The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(70)

Three. Isabelle had become irrational the second he’d voiced an opposing opinion. From the moment she’d declared that he was angry…

He sighed and climbed from the bed, finally understanding what had upset her so. Her aversion to disputes, her insistence on happiness in marriage.

This was about her parents. She’d thought she and Fallon were fighting, and she’d retreated. But no one agreed all the time. His pressed shirts weren’t so terrible now that he’d seen them. And the food she’d selected was delicious. He had to admit, for the first time in ages, he no longer had the gnawing ache of hunger in his gut. Damn. He had to fix this.

He opened the door a crack, but everything was dark. Had she found his key and left? He moved forward into the room, panic seizing him, but then he saw the Isabelle-shaped lump in his bed and stopped. He watched her chest rise and fall and her face relaxed in slumber.

“I like the changes you made,” he whispered. “I like your company. I like you.” Someday he might say those words when she could hear them. For tonight, he was relieved that he’d managed to keep her here—his beautiful captive. If only she could stay.

*

There were certain activities most ladies would try to avoid. Whistling, for one. Doing it while teetering precariously on the window ledge of a single gentleman’s bedroom, while her legs flailed about inside, more so. But those ladies lacked determination.

Isabelle whistled again, reaching her arm out toward the pigeon on the tree branch. Only a bit farther. The bird tilted its head in study of her but stayed firmly just beyond her reach.

“Come along now. Hop onto my finger.” She worked to keep her tone encouraging and cheerful—the sort of voice she would wish to hear if she found herself a bird on a tree branch.

She stretched farther still. Her gaze darted to the grass three stories below where she hung, and her one-handed grip on the windowsill tightened. But she was almost there. Don’t dwell on thoughts of falling now—that simply wouldn’t do.

If she could use this bird to get a message to her family, she would be rescued from this place. After much consideration this morning, she’d come to the conclusion that this was her best—and only—option. She’d agreed to stay in Fallon’s home for the duration of her ordeal, but any contentment she’d had in the arrangement had ended last night.

There was no anger involved with true love, only happiness.

As much as it hurt to admit, she’d been wrong about Fallon. She’d been disappointed by love before, and she wouldn’t make the same mistake again. And now she needed to leave—a necessity Mrs. Featherfitch apparently did not understand, since the woman refused to post any letters from Isabelle. But Isabelle had vowed to herself long ago that her future would hold happiness and love, and now it was clear that she had to venture forth to find it.

With an exhale, she lifted her eyes to the bird again. She shimmied out the window a bit more. Her fingers almost grazed feathers before the pigeon hopped to the side and just out of her reach once more.

As she stretched out as far as possible, her feet kicking about behind her in an effort to find balance, the warmth of hands suddenly surrounded her waist and fingers bit into her sides. “Oh!” she gasped as she was lifted from her precarious perch and the bird she’d been enticing flew away.

Arms slipped farther around her, dragging her back inside—strong arms that could only belong to one man. Fallon. The same man she had no wish to see.

A moment later her feet found the floor, but he didn’t release his hold on her. Instead he spun her about to face him and pulled her close. “Isabelle,” he rasped as if horribly upset. He moved his palms up and down her sides and around her back, clearly searching with his fingers for damage as his eyes searched hers for answers. “There’s no escaping this room through the windows. Are you trying to end your life? We’re on the top floor.”

“Of course that wasn’t what I was doing.” Although she was certain the sensation of flight would be one to be remembered, she didn’t want to end it all that way. She tried to take a step away from him, but he didn’t release her.

“When I saw you hanging from the window…” He ran his hands up and down her spine, pulling her even closer until her cheek pressed against his chest. His heart was pounding in her ear.

As much as she wished to leave now that she knew there was no love between them, she hadn’t meant to concern him. She should move away. She was supposed to be keeping her distance. But she had been hanging out the window such a long time, her skin was chilly and muscles sore from her positioning on the sill. His touch eased all of that discomfort. Horribly wrong though it might be, it was comforting to have his hands on her, to feel the strength of his arms surrounding her.

Instead of moving away as she should have, she rested against him, allowing the blood to return to her limbs under his gentle touch. It was true that he wasn’t the one for her—that had become clear with their quarrel last night. But for some reason, she still longed for him. What she needed was to capture that bird, send the perfectly worded message, and be gone from this confusing place for good. “Next time I’ll use leftover toast. That would do the trick.”

“Next time?” Fallon pulled back to ask, his arms still looping around her. “And what trick? Falling with a splat in the garden below?”