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and took you from him.”
    Isabel reached for the banister, steadying herself when a wave of vertigo swept through her. It was as if her consciousness couldn’t abide such a large doses of strangeness. She hadn’t particularly cared for the callous way in which he’d referred to her as though she were an object, but encroaching dizziness was making it difficult to find the energy to be offended.
    “You’re his twin.”
    “No. I’m his clone. My only purpose to exist is to control him. Someday, perhaps, I will defeat him. Until then, I will have no peace.”
    She just stared at him, bewildered. Here was something else that was different from his twin. His tone was frank, his accent rough. Was it Scottish? The grand hall began to blur, the rich tapestries and brilliant hues from the paintings creating a throbbing, Expressionist palette in her vision.
    “And-and this is your home?” she asked, clutching the banister with a white-knuckled grip. She lost control. Pain jolted through her as she fell to the hard marble step on one knee, but she held on with a desperate grip. The blackness that had lurked at the corners of her vision for the past several seconds started to cloud it entirely. She clung on to the banister, to her very sanity.
    A voice resounded in her head before she lost consciousness, quite different from the dark angel’s hard tone, but strangely with the same rough, Scottish accent.
    “It’s your home now. Welcome to Sanctuary. Let go now. Let go, Lovely.”
    She followed his command without thought. Blackness engulfed her.

Chapter Three
    She was in the process of picking the lock on her bedroom door when it suddenly opened, banging her in the knee and making her yelp in pain.
    Isabel scuttled back on the deep pile carpet. For a few seconds, she felt a rush of mortification at the amazed stare the pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman gave her as Isabel knelt there on the floor, barefooted and attired in a rumpled satin evening gown and black velvet gloves. Then she recalled there was hardly a reason to apologize to one of her captors and stood up in a rush, brandishing the sharp metal hors d’oeuvres pick she’d found in a wet-bar drawer.
    “Tell me how to get out of here,” she demanded.
    “Do you plan to skewer me like a shrimp, then? It’ll take something larger than that little toothpick to do the job,” the woman said with a friendly type of wry humor. She bustled into the room. For the first time, Isabel noticed she carried an armful of clothes and a large tapestried reticule. She sighed in relief when she deposited her heavy load at the base of the four-poster bed.
    “I took a guess at your size, but when Lord Delraven saw what I’d chosen, he said I was wrong. He said he’d held you, so he’d know better than anyone. I still can’t get used to the fact that a man like Delraven knows textiles and clothing so well—he’s such a rough sort, you know—but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised as to his expertise on a woman’s proportions.”
    Isabel started to edge toward the open door as the woman prattled and began to sort through the clothing she’d brought.
    “There’s no point in running, Miss,” the woman said without turning around. “Sanctuary is a hundred times more secure than a fortress. If you plan an escape, best to find out the lay of the land first, don’t you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and smiling. Isabel froze mid-escape, a scowl on her face. “You’ll not only need knowledge, but shoes and food, at the very least. I’m Margaret Turrow, by the way.”
    Isabel kept the sharp pick extended when the woman approached her, her hand extended in greeting. When Margaret saw she wasn’t going to accept her handshake, she shrugged.
    “Who is Lord Delraven?” Isabel demanded.
    “Blaise Sevliss. He is the master of Sanctuary.”
    “The black-haired man? The one who keeps me prisoner here?” Isabel asked. Intuitively, the idea of the man on the