by Anne Stuart
“She might just as well take the footpath,” Brother Septimus said reluctantly. “Gabriel did.”
“But what if he’s . . . he’s forgotten himself, brother?” Brother Paul asked in a worried voice. “What if she goes to him for help and he’s in the midst of some sort of drunken revelry?”
“We can only pray,” Septimus murmured. He moved closer, and Lizzie noticed with fascination that he didn’t seem to quite touch the ground, but instead floated a few inches off it, the hem of his robe swinging slightly in the air. “Brother Paul will see you to the edge of the grounds. You should be able to find your way from there. In the meantime I’ll see if I can find what happened to dear Jane. She’s a good, properly behaved girl—I’d hate to think that evil might befall her.” His tone of voice seemed to leave doubts as to Lizzie’s essential goodness and proper behavior, but she decided she was being too sensitive. She should hardly be offended by the disapproval of a ghost.
Following Brother Paul’s sturdy form down the curving steps was a great deal easier than feeling her way up in the dark. There seemed a faint, comforting glow to his pale robes, and she moved with confidence.
The wind had picked up, tossing the leaves overhead, and she wrapped her shawl more tightly around her as she followed Brother Paul down a winding path along the hedgerow, then up into a broad field. He halted at the low stone wall that bisected it, and in the moonlight his pale face looked both faintly transparent and doleful.
“I wish I could accompany you, my dear,” he said. “But we’re doomed to remain on abbey grounds.”
‘Why? Was it some sin you committed?” she asked, knowing she shouldn’t take the time to ask such pointless questions.
“Sin? Heavens, no. I expect Brother Septimus is almost entirely without sin, if you don’t count his pride. And his habit of passing judgment on all and sundry. And his annoying little habit of . . .” Brother Paul stopped himself abruptly. “Well, who amongst us is without sin? We were no worse than some and better than most. It’s not for us to say why we’re here, but simply to do our duty. I don’t expect you’ll see us when you return.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not certain. I›m astonished you were able to see and hear us in the first place. Most people can’t. Gabriel was the first one to talk to us in more than a hundred years. Trust me, one hundred years with only Brother Septimus to converse with can be very wearing.”
“I can imagine.”
“Follow this path for two more fields, turn right at the stile, and continue on past the rocks. Be careful there—the ledge is steep and more than one stray lamb has fallen to its death. Arundel is just beyond. You’ll recognize it—it was once part of the abbey grounds until it fell upon wicked times. They didn’t tear it down as they did our holy house. They simply converted it to heathen use. Nothing compared to the wickedness that goes on now, mind you. I’ll pray for your safe return.”
“And Jane’s,” Lizzie said.
“Of course, Jane’s.” He made the sign of the cross then touched her lightly on the forehead in a blessing. She felt nothing but a faint draft of air. “Go along now, child. And God go with you.”
And a moment later he had vanished, and Lizzie was alone in the moonlight at the edge of a deserted field.
JANE USED TO dream that Peter would come to her in her sleep. That she’d open her eyes, and he’d be standing by her bed, looking down at her, and she would only have to hold out her hand and he would come to her, beneath the layers of warm covers.
She couldn’t remember how young she’d been when she’d first dreamt it. Shockingly young. Plain, oversize Jane Durham had fallen desperately in love with Peter when she was eleven years old, and nothing had changed her hopeless passion or devotion. At least he didn’t know. And at least she could daydream and night dream, touch him and see him and speak to him as she longed to do, without him ever knowing her shameful longing.
She opened her eyes, and he was there, illuminated by the fire, and she almost held out her hand, smiling at him when he spoke, shattering the illusion.
“Penelope’s gone into labor,” he said in rough voice. “I knew you’d want to be there.”
Jane didn’t even hesitate. She threw back the covers, leaping from her bed, oblivious to the thin nightdress she was wearing, oblivious to her bare feet and dishabille. All that mattered was her beloved mare. She headed for the door, but Peter stopped her, catching her about the waist as he had when they were children, young and innocent, and hauling her back.
“It’s chilly out there,” he said. “You can’t go out like that. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.”
“No! Get back to Penelope. I’ll be down there as quickly as I can,” she said, ripping at the row of tiny buttons that traveled up to her throat.
Peter turned away, his gesture a shocking reminder that she was stripping her clothes in front of him. “If you haven’t got warm clothes and shoes, I’ll bring you back and leave Penelope alone,” he warned her.
“Get back to her. I promise I’ll dress warmly.”
Her hands were shaking as she threw off her clothes, even before he’d closed the door behind him. She only bothered with the bare minimum of covering—a chemise, an ancient wool dress, heavy stockings and leather slippers, before she raced after him, almost slipping on the narrow servants’ staircase. The night air was cool and crisp, the three-quarter moon bright in the sky, and Jane didn’t bother with a lamp. She knew her way to the stables, to Penelope’s stall, blindfolded, and she couldn’t be bothered to waste the time searching.
Penelope was down, her swollen sides heaving, her head thrashing in misery. Peter was on his knees in the straw beside her, and he glanced up at Jane briefly, as if to assure himself that she was properly dressed. He was only in shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back to reveal his strong forearms, and Jane felt a little shiver of apprehension as she knelt beside him.
“She’s not going to die, is she?” she whispered. Afraid of the answer, knowing she could count on Peter for the truth.
“Of course not,” he said, putting gentle hands on Penelope’s swollen belly. “She’s having a hard time of it, but she’ll pull through, and the foal as well.”
“I should never have bred her,” Jane said miserably.
“Don’t be punishing yourself, lass,” Peter said sternly. “It’s a risk any horse owner has to take. And there’s no need to give up hope yet. She’s got a good, strong heart. She’ll be fine. She’s a fighter, she is. Just like her mistress.”
But Jane was beyond comfort. All she could do was kneel beside Peter in the fitful light of the lantern he’d hung on the side of the stall and watch and pray.
She’d watched a dozen colts being born, watched mares die in the process and wept for them, but never had she felt so acutely to blame, so certain disaster was the only possible outcome. She didn’t have much that she could call her own, but Penelope was hers, and no one else’s, and it had been her choice to have her bred. It didn’t matter that Peter had told her she was strong enough to withstand the rigors. It was still Jane’s fault and Jane’s alone. She knelt in the straw with Peter by her side and wept slow, hot tears.
“There’s no need to be grieving so soon, lass,” Peter said grimly. “She’s not giving up yet, and neither should you.”
Jane shook her head. “She’s going to die. I know it. She’s the only creature who’ll let me love her, and she’ll die, and I’ll be alone.”
“You won’t be alone, lass,” he said. “Your brother’ll be there for you. You can trust Gabriel.”
She looked up at him in the lamplight, not bothering to wipe away the tears that ran down her face. This was the second time he’d seen her crying in as many days, but she was past caring. She wanted to tell him how stupid he was, how blind and stupid and careless with her tender heart. It d
idn’t matter so much that he didn’t want her, but did he have to be so completely blind to what she was feeling?
She shook her head, closing her eyes in despair. “You don’t understand, Peter,” she whispered. “And maybe it’s better that way.”
He started to say something, then stopped, and she was just as glad. His presence was the only comfort he would offer—any words would be as empty as his heart.
He cared for her, she knew it full well. Cared for her as he cared for the horses in his charge, the stable cat with her ceaseless litters of kittens, the elderly spaniel that trotted after him in hopes of a treat or a sign of affection. She was just like that spaniel, and it could only be a blessing that he hadn’t noticed how needy she was.
How much she loved him.
“It’s going to be a while yet, Miss,” he said, and she could have hit him for that wretched “miss.” “Why don’t you go back to your room, and I’ll call you . . .”
“No!” she said fiercely, suddenly angry. “I’m not leaving her side. I don’t care if it takes all night. She’s not going to die without me beside her.”
“Jane, she’s not going to die,” he said patiently.
“Can you promise me that?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he said slowly.
The truth of it broke her heart. “I know,” she said in a hushed voice. She moved away from him, over to the side of the stall. “I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. But I need to be here. Please, Peter.”
If he called her “miss” again she would scream. But he didn’t. He simply nodded, and she curled up in the straw, leaning against the stall and closing her eyes in sudden exhaustion. Penelope was still for the moment, resting, and Jane took that moment to rest as well. She could hear Peter moving around, and a moment later something warm covered her. For a moment she thought it might be a blanket, and then she realized it smelled like Peter, like fresh air and sunlight and horses and leather. He’d wrapped his coat around her, cradling her like a baby, and she knew she should throw it off, refuse the comfort it gave her.
But she couldn’t do it. She huddled down beneath the enveloping folds and pretended it was Peter’s arms wrapped around her, the warmth of Peter’s body cradling hers. She took a deep, comforting breath and slept, in the straw, with Peter watching over her mare.
Chapter Seventeen
THERE WAS SOMETHING essentially tedious about an orgy, Gabriel decided long hours later. Not that this was a new revelation for him—he’d given up on orgies during his sojourn in London. They tended to have a distressing sameness about them, and while everyone assured each other that they were having a magnificent time, there always seemed to be an edge of desperation to the proceedings.
Besides, it was hard to keep track of body parts if there was more than one involved. He’d learned, to his regret, that sex was far more enjoyable if you actually cared about your partner. And since he was doing his absolute best to care about no one, with the possible exception of Peter and his sister, then celibacy had been the obvious choice. Nights like these were not causing him to regret his decision.
There was one benefit to all this—Delilah Chilton was somewhere in one of the many tangles of bodies, being happily serviced by a number of men. If she hadn’t forgotten about him entirely, she’d at least managed to be thoroughly distracted, which was a small blessing. If only Francis decided to join in, then Gabriel would be able to escape and take himself back home to a blessedly empty bed and at least a few hours of much-needed sleep.
But Francis sat beside him in the embrasure, removed from the action but calmly observing, matching him drink for drink with one of the best clarets Gabriel had enjoyed since he’d left London, and it seemed as if he were prepared to spend the entire night doing just that.
If he had to spend another ten minutes, Gabriel thought, he might very well strangle his host. “This is getting redundant, don’t you think?” he murmured, desperate for distraction. “Would you care for a game of cards?”
Francis smiled. “I thought you would never ask, dear boy. Unless, of course, you’d rather we had a bit of privacy . . .”
“Francis, your attractions are formidable but, alas, not my taste. A hand or two of piquet would be sufficient, and then I really should make my way back home.”
“To that tower in the woods? Really, Gabriel, if you must live in the wilds of Yorkshire, why not simply move in with us? I dare say it’s much more comfortable, and you know we’d welcome your presence among us.”
“I prefer my solitude.”
“Ah, solitude,” murmured Francis. “Not one of my particular vices, I’m afraid. Let’s adjourn to the green room. We may even find a few hardy gamesters still at it. Though I think I’d prefer to play one on one. The stakes can be so much more interesting.”
At least the green room was blessedly free of copulation. The servants had been dismissed or brought into play long ago, and Francis carried the wine himself, stepping over entangled couples with mincing delicacy. The green room was stuffy, but at least the odor of sweat and perfume was less strong. Gabriel looked longingly at the leaded casement windows before taking his seat at the baize table.
“I warn you, I’m very good at cards,” Francis murmured.
“I tremble to hear it. I have a bit of skill myself.”
“Then we’re well matched. Haven’t I always said so?” Francis purred. He dealt swiftly, the cards rippling through his pale fingers.
“And what are we wagering?” Gabriel inquired in his most casual voice. Not for one moment did he think Francis was simply interested in cards. There would be another reason, a darker one, behind this.
“Let’s play a hand or two and see how things go.”
Gabriel nodded, taking another sip of wine. He had a hard head, but then, so did Francis. He could drink all evening and not be impaired, but he needed more than simple competence. He needed all his wits about him. He couldn’t rid himself of the notion that he was playing cards with the devil, and his very soul was at stake.
Francis won the first hand, quite easily, since Gabriel was more interested in observing his style than in winning a wagerless game. Gabriel took the second one, though only by a small margin. The third hand he gave to Francis, though he made certain not to lose too badly. Francis would know he was clever enough not to make mistakes, and he didn’t want the other man to realize that Gabriel had every intention of winning.
“Very well. What shall we wager? Would you care for a night in bed with my wife?” Francis suggested lazily.
“I think not. We can start with money and go from there.”
“Tame,” Francis murmured, his pale, colorless eyes alight with mischief. “But as you will. We’ll start with a pound a point and move from there. You’re quite able to cover your bets?”
“Quite,” said Gabriel. Somewhere in the distance a clock struck four, and he stifled a yawn. This was an interminably long night, but something could still be salvaged from it. He assumed, perhaps wrongly, that he could trust Francis’s code of honor—if he won some concession from him, then Francis would honor it. But if Francis knew his vulnerabilities, there would be other ways to attack him. He had to be very careful indeed. “A pound a point,” he agreed. “We’ll get to the more important wagers later.”
ELIZABETH COULDN’T resist temptation. At the top of the hill she slipped off her shoes and stockings, wiggling her bare toes into the cool, damp earth. She couldn’t remove more than that, even though the tight neckline of her wool dress was binding, but at least she could move more swiftly along the narrow paths without her slippers.
She could see the lights from Arundel in the distance. She’d lost all track of time, but apparently the merrymakers in residence paid no heed to normal hours of sleeping and waking. Their revelry was in full force even as the moon began to slip toward th
e horizon, plunging the night into unrelieved darkness.
She kept her mind a determined blank. She couldn’t think about chatty ghosts or decadent Londoners or Gabriel’s mouth or slaughtered animals. She had to concentrate on finding Jane, and none of the rest of it mattered.
The walls surrounding the Chiltons’ hired estate were high, yet a door swung wide in the middle of it, one blessed piece of luck. Lizzie moved through it, leaving her shoes and stockings in a neat pile by the entrance. She couldn’t afford to take the time to put them on again, and at this late hour no one would notice her feet. She could always simply bend her knees slightly to cover them.
She moved toward the house, following a pathway that led along the gardens until she came to a gate. She unlatched it with no great difficulty and pushed through, heading across a refuse-strewn courtyard that led directly up to the house.
She heard the rumble from a distance, and for a moment she thought it might be thunder. The sky was clear overhead, still lit by the setting moon, but the growling increased, and she placed an inquiring hand on her stomach, but despite her anxiety it was still. The growling grew deeper, more fierce, and she looked up to see at least three pairs of eyes glowing red in the fitful moonlight.
They moved toward her, slowly, three huge beasts, their massive paws clicking on the cobblestones, their huge jaws wide, the deep, warning sounds from their chests enough to terrify the bravest soul. They were some kind of mastiff, obviously guard dogs, and more than ready to attack.
As she looked about her she could now see scattered animal bones that the dogs had discarded, but they still looked very thin, very strong, very hungry. She wasn’t that large—she’d provide no more than a snack for them.
