by Anne Stuart
“You mean you didn’t come in search of me, Elizabeth? I’m wounded. And don’t bother telling me I can’t call you Elizabeth—it would be a waste of time. I’ll call you anything I please. I think I might prefer something a little more endearing. You’re far too much of a starched-up creature as it is. I don’t quite fancy you as a Beth. And Eliza sounds a bit too proper as well. I think I’ll call you Lizzie.”
She allowed herself the luxury of glaring at him. “No one calls me Lizzie,” she said sternly. Trying to ignore the fact that the last time she’d seen him she’d been scantily clad and barefoot.
“No one but yourself. I heard you off in the woods, muttering beneath your breath. Does Sir Richard know you talk to yourself? He might think twice about having such an odd influence on his darling daughter.”
“I’m unlikely to influence Jane.”
“Jane is not his darling daughter. He dislikes her almost as much as he hates me. I meant the perfect little Edwina.”
“Edwina has no use for me. Neither does Edward.”
“Ah,” said Gabriel. “My esteem for you rises proportionately.”
“Does no one in your family care for another?” she demanded, horrified. Even though she had shamed her father, stepmother, and five brothers, she had no doubt of their unconditional love.
“Oh, to be sure,” he said airily. “Sir Richard and Lady Elinor dote on the twins. The twins are devoted to themselves and passably fond of their parents. And Jane and I have a strong alliance against the pack of them, along with a dedication to watching out for each other.”
She shook her head, feeling the treacherous tangle of hair begin to come loose once again. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
“You weren’t meant to, Lizzie. You’d best be keeping your distance from all of us, and keeping out of these woods. You spend far too much time lost in them. This is only your second day here.”
“I would do just that, if I could simply find my way home,” she said with some asperity. “If you’ll show me the way back to Hernewood Manor, I would be most grateful. And then you could see about having someone retrieve the deer. It’s been a long winter, and there’s a good deal of venison. It would be wicked to have it go to waste.”
“No one will eat that deer, Lizzie. Any more than they would touch any of the creatures found dead in these woods.”
“And why not?”
His smile was cool and annoying. “That comes under the topic of things you’re better off’ not knowing.” He glanced down at the dead deer. “I’ll probably bury it once I see you safely back to Hernewood Manor.”
“I don’t need company. I just need directions.”
“You’ll get lost. These woods are not for the unwary.” He held out his hand, and once again Elizabeth marveled at the elegant beauty of him. But she made no move to take it.
“I can . . .”
“You can be tiresome, Lizzie,” he supplied. “There’s a storm coming, and while a good soaking might wash some of the blood from that monumentally ugly dress, it won’t serve your health any good. Come along and stop arguing.”
“I’m not afraid of the woods.”
“You should be. These have changed over the last few months; it will take time and care to exorcise the evil. Only the abbey ruins are still relatively safe.”
She stared at him. “How do I know I can trust you?”
He sighed. “You don’t. But don’t you think someone would have warned you about me if I were truly dangerous?”
“They did. They told me to beware the Dark Man. I gather that’s you.”
He looked amused. “You didn’t listen to the warnings though, did you? The first night you’re here, you go racing into the woods, looking for trouble. And you seem so prim and proper, so completely dutiful. Does your father the reverend know just how willful you are beneath that stern bosom?”
“Why do you think he sent me up here?” she countered, refusing to think about how oddly comfortable it felt to be talking so freely with a stranger. Standing in the midst of the forest, her outrageous hair loose about her, her clothes ripped and bloodstained, it seemed ridiculous to be formal. Besides, he didn’t seem like a stranger.
“Were you undutiful?”
“Only in refusing to . . .” She stopped belatedly cursing her wagging tongue.
“Only in refusing to what? Did he want you to marry some boring young man?”
She stared at him in amazement. “How did you know?”
“It’s logical. You’re young and quite pretty and a little past the age of marrying. Obviously he’d be trying to get you properly settled.”
Elizabeth wasn’t certain whether she should be gratified by the “quite pretty” or incensed about the reference to her advanced age. “Obviously,” she said in a stiff voice. “Though he wasn’t a boring young man—he was a lecher.”
He laughed, and the sound was disturbing in a not altogether unpleasant way. “Lizzie, my pet, there’s a lot to be said for lechery. I wish I were in a position to show you.”
“I’d prefer to use my imagination,” she said.
“And you’ve got an active one, haven’t you?” The soft breeze had stiffened, sending gusts of leaves whirling at her feet. “Why don’t we imagine you homeward? Hernewood Forest is no place for a young lady. And I’m not fit company, as anyone would be happy to tell you.”
He started down one of the paths with a surety she had to admire, and she followed him, skipping slightly to catch up. “I thought you were in holy orders,” she said. “Surely that would make you fit company.”
“I’m defrocked, my pet, For my sins of the flesh. I was never made for celibacy, I’m afraid, and my abbot knew it. I didn’t even get to take my final vows—I was booted from the monastery for casting lascivious eyes at a merchant’s daughter. It served its purpose, however. The Durhams were able to reject me with impunity, and while I’m still Sir Richard’s putative heir, I am thankfully free of any claim they might have upon me.”
“Then why are you here?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Because this is my home. I belong to this place, to these people. Sir Richard doesn’t own Hernewood Forest and the abbey ruins. He owns nothing but the manor house and the surrounding gardens. I own everything else, including a ramshackle estate on the northern boundary of Hernewood. Needless to say Sir Richard isn’t best pleased with the situation.”
“But how could that be?” She was struggling to keep up with him. He was tall with very long legs, and he seemed to know his way through the torturous paths with absolute certainty. “I’ve always assumed that people’s inheritances come from their parents . . .”
“Use your deductive reasoning, love.”
“He’s not your real father.”
“Exactly. Though he’s sensible enough not to announce it to the world. Sir Richard has made his choices in this life, and he’s had to live with them. There’s a saying—‘when you sup with the devil you’d best use a long spoon.’ Sir Richard wasn’t so wise when he was younger.”
The path had widened, and she caught up with him, slightly breathless from the determined pace he was setting. “Why are you telling me this?”
He paused, glancing down at her. “Sheer perversity, I suppose. I wouldn’t want you making the dire mistake of taking Sir Richard at face value. He’s a bitter, frustrated old man, and as such, he can be quite unexpectedly dangerous.”
“Why would you care? Whether or not I take him at face value, that is.”
His mouth quirked up at one side. “Perhaps I have a weakness for redheaded sprites who wander my woods at odd times of the day and night.”
She was spared the necessity of answering. Lightning sizzled through the sky, followed far too quickly by a crack of thunder that seemed to shake the tre
es around them, and she let out a stifled shriek.
“Afraid of lightning?” he asked her.
“Not particularly.”
“You should be, particularly when you’re in the woods. Lightning tends to seek out high points, and there are plenty of tall trees around us.” He glanced ahead of him, a frustrated expression on his face. “I don’t think we have time to make it back to the manor.”
“I can’t imagine there’s a suitable alternative.” It had begun to spit rain, a cold, wet mist that immediately soaked through her torn clothing.
“Suitable or not, it might save your life.” He took her hand in his, and his grasp was strong, firm, warm. Unnerving. Before she could do more than choke out a token protest he was half-leading, half-dragging her through the woods, deeper along a narrow path instead of following the steadily widening one that instinct told her led to Hernewood Manor.
“I’m not going with you,” she said, pulling back. Nature chose that moment to be particularly spiteful, sending another bolt of lightning sizzling through the thickening rain, and Gabriel turned on her, and for the first time she understood the phrase, the Dark Man.
“I may be a conscienceless bastard, but I’m not going to leave you out in the woods during a thunderstorm,” he said ruthlessly. “Come along peaceably, or I’ll carry you. And if you struggle too much, I won’t have any qualms about knocking you out. Anyone will tell you I’m not much concerned with the niceties of polite behavior.”
Her eyes widened. He looked as if he’d do just that—pick her up and carry her, or even knock her senseless if she put up too much of a fight. He didn’t bother to wait for her assent, he simply turned and continued hauling her through the dark tunnel of the woodland path, ignoring the rain that chose that moment to drench them.
She could barely keep up with his wild pace, and she slid in the mud, going down hard. He didn’t release her hand, he simply hauled her back upright and continued onward, dragging her behind him. The storm was thundering around them with a fury, and she could barely see in the unnatural darkness. All she had was his warm, strong hand, leading her to safety, and she gave up fighting, following him blindly.
He stopped without warning, and she tumbled against him. He put his arms around her and pulled her into darkness, into safe, warm, dry darkness, like a cave. He leaned back, pulling her wet, shivering body against his, holding her there in the musty gloom, and outside the storm raged around them with a fierce power.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, safe in the shelter of his arms. He was warm and strong, his heart beat steadily against hers, and it took her long moments to realize the utter and complete impropriety of the situation. It still wasn’t enough to make her break free of him. Even when he muttered “Lizzie” under his breath, and put his strong hand under her chin, tilting her face upward, so that he could kiss her properly.
She’d never been kissed by a man, and she’d been too dazed to realize that was what he’d had in mind. One moment she was peering up at him in the darkness, the next his mouth was pressed against hers, and her eyes were closed as she savored the new experience.
It was dangerously pleasant, she decided. The firm pressure of his lips against hers, the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her. It was no wonder she had always been cautioned against such lascivious delights. One could become dangerously accustomed to the habit of kissing.
He lifted his head, and even in the darkness she could see the faint sheen of amusement in his beautiful eyes. “You kiss like a nun, Lizzie. Haven’t you ever let anyone near that luscious mouth of yours? I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you.”
She didn’t know what shocked her more. She grasped for the first thing. “A nun? When did you kiss a nun?” she gasped.
“On more than one occasion,” he replied, and she realized he still cupped her face with one hand, and his fingers were slowly stroking the side of her chin. “Open your mouth, Lizzie.”
“Why?”
“So you can learn to kiss properly.”
She thought he’d been holding her closely. She’d been mistaken. This time he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his body, so that she could feel the warmth of his skin through the damp cloth of his shirt, feel the hardness of his thighs through her wetly clinging skirts. She glared up at him mutely, but it was too dark for him to see her disapproval, and her hands pressed against his chest seemed to have little effect.
This time his mouth was open against hers, and she would have recoiled in shock if he weren’t holding her so tightly. She tried to squirm, but it only brought her closer still to him, and he was inexorable.
“Don’t panic, Lizzie,” he whispered against her mouth. “It’s only a kiss. I’m not stealing your soul.”
She let out a faint sound of protest, and it gave him the advantage he needed. Cradling her head in his elegant hands, he tipped her face back to give him better access and proceeded to kiss her with a thoroughness that left her heart racing and her knees week. He used his lips, his teeth, his tongue, in ways that had to be thoroughly indecent, and she could only stand there, trapped against his body, and let him do it. And tell herself the hot dizziness that swept over her body was simple disgust, not a warm, treacherous delight.
He released her, slowly, released her mouth, released her body, to let her come up against what felt like a curved stone wall of some kind of tower. She leaned back, shivering, breathless, terribly afraid he might kiss her again. And that this time she might try kissing him back.
“That was a slight improvement,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to come upstairs and strip off your clothes for me?”
She should have slapped him for that, but she was still too shaken to do more than stand there in the cushioning darkness. Besides, it was dark enough that she couldn’t be sure of her aim.
“I suppose it would be foolishly optimistic of me to take your silence for agreement,” he added. “Why don’t you come upstairs, and I’ll have Peter make us a nice warming cup of tea while we wait for the storm to pass? Or better yet, I could ply you with French brandy and see whether I could change your mind.”
“Why are you doing this?” she somehow found the courage to demand.
“I would think it would be obvious. You’re young and female and quite luscious, and as I said, I have a weakness for redheads who roam my woods. And what else is there to do on a rainy afternoon?”
“But try to despoil your father’s houseguests?” she supplied, gathering strength. “That’s it, isn’t it? Your dislike of Sir Richard runs so deep you’d do anything to shame him, including ruining a young woman under his protection.”
“Oh, I’d hardly call it ruin,” he replied. “I think you’d enjoy it immensely, if I could get you to relax. The brandy would do the trick quite nicely, I would think.”
“No, thank you. I have no interest in illicit passion.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he murmured. “And I suspect you aren’t going to let me show you. At least not now, more’s the pity.”
“I’m far more sensible than you think.” She didn’t know what to call him. She would die before she called him by his given name, but given his odd background she had no idea what his family name or title was.
“Unfortunately so,” he said, and if there was a trace of amusement in his voice, she chose to ignore it. “Come upstairs with me, Lizzie, and you can wait out the storm in virgin safety. I promise you. On my honor.”
“Do you have any honor?”
“My own brand, certainly. Besides, I can hear Peter up there. He’ll provide an admirable chaperon. He’s spent most of life trying to keep me out of trouble. You’ll be as safe as you would be in your own bed.”
It was too dark to see his face, but she could hear the irony in his voic
e. If she had any sense, she would stay put, not go anywhere further with him.
She did have sense, her fair share of it, but she also had instincts. If he promised he wouldn’t touch her again, then she could believe him
“A cup of tea would be very welcome,” she said in a small voice.
“Trusting soul, aren’t you?” he mocked her.
“On occasion.”
“Give me your hand, Lizzie, and I’ll lead you to my lair.”
She couldn’t very well stumble after him in the dark. She’d made the choice to trust him—it would be foolish to hold back now.
She put her hand in his, once more feeling that odd tingle that sent a strange, clenching feeling to the pit of her stomach. “Good girl,” he murmured.
And she hoped to heaven that he kept that in mind.
Chapter Six
SHE FOLLOWED HIM, in the dark, up the seemingly endless, winding stone steps of the tower. Outside the rain lashed against the walls, and thunder still rumbled at an encouraging distance. Inside, her hand was caught in his, and all the universe seemed to center on that small bit of conjoined flesh.
He pushed the door open, and light and warmth washed over her. She squinted in the sudden brightness then swayed dangerously as she realized just how high up they were.
“There you are, Gabriel,” came a man’s rough voice. “Your sister and her cousin have gone missing, and God knows what kind of trouble Jane’s gotten herself into in this kind of storm. It’s up to you to beat some sense into the girl—her father doesn’t care a fig about her, and it’s not my place to warn her.”
“Jane doesn’t listen to me, Peter. You know that,” Gabriel said calmly. He was standing in the doorway, his tall body hiding Elizabeth.
“She’ll listen to you more than she’ll listen to anyone else. I don’t want some flighty southern miss leading her into trouble . . .”
