“Never!” Lord Poole slammed his hand down on the table with such force that the dishes rattled. “Emmeline swore to me she had only been intimate with her husband. A great part of her reluctance to accept my affections was due to her lack of sexual experience.”
His words puzzled Isabella. She studied him carefully. His anger had gone, and the wistfulness in his expression sent a tingle of alarm down Isabella’s spine. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What are you saying, Thomas?”
“I loved her!” he shouted. “I would never have hurt her, never have forced her. I kissed her one night. A full, deep kiss of passion. It was glorious. But she said it frightened her. She began avoiding me. She refused to be alone with me. She told me I was being hopelessly fanciful to believe there would ever be any sort of romantic involvement between us. She said it was sordid and ugly.” He lifted his head and stared at Isabella. “But it was not. How can love be ugly?”
Isabella closed her eyes and clenched the arms of the chair. It was impossible. Certainly she was misunderstanding Lord Poole’s remarks. What he implied was indecent, unnatural. It went against all the laws by which any civilized society lived. Physical love between a brother and sister? Isabella shuddered.
“I agonized when Emmeline disappeared,” Lord Poole admitted, hanging his head. “I knew she had run from me, but she couldn’t go far. Not without money. I was filled with pain and regret. I thought she had drowned in the lake, although Saunders refused to believe it. I never dreamed she had become trapped inside that horrible passageway. My poor little angel.”
He looked up at Isabella and his expression brightened considerably. “We will speak no more of these distressing occurrences. It is all part of the past. Now I have you, fair Bella. Nearly the image of my lovely Emmeline. I vow I shall do everything within my power to make you happy. We will share a wonderful life together.”
Isabella’s stomach lurched, and the room spun wildly for a moment. She gazed at him, tense and terrified, her mind whirling in a desperate attempt to formulate a plan of escape. She must get away!
“I’m feeling rather tired, Thomas,” Isabella said anxiously. “I’d like to retire for the evening.”
“It’s barely nine o’clock,” Lord Poole protested. He rose to his feet and came to stand in front of Isabella’s chair. “ ’Tis far too early to go to bed.”
With an effort, Isabella held her tongue. His presence surrounded her, suffocated her. She could feel the heat of his body, though they touched nowhere.
“I’m going to bed,” she announced, standing up abruptly.
He took a step forward, deliberately blocking her exit. Lord Poole’s face blurred before her eyes, and Isabella suddenly felt as if there were no air left in the room. There was a buzzing in her head, and she feared she would faint if she did not get away.
Thomas touched her arm and Isabella screamed. She could not help it. Her mind filled with vulgar images, and her flesh crawled at his touch. She wrenched her arm free and backed away from him. She was cold with horror.
“Do not touch me,” Isabella said with jaws so tense, she could barely speak the words.
Lord Poole frowned with incomprehension. “What is wrong, sweet Bella? Are you unwell?”
Isabella was barely able to contain a second scream. She clenched her hands into fists and tried to form a response. Thomas stood in front of her, blocking the exit. Her eyes remained riveted on the heavy wooden door. Somehow she must escape.
Then, miraculously, the door swung open. Isabella nearly collapsed with relief, waiting anxiously to see the innkeeper or barmaid in the doorway. She was saved. She moved forward gratefully, then abruptly halted. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Damien!”
The earl had ridden hard for hours, and his appearance reflected that fact. Sweat lined his brow and his coattails were splattered with mud from the wet roads. Isabella doubted there had been a time in her life when she had been more gratified to see anyone.
Their eyes met, and Damien looked at her measuringly for a long moment. Lord Poole’s back was toward the door, but it was obvious from the grim set of his mouth that he had heard Isabella’s identification of the intruder. Isabella made a move to walk around her brother toward Damien.
Lord Poole pushed Isabella aside with such force that she lost her footing and landed in a heap upon the floor.
“How dare you lay a hand on her!” Damien bellowed with rage.
“I will not allow you to take her from me,” Lord Poole hissed, pivoting on his booted heel to face Damien. “Isabella is mine.”
Thomas hurtled himself at the earl, his teeth bared in a savage snarl. Cold hatred was etched on his face as he swung his closed fist viciously at Damien’s head. Damien successfully dodged the blow and managed to catch hold of Lord Poole’s arm.
Spinning his adversary around, Damien threw a punch at him. Isabella, sprawled on the ground behind the men, watched with fascination as the earl’s fist landed squarely on her brother’s lip. Thomas’s head snapped back, and he staggered sideways but remained on his feet. Blood dripped steadily onto his silver waistcoat. He seemed unaware of it.
Lunging forward, Thomas swung again at the earl, and this time his fist caught Damien on the jaw. Isabella winced at the sickening crunch of bone and flesh. Damien weaved a bit, shook his head vigorously, then neatly sidestepped a second punch in the nick of time.
“Stop it! Both of you!” Isabella’s cries were ignored by both men.
Damien’s fist connected with Thomas’s jaw. He fell back under the impact. Struggling to steady himself, Lord Poole reached out and grabbed the edge of Damien’s coat. The earl lost his footing, and both men toppled to the floor. They landed heavily, and Isabella could hear their grunts and groans as they rolled on the floor.
They separated, both men scrambling to their feet. The fight resumed, with each man landing several more strategic blows. Then, in a flurry of movement, Damien hit Thomas with five quick jabs, two to the head and three to the stomach.
Isabella saw Thomas’s legs buckle under him, and he fell to the floor in a heap. Damien stood over Lord Poole, breathing hard, his fists poised and ready to continue the fight. Lord Poole groaned and rolled onto his back. He made no move to get up.
Crawling over on her hands and knees, Isabella crouched beside Lord Poole’s inert form. The bleeding had slowed on his upper lip, but it was puffed and swollen. The flesh around his left eye was bruised and discolored, and his nose was bent at an odd angle. Isabella decided it was probably broken.
