Oh, God, no!
How could his father have done this to him? It was bad enough waking to a body, but to know that it was her was destroying him.
There was no more tomorrow, he thought, tears stinging at his eyes. Despite the horror of the nightmare he was living now, he hadn’t cried before. He’d torn out his hair and vomited on more than one occasion, but he hadn’t cried. Weeping gutturally on the floor, his pressed his face to the floorboards for a long time.
Get up.
He had to prepare her body. He wasn’t going to let his father’s men do it. No one would touch his Isabella but him. He’d bury her himself.
And then he would find a knife or a pistol to end this. Finally. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her in the afterlife on his way to hell.
Stiff from a night on the ground, Matteo opened his eyes and sat up slowly. He braced himself for the sight of Isobel’s body, but froze instead.
The cottage was empty. He stood up, spinning around to take in the whole room. No one. Pulling the cover off the bed, he checked to make sure she wasn’t hidden there, but thankfully there was nothing.
Had his father already been here? Was he trying to hide what he’d done? Aldo had to know Matteo would never forgive him for choosing Isobel. Had his men spirited her body away while he slept?
He went up to the door, banging on it and shouting—even kicking it a few times before he realized his feet were bare. As usual, he was ignored. The men never opened the door until his father showed his face, and Aldo calmly waited until after his breakfast before making an appearance.
Matteo had managed to crack the old wooden door with his fists by the time it was finally opened.
His father was standing behind his servants, Nino and Ottavio, who kept their distance from the door as they always did when they came to release him after one of his bad spells.
“Where is she?” he bellowed, running forward.
His father opened his eyes wide, taking Matteo’s hands to hold him aside while the servants hurried past him. He shook off the restraint and grabbed the lapel of Aldo’s coat.
“How could you do that? Why did you have to choose her?” he asked hoarsely.
His father started to roll his eyes before stopping himself. “She was the one you wanted,” he said dismissively.
“Not for this! I wanted to court her!”
Aldo suppressed a sneer, but his face was tight. “You know that was impossible, now please stand aside while we clean up here.”
Matteo was about to protest that he’d already done that when Ottavio came back outside.
“She’s not here.”
Shock and surprise froze Matteo to the spot. His father hadn’t had Isobel’s body removed before he woke. The old man looked just as stunned as he did. Aldo pushed past him, going over to stand next to Nino, who was staring wide-eyed at the hole in the ceiling.
“How can this be?” the Conte asked in a low voice.
Matteo staggered back into the cottage and collapsed in the chair, next to the remnants of a broken lamp. He took in the rest of the room once more and looked down at his bare feet.
“She’s alive. I’m myself, and she’s alive,” he rasped.
Isobel had escaped death at his hands last night. Somehow, against all odds, she’d found a way. His missing greatcoat and socks were proof of that. The weather had been bitterly cold the last few nights. She’d taken what she could to protect herself from the elements.
Alive, alive, alive.
He shut his eyes and thanked the god he’d thought had forsaken him.
When he opened his eyes, Ottavio was walking back inside.
“She made it over the roof and into the woods. The tracks continue some way past the tree line. She must have escaped after the rain had mostly stopped.”
“We have to find her. Can you tell what direction she went it?” Aldo asked.
Matteo lifted his head to his father. “Leave her alone,” he whispered.
Aldo dismissed him with a wave. “Don’t be a fool. We need her. She obviously has magic. There’s no way she would have gotten out of here without it—not without killing you first. She did what that puttana crone was supposed to. Look at yourself. You are whole,” he admonished.
Matteo absorbed that in silence. Was it possible? Did his beautiful Isobel have some magical ability? Had she cured him?
No, no. It was too much to hope for. He was a monster, a demon from the pit of hell and those were not dispatched so easily. But he wasn’t about to disagree with his father.
“If that’s true, Isobel deserves her freedom. Leave her be,” he said, refusing to add that he would search for her on his own.