Page 7 of The Dreamer and the Deep Space Warrior (Xaal Alien Romance #1)

Isobel

Isobel awoke in a fright. Startled, she sat upright, sucking in a deep breath.

The world came to her in a rush, as if everything was vying for her attention at once. She wanted to tear off her clothing, run, and hide all at the same time. But her logical faculties blessedly forced themselves to the forefront as her emotions, senses, and instincts were in complete turmoil.

First, she wasn’t dead. But she should be, shouldn’t she?

Secondly, she was surprised to find that she was in a bed. Her bed. Safe. Besides her tender head and ankle injuries, and some other minor aches, she was whole and untouched.

Blinking, she let that settle in. She felt the tension release from her muscles, the fight-or-flight feeling leaving her shaken as it fizzled out.

Despite the books she vicariously lived through, Isobel couldn’t think of a time she had experienced anything exceptional.

Invites to strategically planned tea times, gossip-filled luncheons, and extravagant balls for the purpose of courtship didn’t come anywhere close to what she thought had occurred last night .

With that being said, she felt like she was doing quite well adjusting to the fact that she had either experienced vivid hallucinations or something quite uncanny and otherworldly.

Minutes passed as she tried to reconcile her memories with reality.

However, she was most certainly past the appropriate time to sleep in.

Disoriented and anxious to understand what had occurred the previous night, she slipped out of bed.

She was surprised to find her ankle took her weight with only the slightest protest.

Daring to look at herself in her mirror, she took stock of her appearance. She was dirty, her hair matted and more disheveled than her dark curls usually were upon waking, and her clothing was muddy and torn in parts.

It was all evidence of the fact that she really had followed smoking metal vessels as they crashed into the woods. And then lived through all that ensued afterward.

To include Dark Armor finding her in the forest.

Except where there should’ve been a gash on the side of her face, there was only a faded bruise and the smallest of scars. Yet the injury could not have been her own fabrication; there was dried blood crusted on her ear and neck. Had it somehow already had time to heal?

And how exactly had she made it back to her room? Her ankle had hurt so much that she’d been unable to fully put her weight on it. Had she really trudged all the way back home, without any memory of doing so, only to have it barely twinging with pain now?

Or had she been carried?

“This makes no sense,” Isobel whispered to herself, fighting against the dread crawling down her back like an ill-placed bug.

Clara’s voice drifted down the hall, bringing her back to the present.

At any moment, someone could come bustling into her room and see her, and she had no way of explaining her appearance.

Although, there was something about looking like a wild spirit that made her smile.

A proper woman would never look such a way.

Her exterior, for once, matched how she felt inside.

Another declaration from Clara pushed her into motion. She was grateful that she had long since done away with being woken by a lady’s maid. Anna, Clara’s maid, sometimes helped her with the more tedious trappings of womanhood, but if Isobel could, she dressed and readied herself.

She shimmied out of the calamity that was her gown, which she then shoved into the bottom of her trunk.

Later, she would have to find a way to dispose of it—and think of some way to explain a missing piece of her wardrobe.

Next, she washed the blood and dirt from her hair and then her skin.

Tossing the dirty water out the window, she looked for anything else that could give her away but found nothing.

By the time she made it to the drawing room, Henry and Lord Richard were speaking about some business endeavor they’d been considering, and Clara was sitting across from a gentleman caller.

She couldn’t remember the lad’s name, but he babbled on about soil retention while Clara clutched her teacup as if contemplating throwing it at him.

It was all so ordinary.

Without greeting anyone, Isobel crossed the room to her favorite chair. It was upholstered in pale green damask and positioned between two windows, which just so happened to look out over the lavender fields.

The moment Lord Richard cleared his throat, she knew he was about to say something that would only serve to annoy her. Gritting her teeth, she tried to gather her armor around herself and remember the way she was supposed to act.

“When we are married, you’ll have to get used to rising and starting your day much earlier,” Lord Richard said with a languid smile. “As the lady of the house, you’ll have responsibilities.”

Isobel suddenly yawned, which was fortuitous because she probably would have said something that was impolite otherwise. She blamed her inability to fully take on the correct mannerisms and the art of respectful communication on the fact that she’d had such a bizarre evening.

Luckily, it was Henry who responded with a rare instance of tolerance.

“Isobel has always been like this. Some nights she’ll be in her room reading by candlelight long into the evening, only to wake up late the next morning.

Father always chastised her, but that never bothered her much,” he said with a smile.

He always smiled when he remembered their youth.

What little of it they shared. He was fifteen years older than Isobel.

By the time she could really understand the world, he had already been molded into the family’s legacy.

She wondered if being young and under the tutelage of their father had been an easier time for him, too.

“I fear I’m guilty of just that,” Isobel replied. “I was reading the most interesting book, and the night got away from me.” Returning Henry’s soft smile, she flicked her gaze to find her betrothed frowning.

“What’s the title of the book?” Lord Richard asked, though his tone held no true curiosity.

“I doubt it’s anything you have read, Lord Richard. You are probably much too busy with the more refined and political works.”

The smug curl of his lips caused something to roil in her stomach. “Is it one of those mawkish novels that masquerades as a commentary on society?”

Because, of course, that could be the only thing a woman would read. Though Isobel enjoyed romance novels, that didn’t make her any less well-read. In fact, the novels were something much greater than silly stories. They were freedom, they were a revolution .

It took great effort for Isobel to answer simply with, “Something of that nature.” She turned away from him, hoping the conversation would be done with.

Besides Clara’s caller prattling on, silence gathered.

Then Henry and Lord Richard mercifully went back to their previous conversation, leaving her to her thoughts.

Curling up as comfortably as she dared to get in the overstuffed chair, she couldn’t help but look at the forest. From here, there were no signs that something had crashed there last evening.

Had the strange man gone? Had he really been there at all?

Why had he not killed her? And if he was the one to bring her home, how had he known which room was hers?

The questions took her deep within herself as she stared into the distance, as if she would miraculously find the answers tucked away in the gray clouds or between the towering trees.

Lord Richard’s voice broke through her reverie once again. “You truly are an interesting woman, Isobel. Is your head always in the clouds?”

No matter how he phrased his observations and questions, it always felt like he was trying to wound her.

She couldn’t shake that feeling. Like he was hiding an insult beneath polite conversation.

It was a gift, actually—the ability to disguise a weapon as connection.

She wanted to believe he wasn’t entirely conscious of it, but something told her he knew exactly what he was doing.

And another thing, she’d never given him permission to call her by her first name.

Must you always be here? was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Besides, she knew his presence had little to do with her. Richard and Henry had been best friends long before she was ever considered an option for him to marry.

Isobel supposed she should be grateful for his friendship to her brother.

Her sister-in-law Hetty had died giving birth to Clara.

It’d been hard on her brother, losing his wife and being the sole parent to Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, and Clara.

Even though it’d been nineteen years ago, she thought he could do well with being surrounded by people who cared for him.

There were times she caught glimpses of him still and swore she saw the loss fresh on his face.

It just so happened that Lord Richard intimately knew the pain of losing a wife as well.

“I prefer the clouds,” she finally muttered.

“Me, too,” Clara said, then added in a grumble, “Clouds are far preferable to dance lessons and memorizing poetry.”

“Better to be well-educated than not. You should be grateful,” Henry scolded gently.

“Yes, Papa,” Clara said with practiced ease, but she winked at Isobel while her newest suitor hid a laugh with a smothered cough.

Isobel hadn’t even registered that Clara’s first caller had come and gone.

Mr. Colin Briggsly was the gentleman currently sitting at the other end of the sofa, and Clara looked as if she’d rather be talking about dirt again.

Though she doubted anyone else could tell as much—her niece knew exactly how to act in polite company.

When Briggsly departed soon after, Clara moved to a seat across from Isobel, bringing her lily scent with her. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. In a hushed tone, she asked, “Where were you last night?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“After we arrived home, I came to tell you all about the soiree, but you weren’t in bed.

Reading or otherwise,” she said conspiratorially as she smoothed the fabric of her yellow day dress.

“I must know what adventure you were up to. I’m sure it was something far more exciting than what I had to endure. ”

“I was merely lost in thought in the lavender fields,” Isobel whispered. She hated lying, but over the years it had become necessary for survival.

Clara narrowed her eyes at her, expecting something more.

It was strange, even for Isobel, to be out so late.

Despite the fact that Clara was Henry’s youngest daughter and seven years younger than her, the girl was more like her sister than her niece.

And, like any good sister, she knew when Isobel wasn’t being entirely truthful.

“The lavender fields, hm?” Leaning forward, Clara plucked something out of Isobel’s hair and handed it to her.

It was a muddy leaf.

With a quirked brow and a sly smile, she continued, “Well, at least you weren’t forced to sit through not one reading, but three , of that awful poet who writes dreary sonnets about every woman he meets.”

This, she didn’t say in a whisper.

“Must you find something wrong with every event we attend?” Henry asked with a frown.

Clara stood up abruptly. “Of course not, Papa. I did enjoy the music and your agreeable company.” She moved toward him with one of her bright smiles that showed her dimples and kissed him on the cheek before flouncing away.

She was smart enough to disarm him and flee before the impending lecture.

Once in the hallway, she caught Isobel’s gaze and pulled a silly face.

Isobel gave her a secretive smile in return.

Clara’s escape inspired her, though. How could she stay in the sitting room holding a mundane conversation with her brother and her husband-to-be when what she needed was answers?

“I’m going to make lavender cookies,” she declared as she stood.

Both men paused to look at her. It was Henry who responded. “Lavender cookies. You haven’t made those since…”

Since father passed away—she would save him from saying it. “Yes, I have the delightful urge to do so this morning, though it’ll all depend on whether Cook will let me take over his space for a couple of hours.”

A strange look passed over her brother’s face before he cleared his throat and said, “That’s good. Very well.”

Lord Richard, on the other hand, looked as if she had just proclaimed she was off to kill the Queen.

Baking cookies, it would seem, was also inappropriate for her to do.

Luckily, she escaped before he managed to say anything adverse and was in the kitchen with an apron on before she knew it.

Cook was the grumpiest man she’d ever met, but he had a soft spot for her.

After his own baffled looks, he relinquished his domain fairly easily.

She used to make lavender cookies regularly, but she and Father were the only two who liked them.

Henry was a buttered biscuit type of fellow, and Clara preferred even sweeter options.

As Isobel fell into the process, she found it cathartic.

It was healing in a way that it wouldn’t have been even a handful of months ago.

Flattening the dough and forming the circles, she allowed her mind to wander to armored men who fell from the heavens.

If Dark Armor was still out there, what better way to get him to be affable than with homemade cookies?