Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams

by Christina Skye

  Gabriel smiled coldly. “I have naught to fear from Henry Devere. He’ll never find us where we’re going.”

  As they took another jolt, he saw Geneva wince. Cursing, Gabriel pulled her onto his lap and wrenched back her cloak.

  He stared down in horror at the trail of blood on her gown. “They hit you.”

  Geneva’s hands were white where she gripped the folds of her cloak. “He will never give you up. The French have promised him a fortune for your capture.”

  Gabriel pulled her against his chest, cursing softly. He couldn’t go all the way out to his estates near Tunbridge with Geneva bleeding. He had already closed up his London town house, in preparation for his departure.

  Which left only Draycott House.

  Gabriel sat forward and called curt direction to the coachman as Geneva twisted restlessly in his arms.

  GENEVA RUSSELL’S SHOCKEDservant watched the carriage race from the square and shook his head disapprovingly.

  He had thought it most peculiar when the woman had called upon his services as a butler. No respectable female lived alone in a house without family or a single chaperone. He supposed that’s what came of her growing up in the heathen climates where her father had been a high official in the East India Company.

  Yes, Edward Wilson hadn’t like it then and he didn’t like it now. There had been something very peculiar about Miss Geneva Russell. Respectable ladies simply did not set up housekeeping by themselves in London.

  His muddy eyes narrowed. This was just the sort of information that gentleman Mr. Devere had asked him to report. The servant straightened his collar and pulled on his cloak. Yes, he would see that Henry Devere learned the news of this outrageous affair from his own lips. No doubt there would be several gold guineas in it for him.

  His thoughts were full of greed as he set off for the address that Henry Devere had been careful to leave with him two weeks before.

  THE WINDOWS AT DRAYCOTTHouse were ablaze with light as Gabriel’s coach lurched up to the front door. Gabriel prayed that his reprobate friend, the viscount, was not holding one of his wild parties. As he pounded up the front steps with Geneva in his arms, the door of Draycott House was thrown open. A dour figure in black appeared.

  “Let me down,” Geneva protested raggedly. “I can walk.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Templeton, the old butler, gave a sniff of disapproval, eyeing the woman in Gabriel’s arms. “I shall fetch Lord Draycott.”

  Frowning, Gabriel crossed the beautiful marble foyer and made his way to Adrian Draycott’s study. After lighting a candle, he pulled back Geneva’s cloak.

  “It is nothing, I tell you. But you must leave. Henry Devere will follow you here.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Let him try. Meanwhile, stop fighting me, woman.” In the light he made out a jagged line of blood, the path of a shallow bullet.

  He was muttering a stream of graphic curses when the door opened behind him. “My dearest, Gabriel, what an unexpected pleasure. Templeton tells me that you have now taken to kidnapping gently bred females from the London streets.” Adrian came to a halt as he saw the white-faced woman on his settee.

  “It’s a shoulder wound from a ball meant for me.”

  “I am quite well,” Geneva said faintly. “And I pray you will not speak of me as if I were not here.”

  Adrian smiled. “So you have the same sharp tongue as ever, Miss Russell.”

  At the doorway Templeton cleared his throat anxiously. “Will your lordship be desiring brandy?”

  “No, hot water and fresh linens, Templeton.” Adrian looked down at Gabriel. “What happened?”

  “Henry Devere decided to let Miss Russell act as his bait to trap the Rook. Unfortunately it worked.” Gabriel’s breath caught as a scrap of blood-soaked lace came into view.

  “Let me alone,” Geneva protested.

  “Another word and I’ll bind your mouth again, hellion.”

  Adrian smiled slightly at this byplay, watching Gabriel turn Geneva against his chest and strip away the lace of her chemise to bare her shoulder.

  But she didn’t complain, not by a single word. In fact, Gabriel looked worse than she did, sweat covering his brow as he studied the wound.

  “It’s jagged but shallow, thank God,” he announced finally. “I’ll have some of that brandy, Adrian.”

  Adrian Draycott, rake and hardened cynic, looked rather pale himself as he held out a glass decanter with the Draycott crest of interlocked dragons.

  Gabriel splashed some of the brandy on Geneva’s shoulder, then pressed the linen tight. As he worked, she began to struggle in his arms.

  “Steady now,” he murmured. “It’s almost over.” After binding fresh linen over the wound, he sat back, with Geneva still cradled against his chest.

  After draining the rest of the brandy, Gabriel carried Geneva upstairs to rest.

  When he returned, Adrian’s eyes were thoughtful. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time for your identity to come out, Gabriel. Not after that last pamphlet bearing the Rook’s name. One can’t go around calling for the arrest of most of the members of Parliament without expecting a nasty reaction. I agree with you that something needs to be done to stop the bloodshed in France, but it won’t happen that way.”

  “Then what way? How many more children have to die before something’s done?”

  “You’re doing all you can, Gabriel. I’ve stopped keeping track of the times you’ve nearly lost your life over there. Isn’t that enough?”

  It should have been, but it wasn’t, Gabriel thought grimly. Not after walking the bloody streets of Paris and seeing the horrors committed daily in the name of equality and liberty. “I shall have to go and search for her sister, of course. But what am I going to do about Geneva?”

  Adrian toyed with the lace at his cuff. “Take her to Draycott Abbey. She’ll be safe there. I’ll send word ahead to let them know you’re coming.”

  “No,” Gabriel said sharply. “Only you and I are to know our final destination.”

  Adrian’s brow rose. “You suspect a traitor here?”

  “I was betrayed once, Adrian, and three children died because of it. I’ll never make such a mistake again. From now on I trust no one.”

  “Not even me, Lord Ashton?” The fluid, cultured male voice had something foreign about it as it drifted from the doorway. The speaker was a tall man with a high, arched nose and eyes of keen, cutting blue.

  Gabriel stared at the American statesman who had already made a name for himself in England and France. “Is that you, Jefferson? Lord, it seems an age.”

  “Too long. Templeton tells me you’ve charmed another woman off her feet.”

  “She wasn’t swept away by charm,” Ashton said grimly. “A ball did that to her. A ball meant for me.”

  “A ball meant for the Rook, you mean.”

  A hard look passed between them.

  “We must leave London tonight. Now that Geneva knows my identity, she won’t be safe here.”

  Adrian nodded. “Of course.”

  “But what brings you back to London, Jefferson?”

  The American looked thoughtful for a moment. “As it happens, I’m here to track down some wine as a gift for our president. Of course, it must be something very special and I have a partiality for some Château d’Yquem I found in the Garonne Valley some years back.” He accepted a glass of sherry from Adrian and sat down on a leather settee by the window.

  “Perhaps I can help you. As it happens, I have other business that will take me to the area.”

  “I don’t suppose that this business of yours has anything to do with rescuing emigrés from the guillotine, does it?”

  “I can’t imagine why you would think that.” Gabriel’s voice was full of calculated boredom.

  “Because I’ve heard nothing else since my arrival in England but stories about this man who defies death time and time again, a man who speaks French like a Parisian. It’s said that the
Rook could pass for a sans culottes even if he were stopped by Marat himself.”

  Gabriel’s eyes darkened. “As it happens, he has been stopped by Marat himself.”

  “Now there’s an encounter I would like to have seen,” Jefferson said intently.

  Gabriel poured himself a glass of Madeira and settled one broad shoulder against the mantel. “Tell me exactly what you require from the Garonne, Jefferson.”

  “Six cases of Château d’Yquem, since my friend particularly enjoys the Sauternes. But it is no place for an Englishman, Gabriel.” Jefferson frowned. “Even a Frenchman may find his welcome uncertain in these trying days.”

  Gabriel’s jaws hardened. “You need harbor no concerns for me. I know my way about.”

  After a moment, Jefferson nodded. “I shall, of course, leave you a draft on my Paris bank. I am more than happy to pay you a fee for discharging this business, of course.”

  “Just consider it my small repayment for the enjoyable hours we’ve spent discussing the ideals of freedom and equality.” There was a cynicism in Gabriel’s voice that had never been there before.

  Jefferson and Draycott exchanged a look.

  At that moment there was a whisper of silk from the doorway and the soft scent of lilacs drifted on the cool, still air.

  Gabriel’s jaw hardened as he looked up.

  Geneva stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the golden light of the hall lantern. Her hair was a black cloud against her shoulders and her white hands were clasped against her waist. But it was her eyes that held him, eyes that were filled with pain, eyes that were a thousand miles away.

  “I must go—I must find her before it’s too late.”

  He was beside her in a second, his arm circling her shoulders.

  Geneva’s slender hands shoved blindly at his chest. “Must go.”

  Cursing, Gabriel caught her as she swayed. The bandage at her shoulder was dotted with fresh blood. With infinite gentleness, he lifted her into his arms and brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Stubborn little fool,” he said in a tone of vast tenderness.

  Jefferson’s eyes hardened. “I think I will have a talk with this man Devere tomorrow. Do you care to join me, Adrian?”

  “Without a doubt. It will be a decided pleasure.”

  At that moment Templeton appeared, livery awry. “There’s a man below demanding to see you, my lord. I told him you were not receiving, but he insisted he would not go away until he’d seen you himself. He said his name is Devere,” the butler said tightly, as angry footsteps exploded across the marble entry.

  “He’ll be looking for Geneva,” Gabriel said grimly. “I’ll take her upstairs.”

  Adrian smiled coldly. “What do you say, Jefferson?”

  “I’ve seen nothing of any woman. Nor have I heard of anyone called the Rook.”

  Adrian laughed lazily. “No doubt Devere will be far too busy to concern himself with questioning an upstart American.”

  “You English persist in your mistakes, don’t you?” came the American’s utterly confident reply.

  “No doubt in time you Americans will teach us to rectify our behavior.”

  Then Templeton was at the door. “Mr. Devere,” he announced, his voice stiff with disapproval.

  A big man with small, hard eyes stood in the doorway, fingering a long silver cane. “Who is the owner of this house?”

  Two pairs of eyes looked him up and down with lazy disdain.

  “I demand an answer.”

  Adrian stared haughtily at the intruder. “I am Viscount Draycott, although I can’t image what business it is of yours.”

  “I’ll tell you what business it is. A woman was seen being carried into this house less than an hour ago. I demand that she be released.”

  Adrian toyed idly with the lace at his cuff. “Into this house, you say?” He looked at the butler. “Templeton, don’t tell me you’ve taken to prowling the High Road for bed partners again.”

  The old servant broke into startled coughing.

  “No? Then you must be mistaken, Mr….” Adrian let the word linger in a question.

  “Devere, damn your hide. And I won’t be fobbed off with fine stories. I have witnesses, I warn you. I’ll have a warrant, so I will.”

  “Next you’ll be demanding satisfaction in a duel, I suppose.”

  Devere’s face darkened with anger. “I wouldn’t spill my precious blood for a wastrel like you.”

  Draycott’s brow rose. “It is just as well, since I only duel with gentlemen.”

  The barb hit home. Devere’s hands clenched to fists. “Do you give her up or not?”

  “There are no women in my house, more’s the pity. It’s been damnably lonely of late.”

  “I warn you, I mean to make a thorough search before I leave.” Devere peered sharply around the room and gave a crow of triumph, “There! Blood, if I ever saw it. She was brought here, just as I said.”

  “Are you in the habit of shooting women, Mr. Devere?” Adrian’s voice was elegant in its mockery.

  “I merely protect my own. The woman tried to escape after robbing my house and I mean to see justice done.”

  “You’re lying, Devere,” Adrian snapped.

  Gabriel now appeared in the far doorway. “Devere,” he said. “I don’t suppose you happen to be of the Hampshire Deveres?”

  “I have no relations in that area.”

  Gabriel eyed the cut of Devere’s jacket. Although the garment was made of the highest quality materials, it hung awkwardly over his protruding stomach. “Then perhaps you are one of the Oxfordshire Deveres?”

  “Never heard of them,” Devere snapped. “And I’ll play no more of these games.” Scowling, he grabbed up the scrap of bloody linen and waved it angrily. “She is here, I know it. I’ll have the law down upon you, see if I don’t!”

  “You quite mistake the matter,” Gabriel said icily. “The wound is mine.” He held out his hand, revealing a bloody palm.

  “This is your blood?” Devere’s eyes were full of suspicion.

  “A mere scratch. I was enjoying the merits of my friend’s Château d’Yquem far too much to bestir myself.”

  “Scratch?” Devere looked down at the blood on Gabriel’s cuff. “You’re mad, the lot of you! But don’t think your lordly and arrogant tricks can hide her for long. I’ll be back, you may be sure. And I’ll see that Miss Russell is made to pay for flouting my authority in this manner! I’ll also find out all that she knows about this man called the Rook,” he hissed, glaring straight at Gabriel. “There will be no questions as to his identity.”

  AROUND DOMINIC, THE ABBEY lay quiet, drowsy in the late afternoon sun. Only the roses swayed on the warm granite walls as a great gray cat slid through the lilacs by the little bridge.

  He looked down. Blood covered his palm where the Ashton stickpin had torn his skin.

  But he had no memory of the pain. He was aware only of a fleeting trail of images and the angry hum of distant voices.

  And a network of danger that felt close enough to touch.

  BEYOND THE MOAT, BEYOND the Witch’s Pool and the rows of dancing roses, shadows gathered. Overhead the sky darkened to crimson and then to deepest indigo.

  And as the last fleeting rays of daylight fled before the night a single bell began to chime across the distant hills.

  Ten times. Eleven. Twelve.

  And then once more.

  High in an abbey bedroom Cathlin stopped to listen, brush in hand as she changed for dinner.

  Stepping out of the shower, Dominic heard and scowled, telling himself he was imagining things.

  And Nicholas Draycott, standing before the opened French doors with the curtains drifting around him like mist, looked out at the darkness, a frown etched upon his brow.

  For on this matter the abbey legends were only too clear. When the church bells rang twelve times—and then once more—the ghost of Draycott Abbey was called forth to walk the grounds.

  Not out of love.
r />   Not in search of joy.

  But because some new danger threatened his beloved ancestral home. As it did now.

  THE WIND WHISPERED.

  Shadows trembled.

  Somewhere in the night, darkness gave way to black satin cuffs and pristine white lace.

  As the last bell faded, the abbey’s guardian ghost stepped out of nothingness onto the cool stones of the parapets. Eyes agleam, he turned his head and studied the first stars, just glinting upon the velvet sky. “Again it begins, my old friend.”

  A great gray cat ghosted over the roof, purring.

  “Yes, I must agree. What we seek is not new but very old, something hidden but never quite forgotten.” Frowning, he looked out over the abbey’s stark walls, his eyes as impenetrable as night itself. “They are strong, these two. But their strength makes them weak. In their strength they are content to see with their eyes, and not with their hearts.”

  The cat moved, rubbing against his master’s booted foot.

  “Too late? It is never too late, my old friend. But your concern is real. With every day lost, every hour wasted, this danger grows.”

  The cat’s tail arched.

  “Gray?” Adrian Draycott thought of the woman he loved, a woman who had shown no fear before a madman’s treachery. As she had shown no fear in death.

  His jaw hardened. “She says we must make them see. Alas, it is not so simple, is it, Gideon?” Adrian ran his hand over the cat’s sleek fur. “There are some things that cannot be given and some choices that must not be rushed. Even when time crowds close.” He looked out over the wooded hills, formless in the gathering darkness. A shooting star flashed and left a trail of silver through the silent night. “No, not even by such creatures as we are, my friend.”

  With a sigh, the black-clad figure turned and paced the cold stones. Beside him the great cat flicked his tail and waited, eyes agleam, sharp with intelligence. A cat and yet far more.

  Overhead the moon pulled free of the clutching black fingers of the woods and rose in chill splendor, its beauty mocked by a racing curtain of clouds.

  SOMEWHERE IN THE GREAT, restless beast that was modern London, a figure sat hunched in darkness, listening to the quiet voices.