torn her dress, damn him and it was the only one
she actually had with her, so she had to make the best of the
almost see-through and dirty chemise.

If there was one thing about her situation,
it was that she hated being dirty. Of not having access to hot,
clean water with which to bathe. Of not being able to change into
clean and pleasant smelling clothes and having her dresses washed
and pressed. Of having a wardrobe full of undergarments that were
soft against her skin.

Perhaps it was a very materialistic argument,
but when you roamed the country in an attempt to stay alive,
sometimes the most basic of things became important.

Looking around the room he'd given her, it
was so like that of her mother's, she felt tears gather in her
throat. She believed Wolfe, when he said that it had once been his
own mother's suite, but it still hurt. She was sprawled on a four
poster bed, with carved and worked posts that depicted...something,
she wasn't sure what. Squinting at them, she realized they were
flowers. Of all varieties. They were like long pillars filled with
bouquets of mahogany blooms.

The posts supported a heavy cream and rose
pink damask canopy and the bed was covered in a matching duvet. The
foot of the bed was open and looked on to a chaise longue in the
matching, yet reverse coloring of the bed. This time it was rose on
cream rather than the other way around. This heavy piece of
furniture sat to the left of the bed.

To the right was a heavy, walnut dressing
table, which had a three screen mirror at the edge of it. The seat
was a softly upholstered stool that matched the chaise longue and
the table was laden down with bottles and potions that reminded her
of all the little tincture her mother had had.

In the center of the ceiling was a crystal
chandelier that literally dripped with gleaming shards of
glass.

It was the room of a very spoiled woman.

A part of her wondered if like her mama, who
had been spoiled by her husband because of his love for her, if
Wolfe's had shared the same treatment. Something about the
somberness of the castle, as ridiculous as it sounded, told her
that there had been nothing but misery experienced in this bedroom.
That happiness had not reigned here for a very, very long time.

Was that why he was unhappy? So focused
on...only the Lord knew what!

He had yet to tell her why she was here, why
he had been following her around the country and trying to capture
her. Why he had been the unknown specter at her heels as she tried
to escape death.

He had revealed very little. Nothing in
fact. Had merely confused her even further and she felt that now.
Felt frustrated by her lack of understanding. But then, she had
never
not
felt that way. There
had always been a question in her head and she was tired of it not
being answered, dammit!

When she had lost her parents, she had lost
every semblance of security and her entire world, which had been
constructed on solid foundations, had suddenly started to fall and
break apart.

For as long as she could remember, she had
thought it to be herself--as her parent's and thus the last
remaining Hart--who had been sought. But what if it was the
ring?

She frowned as she realized that the
trespasser had only wanted her if she had been a maiden. He had
wanted the ring for this Jaegar person.

Wolfe currently had the ring in his own
possession. Was thatwhat they had been seeking? Was the item her
mother had told her to keep at all costs, the reason for the danger
she was currently in?

Isabeau rubbed her eyes with her fingers as
she tried to process her thoughts. Why would her mother have given
her something that would endanger her? Why?

Had her parents been killed for the ring?

She shook her head wildly at the thought. No.
It couldn't be for that.

The more she thought on it, the more it
started to make sense though. Even though she didn't want it to,
wanted it to make no sense whatsoever, it was impossible to deny
the few facts that she had at her fingertips.

The most damning was the fact that that man
had been willing to part her finger from her person for the
ring.

He hadn't wanted her unconditionally. But the
ring.

Why though?

She had always assumed that it was something
that only the matriarchal line had been able to use as a conduit.
Perhaps not.

If the ring was, in truth, the one that Wolfe
had spoken of as part of a legend, it would make sense that people
sought it.

Perhaps, she licked her lips, her mother had
not known of the legend that Wolfe had told her about. Perhaps,
having worn the ring for all of her adult life and like Isabeau,
never having taken it off, it had been seen by someone who had
known of the legend. Someone who had been willing to kill to
possess it.