She glared at him furiously but kept her lips clamped together. He watched as a tear moistened her eye, but she shook it violently away.
Collapsing into the seat opposite, he ran his hands through his hair. How was he supposed to deal with her in this unhinged state? Had Isobel been a man, he’d feel no guilt about restraining her, but this—this was wrong.
“What am I to do when I need the privy? Or will you deny me that as well?”
His head snapped up, and he met her glare. “I hope you don’t have supernatural powers, Mistress Marston, for if you did, that look would fell me in an instant.”
Not that he was afraid—he didn’t believe in witchery or magick. But there was something unearthly about Isobel that fundamentally disturbed him.
“I’ll fetch the pot, and leave the room while you use it.” He wasn’t going outside the cottage again unless she came with him. He’d learned that lesson.
“How may I use it when my hands and feet are tied?”
He sighed. Ah, well—at least she was trying to reason with him, not kick or bite. But he knew better than to trust a desperate woman. “I’ll untie your feet, but I’m not undoing your hands. You’ll just have to manage.”
“You brute! You’re no better than Flinders. What kind of gentleman debases a woman so cruelly?”
“This kind, evidently.” Setting his jaw, he went upstairs, found a pot, and set it by her feet. He untied her ankles and returned aloft.
When he came back, the pot was empty, and Isobel’s lips were pale with anger. He raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t perform when made to.”
He hid his frustration. “Very well. We shall go upstairs and prepare for bed. The pot can come with us. And I’ll leave a light burning, in case you need anything in the night.”
Her face blanched still further. “I’ll not share a bed with you.”
“You won’t have to—not exactly. I don’t intend to sleep.”
“You mean you’ll watch me, like a jailer. I know I asked you to take me away, but I’ve changed my mind. I want to return to Marston House, forthwith.”
He rolled his eyes. Despite being in the most terrible coil, he couldn’t make himself regret it. There was a challenge in their situation that roused his blood. And if he didn’t hold firm, his efforts thus far would have been for nothing.
“At this hour? We’re going nowhere in darkness. Besides which, Jennet needs her rest, as do I. Up the stairs with you.”
Muttering, she preceded him above, then sat on the bed, scowling. “I can’t undress myself without use of my hands.”
Despite the temptation to offer to do it for her, just to see the shock on her face, he realized even that wouldn’t be possible without untying her. “I suggest you sleep in your clothes. Should anyone discover us here, we’ll need to make a hasty departure.”
“I do believe, Sir William Cavendish, I have never hated anyone more than I hate you.”
He turned his back, reaching for a pillow, and pulled the linen chest close to the bed. Her words, though not spoken in her right mind, seared a line of pain through his breast. It was the ingratitude, that was all. This woman must not be permitted to breach his defenses, however much she tried to hurt him. His strength must be enough for two.
“Keep still while I remove your shoes. I’ll tie your hands in front now, so you may sleep more comfortably. You know there’s no point in struggling, don’t you?”
As soon as she was settled, he collected some twine and a pitcher of water from below. Tucking his bent nail under the pillow upon which he intended to sit, he tied the twine between Isobel’s wrists and his own. And watched her fall asleep.
Now that all was still and quiet, his thoughts jumped about like chestnuts roasting over the fire. Mostly, they were concerned with the damage he was doing to Isobel by simply being alone with her. If anyone ever discovered they’d shared the same chamber, she’d be pilloried, and her good name ruined.
There was a further problem. His body was all too aware of hers, and the unfathomable attraction he’d felt for her when she’d pretended to seduce him. He was bitterly ashamed of how close she’d come to breaching his defenses. His self-control would be sorely tested if they spent much more time alone together.
It would take little less than a miracle for them both to escape their situation without someone getting badly hurt.
Chapter Ten
Perfect! The man had fallen asleep. Using her teeth, Isobel worried at the knot in the girdle, careful not to rouse him. It seemed to take forever but, eventually, she managed to undo it, and untie the cord that ran from her wrists to his. He shifted, and she stilled, but he didn’t wake.
The next task was to remove his knife—not easy when it was secured to its sheath with a peace string—but eventually, she succeeded. She meant him no harm, but a knife was always a useful thing to have.
Now all she need do was put on her shoes, and see if she might climb out through a downstairs window. There was confusion about what she’d do once that was achieved. Some idea of riding back into town and finding an apothecary had entered her head, but that was as far as she’d managed to plan. Getting the next draft of her medicine before her fever rose any higher was her principal aim.
The man let out a moan. She froze, then edged closer to where he sat on the carved press, head lolling towards his chest. He twitched then, one fist clenched as if he clutched a sword, and his head went up.
She must go now—she must run before he awoke. She knelt to lace her shoes, and heard him say, quite distinctly, “No, Edward! Stay with me. Send for a surgeon, make haste!”
She knew that name. Didn’t she? Why was her memory so clouded? No matter. She dare not tarry.
He groaned, his head moving from side to side. “Too much blood. There’s too much blood.”
Her gaze was fixed on his face. If he opened his eyes and saw her, all would be lost. A tear slid slowly down his cheek, and his whole body writhed and trembled, like an animal in its death throes.
No. Don’t stay. Go now. This is no concern of yours.
Only—she couldn’t bear to watch his suffering. She grasped his shoulder and shook him firmly.
His eyes flashed open, and he focused on her, his jaw slack with surprise.
“Isobel? What is it? You look unwell.”
“You were having a dream. Not a pleasant one—I had to wake you.”
He straightened, reached for the candle that flickered in the sconce behind him, and raised it, running his eyes over her.
“You’ve freed yourself.” His voice was level, his face unreadable.
“I know.”
“And you didn’t run, because I was having a nightmare?” He stood, taking her gently by the elbow.
She’d been a fool—she didn’t need him to tell her that. “You spoke in your sleep. Of Edward. I have a brother by that name.”
Placing the candle back in its sconce, he drew her close, enfolded his arms around her and took her in an embrace so tender it stole her breath.
“My poor girl. You still don’t truly understand, do you? But when you do, I fear it will hit you as hard as it hit me, as the hammer strikes the anvil. The pain is excruciating—and I know I’ll never forget what I saw. It tortures me often in dreams.”