Mistress of the Storm (8 page)
How could that be? The sound of the storm outside drew his attention as thunder rumbled around them. He spoke his question before he could stop the words. “What are you?”
She began to speak. “I am”—
He knew what her words would be before she uttered them, so he spoke them with her. “A whore,” he finished. “But you are more than that, Isabel. And I would know the rest of it.”
He knew there was more to her than simply what she did for Sigurd. Duncan could feel something deep within her that hinted at a sharp mind and a caring heart. Something she hid and protected from everyone. And something without which she could never be whole.
“Stay there,” he ordered in a calm voice. “The storm rages and everyone has sought shelter for the coming night. I would have answers from you now.”
Then, to give himself time to sort through all the questions he had for her, he left, planning to return with wine and food.
Chapter Eight
S
he’d failed.
he’d failed.
And that failure would cost her dearly.
Isabel gazed around the chamber, twisting her fingers in the bed linens. Tears burned in her eyes as she contemplated the price of the misstep.
Had Duncan been warned to be watchful for Sigurd’s machinations? Did he know she was there more to lure him into Sigurd’s net than into her bed?
If he discovered and exposed Sigurd’s dealings, Lord Davin would take action against her stepfather, even call for the earl’s or king’s justice against him. If that happened, she would be turned out or worse, and all Sigurd’s properties would be forfeited. Thora would pay for the failure.
Drawing in a slow breath, Isabel gathered her thoughts and focused. She was smart. She could control the situation. She thought back on their exchanges and tried to remember when she could have slipped up with Duncan. They’d spoken so little, she could not pick out a mistake.
She needed to dress. Handling him while sitting or lying naked before him would not work. In spite of his command to remain where she was, she scrambled out from under the covers and sought a garment to wear. Sigurd had told her to take few clothes, expecting she would spend most of her time pleasuring the man or waiting in his bed for his return. Without knowing how long her stay would be, she’d followed his instructions.
She found her sack but could find no other gown. The only one she had was rain-soaked, outside until she could hang it to dry. Opening Duncan’s trunk, she found one of his undershirts and began to pull it on.
The door behind her opened. Duncan held two cups in his hands and stood watching her tug his shirt over his head. Without saying a word, he kicked the door closed with his foot and placed the cups on the table near the hearth.
“If you dig a bit deeper, you will find something warmer than that.” He gestured with his chin at what she wore.
Now that he’d given her permission, she opened the wooden trunk and searched through the layers of clothing, guided by his voice.
“Not that. To the left. You are looking for something green.”
She found a green garment, dark in hue as the forests around them. It was made of a soft fabric she did not recognize. Unable to resist the feel of it, she rubbed her hands over its surface and found it pleasing. She slid it out and stood, shaking it and holding it before her.
“A robe,” he said, walking closer. “It will keep you warm while here in my chambers.”
Isabel slipped off the undershirt and let the robe slide over her. It caressed her skin, making her shiver, as it fell over her body. She could not stop from touching it, wrapping it around her fingers and sliding them over its soft texture.
“It was a gift from the East,” he explained, his eyes not missing a thing as the fabric clung to her and displayed every curve of her body. “I had no use for it until now.”
Isabel startled at the revelation. Was she the first woman he’d brought to his home? It simply could not be! And she a whore. Sigurd had discovered Duncan had no wife and no family to speak of, but she wondered why not. He was in his prime years, in good physical condition and wealthy. He should be setting about starting his own family. Truth be told, he should already have children.
“My thanks for allowing me to wear it,” she said.
“It is yours,” he offered.
Isabel smiled. No one gave her gifts, for Sigurd made it clear anything of value should be given to him,
in safekeeping
for her. Though she treasured a small trinket—a pin a man had made himself for her—she’d managed to hide from Sigurd, any other valuable object or jewelry disappeared from her possession as soon as it arrived at her cottage. The robe would always remind her . . . of the kindness she was certain Duncan meant by it.
in safekeeping
for her. Though she treasured a small trinket—a pin a man had made himself for her—she’d managed to hide from Sigurd, any other valuable object or jewelry disappeared from her possession as soon as it arrived at her cottage. The robe would always remind her . . . of the kindness she was certain Duncan meant by it.
But she understood she should not read more meaning into it than just that—a kindness shown. Too many times since her nightmare had begun, she’d thought someone, some man, would come along and save her from the life she lived. Someone would value her for herself and not only for the pleasure she could give.
The first time she believed a man who’d promised to take her from Sigurd, then left without keeping his word, she was devastated. The second time, she thought she knew the man and thought he meant what he said, but when faced with Sigurd’s anger, the man abandoned her. The punishment from Sigurd crushed any remaining traces of hope she might have been foolish enough to hold in her heart. It was clear that to try again was worse than foolish—it would be dangerous to her and to Thora.
Lost in her thoughts, Isabel realized she had not thanked Duncan properly. She swallowed down the wisps of hope that would not die and accepted the gift.
“My lord, you are a generous man to give me something so valuable.” She bowed her head, waiting for an indication he expected pleasure in return for the magnificent garment. Truly, she would not mind giving him release to thank him for it. She stepped closer and reached out her hand, stroking his manhood, which seemed to always be ready for joining.
“If this is in exchange for the gift,” he began as he removed her hand from his hardened flesh and stepped away from her, “then I would like something else for it.”
Isabel reached down to remove the garment so they could join. He did seem to prefer that to finding release in her mouth or with the play of her hands. So be it.
“You misunderstand me, Isabel.” He stopped her from removing the garment and handed her one of the cups, pointing to a chair near to the hearth. The entire chamber was a luxury, with an additional hearth to keep it warm. “I wish answers from you.”
She fought against the inclination to gasp or appear nervous before him. Taking a sip of wine to keep from blurting out anything she would regret, she was surprised to find it to be of high quality. She sipped again, enjoying the flavor of a wine she rarely was given a chance to savor. “I will answer your questions, my lord.”
He stared at her for a moment and she could feel the bile grow in her gut. He must know her true purpose.
“How did you know about the storm?”
She blinked and looked at him. Was he jesting to distract her? “From years of watching the skies and from living on the island.” It was how she always explained her ability. Most never asked past that basic question.
“It is more than that.” His gaze was intense.
For a moment, she thought he could hear her thoughts and know the truth or lies within her. Dare she tell him the truth? Even if he did not believe her explanation, would he sense she was being honest with him?
“I have never spoken of this to anyone,” she began. Another sip of wine eased the tightness in her throat. Isabel had to dredge up memories that were long hidden away. Ones that could cascade into others she did not want to think on.
“Go on.” He watched her over the rim of his cup.
“When I was a child, we lived near a lake.”
“You and Sigurd?”
Isabel looked away. She hated to be coupled with him, even mentioned in the same breath, but that was her lot in life . . . for now, at least. “Nay. My mother and I, I think.”
Truly, she did not remember the exact timing or how old she’d been, for she was just a wee one and all her memories bled together in a blur. But it was before Sigurd entered their lives, she knew that.
“Go on,” he urged as he stood and leaned against the wooden beam over the hearth, listening but not watching. The tension between them did not ease and she knew he was paying close attention to every word she spoke.
“My mother always warned me to stay away from the lake, but I wandered from home one morning and somehow found my way there. I remember hearing sounds and seeing flickers of light and color near the water and I went to see what they were. I fell in.”
Isabel could feel the cold water swirling around her as her garments soaked up water and their weight dragged her down. If not for the lights and the voices in the water she would have been terrified. Could she tell him of the voices?
“Could you swim? Did someone see you fall in?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nay. I was too small. My mother kept me close to her, except for that day.”
In her dreams, she saw those glimmers of light and heard the voices that swirled like music around her. She called on them to calm her and to help her block out what was going on around her.
“What happened?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.
“I only remember someone being in the water next to me, pushing me back up toward the sunlight. It was a woman and she lifted me onto the shore and told me not to fear the water. She said she lived in the water, so I would always find it to be my friend.”
He said nothing. Isabel knew how silly her words sounded, but her story would seem even more so before she finished. “I was but a bairn and that’s all I remember. Ever since then, water soothes me. I can sense storms approaching. Other things like that . . .” She trailed off waiting for him to laugh. She looked up when silence met her words. His expression was not one of disbelief at all, but rather curiosity.
“It heals you?” He walked over to her and examined her face.
She raised her hand to the place he stared at, feeling for some bruise or injury she’d not felt before. Isabel shook her head. “Nay. Not heal so much as strengthen and refresh.” She tried to make sense of how she felt after being in the sea or even, as that day, after being caught in a shower.
“It makes no sense.” She shrugged and met his gaze. “I cannot explain more than that.”
“The bruises around your eyes from too little sleep and the hard ride here are gone. I wanted to know.” His gaze moved to her lips and her breath caught.
His words were not demanding, nor did he scoff at her explanation. His ways were simply as different from other men as she knew herself to be from other women. Good thing that, for her stomach chose that moment to rumble almost as loudly as the circling thunder above them.
“Do you never eat your fill?” he asked, as she put her hand over it to muffle the sound.
“I . . . I . . .” What could she say? She had little time when with a man for anything but pleasuring him. If that included food, to be consumed or to be used to tease his other appetite, she ate it or used it. But it was not her place to ask to eat once a man had paid Sigurd for her use.
Isabel stumbled over words to answer his question, but Duncan already knew the answer: she did not. She never sought to fulfill her own needs, never spoke her own mind and never sought or expected anything a whore would not. For someone who had not yet two score in years, she had learned the limits of her life and did not question them. But from the expression in her eyes, he knew she wanted to burst out of it in so many ways.
“Come,” he said as he walked to the door of the chamber and opened it. “We should see what Gunna has left behind for us.”
She hesitated but he sensed it was more because he’d surprised her with his actions than because she objected. From watching her, he was certain her desires were never considered first. Though he’d promised their time together would be no different from her time spent with other men, Duncan wanted it to be different. He watched as she walked past him, the robe gliding over her, covering everything yet hiding nothing from him. His hands twitched, wanting to touch the lush fabric and her but he grabbed the shirt she’d discarded instead and pulled it over his head.
“Gunna does not live here?” she asked as they walked into the larger of the three chambers in the house. “This house is big enough for many people.”
“I wish them to live elsewhere. Fear not, their house is comfortable and large enough for their needs.”
She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed and a frown wrinkling her brow. “Your pardon,” she whispered.
Her constant apologies, offered for every real or imagined offense, angered him. It was not, however, anger at her but rather anger
for
her. Duncan had watched horses being broken, being stripped of their desire for freedom and forced to obey their masters without thought. She reminded him of such animals. Worse, though, was the growing need within him to find out the sources of her fears and to protect her from them.
for
her. Duncan had watched horses being broken, being stripped of their desire for freedom and forced to obey their masters without thought. She reminded him of such animals. Worse, though, was the growing need within him to find out the sources of her fears and to protect her from them.
Sigurd was only one he knew, but there had to be others. Other people who pulled the strings of her life, who made her dance to their tune whether she wished to or not. Isabel never complained, never rebelled against the things Sigurd obligated her to do.
He watched as she took bowls from a shelf in the cooking area of the cottage and scooped some of the stew into them, giving herself a portion that was half as much as the one for him. He cleared his throat, gaining her attention, and nodded at the smaller amount. “That is not enough to sustain a bairn, let alone a woman. Double it.”
She did it quickly, obeying his command much as his horse did. Trained to it, she was. Duncan nodded and pointed at the stool nearest the table. “Sit and eat all of that.”
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