The gift was a nightgown, short-sleeved but modest with a high neckline, made of thick warm flannel.
“I also requested an extra blanket, so you can keep all the bedding to yourself,” he said as Isobel fingered the fine cloth of the nightgown.
“I had a nightgown in my bag. It was on the carriage.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry we misplaced your belongings. I have already sent word that it should be returned, and promised a sizable reward. It’s possible it is already waiting downstairs. Would you like me to check with the innkeeper?”
Looking away again, she sat on the bed. “It can wait until tomorrow. This one will be warmer in any case.”
“All right then. I’ll wait outside while you change,” he said, slipping out of the door and into the cold hallway to wait.
A door on his right opened, and Ottavio peered out at him with a frown. Matteo glared back at him.
Apparently, his father had ordered his minder to stay vigilant, despite having found Isobel. He stood in the hallway for a few more minutes before turning to tap on the door to let her know he was coming back inside.
***
Isobel undressed as quickly as she could. Fortunately, she’d had the foresight to buy stays and a dress with fastenings in the front, but the dress had many buttons.
She had just thrown the flannel nightgown on and was hastily climbing into the bed when there was a tap at the door and Matteo came back inside.
Embarrassed, she pulled the covers up to her chin, but the expression of dawning horror on his face stopped her.
“Your arms!” he rasped.
Isobel looked down at them, confused.
“What’s wrong?” she asked stupidly, belatedly realizing the bruises on her arms were visible in the short-sleeved gown.
They were a dark black and blue, and quite startling against the pale cream of her skin.
“Did I do that? I did—didn’t I?” Matteo’s confusion was palpable. He was shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
She stared at him, uncertain what to say. Eventually she took pity on him. “What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t do that!” he said, horrified. “I’ve never done that. I don’t hurt them. They just die.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes at him. “Your father said that too. That all you have to do is touch a victim, and they fall down dead.”
He nodded emphatically. “That’s what happens.”
She cocked her head at him. “How can you be sure? You’ve already said you don’t remember the events during...one of your spells.”
Matteo collapsed in the chair and scrubbed his hands over his face harshly. “I told you. I’ve seen them after, once my memory clears. There wasn’t a mark on them,” he whispered.
“And were they dressed?”
His face turned fiery red. “Yes, they were. Although at first they were brought in their nightclothes or in a state of undress. My father assumed I would want them that way. But it wasn’t about that. Once he realized the truth, he never bothered again.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.
She pursed her lips and nodded, stifling the rush of anger she felt for those helpless men and women to focus on what he’d said. The details were consistent with the count’s story. And while she believed his father would have lied to her, she didn’t think Matteo would. He already believed the worst of himself.
“What you describe. The way things happen—it wasn’t the same for me.”
“I hurt you.”
She nodded again.
“Badly?”
Gripping the covers tightly, she considered her answer carefully. “You hurt me some, but that was not your goal. You, or rather the thing inside you, wanted something else.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. “You’ve always been different,” he finally whispered, wiping at his face with a quick movement. Raising his head, his burning eyes met hers. “I’ll make this right. I’ll marry you.”
Isobel’s mouth dropped open. She cleared her tight throat. “There is no need. You didn’t succeed in dishonoring me. I stopped you.”
His face showed no reaction. “But I did try to...to...rape you.”
Isobel stared down at her hands on the white coverlet. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She stared at him in disbelief. How the bloody hell did he expect her to answer that?
Matteo flushed. “I meant, why would I do that with you and not any of the others? Does it know about you? About your magic?”
She frowned at him. “I don’t see how, but even if it did, why would that make a difference?”
He threw up his hands. “Yet another thing I don’t know. I’m drowning in my own ignorance. Maybe your magic doesn’t signify. Maybe it’s just about you.”
“What about me?”
“It knows I want you.”
It was said simply, with no prevarication or embarrassment. Isobel could feel the heat in her cheeks as he stared at her, waiting for her reaction.