“Yes,” she said, unable to determine if he was confused by that information. Anyone who knewanythingabout Dorsent would know its capital. Though, theywere on the outskirts of the city, where many of the gentlemen’s manor houses sat.
Dark Armor merely made that same thunder-like sound that seemed to come from his entire chest.
Blinking twice, Isobel relied on the manners hammered into her from girlhood to avoid blurting out the questions she wanted to ask all at once. Instead, she led with, “By what title and name should I call you?”
“Call me?” he rumbled after a brief pause.
“Yes,” she said, smoothing down her dress as she adjusted the basket into her other hand. “Obviously, one should be introduced first but seeing as how we are in such a unique situation, I think we can ignore that rule.” She knew she was rambling, but she was starting to think there wasn’t a simple explanation for this. Isobel liked to think she was well-cultured, even having traveled out of Dorsent several times with her father and Henry. Yet, she had never read about or seen anyone who dressed or talked like him.
Not to mention the fact they currently stood in something that had been flying just yesterday.
His visor flashed a deep orange this time, illuminating for longer before shifting to black. Again, she was struck with the feeling that he’d been assessing her in some way, and she felt her face heat.
What was it he could see?
Finally, he spoke, but his words were unintelligible. It didn’t sound like any language she’d ever heard, and in addition to being well-cultured, she considered herself well-educated, too.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand. Are you a duke?” It was always better to start off higher and be completely wrong if they were going to play a guessing game.
“I am called Ved.”
“Ved,” she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. Short and blunt like the strike of a hammer. It somehow seemed to fit him perfectly. The name was not one she’d ever heard, though. Perhaps he was from Ruson? SomewherebeyondRuson? “You have no title, Ved?”
“None that need stated here,” he said after a long pause.
“Oh.” Well, that settled that.
“What call do you go by?” he rumbled, stepping close. Before she could think to protest, he wrapped his gloved fingers around her chin—a gentle grip, but firm enough that he could turn her face aside and inspect her miraculously healed wound.
A shiver went through her. Blazes, had this man never been taught proper protocol? Or was he from somewhere where they didn’t care? She cleared her throat, but he didn’t remove his hand. “I’m Isobel Nott,” she squeaked out. She supposed there was no need to give her title, since he hadn’t given his.
His grasp didn’t falter even as she spoke. “Isobelnott,” he repeated, crushing her two names together.
“Isobel.” She paused. “Nott.”
“Isobel,” he purred roughly as he turned her face back toward him. “Nott.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
They stood there for a moment with his huge hand cupping her jaw. Now that she had all her wits about her, she noticed his presence anew. Her face came to his sternum. Both the armor and the material beneath it were intricate and unfamiliar. The breastplate with which she was currently face to face bore scratches and a symbol she didn’t understand over his right breast. Heat radiated from him—through the well-worn glove on her face, from his body so close to hers—but she couldn’t move away.
Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he released her and stepped away.
Isobel was breathless. People didn’t touch her.Mendidn’t touchwomen. Not like that. Had a man ever touched her face before, and so boldly? It was something that happened in dark and bawdy taverns, in marital chambers, and in her books, but that was it.
Pushing those thoughts away, she focused instead on what he’d been looking at. “Last night, you treated my wound? And took me home?” The questions tumbled out of her as if she had no control of her tongue.
He inclined his head and raised it slowly but said nothing. Was it a nod?
“Yes? But how did you get the wound to close in a matter of hours? How were you not seen? How did youknowwhere I slept?” Heat traveled up her neck and to her cheeks with the swiftness of a match set to dry wood. It was embarrassment from asking such absurd questions, and even more for having been in such a dangerous predicament. If anyone had seen him carrying her back or entering their home, it would be a scandal that spread like wildfire. Orworse.
But the image of him cradling her limp form in his arms and carrying her to her bedroom would not leave her head. Lord Richard Seymour would soon be her husband, andhehadn’t seen her bed chamber. And probably never would. The fact that Vedhadmade her feel strangely vulnerable.
Silence settled between them for a long moment before he spoke again. “Your room has you in it,” he said, only making her feel more exposed and confused. “As for your head and ankle, they were simple to fix.”
Simple? No wound wassimpleto heal. Even the smallest scrapes could give way to infection. And judging by the way the wound had bled, it had probably required stitches. At the very least, it should still be raw and require constant monitoring.
Isobel let out a long breath. She didn’t necessarilywantto bring up the fact that she had witnessed him murdering someone, but it seemed wholly pertinent to ask now that they had established he wasn’t the Devil entirely. “The other men, they—”
