Devil's Pawn (Devil's Pawn Duet 1)

“My hair used to need it but not at the moment,” she says, touching the soft wisps of white hair on her head. It’s short, like it’s just growing in, and I get the feeling she’s been sick. That may be the reason she has a silk scarf wrapped around her neck in this heat. “It’s coming in white,” she says, “but it used to be as dark as yours.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll just go to the bathroom to brush it out.”

“Sure.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ll wait for you.”

I walk toward the bathroom and pause at the door, turning back to her. She smiles when she meets my eyes, but it’s not a carefree smile.

“I don’t understand why…” I trail off. What do I say? I don’t understand why your son kidnapped me? Isn’t she complicit if she’s here?

But she saves me from continuing. “Jericho will explain everything.” She looks at her watch. “We’d better hurry. Angelique will be down by now.”

“Angelique is his daughter?”

She nods.

“How old is she?”

“Five.”

“Oh.” So young. I walk into the bathroom, grateful for both detangler and brush as I brush out my hair. I pleat it into a long braid over my right shoulder, securing it with a rubber band I’d seen in one of the drawers. It’ll take forever to dry this way but it’s the best I can do with the small rubber band. I return to the bedroom and hand both brush and detangler back to Leontine St. James.

“I’ll put them in your room once it’s ready. I have no use for either.”

My room. So I don’t have to sleep in here? I don’t ask her, though. “Thank you,” I say instead.

“You’re welcome.” She walks to the door, opens it and gestures for me to follow her out. We head downstairs where I can already smell French toast, bacon, eggs and, most importantly, coffee.

I’m anxious as I follow Mrs. St. James around the grand staircase, past the study I was brought to first thing last night and toward the kitchen. Turning, we enter the dining room through an arched opening. I barely notice the vaulted ceilings, the marble pillars, the faces around the table bright in the morning sun, because all I see is the face of my devil sitting at the head of the table. Any warmth there vanishes the instant his eyes fall on me.

11

Jericho

Angelique stops speaking when Isabelle walks in. She stares at her, her eyes wide her mouth open into a tiny O.

I look back at Isabelle Bishop and take her in. She’s inherited her looks from her mother. That’s a blessing. The Bishops are ruddy-skinned, with pale hair and eyes. Her skin has an undertone of olive, and her hair is as black as night, blacker now that it’s wet, the thick strands braided into a long plait over her shoulder. She’s not wearing any makeup this morning and she’s still as beautiful as she was last night. Maybe more for the vulnerability in her eyes.

Zeke clears his throat and stands. I don’t.

“Isabelle,” he says, coming around the table. He extends his hand to her. Actually fucking extends a hand. I’m going to need to discuss loyalties with my brother. “I’m Ezekiel, Jericho’s brother.”

She looks from his face to his hand and back. She must be as surprised as me at this gesture, so it takes her a moment to slip her hand into his. The instant she does, some primordial savage inside me growls. I set my hands on the table and get to my feet, my eyes on Zeke who turns to me before releasing her hand.

“Mom,” Zeke says and moves toward our mother, obscuring Isabelle from my line of vision for a moment as he seats her.

“I’m not an invalid. I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you boys that.”

“Sit,” I tell Isabelle, gesturing to the chair at the foot of the table. I’m not so chivalrous as my brother.

She glances at it, moving on stiff legs as I look her over, taking in the cornflower blue top with the buttons going all the way down the front, the top one undone. It matches some of the blue shades in her eyes. She’s also wearing jeans and flat shoes. I had her things brought over. I’ll go through them myself and decide what she’ll keep.

Isabelle’s eyes settle on my daughter, and I see her make an effort to smile.

I sit down, reach out to touch Angelique’s hand. “This is Isabelle,” I tell her, tucking a curl behind her ear. “She’s going to stay with us for a while.”

“Belle?” she asks. “Like in my book?”

I smile tightly and nod. I want to tell her Isabelle Bishop is no princess but don’t.