“I would,” he replied. “But what about your toe?”
Without thinking, he poked at the injured appendage, and the waif yelped in pain.
“Ach! I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean te—”
“I’m well enough,” she said, her voice wavering.
Thick tears formed in her eyes and streamed silently down her cheeks. Gabe’s stomach knotted. He felt awful for having caused her more pain.
He wanted to help, but didn’t know what to do, then an idea occurred to him. Picking up his conch shell, he held it out to her.
“Here,” he offered. “Have this.”
“Thank you!” Mary wiped at her tears with the back of her wrist. “What is it?”
“It’s a conch shell. My father gave it to me, but he’s given me other things, too. This one can be yours.”
He turned the pink shell over in his hands, and the waif’s eyes widened as she saw its opalescent interior.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “It’s treasure!”
Gabe laughed. “See, here?” He pointed at the tip. “You can blow in it, and it will make a loud noise.”
The lass pressed her mouth to the hole and blew. A weak, awkward honk came out the other end, and Mary laughed delightedly.
Gabe’s chest warmed at the sound and he easily returned her smile. “Would you like to see my secret spot?”
Her smile turned uncertain and the realization of what he had said made him laugh. His head fell back and loud peals of laughter erupted from deep within his narrow chest.
“I’m…sorry…” he said between chuckled gasps, “that is not…what…I meant.”
Another sweet smile broke over her lips. “You are very handsome when you laugh. I think I love you.”
Gabe’s stomach buzzed like a swarm of flying ants at her words, but he didn’t know why. He took the feeling to be something good, so he kept his smile. “Thank you. But what I meant to say was that I have a secret spot that I go to in the forest. It’s very pretty and I thought you would like to see it.”
“Yes!”
“But first, we should get you back home and call a doctor for your toe.”
Chapter 2
Cumberland, England, December 1803—twelve-years ago
Bracing herself against the frigid winter air, Mary sorrowfully strode down the snow-covered cobblestone street in the town of Carlisle.
Pulling her cape closer together to ward off the cold and adjusting the heavy basket on her arm, Mary huffed a sad, misty breath, the air curling and evaporating before her eyes. She strode through town, the morning sun hiding behind grey clouds, as she purchased items that her father had put on his list. She had already paid a visit to the local produce vendor, and she was on her way to buy meat and milk, when a sight halted her in her tracks.
Her pulse sped as she watched Gabe from across the snow-dusted street. He was with his mother outside the confectionary speaking to Mrs. Smithe and her three daughters.
Mary had not spoken to Gabriel since his father’s funeral, though even that had been brief, as his uncle, Lord Winning, deemed it below his nephew to associate with a poor crofter’s daughter.
Captain Ashley had been laid to rest in the family’s cemetery a sennight ago, having passed away while at sea. Poor Gabriel had not seen his father for several months before the Captain had died.
In the eight years that Mary had known Gabriel, she had only met the Captain once, but he seemed an affable sort of man, certainly one who loved his wife and son very much. And for that, Mary had adored him.
But while the Captain’s passing was indeed sad, it was not what affected Mary’s mood so drastically. It was Gabe. She was unsure what had caused it—perhaps it was his time spent at school or his changing maturity—but whatever the cause, he had become distant with her. No longer did she spend hours in the kitchens of his uncle’s estate watching Gabe cook, and gone were the days engaged in playful banter, cloud-watching, alfresco luncheons, and rousing tricks on unsuspecting neighbours.
It hurt a great deal more than she could ever have imagined. She very much feared that she was losing her best friend, the boy with whom she’d shared her first—and only—kiss, and the boy that held her heart.
Mary had tried to retain Gabe’s interest, but while he had behaved normally with her, she had gotten the distinct impression that he was bored with her company.
Her eyes sharpened on Gabe as he stood in close conversation with the two handsome young women.
The Misses Smithe were closer in age to Gabriel than Mary was; he at nineteen and they at eighteen, seventeen, and fifteen. Not only were they more mature and distinguished than Mary, but they were a great deal prettier, as well.
Mary was only fourteen, and with her auburn hair, freckled cheeks, and still-childish figure, she worried that other girls would garner Gabe’s attention before she could repair their friendship.
Gabriel laughed at something one of the girls said and Mary frowned, jealousy burning hotly in her gut. The need to know what they were saying warred with prudence in her heart.
He laughed again.
Damn prudence, anyway.
Making her way stealthily across the cobblestoned street, she carefully avoiding a carriage that rattled by. She hid herself between two buildings, keeping herself deep in the shadows.
Their voices carried to her from their position in front of the confectionary a few paces away.
The Misses Smithe were not only beautiful, but they were handsomely attired as well. All had pale blue walking dresses that poked out beneath navy cloaks over sturdy boots. Their blonde ringlets framed their rosy-cheeked faces and were topped with wide-rimmed periwinkle bonnets that brought out the colour of their eyes. One might think they were triplets if they did not know them.
Mary looked down at her own attire and felt another surge of envy. She wore her mother’s old brown day dress and black cloak, hemmed to fit Mary’s height, and her bonnet was simple straw, personally embellished with sprigs of holly.
“So, it is true, then?” The eldest Smithe daughter was saying. “You are moving to Scotland to be with Mrs. Ashley’s family?”
A hoarse shout caught in Mary’s throat, unable to be released. No!
“I am afraid it is,” he replied, his voice low and rumbling and entirely devoid of his Scottish accent.
Tears welled in Mary’s eyes. Gabe was leaving? It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! Why had he not told her? Mary bit her lips together to keep a soul-deep sob from escaping. What was she going to do without Gabe?
“We have spent the past fortnight preparing for our departure,” he was saying.
Mary’s heart thudded sickeningly in her chest, her stomach knotting uncomfortably. He knew? Gabe had known for a fortnight that he was leaving and yet he hadn’t told her?
“Do tell us, Mr. Ashley, who will you miss the most?” The middle Miss Smithe batted her long blonde eyelashes over her crystal blue eyes.
Mary hated her immediately.
She hated Gabe’s overconfident, proud smile even more. “I cannot claim to miss one of you fine ladies more than the other; you will all be dearly missed in my heart.” He placed one of his broad, gloved hands over his chest. “I do not know how I shall go on without you.”
Mary forced herself to roll her eyes with a nonchalance that she most certainly did not feel. Oh please. What drivel! Hurtful drivel.
The Misses Smithe tittered behind their hands, the youngest sporting a pretty blush. Mary never looked pretty when she blushed; she just turned blotchy.
“What of that skinny, freckled, ginger crofter’s daughter you always seem to hang around with? Will you miss us more than her?” The oldest Miss Smithe said, her reddened nose wrinkling.
Mary closed her eyes at the insult. She was not a ginger. Her hair was more brown than red, for pity’s sake! And certainly not orange. And as Papa said, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it if it were red.
She waited expectantly for Ga
be’s response. He would leap to her defence, she was certain. They had been best friends for eight years, after all.
“Most assuredly, Miss Smithe,” he said.
Mary’s mouth dropped open, her breath fogging the air in front of her, then dissipating, just like her hope. He could not have said what she just thought she heard.
“Miss Wright was pleasing enough to run about a meadow with when I was a young lad, but she is not at all refined like you fine ladies; far too interested in the theatre,” he said with a modicum of distaste. “Alas, she is still but a child in leading strings with a head full of fancies.”
He could not mean it! She peeked her head around the corner of the building to assure herself of his jest…but one look at his face and she knew he was in earnest. Foolish hope.
One trembling, gloved hand rose to cover Mary’s chest, just above the heart that now lay shrivelled beneath. He had slain her. Broken her heart just as easily as performing his morning ablutions. As though it were just another part of a rather ordinary day.
Mary pressed her back against the cold brick of the confectionary building, one arm still hooked through the basket of food for her papa. How could Gabriel say such an awful thing? Did he truly believe what he said about her? Oh lord! Did he always talk about her thusly when she was not around to defend herself?
Embarrassment mingled with the pain in her chest. Did everyone believe her to be a lost puppy following the older fellow around?
Suddenly the ache in her chest was too much. Turning on her heel, she hurried through the narrow alley and out onto the next street. The moment she was free of the confining alley, she picked up her skirts with her free hand and ran, ignoring the biting cold air that rushed painfully into her lungs and the heavy weight of her basket on one arm.
What did she need with Gabriel Ashley, anyway? His uncle, his school, and the pressure of society were all telling him that he was too far above her station to give any further notice to her. He would grow to be a gentleman, and she would always be the daughter of a poor crofter on his uncle’s land.
“Bah!” she shouted, her voice carrying on the icy wind behind her.
A sob escaped her as she ran, and fresh tears wavered before her eyes. Damn Gabriel Ashley! He was moving to Scotland and she would never see him again, so what did it matter what he thought?
But it does matter!
She loved him, and he had broken her heart! The scoundrel! The cad! The rogue! He had not even told her that he was going to move away! Damn Gabriel Ashley! Damn him, damn him, damn him!
Chapter 3
Edinburgh, Scotland, September 1807—eight-years ago
The paper crinkled in the twenty-three-year-old Gabriel’s hand as he reread the article in the English newssheet.
…Miss Mary Wright’s performance of Ophelia in the small country theatrical was unparalleled to that of even the brightest actresses of London. A true thespian. Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen; this young woman will soon grace the stage of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and will outshine all before her…
Gabe set the paper aside and took a swig of his ale. The hard, wooden chair on which he sat creaked as he shifted his position, though the sound was overpowered by the boisterous, drunken laughter of the other men in the dirty pub. Gabe was journeying back to his mother’s clan, though what tied him to those people anymore, he couldn’t say. His mother had died of fever two years past, along with his mother’s sister and elderly great aunt.
He’d felt compelled to return to Lord Winning’s—now his cousin Fredrick’s—estate in Cumberland, but his reception had been ill, indeed. The arrogant man of five and thirty was just as he remembered him to be. Frederick had lifted his lofty nose in the air and superciliously declared Gabe unworthy of setting foot in his presence.
Being kicked out of his cousin’s country seat with threats never to return did not surprise him. It was what he had done after he had been kicked out on his arse that had surprised him, even days later. He had gone to the Wright crofter’s cottage.
It had not changed in the four years since he had left England, though it had decidedly fewer occupants. Mary’s mother had died from the same fever that had claimed Gabe’s mother, Mr. Wright was out working the land, and Mary was nowhere to be found. He’d remained for a short while, as he’d wished to see Mary, but after two hours of awkwardly hovering outside the cottage, he’d had a change of heart.
He did not know precisely how or why it had happened, but somehow, he had lost her friendship. He’d sent her the odd letter over the past years, but either she had not received them, or she had deliberately not responded. Gabe suspected the latter.
He glanced down at the paper currently resting on the table next to his hand. He had known of Mary’s ambition to become an actress, but he had hoped it was a passing fancy. His hand fisted on the table, his knuckles whitening. He knew she would be a wonderful actress, but by God, those women were treated as tarts at best. It sickened him to think of Mary being pursued by young fools just looking to lift a girl’s skirts. Mary did not deserve such treatment.
A churning heat began to fester in his gut. The feeling smacked of jealousy, but he assured himself it wasn’t so. It had been so long since he had seen Mary—
“Oi!” His thoughts were cut off by a deep grunt at his elbow.
Gabe turned his head to look right up into the glittering eyes of a furious giant.
“Ye fook me wife?” the giant growled, the low timbre of his slurred voice vibrating through his chest.
Gabe took one last gulp of the sour brew in his mug and gently returned it to the coarse surface of the table. “Can’t say as I ‘ave.”
Their voices had garnered the attention of the other patrons, each curious face aimed in their direction, clearly eager to witness a good brawl.
“I ken ye ‘ave!” The large man poked Gabe on his shoulder.
“Ye’re wrong, big man.” Gabe rose from his seat to stand nose to chest with the giant. “I donnae wish te fight ye.”
The giant’s lip curled back, revealing blackened teeth and foul breath. Then, without further preamble, the man’s large fist swung at his jaw.
Gabe ducked swiftly out of the way, his opponent’s fist swinging uselessly over his head. With deceptive speed, Gabe jabbed his opponent under his ribs with extended fingers, then punched the man’s face with a well-placed fist. The great giant fell chest-down and winded to the repulsive wood-planked floor of the pub. Without giving the man an opportunity to rise, Gabe pressed one knee between the man’s shoulder blades and pulled his arms backward. The beast roared.
Gabe brought his head closer to the man’s ears, but far enough away to not contract the lice the man likely had. “When a man says ‘e doesnae wish te fight ye…donnae fight ‘im.” He pushed his knee deeper between the man’s shoulders, eliciting a grunt from between his bared teeth. “And I didnae tup yer wife.”
With an extra jab of his knee, Gabe rose. At least forty pairs of eyes stared back at him, and not all of them were benign. He quickly drew some coins out of his coat pocket and placed them on the table. He snatched up his paper—and inside it, the article written about Mary—nodded to the gaping men and hastily made his retreat. Best to make himself scarce before someone else decided to challenge him.
Gabe passed through the neighbouring innyard and into the stables. The fresh scent of hay and manure filled his senses as he strode calmly toward his mount Hunter’s stall. Gabe pulled the door open and entered, patting Hunter’s neck, before turning to the wall, and reaching for where his saddle was hanging.
“You have fine form,” a male voice rumbled behind him.
“A Thiarna Dia!” Gabe called to the deity in Gaelic as he swung around in surprise, fists at the ready.
The tall, lean man no older than Gabe himself rested one shoulder against the door of Hunter’s stall, a confident grin on his lips. He wore all black, nearly blending into the shadows, his suit of clothes of the highest quality. A
toff, Gabe sneered the word in his mind.
“Goddamnit, man! Donnae surprise a soul like tha’, ye ken?” He lowered his fists, but remained alert. The man’s easy manner told Gabe that he wouldn’t attack, but he would be prepared nonetheless. “Who are ye?”
The man in black pushed away from the stall door and sauntered another two steps toward Gabe and his mount, Hunter shifting nervously at the stranger’s advance.
“Noted,” the grinning man drawled. “My name is Richards and I have a proposition for you.”
Gabe shook his head. “I’ve nae interest in any schemes.”
“This is no scheme. I was recruited by the King himself.”
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Recruited?”
“Yes. And if you are amenable, I have a modest training program at my estate in…”
Gabe sliced his hand through the air, cutting Mr. Richards off. “Nae. Whate’r it is ye’re tryin’ te fool me on, I’m nae interested.”
A piece of paper appeared in Gabe’s hand.
Gabe raised an eyebrow. Mr. Richards was deceptively silent in his movements and on his feet. What sort of man was he?
“My documentation, sir.” The man had the audacity to wink.
Gabriel looked at the fine parchment lying in his palm and turned it over. The royal signet had been pressed into the wax seal. He arched an eyebrow at the smiling Mr. Richards before he ripped open the seal with his index finger and opened the missive.
This document does hereby royally certify that Colonel Kieran Richards… His eyes scanned the parchment, and his doubts swiftly fled.
“Ye’re a spy?” He lifted his incredulous gaze toward the mysterious, smirking Colonel Richards.
“Don’t bandy that about, wot?”
“If ye’re a…” he slid his gaze quickly around the stables, then focused on the spy in black in front of him. “Then wha’ do ye want with me? I’m nobody.”
“You are not nobody, Mr. Ashley. You are a man of good breeding with knowledge, capability, and are able to take down a veritable giant with just your hands.” His eyes glittered. “You are honest, you have learned how to control your accent—or at least affect an English one—when you feel like it, and you are not a stranger to hard work. The Secret Service is very interested in you.”
The Thespian Spy Page 2
