The Lost - J. D. Robb [78]
Isabelle’s throat clogged with tears. She knew it was true, though her heart begged for their lives.
He gave her a handkerchief and stood up.
“Are you a doctor?”
“A nurse,” she answered in a rusty voice.
“It hardly matters which. You are a woman. Joubay knows I will not allow a woman to live here. Now neither one of us can ask him what he was thinking.”
“I want a phone. I need to arrange for their funerals.”
“First you must rebuild your strength. Then we will talk about what you can and cannot do.”
Where had the kindness gone? she wondered.
“I want answers.” She cleared her throat and hoped she sounded determined.
“You will not have them today.” He stood up as if he was going to leave without another word.
“Father said there was a curse. What did he mean?”
“Joubay lived a fool and died one.” Now Sebastian Dushayne did walk away, but stopped at the door and asked, “Can you sing?”
If Father Joubay had not warned her, she would have thought him mad to ask such a question. “I can only sing hymns.” The way her throat felt now, she doubted she could sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
His laugh was cynical and not at all appealing. “Of course you sing hymns. Next you will tell me that you are a virgin with a heart as pure as snow.”
Isabelle wanted to know where the cynicism came from, but he did not give her a chance to speak. “I don’t care what you sing. It has been years since I heard a new voice, new songs. Perhaps your hymns will convert me.”
Before Isabelle could agree, argue or ask for more water, he left the room.
She fell asleep almost immediately, her dreams such a mix of nightmare and grief that it was a relief to wake up.
Dushayne was there again and she wasted no time, determined to move, to speak and to find some answers. She struggled upright in bed, then realized she was naked and pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts. He did not turn away but watched her with a disinterest that told her she was the only one who was embarrassed.
Isabelle reached for the water and groaned as the pain of damaged muscles spread from her fingers to her neck. Forcing herself to drink the water, she thanked God for the feel of it sliding down her throat, freeing her voice.
“You are Sebastian Dushayne.”
“Yes, and you are?”
“Isabelle Reynaud.”
He bowed with old-world courtliness. “How do you do, Mistress Reynaud.”
“I am not married.”
“Yes, I know, but mistress is a term we use for every grown woman.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in the Castillo de Guerreros on the Isla Perdida.”
“The Castle of Warriors on the Lost Island?”
Dushayne nodded and Isabelle wondered what it would take to get more than basic answers from him.
“The village healer sent some of her salve to ease your bruises and sore muscles. Sit up and I will put some on your back, where you cannot reach.”
Isabelle wanted to say no, but she also knew that to reject his help would send all the wrong messages, to him, to the healer, even to the servants. She could see one peeking around the corner of the door. “Let the servant do it.”
“Are you afraid I will seduce you?” Genuine humor made her blush. “Believe me, Mistress Reynaud, I am not the slightest bit interested in a woman with a body that is no more than bruises and hair still filled with sand and seaweed.”
Even though her arm blazed with pain at the action, Isabelle raised her hand to her head. Her hair felt like lengths of used raffia. Who knew what was in it besides sand. “I need to wash it. I hate the sand. I want to wash it right now.”
“Yes, I will send my housekeeper to help you. But first the salve. It will make it much easier to move.” He added, “Please,” as though it was a password of some kind, and Isabelle gave a half nod and looked away from his smile. He did have dimples.
She leaned forward. Even that hurt. She held back the groan and kept the sheet in front of her. The air felt warm on her back and she waited for the even warmer touch of his hand.
Isabelle could not see his face, but watched him scoop a portion of the salve from a stone dish, and rub his hands together.