Until, with casual insouciance, Lady Isolde turned her head and boldly looked at him.
Kendall nearly flinched in surprise.
Theawarenessin her eyes unmoored him.
Sheknew, the harpy.
She knew he watched her. And she understood precisely how her seemingly mindless actions affected him.
That damned finger of hers continued its downward slide—throat, shoulder, collarbones—before pausing once more on her pearl necklace.
Enthralled, Kendall raptly followed its course for another three seconds before recalling himself.
He jerked his gaze back to hers. She smirked and arched an eyebrow before facing the stage once more, her hand dropping to her lap.
Kendall clenched his own fists on his thighs.
Damn her.
Damn her and her entire bloody family.
The image ofLady Isolde’s slim hand still haunted Kendall’s dreams three days later.
She was an enchantress, he decided. She had cast her spell upon him and would now drag him to his doom. It felt insurmountable, at times, how one solitary, theoretically unremarkable woman could so consume his thoughts.
As a boy, Old Kendall had insisted that his heir study with the estate steward at Hawthorn. Kendall had spent hours reviewing tenantcontracts and land sales. Oftentimes, the steward would task him with retrieving a document from the muniments room, the archive next door to the steward’s office.
There, wooden drawers lined all four walls of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling. And each and every drawer, shelf, and crevice held parchment. Contracts and deeds of sale extending back centuries, cataloging the endless movement of tenants, land, and merchandise through ducal lands. The room nearly overflowed with bureaucracy. Finding the correct contract in the chaos was a mixture of divination and pure doggedness.
Like the parchment in that muniments room, Lady Isolde stuffed Kendall’s thoughts to bursting. Would the cure also require mystical intervention? Or would a ruthless organization of his mind do the trick?
Kendall was pondering that very idea as he retreated to his library to fetch Whewell’s publication. Despite its association with Lady Isolde, he enjoyed exploring the man’s ideas.
But when he reached for the book on a side table, he noticed that three other books had been placed on top of it.
A bit of cream foolscap poked out from the cover of the topmost one.
Kendall tugged it free.
Lady Isolde’s expressive handwriting assaulted him.
As I fearlogoshas not been persuasive, permit me to move on toethos. If my logical arguments will not convince you to correct your current course, then perhaps the reputation and words of consequential men will sway you. They have much to say on the topic of peace, forgiveness, and healing.
Kendall tossed the note aside and picked up the books.
The Common Book of Prayer.
A Pilgrim’s Progress,and . . .
The Holy Bible?
Frowning, he noticed torn bits of paper jutting out along the Bible’s gilt binding.
He opened to one of her tattered-edged tabs. A passage was underlined on the page.
Paul’s Epistle to the Romans.
Live peaceably with all men.
