Warrior's Bride (24 page)

  Gently, he eased her to the floor until she sat upon his lap before the growing warmth of the fire. Shivers wracked her body even as the heat seeped into her bones. His arms came around her and he held her tight, allowing his own heat to mix with that of the fire, warming her.

  Against his chest, she could hear the thump of his heart as the sound mixed with the pop and hiss of the wood. Her own heartbeat slowed, and a peaceful contentment wrapped itself around her. Is this what it felt like to be cared for, to be loved?

  She tensed at the thought. He had shared his body with her below stairs, but he'd said nothing of love. How would he ever love her once he knew who and what she truly was? A different kind of chill filled her. She had to tell him the truth, whatever the consequences. This secret was too big to keep hidden a moment longer.

  She drew a steadying breath, preparing to tell him, when her attention caught on a small sparkling object resting beneath the flames. She leaned in closer. It looked like a jewel, so clear, so pure, it might have been a drop of water frozen beneath the flames. "What is that?"

  "It is a trace of my latest creation," he said, his voice suddenly soft, almost hesitant.

  "You create diamonds?"

  He smiled. Charm floated about him, light and effortless. The overbearing beast had vanished, replaced by a gentle man. "Nay, not diamonds, but something almost as precious. Would you like to see?"

  She nodded, willing to put aside her own revelations for just a moment more. Besides, she was curious about what he would show her.

  He set her off his lap, onto the floor, then moved to the table on the far side of the chamber. He mixed several different dry ingredients together in a small iron bowl that he then set in the flames in the oddly shaped hearth. He returned to the table, but Isobel could not pull her gaze from the powdered mixture that transformed into a pale green liquid beneath the intense heat of the flames.

  "What is that?" she asked.

  He returned to her side with a long metal pipe in one hand, a stool in the other. "Glass in its purest, unaltered form." He set the stool next to her, then sat "Let me show you."

  Isobel sat up on her knees, peering into the flames, watching as he placed the long, narrow pipe into the iron bowl and gathered the sticky liquid into a softly formed ball.

  Heat poured from the hearth and a sharp scent filled the air. Isobel knew she should scoot back, but she couldn't move, so fascinated was she with the molten glass at the end of the metal pipe.

  He slowly spun the metal rod with steady hands. All the while the molten mixture became more evenly shaped, almost round. He paused, and shifted his gaze to her. "Hold this a moment."

  Before she could answer, he thrust the pipe into her hands. The tool was heavy, awkward, with all the weight on the end that hung above the flames. She stiffened her arms as the ball of glass drifted toward the ash-covered logs, desperate not to ruin his creation.

  In a swift movement, he drew off his linen shirt and tossed it aside. The firelight danced across his chest, highlighting his corded muscles. The man was all power and strength. And he was her husband, and now her lover.

  Isobel swallowed and moistened her lips, suddenly aware of just how warm the small chamber had become. As if proving her point, a small bead of sweat raced down her temple to fall upon her chest.

  "The heat can be oppressive after a while. You should remove your dress as well." His words and the memory of what they'd just shared chased away the rest of her chill. Warmth invaded her limbs. Her fingers sagged. The pipe dipped. His hands came about hers, supporting the weight of the rod. "I'll take this now."

  She slipped her fingers out from beneath his, suddenly feeling as though her clothes steamed on her body. Another drop of sweat trailed down her temple, then another. She would only continue to sweat if she remained as she was. Her decision made, she slipped the heavy kirtle over her head. A rush of coolness brushed her skin. Comfortable now, she returned her gaze to the unformed glass.

  His gaze, however, remained on her. "Are you happy here with me, Isobel?"

 
Isobel.
No one but her mother had called her by that name. Yet the more formal version of her name seemed right coming from him. So many things seemed right now that she was here with him, despite the fact they were forced to marry, despite the attempts on both of their lives. "Aye," she agreed. "I am." But would he be content with her once he learned her secrets? She pushed the thought aside. He had told her the past did not matter. Only the present had meaning, and the present was right here, right now.

  With a satisfied nod he turned back to the fire. He set the mass of glass back into the flames, all the while turning the pipe with controlled and steady hands. "I am gathering the glass. I keep adding to the mass until I'm satisfied with the color and quantity."

  He pulled the glass from the oven, then set his mouth to the pipe and blew. A bubble formed and grew as she watched in fascination. Molten glass mixed with his breath, taking shape into something that had not existed moments before. He drew his mouth away and handed the pipe to her. "Your turn."

  The pipe was warm but not hot, as he thrust it into her hands. Hesitantly, she placed the pipe against her mouth and blew. Her breath stalled in her lungs, rushing back to fill her head. The shape remained unchanged beneath her assault.

  He chuckled and rotated the pipe in her hands, not allowing the bubble to drift downward. "It is harder than it looks. Try again, and this time breathe from here." He placed his hand against her abdomen.

  She inhaled sharply, and a shiver ran through her at the intimacy of his touch. The air in the room was suddenly charged not with heat but with a startling awareness. His hand splayed against the lightweight fabric of her shift and his eyes darkened.

  "Blow," he instructed without moving his hand.

  She inhaled deeply, feeling his touch even more intensely than before. Her breath came out, forceful but controlled. The bubble grew, giving birth to a shape that glistened as it caught the glow of the flames— transparent, fluid, timeless.

  "Beautiful," he breathed as he slipped his fingers from her barely concealed flesh to once again grasp the rod. He set their creation on a stone block at the side of the hearth. He worked quickly, rolling the glass against the stone, using just the right amount of pressure to shape the glass into a ball. "If I were making a window, I would cut the end off the bulb and spin the rod in a circle, creating a flat, circular shape. But I want to form the glass instead, so it must be chilled with a block until it forms an outer skin."

  As she stared at the glass bulb before her, her mind drifted back to the tree house he had shown her in the woods. "You created all those glass bulbs in the tree house," she said, her voice edged with awe.

  He offered her a smile, and the darkness of the tower seemed to all but disappear. "Aye. I had to do something with them. They were starting to pile up around here." He turned back to his work, molding their creation into shape by pressing it against the stone. The tension that always seemed to pull at the corners of his eyes eased. A sense of calm surrounded him as his hands coaxed the glass from the realm of imagination into reality.

  Her gaze moved from the glass up his arms to the muscles that rolled and flexed beneath his controlled movements. His arms gave evidence that this man was a warrior. Yet an artistic side lingered as well. So unlike other men she had known on the isle, who were loud and rough and only concerned with their own pleasure.

  Yet Wolf had shown her something more. He had pleasured her quite thoroughly just a short time ago.

  As though sensing her gaze, he turned to her—his dark eyes alive, and this time it was not from the reflection of the flames. "This creation is done," he said in a way that left her wondering what other creations he might still have in mind.

  He stood and limped to the small window and swung open the slatted wood covering it. A ray of sunlight struck the pale green glass of the bulb they'd created, passed through it, bathing the room in a rainbow of color. Her gaze fixed on Wolf’s face. "It's beautiful." A sense of wonder swept through her, lifting her up, until she felt as though she were sparkling with the same jewel like brilliance as the light surrounding her.

  "Beauty has many forms," he said as he moved to the hearth and picked up what looked like a small iron shovel. Carefully, he brushed the wood aside to scoop up a pile of red-hot coals that he then placed in a smaller oven above the hearth that she had not noticed before. He arranged the coals in a half circle, then placed the glass ball inside. With one hand on the rod, he reached for a long slender tool that looked like a file. She started when he struck the file against the blowpipe, breaking the seal. "The glass must cool slowly." He set the pipe and the file aside. "As the fire dies, the glass will anneal, slowly hardening."

  "How did you learn this skill?" she asked quickly, seizing the new line of conversation as he stepped toward her.

  "In Italy. From a master there."

  "You go there often?" The light caught his face, revealing the broad, strong planes of his cheekbones, and illuminating the rich brown depths of his eyes. They were not black, but brown. Why had she never noticed that about him before?

  "In the past, aye." He reached out to caress her throat. "I had no choice but to do as my father directed. But no longer. For now, I have every reason to want to stay here."

  He trailed his hand against her long, slender neck. She turned into his touch, giving him total access to her silken flesh.

  How things had changed for them since their first meeting. Something inside her had changed, strengthened. She no longer feared the darkness as she once did. The man before her had filled her life with light. Less than a week's time in his presence and in his castle had put years of tormented memories to rest.

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Isobel." The word was as much a caress as the feel of his lips against her flesh. "My father threatens to arrive within the next two days."

  "So soon?" She dropped her gaze to their intertwined fingers, hiding the panic she knew reflected in her eyes.

  He put a finger beneath her chin and drew her gaze back to his. "He is like any other father," he said softly, belying the flash of anger and resentment that darted across his features.

  There was something he was not saying, a bit of the truth that he held back. Yet how could she press him for more? Not when she withheld her own secrets. She had to tell him the truth. Right here, right now. She tightened her fingers around his, afraid that if she released him, he would drift away from her forever. "Secrets should not be kept between two people who care about each other."

  His face went pale. His features shuttered and he pulled his fingers from hers. At his withdrawal, a piece of her heart withered. She was losing him already, before she even uttered the truth.

  He turned away to retrieve their clothing from the cool stone floor. "Your gown." His words were crisp, sharp, snapping like crystals of ice on a cold winter's morn.

  With trembling hands, she accepted the garment and quickly slipped it over her head. Her fingers barely functioned as she struggled to gather the laces behind her back. His back to her, Wolf slipped into his shirt, then tucked the hem into the waistband of his breeches.

  She abandoned her attempt to secure the laces. "Wolf," she said, his name catching in her throat as she forced herself to continue what she had begun. "There is something you need to know about me."

  He twisted back to her. "About you?" His surprise clearly reflected in his gaze.

  She hesitated, baffled by his reaction to her words. "It is not your father that concerns me. I mean, I do want to make a good impression, if you will but give me the chance." She grasped her wrists with her hands, her fingers digging painfully into the scars her past had created. If she were ever to have a future she must tell him her father's name. "My father ... he is Lord G—"

  "Forgive the intrusion." Brahan's deep voice called from the doorway.

  Isobel forced back a groan at the untimely interruption. Their gazes locked for a brief, strained moment before Wolf turned away toward Brahan.

  "You know better than to disturb me here." His tone was thick and low.

  Brahan's large body filled the doorway, his expression anxious and determined. "I would not interrupt your privacy if the situation were not so urgent."

  "What could be so important that you—"

  "A kitchen maid is dead. Murdered outside in the chicken yard. The scouting party you sent to patrol the borders of your land has been attacked. Only one warrior returned alive, and he is badly injured, and ..." he paused.

  With each revelation an ache grew in her chest until the pressure threatened to smother her.

  "What else?" Wolf’s voice was hard, and the sound of it shivered across the back of her neck.

  Brahan drew himself up as though preparing to defend himself against the anger he knew his next words would evoke. "Before the scouting party was attacked, they sighted your father's envoy at the border of your land. He will arrive before nightfall unless Grange's men get to him first."