A short excerpt from The Forbidden Door, my most urgent current project. Isolde has just escaped a kidnapping attempt, in which Fletch was injured.
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Isolde continued to impress. She didn’t react to Arthur’s suspicious hostility, and nor did she show any outward concern over the news that she had been the target of the attack on the carriage. Though as to that, Fletch had warned her about the strangers in the village days ago—had it really been over a week ago? She had been the focus of their attention then, so it was no surprise to him that the attack had been on her account. But kidnapping? That implied she had a value to the conspirators that Tolliver was hunting.
Unless Arthur’s joke was, in fact, true. Could it be that one of the conspirators or another man entirely wanted Isolde in the most elemental of senses? Stranger things had happened, and Fletch had to admit that Isolde was a highly attractive woman. “Can you think of any admirers who might go this far, Isolde?”
She shook her head. “No one admires me,” she argued. “My own first husband didn’t admire me. His friends disliked me so much they called me the Ice Queen. You can barely stand me, and you only married me because… Why did you marry me? Surely you could have asked me questions without tying yourself to me for life? It was just that you wanted a mother for Margaret, was it not? And I was offering?”
There were so many misconceptions in that sentence that Fletch was lost for words for a moment. It didn’t help that his headache had been building for the whole of the hour he had been sitting in his chair, and had now stepped up from the drummers in the head stage to miners with mattocks carving chunks out of his skull.
Arthur, however, had no hesitation in providing a correction. “Mrs. Fletching, I believe you are laboring under several misapprehensions. First, the crowd around Mr. Parker called you the Ice Queen as a compliment. They saw you as capable, intelligent, virtuous, and untouchable, so of course they pretended to mock you to your face, while behind your back they feared and desired you. They admired you enormously, as did Mr. Parker himself. He felt himself unworthy of you. In that, as far as I can ascertain, he was correct.”
Isolde was shaking her head in disbelief, but Arthur had not finished. “Second, Fletch, is having the same difficulty, though since he is not a waste of space like most of the men who partied with Parker, he does not mock you in order to mask his admiration.”
Thank goodness Arthur thought better of adding the third point, which was that Fletch had not, in fact, intended to tie himself to Isolde for life. Arthur was correct, however, that Fletch was rethinking that position.
“It was not just for Margaret,” Fletch grumbled. It was the most he was prepared to admit.
Isolde stared at him, her jaw dropping. “Truly?” she asked.
Whether she was referring to him or to Arthur and his gaggle, Fletch could not be certain, but he answered as if it was the latter. “Certainly. Nearly all of Parker’s circle admired you, apart from Richardson, who was set in his adverse opinion of you, and one or two others. I cannot think of any of them, though, who has the intelligence and tenacity for this kind of pursuit. Was there no one else? A neighbor perhaps? Someone you met at church? A friend’s husband or brother?”
Isolde frowned, but shook her head. “No, no one. No one I can think of. If it truly is someone who knows me, and I suppose it must be if it is an admirer, I have never noticed that he thought of me in that way.”
Fletch could believe that. Isolde was remarkably unaware of her own attractions.
Delia had no idea how much time had passed before she surfaced into consciousness. It was long enough for her to be somewhere else—somewhere she did not recognize. She was lying on her side on a grassy slope, looking down from a height across a body of water to the steep side of a mountain.
