by Judith James
Gabriel snorted, "That's a little hard to believe, mignonne."
"Oh, but it's true! They were closer than brothers. They still are. They used to sail and adventure together all the time, but Ross has settled somewhat over the past few years. I don't know that Davey ever will. He's disgusted with politics and religion and sick of what he's seen done to the Irish and his own people. He's called Gypsy Davey for his childhood adventures, and because he's always restless and moving from place to place. He's quite proud to call himself a man without country or religion." She grinned. "That's terribly convenient for a privateer and a smuggler, you know, as he feels free to take commissions where, and as, he pleases. My brother is seriously worried that he's becoming too bold. He wasn't joking about seeing him swing from the neck."
Gabriel tried to picture the reserved, immaculate Lord Huntington engaged in pillage and high seas adventure, with little success. "And he lives with you? When he's not at sea?"
"He lives with us when he pleases. We are his family, and he is ours."
Emboldened, he managed one more question before they were summoned to dinner. "I've been meaning to thank you, mademoiselle, for sharing your observatory with me. It was a night I shall never forget. I was wondering if I might visit you again, when the moon is full, to view it with your telescope."
"Of course," she said with a bright smile. "As I've told you before, you're welcome to come whenever you wish."
"Thank you, mademoiselle" "Sarah, please." "Thank you, Sarah."
Feeling in charity with the world, he went in to dinner. Putting aside his fears for Jamie and his alarm at Sarah's obvious admiration for her handsome cousin, he relaxed and enjoyed the good cheer, ready wit, and fine wine, enthralled as Davey regaled them with tales of battle and adventure, exotic ports, and narrow escapes on the high seas.
Plagued by a growing restlessness for several days now, Gabriel was already waiting for Davey, idly fishing off the dock, when the sun rose the next morning. He was set to work hauling rope, pumping bilges, cleaning decks, and doing other menial labor. Davey's motley crew greeted him with whistles and catcalls, smirking and blowing kisses. He had no difficulty ignoring them. It wasn't his habit to concern himself with what others thought. The crew's opinion meant nothing to him. It wasn't Davey’s comment that had angered him last night. Under other circumstances, he might have found it amusing. But he'd made it in front of Sarah, and for better or worse, her opinion did matter. Somehow, it had come to matter very much.
It was midday before Davey came and tapped him on the shoulder, sending him on his way. The crew, faced with his complete and utter indifference, had long since abandoned their harassment. Muscles aching, weary and hungry, he returned to his room. Sleep still eluded him. It came to him that night, though, and so did the dreams.
The boy is lost, somewhere in the big housey lost and calling for him. He searchesfrantically, racing down endless corridors, tearing open doors, huntingfrom room to room, sick with dread. Hefinds him, whimpering, terrified, cowering before a grunting, red-faced satyr. He knows him well. The German. Enraged, he reaches for his dagger, stabbing and stabbing, sharp blade into yielding flesh, plunging through cartilage and tissue, grinding against bone, over and over as the boy sobs in terror and blood gushes and spurts and pools on thefloor.
He looks around. The boy has disappeared. There's blood on his hands, but the urgency and rage are fading. He's calmer nowy floating, detached. He sees the bed. Luxurious, opulent, red silk and satin, a woman on it, beautiful and coarse, wearing only stockings, legs splayed wide in invitation, her busy fingers tugging, sticky with her own juices. "Come," she tells him, command, not invitation.
Waking with a groan, his heart pounding with rage and fear, Gabriel heaved himself from the bed and prowled restlessly about the room. He stopped by the window, leaning his forehead against the cool pane, his body still shaking. Letting loose a gasp that was half sob, half laughter, he fumbled about until he found his brandy. He'd been drinking less these past weeks, but he always made sure he had a ready supply, close to hand. One never knew. He padded to the fire, stirring it and adding another log, trying to ward off the sudden chill that seized him.
It seemed the longer he went without sleep, the more vivid his nightmares became, and the worse they became, the more he avoided sleep. He'd hoped that hours of strenuous labor would purchase some dreamless slumber, but he couldn't seem to escape the vicious cycle that robbed his nights of rest or peace. He was grateful for it in a strange way. He'd been forgetting himself lately, caught up in a fantasy world, pretending he had a place here. It was foolish, and dangerous. The dream had served as a much-needed reminder of who he was and where he came from. He smacked his fist into the wall, abrading his knuckles, the sharp shock of pain helping him collect himself. This place was the fantasy, only the dreams were real. Best not forget it.
Knowing he'd sleep no more this night, he donned a pair of breeches. Neglecting to put on boots or fasten his shirt, he made his way outside and down the steep cliff face to the beach. Still shaken, the dream had been so damn real, he began applying himself to the bottle in earnest. Wind whipping his hair and shirttails around him, grim and weary, he looked up toward the house. It was quiet and cold tonight, retaining none of the warmth and cheer that had been there earlier in the day. It had passed through, evaporating, as if it had never been.
Nursing the bottle, he noticed with dull surprise that the moon was almost full. It reflected off the surface of the still water, a brilliant, beautiful, ghostly highway, beckoning unwary travelers to a haunted world of mystery and imagination. Duplicitous bitch! He shuddered and raised his bottle in salute before starting back, not really aware of how he managed the steep path in the state he was in, not really aware of where he was or what he was doing, until he found himself standing under the tall oak, looking up at her room.
Well, she'd promised him the moon, he told himself with a drunken chuckle. Barefoot, with a bottle in one hand, he managed to pull himself onto the lower branches. In short order, he leveraged himself over the balustrade and onto her balcony, without spilling a drop. Her door was open to the breeze, and he nudged it wider, standing there for several moments framed in the moonlight, watching her sleep.
Well this was damned disappointing! If a wench was going to give a fellow an invitation, the least she could do was stay awake and wait for him. Overall she was a good girl though, he thought charitably. She'd let him use her Mr. James Short telescope; she wasn't a telltale, and she always smelled very nice, indeed. He moved closer to the bed, until he was standing over her.
Her skin glowed alabaster in the moonlight, and she smiled in her sleep, soft and innocent. Her breasts, though, full and rounded like...melons, juicy and succulent, meant to quench a fellow's thirst, rising and falling with her breath, inviting a man to caress them, kiss them... now they were downright sinful! He held out an unsteady hand, and then drew it back. Best not to wake her, best to leave, but he was exhausted and cold, chilled bone deep, and he wasn't too drunk to fear what he might do if he was alone this night. Sighing, he let himself slide to the floor, knowing he shouldn't be there, but unable to bring himself to leave. 94
Waking from a dream, Sarah moved in an instant from drowsy to wide-awake. There was someone in her room! She raised herself cautiously on her elbow, straining to see. A tiny flame licked in the grate, casting more shadow than light. Gabriel was sitting on the floor beside her bed. One knee was drawn up to his chest and he had a bottle in one hand, resting on his lap.
She studied him carefully. Shirt open, he was bare-chested and disheveled, his hair in wild tangles about his shoulders. His eyes were unfocused, gazing inward. He seemed lost in a trance, contemplating some long-ago sorrow, the hurt clearly visible in his face. She wanted to be angry with him. He had clearly been drinking and he'd given her a fright, but he looked so tired and lost. She felt an odd combination of pity, lust, and the desire to comfort.
When he finally realiz
ed she was awake and watching him, he acknowledged her with a sad, crooked smile, and an unsteady salute.
"You're drunk!"
"Completely foxed," he agreed with a genial grin.
"How did you get in here?"
He crooked a finger toward the balcony. "Tree."
"You climbed that tree in this state?"
"Mmm," he agreed. "The tree, the cliff, the stairs. As long as I'm drunk, what does it matter?"
"You're an idiot! You might have been killed!"
"And you, mignonne, are very astute." His head was beginning to clear. The more he drank, the more it took to put him under and keep him there. "I
shouldn't have come."
"Why did you, Gabe? What's wrong?" she asked gently.
"A bad dream," he said tiredly. "Nothing more."
"Well, now that you're here, why don't you tell me about it? It might help you sleep."
"Christ, woman, I came here for some peace, to escape it, not to wallow in it!" He pulled himself to his feet. This had clearly been a mistake.
"You don't honestly think you can escape it by ignoring it, or running away, do you?"
No, he'd never thought that. Only hoped. He'd hoped he might escape for a while, by running to her, and hoping was the thing that would destroy him in the end. He knew it. He turned, glaring at her in the dark. "Shall I tell you then, Sarah? Do you really want to know? Would you like to know what I was doing the night before you and your saintly brother arrived at Madame Etienne's?"
Her silence drove him on.
"I was auctioned off that night, my services for the evening, to the highest bidder. I did my best to appeal, as half the proceeds were mine to keep. I was a very valuable asset there, you know. I'm surprised she released me."
He stalked toward her, his body tense, vibrating. His voice became cooler, deliberately seductive and compelling. "It was a husband and wife, or a man and his mistress, a playful pair. I was the wicked footman"—despite his obvious tension, his voice sounded amused—"burning with lust for my haughty countess. I was . .. tasting her, pleasuring her, a thing I'm very good at, when her husband arrived, catching us in the act. Naturally, he was furious and determined to punish us both. I, the insolent servant, was taught to regret my impertinence by being bound to the bed and whipped by his lordship as his lady knelt between his legs, vigorously sucking his cock. Fortunately, she was thorough enough that he was not inclined to complete his amorous designs upon my person."
Silence. It continued unabated, except for their breathing. He knew he'd shocked her, had strangled something delicate that had been growing between them, and he wasn't done yet. "And do you know what else, my dear?" he asked, his voice mocking. "I thoroughly enjoyed it." He wasn't sure what he expected from her—horror, condemnation, and disgust, certainly not a reply as cool and detached as his own.
"Well, now, if you'd enjoyed it, it wouldn't be giving you nightmares, would it?"
Rage blasted through him, demolishing years of hard-won control. The bottle flew from his hand, shattering in the corner as a distant part of his brain noted that broken glass was becoming a habit, a different form of comfort. Damn her! Damn her! He took a ragged breath, then another, clenching his fists, refusing to look at her lest she provoke him to further violence. Stiffly he turned toward the balcony and disappeared into the night.
Chapter
9
Gabriel spent the rest of the night walking the sand. The surging waves resonated with the turmoil inside him, allowing him to reassert some measure of balance to his shattered nerves. Sleepless nights were nothing new to him, and well before dawn he made his way to Davey s, spending several hours scrubbing decks and climbing rigging, grateful for any activity, the more strenuous the better. Numbing his mind, he channeled his dismay and confusion into physical exertion, until Davey called him down and sent him on his way. He cringed at the thought of seeing Sarah, again.
He'd been stripped naked before, in many ways, but nothing had made him feel as skin-crawlingly vulnerable and exposed as she had last night. If he could take it back, he would. He would have stayed in his room and played with glass or steel, and then gone about his business. Now she knew far too much, and when he looked in her eyes, he'd see his real self reflected back. It was almost too much to bear.
He'd intended to go to his room, not wanting to face her, but his body, starved and demanding to be fed, betrayed him. Well, he thought with bleak humor, nothing new about that. In any case, he couldn't avoid her forever. Steeling himself, he went to the breakfast room. Naturally, she was there. She offered no greeting when he came in, and he avoided her eyes. He moved stonefaced to the sideboard and piled his plate. His spirits might be deadened, but the hours aboard Davey s ship had left his body ravenous. He took his time, hoping she would get up and leave so he wouldn't have to join her at the table.
"Why, Gabriel, do hurry up. It's not like you to be so delicate around your food. Or perhaps you are, how does Davey put it... green about the gills from an excess of bacchanal?"
"I'm not hung over, chere?
"Good, and you didn't fall and crack your head on the rocks descending from my balcony?" she asked sweetly.
"Not unless this is hell, and you are one of Lucifer's minions."
"Perhaps this is heaven, and I am an angel," she said with a wry grin.
"No, mignonne, they would never allow me in there."
"Hntm, perhaps not. Davey says all the most interesting people are bound to go to hell. I would like to ask your help with something, if I might"
He dared to look at her then. Her eyes were clear and guileless, shining with barely suppressed excitement. He blinked, bewildered, and wondered if he'd dreamt last evening. Perhaps it had never happened.
"Gabriel? Are you daydreaming? If you're too tired, that's fine. I'll get Mr. Simmons to help me."
"Help with what, Sarah?" he asked, bringing his plate to the table and sitting across from her.
Leaning across the table, she gripped his forearm in excitement, her touch an exquisite ache, teasing his abraded nerves. "I've arranged a surprise for my brother, a Barbary stallion and two fine mares. Davey brought them with him. I was hoping to collect them today. I can manage the stallion, or the mares, but not both. Davey has promised to keep Ross busy so I can slip them into the stables."
He let his eyes feast a moment on the cleft of her bosom as she leaned across the table. He imagined burying his face there, enveloped in her warmth and her scent, his hands cupping her breasts, his fingers and thumbs—
"Gabriel? Are you all right?" She pressed the back of her hand, smooth and cool, against his forehead, feeling his temperature.
He bit back a groan and gently removed it. "A slight megrim? he lied as his erection strained painfully against his breeches. "Nothing a coffee and breakfast won't cure."
"You might consider...cutting back a little, on the alcohol," she said carefully.
"Sarah," his voice held a note of warning. "Would you like my help, or not?"
"Yes, please," she said meekly.
"Fine, give me a moment to finish my coffee. Go ahead if you like. I'll catch up shortly. I need to ah ... use the necessary."
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, then, I'll go on ahead and you catch up."
She jumped to her feet and he realized she'd been as nervous about this encounter as he was, as uncertain of his reaction as he was of hers. Not sure what to make of it, he watched her leave the room, shifting in his seat as her fetching bottom shifted pertly in her tight breeches.
Gabriel prided himself on his control. He'd learned how to produce an erection at will, as well as how to suppress one. It wasn't working very well around Sarah, though, he noted sourly. Once she was gone, he left the table, returning to his room. Throwing himself on the bed, he freed his throbbing organ. Swollen with need, stroking, and pumping, imagining her lying wanton and willing beneath him, he brought himself to release.
Sarah waited for him on the cliff edge, leaning
back on her elbows, legs dangling over the side, thinking about last night. After he'd left, she'd lain in her bed too shaken to move, shocked by what he'd told her, and stunned by the depth of his rage. She'd sensed that she wasn't the cause of his anger, but she'd certainly been the catalyst. She regretted how she'd handled it, bungled it really, driving him back into the night when he'd clearly come to her looking for some kind of comfort.
She wanted to help him. At first, it was because of what he'd done for Jamie, but that had soon changed. The more she came to know him, the more she was drawn to him, until he invaded her thoughts, day and night. She was already more than half in love. Seeing him last night, lonely and lost on the floor by her bed, she'd wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms and hold him tight. Perhaps she should have,
instead of asking questions. Why must it be so complicated? She'd worried about him the rest of the night, and she'd been tremendously relieved to see him safe, and in one piece, this morning.
It took him just over a quarter of an hour to catch up with her. She turned her head to watch his approach. His stride was long and he moved with the same fluid grace that had so fascinated her when she'd first seen him in Paris. He awakened an intense sensuality in her she'd never once suspected she possessed. At breakfast, she'd been studying his lips, for heaven's sake! Closing her eyes for a moment, she heard his voice again, cool, seductive, I was tasting her, pleasuring her, I'm very good at it. Feeling a stab of guilt and shame, she jumped to her feet, determinedly banishing the memory, and her reactions to it.
