Page 3 of The Dreamer and the Deep Space Warrior (Xaal Alien Romance #1)

Isobel

Isobel Nott wasn’t one to obey the rules of polite society.

At least, not all the little pesky ones that kept her from doing the things she loved most. Coupled with that, she was notoriously hard-headed.

“It is just a short walk,” Isobel said despite the piercing glare her brother, Henry, pinned her with. The reasons for today’s rebellion were her insatiable desire for the written word, and for consuming those words in the lavender gardens behind Nott Manor.

“Don’t you think you ought to stay?” Henry said from his spot in the bright morning room.

He looked every bit the part of his viscount title, down to the line between his brow and his double-breasted vest, which he pulled an invisible piece of lint from.

“We have company.” He sounded perfectly polite, but Isobel knew him well enough to recognize that he was holding back his irritation.

The problem was, they always had company. Usually of the ill-wanted and boring sort .

Clara came into the hall as Isobel pulled on her first glove. “You’re leaving?” She poked her bottom lip out, her hazel eyes entreating. “Can I go with you? Please, Aunt Isobel,” she begged.

Before she could say anything, Henry let out a sound of disapproval. “Definitely not,” he chastised. “The seamstress is coming by especially for you today.”

Clara rolled her eyes, plucking at the pale rose material she wore. “Don’t I have enough bloody dresses?” she muttered low enough that only Isobel heard the curse.

Isobel didn’t envy her. It was Clara’s debut Season, and she was quite popular with the young gentlemen despite her obvious disinterest in them.

Just as she thought that would be the end of it, the Lord Richard Seymour, the company , said, “If you must go, wait ten. I can escort you in the carriage. It isn’t proper for a woman to walk alone.”

“No, no,” Isobel replied, waving her hand dismissively. “The walk is what I’m after, Lord Richard. I hardly see how walking can be considered improper. Women also have legs and need to exercise them.”

Clara snickered. Henry rubbed his temples, exposing the gray hairs beneath his tight brown curls, and Lord Richard said something or other about perception.

Perception . If he only knew what kind of books she read.

The walk into Cinder wasn’t long at all, and Keats’ Literature was located on the outskirts, tucked between a printing shop and a boutique like a book on a cramped shelf.

It boasted a large selection, but more importantly, Mrs. Keats stocked her favorite risqué romance books.

In a secret room hidden behind a bookshelf, Mrs. Keats had an arsenal of prohibited books.

Experimental sciences, controversial philosophies, and spell books made up just some of the restricted collection.

If ever found out, she’d be ousted from good society, damned to an eternity in hell, and probably thrown in an asylum.

Clara came closer, pitching her voice low after a quick glance at her father. “Could you see if Mrs. Keats has the second volume of Dr. Winston’s Maladies and Malaise ?”

The girl was insatiable when it came to anything medical. And Isobel couldn’t help but fuel her curiosity and thirst for knowledge. “I will,” she promised her niece, who flashed her dimples at both her and Henry before heading to safer ground.

Isobel cleared her throat. “I’ll be on my way now.”

Lord Richard gritted his teeth and refrained from voicing some scathing remark.

His attitude was a glimpse of what she would have to deal with once they were married, but she tried not to dwell too much on that.

She had a good three months before she became his wife.

The look on her elder brother’s face, however, told her she wouldn’t be entirely free from male commentary.

She was no doubt in for a great lecture when she returned.

They may have both inherited their father’s dark curls and warm brown eyes, but Henry alone had inherited his penchant for long-winded monologues.

As Isobel fitted her favorite floral bonnet over her barely tamed locks, she snorted quietly at Lord Richard’s audacity. Just because they were betrothed did not mean he could tell her what to do.

Not yet.

He was a good friend of Henry’s, their friendship spanning decades.

Like Henry, he was a widow. Soon after Richard and his first wife had wed, she’d passed from a sudden and severe illness that left the doctors perplexed.

Now, in his early forties, he had decided he was ready to settle down.

Again. It was serendipitous, then, that his best friend had an available sister .

The man could have had his pick from the ton , certainly. He was handsome enough, with his blue eyes and fastidiously maintained blond locks. But even more importantly, as the youngest son of the Duke of Gisham, he was of good stock.

Yet he had picked Isobel. As it was, according to her brother, no one else was willing to have her.

At the age of six-and-twenty, she was already considered a spinster, having successfully driven all other credible matches away in her youth.

When their father had passed two years ago, though, everything changed.

Her adamant wishes to remain unmarried became selfish.

He wasn’t a cruel man, her brother, but his unshakeable devotion to logic usually blinded him to the nuance of emotion.

He also had little patience for her eccentricities, though he rarely commented on them.

Mostly, his disapproval showed on his face.

People often showed their dislike of her in the expressions they couldn’t quite suppress.

Even Lord Richard’s concern didn’t truly come from his desire to keep her reputation safe. He didn’t want her to embarrass him. That had been the reason for most everyone’s need to herd her and shape her long after the schooling of adolescence—they merely didn’t want her to humiliate them.

“I really do think—” her brother started, but Isobel was already on her way. Until she was shackled to Lord Richard later in the Season, she would do as she pleased.

And nothing would ever stand between her and her books.

“You came back for me,” Prudence said breathlessly. Her pirate prince stood before her, the torrent of rain the only thing separating them on the rocking ship.

Wesley stepped toward her, and in the same moment, a violent gust of wind pushed her into him. He caught her effortlessly and held her steady in his strong arms. “I’d cross sea and land for you, Prudence. Neither a fleet of a thousand ships nor a hundred armies could keep me from you.”

Isobel sighed contentedly as she reread the pirate’s vow.

Her ability to read quickly was both a blessing and a curse.

These books were one of the few satisfactions she had, and she’d devoured this one in a single sitting.

She was tempted to go back to the beginning and get lost in the magic of Prudence and Wesley’s love story all over again.

Though the competition for her favorite romance novel was tough, Isobel knew without a doubt that the pirate had stolen the spot.

The sweeping adventure, the risks the two had taken to be together, the pirate overcoming a betrayal, his deep, unfaltering love for Prudence even when he was gone for several years—Isobel loved it all so much.

The warm, fuzzy feeling that overwhelmed her person was something she looked forward to every time she read the works of her favorite author, SV.

But, without fail, a cold and drowning emptiness would seep in hours later.

To have a partner like the men that SV wrote about wasn’t possible.

They were more than just strong and kind, more than proper gentlemen.

In fact, most had questionable morals. Yet no matter how roguish they were, they always saw the main character for who she was.

Truly saw her, and accepted her. No change necessary.

No protocols or facade. The heroes always fiercely loved their heroine, always viciously fought for her.

She tried to imagine Lord Richard, or any of the men of the ton for that matter, being half as appealing as these fictional characters were.

It was preposterous—a mere fantasy.

Yet Isobel wanted nothing less than such sweeping, defiant, and depthless love. These men would burn the world down just to hold their lady’s hand. She wished she could refuse to settle for anything less—even if that meant being alone.

Another sigh escaped her lips. Not wanting to lose the satisfaction the book’s ending had given her, she released her concerns to the sky above.

There was plenty of time to be miserable later.

Lounging on her favorite blanket, tucked away amongst the lavender bushes, she could neither see the estate nor feel the pull of familial and societal responsibility.

Escape wasn’t always possible, but Henry being busy with Clara’s debut Season presented unique opportunities to indulge.

Despite the numerous events of the Season and having to sometimes chaperone her niece, Isobel found she could more easily evade her brother’s frivolous timetables for tea, afternoon walks, and whatever dull company he planned on hosting that day.

He simply had too much to keep track of to control her.

Henry rarely came out here, anyway, as the flora tended to aggravate his allergies.

Their gardener, Mr. Grint, came by periodically to care for the trees and other plants, but otherwise it was just her, the purple sprigs, and the buzzing bees.

She could simply be. The rows of lavender were her own secret universe. Her sanctuary.

It’d been that way since her youth. When she was six years old, soon after her mother passed away, her father had taken her out with him to the already tilled aisles.

They worked all day, planting the seeds in tidy rows as he told her about the plant and how the color had been Mama’s favorite.

He explained they were planting them in her memory, but they were also for Isobel—to help her mourn, to help her remember, to help her heal .

That night, Isobel was caught sneaking out to see if they’d sprouted yet.

“Patience, Izzy,” her father had soothed. “Beautiful and strong things need time to grow into themselves.”

She wondered if he’d known then that even time couldn’t help her become the woman she was expected to be. Had he known that she would need the garden even more now than she had then?

A bee with pollen stuck to its fuzz droned by her, dutifully on its way back to its colony.

Not for the first time, she idly wondered if the little creatures were happy with fulfilling their tasks and never going outside of the confines of their mission.

Did they wish for a life beyond their obligations to queen and colony?

Or did they find comfort in their routine and knowing exactly which role they were expected to play?

Isobel envied them the determination with which they carried out their duties. If it were only so simple for her to forget to dream and instead resolutely fulfill her obligations, she’d have no inner turmoil to reconcile.

It would all be so much simpler.

A rumble of thunder brought her out of her imagination. Isobel blinked lazily. The sun was an hour from setting, the skies mildly overcast. Gray clouds loomed in the distance, and the promise of rain drifted in the cool breeze.

She really should start heading home. Despite the thought, she made no move to get up. Henry and Clara were at some lavish event or another that would carry on well into the evening.

The thunder sounded again, this time for much longer.

Perhaps the rain was coming sooner than she thought.

A sense of sadness overcame her that she would be chased back inside before she was ready to go.

And though she found it perfectly acceptable to sit in the rain if one wanted to, she didn’t want to ruin her novel.

Propping herself up on her elbows so she could see more of the horizon, she spotted something drifting through the gray. It blinked in and out of existence.

Transfixed, she sat up. The novel that had been splayed across her chest fell into her lap. If she squinted at the shape in the sky, she could just make out what looked like lightning crawling over a soaring structure, black smoke trailing behind it.

Whatever it was, it was massive.

And there were two of them.

Grabbing her book, she stood up. Fear and curiosity simultaneously vied for her attention. Within the span of a few rapid heartbeats, the outsized structures came nearer and lower. The rumbling sound became so intense that she thought to cover her ears, but she was frozen in awe.

When they passed overhead, all smoke and drifting flame, she realized how colossal they were.

One was endless obsidian, and the other gleaming silver, both almost as big as Nott Manor.

They flashed incongruously in and out of sight.

Her mind couldn’t comprehend what she was witnessing.

The roaring and crackling like thunder and lightning, the fact that the shapes had wings but were not animals…

What in the devil were they?

She had a brief feeling of being on the precipice of something. Like she was passing an invisible line where her life would no longer be the same. There would be two divided parts—before this moment and after.

When the bottoms of the unknown edifices scraped against the treetops of the forest beyond the lavender fields, she braced herself, clutching her book to her chest.

She held her breath.

The trees groaned.

A heartbeat later, the earth shook with their impact.

Isobel looked from the blue manor to the smoke billowing up from the woods.

She knew better. Deep curiosity and the spirit of exploration were unbecoming of a woman of her station. A proper woman would never run off to investigate such strange happenings. A proper woman would go inside immediately.

So, naturally, she hiked up her skirts and set off for the forest.