Page 19 of Tanglewood Legacy (The Three Sisters 3)
He almost fell off his horse. He hadn’t heard her approach, but Isis stood in the shade of an oak tree to his right in a dress made of blue muslin that hugged her lovely figure like a whisper.
“I am,” he said around his thickening tongue. Lord help him, she was beautiful. Despite his growing fear of her and the unknown that surrounded her, he found her utterly intriguing. The shadows seemed to cling to her within the shade of the mighty oak, and he was again reminded of how she resembled the night sky and fascinated him just the same.
“I thought I told you not to come here.” She seemed almost annoyed at his intrusion. Then again, perhaps she didn’t want him to see the plantation and the strange way it had erupted from nothing almost overnight.
“I came to make sure you made it home alive. I was concerned. There’s been another murder.”
Her expression darkened, and she lowered her chin to look at him through her lashes. “Another? Like before?”
“Completely drained of blood.” His eyes locked with hers, and he was back on the terrace, kissing her. He wished he could pull her into his arms again now.
“I am well, as are my sisters and Rhys. But walk with me to the house and tell me about this tragedy.” She took the horse’s reins.
Some part of Pierre told him to turn his horse around and gallop away, but the unloyal beast seemed to be as enthralled with her as he was. The horse touched his muzzle to Isis’s cheek, and she gave him an affectionate pat on his neck. Lucky steed. He dismounted and followed her. He was a man of science after all. Whatever had happened, her sudden disappearance and even more sudden appearance here beside him, there had to be a logical explanation.
“Your home is grand,” he said as she tied the horse to a post in the shade of mature oak tree. She led Pierre up three steps to a large wood-and-brick building with a wraparound porch and a roof made from stone shingles. He’d never seen such craftsmanship, and the design was both foreign to him and fascinating to his architect’s mind. “How?” he mumbled.
“Come in, Pierre. Have something to drink.”
She led him to a dining room with a large, glassless window, whose shutters had been thrown open, bathing the room in fresh air. “Please.” She gestured toward a chair. “I’ll return with tea.”
It was remarkably comfortable in the room, at least ten degrees cooler than outdoors, and his shoulders released some of the tension he’d been carrying since that morning. Most certainly, there was a logical explanation for Isis’s disappearance last night, and she couldn’t have had anything to do with the murder. Not her. Someone so lovely was incapable of such a crime.
Casually, he strode to the window, coupling his hands behind his back. His gaze caught on a fly then, beyond the boundaries of the room. He concentrated on it as it flew toward him, then reversed direction. Odd. Oh! It wasn’t flying backward; it was bouncing! Confused, he reached through the opening in the wall and brushed it away. Other insects—mosquitos and gnats—landed on his hand and forearm. As he pulled his hand back, every one of them stripped off and stayed on the other side of what he was beginning to realize was an invisible barrier of some kind. He whirled, inspecting the room. Not a single bug or bird buzzed inside, although a soft breeze fluttered the tablecloth.
Pierre examined the evidence before him as he might a scientific experiment. The tablecloth was made of fine linen and set with a silver candelabra and a bowl of fresh oranges. They’d left town on horseback, without so much as a cart, only weeks ago. He’d arrived here on horseback. There wasn’t a road wide enough for a cart. So, how did they fully furnish this house so quickly? How did they build it? None of this made sense. It wasn’t possible. He pinched the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, trying to wake himself up. Definitely awake. Which meant… Which meant…
Isis returned with a silver tray loaded with bone china cups, macarons, cheeses, baguettes, and jam. She set it on the table, her dress shifting against her curves like something out of an erotic dream.
“I hope this blend suits. It’s Circe’s favorite and the only thing I had on hand.” She turned over the cups and poured. “Sugar?”
Pierre’s mouth was dry as a stone. “How did you prepare this so quickly without a servant?”
“My sister already had water on the stove.”
“And how is it that you have a stove? How did you come by it?”
She frowned. “Have you been watching us day and night? How would you know what we have brought and what we have not?”
She sounded defensive, but he had to get this out. He had to know the truth. “No one could build this house in the short time you’ve been here. The roof itself would require hundreds of man-hours, and you have no slaves and no servants.” He turned and pointed toward the space in the wall. “The insects cannot enter this room. This table, these candlesticks…they are in pristine condition. Like new! Not things transported from a great distance over rough terrain.” He searched her face. “And you… You, Isis, you come and go, appearing and disappearing from thin air.”
She brushed a hand down the front of her dress. “You seem to have examined me thoroughly, Pierre. What conclusions have you drawn?”
“You are an enchantress who has enslaved my heart.”
Lowering herself into the chair across the table, she crossed her legs and leaned toward him, her deep blue eyes made brighter by the light shining in, turning her pupils to dark pinpoints. All at once, she burst into laughter, the wild sound filling the room. “Enslaved your heart?” She raised an eyebrow. “That, I have not done, Pierre. If you are a slave to me, I am sorry to inform you that you’ve given yourself to me of your own volition. I’m happy to accept your service. I find you enchanting and enslaving as well.” She shifted in her seat. “In fact, I find myself doing the most foolish things to be near you, like inviting you here, for example, when I should have turned you away at the border of my property.”
He stared at her, waiting for further explanation, but she said nothing. She almost looked…conflicted.
“Sit, Pierre. The tea is not going to drink itself, and you need it after your ride here. You were going to tell me what happened in town this morning.” She patted the table across from her.
Almost as if he were in a dream, he lowered himself into the chair. “Then, it wasn’t you who did it?”
She leaned back in her chair. “Did what?”
“Murder the man who was found this morning?”
Her body jolted as if he’d hit her. “No, I haven’t murdered anyone,” she said through a frown. “I was with you, and then I was here.” Her voice was harder now, as if she took offense at the accusation.
