He was almost crying with relief. It was definitely her. She tried to disguise her voice, but he would know her anywhere. He didn’t let her go, reaching up to tug the veil off her head.
Isobel’s bright auburn hair was mussed as he pressed his face into it, surreptitiously pressing a kiss to her head before pulling away so he could look down at her face.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
She looked so afraid of him, and it broke his heart. His voice was hoarse as he called out the innkeeper, who was watching them with concern.
“My wife and I would like a private parlor to rest,” he said, keeping a tight hold on Isobel’s arm until she winced and he relaxed his grip.
“Your wife?” The innkeeper’s voice showed his confusion.
The widow’s weeds contradicted Matteo’s words.
He gave the man his most charming smile. “Yes. She’s in mourning for my mother,” he said in a bored tone.
The English always responded to bored aristocrats. Perhaps the Scotts would, as well.
The innkeeper hesitated before recovering himself. “Right this way.”
The man gestured to a door opposite the taproom entrance as the horn sounded for the departing mail coach.
Isobel’s face was a picture of distress as Ottavio came in to tell him the horses were ready. The oversized servant stopped short when he saw him holding Isobel in her black dress. Matteo hastily waved him away before hustling her to the parlor.
Trying to be gentle, he led her to a chair before turning to close the doors behind them.
Her beautiful eyes had filled with tears as he sat to her right, in the chair closest to the door in case she decided to bolt. But Isobel seemed to know that there was no escape as she sat there, shoulders slumped. A single tear escaped her eye, and he leaned over to wipe it away before he could think better of it.
She shrank away from his touch, and his chest tightened.
“Cara, I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to see me like that.” She continued to look down at the table so he reached out to take her hand.
“Please look at me,” he pleaded.
Isobel pulled her hands into her lap before taking a deep shuddering breath. When her eyes met his, he felt a painful jolt pass through him.
Her feelings for him were all too clear in those green and gold orbs. Fear, disgust, and maybe even some hate. He didn’t blame her. She had every right to revile him. Even if she had helped him, whether she had meant to or not.
“Isabella, is...is it over?”
He couldn’t completely crush the hope in that question. It was there in his voice. The expression in Isobel’s eyes shifted to one of pity.
She cleared her throat slightly before speaking. “I’m...I don’t think so,” she said, not pretending to know what he was talking about.
Breathing was a lot harder suddenly. He’d told himself over and over on this journey that his affliction wasn’t simply gone, but he had been lying to himself. The hope that he hadn’t acknowledged was crushing him now.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Next to him, Isobel’s beautiful face blurred.
“I still see it. It’s not like before, but there is still a trace of something…unnatural in your aura.”
That was enough to snap him out of his flood of melancholy.
“What is it you see?”
Isobel looked at him and then down uncomfortably.
“Please, I need to know.”
When she remained silent, he decided to speak. “We came to England to seek the advice of a healer, an old crone who lived an hour from my Uncle Clarence’s home.”
At the mention of her employer Isobel’s expression hardened, but he continued.
“My mother used to speak of her when she was alive. Mama called her a Befana, an old witch, and said she had rare healing ability and could even cast curses if someone wronged her. My mother was full of such stories. My father ignored them as fancies, but a few months ago he had reason to give them a second thought. He wrote to Clarence to ask if the witch was still alive, and we were so relieved to hear she was. My father brought me seeking a miracle. But after coming all this way, there was no miracle. The crone had died shortly before we got here. I don’t even know if the woman had the skill to cure me, or if we were on a fool’s errand.”
There was silence for a long minute.
“What happened a few months ago?” Isobel asked in a strained voice. “How did this happen?”
Matteo looked at her helplessly. “I’m still not sure. I thought I was ill, something I’d been exposed to in my last voyage. I used to travel quite a bit. My father accused me of having wanderlust and for a time it was true. But I had been home several weeks and then I don’t remember what happened. I never do. I only see what I did after and I...”
He trailed off, unsure what to say. His guilt was eating at him like acid.
“You don’t remember asking your father to kill you last night?”
His head snapped up. “No, but if I did it wouldn’t be the first time I asked. I remember others.”
“From the day after?”