It was so cold that breath hung as mist in the freezing air. Star’s snorting gasps looked like the smoke trailing from a dragon’s nostril.
“Not far now. I shall order a hot meal to be prepared for you on our arrival,” he reassured her.
She merely inclined her head in acknowledgement.
He frowned. Who on earth was this mysterious woman? It would be the first thing he would ask her once they were back at the house. He caught an imperceptible whiff of her elusive scent, and an overwhelming sense of familiarity once again engulfed him. Thoroughly unsettled, he shifted his knees, urging Star to move faster. He wanted to get this perplexing female home so he could interrogate her properly.
On their arrival his housekeeper, Mrs. Berry, took immediate charge of the unexpected guest. She allocated a bed chamber for the lady whilst a truckle bed was placed at the foot of the bed for the maid’s use. Mrs. Berry then left them both to settle into her chambers and went to speak with cook. She ordered cook to prepare a simple luncheon of hot soup, buttered bread, and a sweet flummery, to be prepared and served in the breakfast room, where a warm fire still blazed.
Gabriel left the widow in his staff’s capable hands and rode around to the back of the house to the stables. He arranged for help to be sent out to aid the coach driver with mending the carriage wheel. Then, cantering back to the coach, he collected the shivering maid. She appeared terrified by both horse and rider, testing Gabriel’s patience to the limit. He picked up her quivering form, and despite her fearful squeals, he rode back to the house, holding her weeping form secure in front of him. He dismounted and lifted her down; she muttered her gratitude and fled inside the house. He walked Star around to the stables, treading carefully in the settled snow. For once not attending to his horse himself, he left strict instructions for Star’s care with the head groom. He wanted to get back quickly to uncover the lady’s identity and her puzzling arrival.
Mid-December was not the usual time for acquaintances to call, let alone strangers. Yuletide was a time for family and close friends. Celebrations were only two weeks hence. Who on earth was this unknown woman?
Chapter 4
Angele made her way down through the familiar passages of her old home in nervous anticipation. She had forgotten how Gabriel could swamp her senses with his presence. After five years of pining and missing her beloved, it was incredibly disconcerting to come face to face with the reality of him. She’d discovered that her heart was totally unprepared for the physicality of the man. Overwhelmingly, she’d wanted to throw herself into his arms, to press her mouth against his as it had pursed into a line of obvious disapproval at her arrival. How well she knew him and the contours of his masculine body. She drew her mind back from images long suppressed, knowing that way would lead only to heartbreak.
She recalled the ride from the stranded coach through the snowy landscape whilst clasped securely within his arms as he’d controlled the mighty beast beneath them. It was everything and more that she had dreamed of for the past five years. Seeing Michaelmas Hall again, a place where she had always felt she belonged and had looked upon as home, created bittersweet pangs of misery.
Tears stung her eyes. She’d thought for Christopher’s sake that she could do this, but meeting Gabriel again, facing the reality of his physicality, breathing in his scent, being together in this magical place, where for a few blissful years they had spent so many happy hours together. It was almost her undoing, yet at the same time it felt quite wondrous.
Gabriel, her soul mate, had held her in his embrace. At that precise moment, she’d desperately wanted him to continue riding onwards, enfolded in his arms forever. Her despair thrummed, mixed confusingly with hope.
When he had lifted her from the horse’s back, he had held her against him, staring down at her, attempting to meet her eyes through the thick gauze of her veil. It had taken every ounce of her self-control not to cling to him or cry out her love for him. After he’d set her carefully on her feet, she’d hurried into the house, deliberately not turning to look around, even though she could feel his gaze burning into her back.
As Angele walked about her former home, she reminded herself that she had to remain strong for Christopher’s sake. He was but a child, one who had been created out of their love for one another. He was entitled to his place in English society, a world to which she could never return. Stopping, she placed her hand on her diaphragm and took a deep, fortifying breath. Stiffening her spine, she reminded herself not to weaken when Gabriel was near. She conjured the image of her son’s sweet face, holding his visage as a shield against her ragged emotions. With a huge effort of willpower, she summoned her composure and grew calmer. Finally satisfied she could face Gabriel, she continued determinedly on her way.
Trepidation flooded through her as he entered the salon. She had enjoyed her simple luncheon and was about to rise from the table at the very moment he arrived.
“Your servant, madam?” Instead of a statement, had Gabriel posed a question.
She understood his meaning and did not hesitate to explain.
“Yes, I am married, my lord. I am in actual fact your cousin-in-law, Marie, the Countess of Maccia, your deceased wife’s first cousin. Our fathers were brothers.” She watched as enlightenment dawned.
“Ah, I thought you seemed familiar to me,” he stated, seeming relieved for some reason. Had he perhaps worried that she had returned to haunt him from the grave?
She pondered her melancholy thought, then realised that he was talking, and she had missed the entire meaning of the conversation with her wool-gathering.
“So you are in mourning?” he asked.
She understood that he had been asking about her widow’s apparel. Pausing to collect her thoughts, she decided she could tell him most of the truth without giving herself away.
“I went to my uncle’s bedside to be with him at his end. I was there when the Parisian mob arrived. I received a terrible wound to my face and fell unconscious beneath the bodies of my slain cousins. I have worn mourning and a veil to hide my disfigurement ever since that fateful day.”
Hesitating to continue, because how could she have produced an heir if she was already dead? Perhaps he would ask no awkward questions. Angele realised she was wrong as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Tell me all that occurred on that day. Did you see my Angele struck down?” he asked earnestly.
At first she shook her head but then sighed and nodded. As his forehead creased, she recalled how much he disliked to be lied to. Her body flushed and grew warm with her recollection of the first time she’d told him an untruth.
It had been a month after their marriage. She had taken her horse and ridden at dawn, alone, without the hindering presence of a chaperoning groom. She still did not know how he had discovered that she’d disobeyed him but she had heaped further fuel onto the fire by lying to him about an escort. Gabriel had reacted with swift retaliation. She’d found herself facedown over his lap in double-quick time, her riding skirt hitched clear. His hand pounded a salutary lesson upon her vulnerable derriere. Angele had quickly learned that when it came to his estate there was little that escaped Gabriel’s attention.
A wave of nostalgic longing swept over her. She fought her yearning by again conjuring an image of Christopher. Her body betrayed her, even as she resisted her aching heart. Slickness seeped from her secret core, and she was grateful for her veil because she knew her face was filled with heat.
With enormous effort, she channelled her thoughts back to the present.
“Were you there or not?” he snapped impatiently.
She nodded. “I fell at the first strike and lay unconscious. I awoke later lying beneath Angele’s younger sister, Orleanna. I-I did not come to until after the marauders were long gone. Orleanna and her mother were dead. Thankfully my uncle had died only that morning and so avoided the horror and distress.”
Gabriel leaned in towards her, his gaze intense.
“D
id my Angele suffer?” he asked, his voice ragged.
“My lord, I…”
“Do not be concerned for my feelings; I will cope with whatever you have to tell me, but I must know the truth of her end. It haunts me day and night that I was not there to protect her. Tell me, madam, I beg of you. Tell me the truth of my beloved wife’s last moments.”
A lump formed in her throat at his obvious suffering. It had been a mistake to come here. How could she have thought she could do this? Shuddering with emotion, Angele fiercely held on to the image of Christopher in her mind. She had to do this for him. Haltingly, she began to tell Gabriel a mishmash of the truth.
“You…you must be brave, my lord,” she implored.
He nodded, eyes unblinking, focused on her as he waited expectantly.
“You see, Angele did not die immediately.”
Gabriel made a strangled noise in his throat. She froze. He gathered himself and gestured for her to continue. She gulped, wetting her lips.
“I, we, that is the count and I, took her to our villa in Italy, along with the bodies of her family. They are all buried together in the Maccia family mausoleum.”
She paused, shocked to see him cover his face with his hands, in a very un-English show of obvious misery.
“Go on,” he muttered through his fingers.
“I…Angele recovered and lived for n-nine m-months,” she whispered.
His hands fell away from his face. He regarded her with a piercing gaze. “What?”
“I…she gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, your son, Christopher.”
Blood drained rapidly from his face, leaving him ashen.
Leaping to her feet, she rushed to his side. “My lord, should I call for assistance?”
His arm shot out, and he gripped her wrist. She squealed with shock.
“Just tell me, are they both alive?” he growled.
She hesitated. Here was her chance to explain all, to tell the truth, to reclaim the love of her life.
She looked into his pale, anguished face, his beloved face, so beautifully chiselled, handsome, his rich sable hair, which her hands itched to thread her fingers through. His dark expressive eyes spoke to her soul, touching her heart, his square chin resolute, especially when she’d aroused his ire. How could she condemn her husband to a life with the damaged creature she’d become?
Sucking in a lungful of air and banishing all hope from her naïve heart, she resolved to stick with her plan to free him as he deserved. Her brother-in-law, the count, would never know of her duplicity, not living so far away in Italy. He would believe whatever she told him. Mary could be made to swear not to tell. With a deep breath, she threw away her final chance at happiness and lied.
“I am sorry to say that Angele died in childbirth, St. Nicholas, but happily your babe survived. Your son resides at Churchton, with your sister, even as we speak. I have travelled from Italy with him in order to return to you your rightful son and heir.”
He released her wrist and spun away from her. Gripping the bridge of his nose, he rapidly paced about the room, eventually coming to a halt before her.
“Why was I not informed that she still lived? I could have gone to her, brought her home. Why have you waited until now to tell me of this?” he asked his voice cracked and harsh.
She winced. “It was Angele’s choice. She was also scarred that day. She did not wish you to see her poor visage so changed and contorted in such a dreadful way. I don’t know what would have happened had she lived, but she died shortly after Christopher was born.”
“Christopher… She named him for my father? By Hades, I should have been there. My sweet and foolish wife… Did she not know I would have loved her even if they had left her with no face at all? Angele was my heart’s life-blood!” His voice cracked again. He spun away, once again hiding his face in his hands. “I am sorry, madam, but I need to be alone. We can talk of the child later, over dinner.”
“Christopher... Dear Lord, I have a son!”
Angele gaped after him. He stalked from the room, leaving her alone and shaken. She stumbled back onto her chair, feeling uncertain about everything she had said and done, wondering for the first time if she’d been mistaken over her decision to play dead.
Gabriel moved blindly through the house without destination. He simply continued ahead, not acknowledging any member of the household as he passed them by. Eventually he found himself outside and down by the frozen lake, where he’d swum often as a child. It had been a favourite haunt of Angele’s. Here, he had taught her to swim, an act unheard of among ladies of the aristocracy. He had not been back to this spot, to the site of so much happiness, since word of her death had reached him.
He breathed in the still, cold air, sharp and bracing. So, she had lived for nine months. Nine months in which he had nearly taken his own life, nine months of hell, and all the while she had still been living. He could have been with her, held her, and comforted her. If he had travelled to France to trace her whereabouts at that time, might he have saved her? Would she have remained alive? Hauntingly, the thought repeated over in his mind tormenting him like the insistent throb of toothache. Then came another thought, as powerful as the first. He had a son, a five-year-old son, so named for his father.
Christopher.
It was too much to take in all at once. His head felt like it might explode with the fullness of emotion. Suddenly he threw back his head and roared. The anguish and pain which poured from him was fully evident in the terrible shout that ripped from his throat, echoing strangely in the muffled landscape. For fully a minute, his entire being screamed with agony.
Finally exhausted, he fell to his knees, a sob caught in his throat. For the first time since the devastating news had reached him of his wife’s death, Gabriel wept healing tears of grief.
As he calmed, a small fluttering caught his peripheral vision. He dragged his cuff across his eyes. A robin had landed on a low holly branch beside him. Bird and man regarded one another for a fleeting moment before, with a flick of his tail the bird turned his back and hopped onto a branch laden with succulent red berries. Head tilted, the bird studied the fruit with a beady eye. Darting forward, he plucked the largest crimson berry from the middle of the scarlet cluster. Gabriel smiled as the cocky little bird took off with its trophy.
Taking a deep breath, Gabriel glanced about him. The clandestine snowfall had blanketed the parkland in a perfect crystalline carpet of twinkling white. He looked back towards the frozen lake, glinting blue in the winter sun. Nature had always brought balm to his soul. He relaxed and let his mind fall blank.
With a jolt he once again recalled that he had a son, a boy who would want to skate on this ice, just as he had done as a lad. He smiled for the first time since Marie had told him the truth of Angele’s passing.
Christopher.
He pondered the fact the count and countess had not returned his son to him after Angele’s death. There was something troubling him at the back of his mind, something about Marie. He recalled she and the count had been at their wedding and tried to bring to mind an image of the couple…but he could not remember either of them.
After he had lost the woman who had been the centre of his world, he had wondered how he still managed to live. After the initial shock had worn off, his traitorous body had craved sustenance, then, after a while, his libido had returned. It was the latter that had finally driven him to look for a bride. He knew he would never love another as he had loved Angele—they had surely been soul mates. He did not expect, nor want, to replace her, and so he had drawn up a list of qualities that he required in a wife. The purpose of marriage was to produce an heir, and he intended to beget sons whilst enjoying the process.
He did not wish for a demanding, cloying relationship. Visiting the ballrooms last season, he had finally narrowed down the available candidates to two young women of noble birth, both of whom appeared to be self contained, quietly biddable and pretty. His final decision was simply de
cided by the size of the two prospective debutantes’ assets—namely the size of their bosoms. He liked breasts, and so he made his choice based solely on lust. He chose the girl who sported the larger bust which was Lady Noelle Bellingham. For the life of him, he could not picture the girls face, even though he’d tried, and yet he recalled her décolletage quite clearly.
Shivering in the biting cold, he put all thoughts of his fiancée and Angele from his mind and refocused upon the present. He had a son, one whose arrival he needed to prepare for, along with a Yuletide celebration to arrange. This would be the best Christmastide since he’d lost his wife. It was as though she’d handed him this gift of their child from the grave, and he welcomed that precious gift with every fibre of his being.
Chapter 5
Angele was distressed. She couldn’t bear to see the wretched misery that had so distorted Gabriel’s handsome face. Where had he gone? Should she try to find him and offer comfort? She dithered, unsure of her role. She was no longer chatelaine of this glorious house, nor was she supposed to be his wife. Her deception, posing as her cousin Marie, meant she had to maintain her distance. If she behaved otherwise, Gabriel might become suspicious. He knew about his son now; she had fulfilled her obligation to both her men. Perhaps it was time she left to return and collect Christopher from Churchton? It was far too late in the day, though, to attempt the journey. Besides, the snow had put paid to any travel today. By the morning it may have subsided. She would wait until the morrow.
Returning to her chamber, she decided to take a much needed rest before dinner. She was exhausted both emotionally and physically from her arduous journey, an adventure that had begun three weeks previous. The emotional sentiment she’d experienced at seeing her husband again had drained her. What she required was a restorative nap.
She awoke to the comforting sound of song. Ivy moved around the chamber, carefully placing Angele’s belongings into chests and drawers. As she tidied, she sang a melody in a soft, lilting voice. A Christmas tale of three ships, one Angele had never heard before.
The Master Of Michaelmas Hall Page 3
