Mystic Mountains

more talk of not coming to the ball with me, d'you hear?" There was a gruff note in his voice she didn't understand.
    "Yes, I mean no," she mumbled and fled to her room.
    Tiger stood for long minutes staring at her door. Shaking his head, he pushed himself away from the table and slowly went to his room. It had been a long time since he'd disclosed so much about his past. The wench had an unnerving effect on him. Lord above, for a minute there he'd almost dragged her into his arms and kissed her. She'd certainly been inviting it with her eyes. And her body had shown its eagerness for his touch; had been screaming for it, in fact. Ye gods—the woman was a contradiction; a siren luring him on, yet despite all she'd been through there was an innocent air about her that fascinated him.
    Sitting down to pull off his boots, he heard her moving about next door. He swallowed a groa n, yanked his boots back on, and strode out of the house.
    For an age he stood leaning on the fence, gazing out over his land, filled with a restless yearning he 'd never experienced before in his life. It was unsettling, and something that didn't appeal to him at all.

 
     
    Chapter Thirteen
     
    "I can't do this."
    Isabella stared at feet covered in the softest leather slippers she 'd ever seen, let alone worn. Tiger had taken her into town and ordered the cobbler to make them to suit her. He'd fashioned them so well she hardly knew her toes were misshapen.
    "He 's making a fool of me, Thelma," she moaned. "Why did you let him talk me into this?"
    Thelma gave her a gentle tap on the shoulder. "Don 't be a dimwit. You'll be the belle of the ball."
    "The Bella of the ball," Gillie agreed from his chair.
    "Oh yes. With all those nobs there, I'm going to be the belle." Isabella pulled her mouth down at the corners. "I'll fall over my stupid feet an' this fancy skirt will likely trip me up. That'll teach him." She took a handful of the soft muslin in her fist and shook it.
    "It will not. The dressmaker made it long enough to cover your feet an ' just short enough to allow you room to move. You look a picture, dear." Thelma fussed about, straightening the skirt of the gown of pale apple green. "And your hair's a treat fashioned on the top of your head like that."
    Isabella touched the few tendrils curling over her ears. Thelma had painstakingly placed silk flowers amid the soft folds of her hair.
    "I feel I'm about to pop out at any minute. I'm frightened to breathe too deep." Isabella touched the curve of her breast above the low scooped neckline.
    More silk rosebuds nestled in the pleats at the shoulders and center front, and for all her complaints she relished the softness of the material. It caressed her skin, the petticoats beneath softly rustling and swirling about her legs when she moved. Never had she expected to be wearing such a gown. When she recalled the rags that had been all she'd ever known her throat tightened with emotion.
    "It 's the fashion. You wouldn't want Tiger to feel ashamed of you, would you? If you went on his arm in a gown that wasn't fashionable you'd be a laughing stock, an' so would he." Thelma raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Now, just remember, follow Tiger's lead. Hang onto him an' let him show you who to talk to an' who to ignore. An' above all have a grand time." She sighed. "I feel like a mother sending her daughter out to her first ball."
    Isabella put an arm about her shoulders. "And I feel as if I 'm your daughter a going." She'd heard from her mother only a week ago, and the news was all bad. Her Papa had died in Newgate, and her youngest sister died of a fever soon after Isabella's transportation. Her two eldest brothers were caught stealing and one was in Newgate and the other on the Thames. That had been the lowest ebb of her life, after reading it. If not for Thelma's support she would have felt like dying.
    The door to Tiger 's room opened. Isabella sucked in her breath. She couldn't go through with this. Not when he looked like every young girl's wildest dream. Beige breeches hugged his muscular thighs and his ebony boots were polished until you could see your face in them. The thatch of golden hair had been tamed, drawn back with a black bow at his nape. The shirt of pure white beneath his cutaway jacket had tiny flounces down each side of the front and must be new, for she'd not laundered one such as that. In his cravat a gold pin set off the golden light in his eyes as they surveyed her.
    Isabella