The Lost

“Riono will be all right in time.” She nodded to Dushayne but spoke to everyone gathered around them. “I will have to clean and stitch the wound. The healer is not well today, but there is no time to waste.”

“Not well?” Sebastian folded his arms and did not hide his cynicism. “That did not take long.”

Without answering Dushayne, Isabelle asked for help moving the man. Finally they settled Riono on a table moved near the sink.

She explained the procedure to the patient and to Dushayne, who had insisted on observing even though she had asked everyone to leave. “I will have to wash the wound for at least twenty minutes and it will hurt, but it is essential to remove any dirt from the knife blade. After that I have some medicine, a spray, that will block the pain, but you will still feel the stitches going through your skin.”

Riono’s eyes were wide with shock but he nodded. “I heard you sing the other night and ca

“Yes, if you wish,” Isabelle answered without looking to Dushayne for approval. If the man did not want to hear her, he could go away.

Isabelle started the pump and let the water rinse the wound. Riono gasped and Dushayne took his hand. “Think of your woman in childbirth.” Riono’s grimace might have been a smile.

Isabelle did not look up, but was struck by the contradictions in the man. As she supervised the cleaning she let her mind wander.

Sebastian Dushayne’s ill humor kept company with an essential kindness that left her off-kilter, uncertain whether to allow herself to like him or keep him at a distance, and then she realized that uncertainty was exactly what he wanted.

When the wound was clean, she sprayed the area with li docaine and, as she took the first stitch, began to sing. “I live to serve, I live to love, I live to care as Christ once showed.”

Sebastian winced as the needle pierced Riono’s arm but the man lay there watching Isabelle, not flinching or seeming even to notice anything but the insipid words she sang.

“Let me share your pain. Let me share your joy. Let us share the sun and rain, Till our lives are soon fulfilled and we pass to God again.”

When she sang the last sentence, Isabelle raised her eyes to his, sincerity echoing in every word. Her goodness was more than Sebastian could stand. It tore into him like a double-edged sword. It was all he could do not to beg for forgiveness, and she was not even the one he had hurt.

It was time to show her how overrated virtue was. Once goodness did not shine from her, his pain would ease. “Tomorrow, come back to the castillo after dark, Isabelle. Dress for a party. I am hosting one for the tourists and I think you will enjoy it.”

“Thank you.” She did not smile but seemed pleased.

Oh, you will thank me, he thought. Tomorrow night he would know how bone deep her virtue was.

Of course the perfect dress hung on the hook in her bedroom. It was a gauzy floral print with filmy sleeves and a swirling skirt that made her feel fairylike and feminine. The man certainly did know how to choose clothes a woman would like.

The shoes were not quite as successful. There was no way she could walk to the castle on the four-i nch heels that were the only possible choice.

She had almost decided to go barefoot when someone pulled the string on the bell at her door.

Esmé stood there holding a pair of sandals, much, much better than the towering heels Isabelle had in her hand. The healer pushed them at her and then stood with her hands on her hips. “I tell you, girl, I will know if your soul is corrupted by Sebastian Dushayne or any of his guests. You will not be welcome here when that happens.”

“You can tell even that. How intriguing. Do you think my corruption is inevitable?”

“Yes,” Esmé said firmly.

Isabelle considered a debate, but suspected it would be pointless. “Thank you for the shoes. They’re perfect.”

“Of course they are.” She left without further explanation.

Isabelle walked slowly up toward the castle. She really had no idea what to expect. Cortez told her that the master had company at least once a week and that some of the guests stayed longer. Never the same group and none ever stayed more than a week. It was, by Cortez’s definition, a noisy party with endless drinking and dancing until the people began to play games with one another or wander off to a bedroom to sleep.

Isabelle walked into a party well begun. The men and women were dressed in clothes that were very twenty-fi rst century, but everything else about the gathering had an old-world feel. Even the music was played by a three-piece combo.

The food was not the typical island fare but looked as though it would be better suited to a European dining room. There were tables for cards and other sorts of gambling, but right now most everyone was gathered around a woman dressed as a gypsy, who was telling fortunes accompanied by much laughter and rude comments.

“People of all ages love to hear stories about themselves.”

She had felt him beside her before he spoke. Dushayne was dressed in a fabulous costume and she smiled at him, thoroughly entranced by the picture he made in early-nineteenth-century garb. He reminded her of a rakish Darcy, not in looks but in style, and definitely in the way he showed both pride and prejudice.

“What fun this is. It’s like a step back in time. I wish I had a dress that matched what you’re wearing. Something with a high waist and embroidery around the edges.”

“Next time,” he said with a smile of satisfaction. And yes, there were the dimples. “Everything will be better next time, Isabelle.”

“I hope that’s a promise.” She really wasn’t much of a flirt, but she had a desperate longing to know this man better, to understand him, to keep him smiling.

“Indeed it is.” Dushayne raised her hand and kissed it and then tucked her arm through his. “Let’s see what the fortune-teller has to say about you.”

“Will you ask her to tell your fortune? Or is ‘the master’ ”-she made the words sound as pretentious as they were-“above such things?”

“I never would have guessed that you were such a tease. A temptress, yes, but not a tease.”

“And I would never have guessed that you would not enjoy a little flirtation.” Isabelle refused to be embarrassed by his insulting tone, almost positive that he was trying to make her feel uncomfortable so that he would have the upper hand. Or, she thought, was he the one who was uncomfortable?

Neither one of them spoke as they made their way across the salon. Isabelle wondered why he would feel even a little threatened by her presence. He was the one who had given permission for her to come, along with Father Joubay. So it was not her presence as a medical person that upset him, but something about Isabelle Reynaud herself that bothered him.

Could it be the same thing that bothered her: attraction to a person he was not even sure he liked?

The crowd clustered around the fortune-teller made room for their host and eyed Isabelle curiously. The fortune-teller sat at a round table. The seat across from her was empty and she gestured for Isabelle to take it.

“May I hold your hands, please?” the fortune-teller asked.

The woman was heavily made up and dressed in traditional gypsy garb, but her voice identified her as one of the islanders.

Isabelle smiled and put her hands on the table. The woman took them; then she jerked her head up to look in Isabelle’s eyes. Between their touching hands and staring eyes, the co

The woman gri