by Judith James
"Sarah, no! You were just a child yourself, an unmarried female. You would never have been allowed to be his guardian, and you couldn't have kept him safe."
"I could have run away with him, hidden him."
"Why would you do such a thing? Take a boy who'd just lost his parents and live as a fugitive, forsaking his inheritance, putting him at risk? You had no way of knowing your uncle was capable of such a thing."
She had no answer for that. She needed time to think about it. "I do know this, Gabriel. You did what I couldn't do. As soon as I saw him, healthy and curious and proud, I knew that something, someone, had intervened, had protected him and kept him safe from harm. It was unbelievable, a miracle. You did that, Gabriel. And I have never been so grateful to anyone in my life."
"So ... that's why you brought me here."
"If you mean here to Cornwall, then yes. That's why. You saved my brother. That makes you family. Ross or Davey will never tell you, but I know they feel the same."
"What other here is there?" he asked quietly.
She looked surprised, flustered. "Why... here in my room, of course"
It begged the question. "And why did you bring me here, to your room, Sarah?"
"I really don't know, Gabriel. I didn't mean to. It just seemed to ... happen."
Hesitant to push, he decided to let it rest. "Tell me the rest, mignonne. What happened to your husband and your uncle?"
"They died."
"Sarah.. »
"When we found Ross, he was being held as a prisoner of war. He might have been ransomed if. . . well, it appears that my uncle had known all along. He was quite likely complicit in my parents' death, as well. They...they were wrecked off the coast, not that far from here, and there's no doubt he was responsible for what happened to Jamie. It was said that highwaymen waylaid him, that he angered them somehow, or they were particularly vicious. In any case, they took him from his coach and hung him from a tree, leaving his purse dangling round his neck. It did a great service to the local gentlemen of the road, as their victims were very polite and quick to hand over their purses for many months after. I'm certain it was Ross, or Davey, or both of them. They refuse to discuss it with me, even though I'm the one who was here while it all happened. It used to make me so angry. I felt I had a right to know."
Gabriel grunted, realizing there was a great deal about Huntington he didn't know, had never suspected. "You did, mignonne, you do," he said, soothing her. "They think they protect you. They don't understand."
"I know," she sighed. "I'm so tired of it all now. I don't suppose I really care anymore. My husband died of natural causes a few weeks after I left him, leaving me the title of countess, and two small estates. I was out to sea with Davey and didn't hear of it for several months. I'm convinced he was killed by a combination of bitterness, bile, and apoplexy, but according to his family and polite society, it was shame and a broken heart brought on by my scandalous behavior that did him in."
"Naughty child," he whispered with a grin.
She smiled back at him. "There was some good that came out of it, though."
"And how is that, chere?”
"Well, it horrified everyone. Not what my husband or my uncle did to me, but what I did to them. I became a social outcast, and in an odd way, it set me free."
"Free?" He was finding it hard to follow her words, when most of his being was focused on her hand, smooth and warm in his.
"Yes, free. Think of it, Gabe!" She turned to face him, eager to share this new idea. He tightened his grip on her hand, not eager to have it escape him. "People like us, people who've been forced out of the world they know by habit or by birth, pushed or shoved or maybe just allowed to walk into new ones, they get to see that the rules of those worlds have no intrinsic meaning, hold no fundamental truth. Once you recognize that, you're free. Free to choose what makes sense, free to be yourself instead of what others expect you to be. Instead of knowing your place, you can get to know yourself!"
He tilted his head back, caught by the idea, considering for some time before responding. "But what if the self you find is someone you don't like, mignonne?"
She gave a low, husky laugh that sent a sweet thrill up his spine.
"Are you speaking of yourself, Gabriel?" she drawled, sleep clawing at her. "Because if you are, I would have to disagree. I may be a poor judge of character, but I find I like you very much." She punctuated that astonishing statement with a little sigh, wrinkling her nose and falling asleep.
Weary himself, he lay beside her, savoring her words, I find I like you very mucb, and savoring the feel of her hand in his, as his thumb traced patterns across her knuckles. It amazed him to think that only six months ago, he'd been dead inside, alone and friendless, trading his body for money and favors, and dreading the coming of tomorrow. Now here he was, lying comfortably in the bed of a lovely woman, holding hands like lovers, talking and chatting like old friends, and falling asleep together like a happy and contented old couple.
A sudden bolt of fear seized him, twisting his vitals, and clamping tight around his throat. It couldn't be real. Such a life was never meant for him. Certainly, not such a woman. She was clean and sweet, kind and wholesome, everything he was not. He needed to take stock, to slow this headlong rush toward destruction. He concentrated on breathing until his panic receded. If he were careful, he might keep her as a friend. But he had to be careful not to reach too high, not to want too much, or he'd lose it all.
Chapter
11
Despite Gabriels best intentions, it was growing increasingly difficult for him to stay within the bounds of friendship. As novel and as rewarding as the intimacy of friendship was for him, he was a healthy male in the prime of life, and in peak condition. He was also a deeply sensual man, a thing he had found to be a curse as he responded repeatedly to sensations and situations he neither welcomed nor enjoyed. In response, he had learned to detach and distance himself, so that sex became a dark mechanical exercise, a performance he could summon at will, and dismiss just as easily. He had realized early in life that it was the only thing he was wanted for, all that he had of value to anyone, other than Jamie. It had become his main form of relating to others, and it left him feeling angry, ashamed, and utterly alone.
Sarah expected more from him, wanted his company in ways no one else ever had. He had wanted to be listened to, wanted someone to care about what he thought, what he did, and who he was, and she offered him all of these things. She saw him as something better than he was, not as damaged goods or some bitter, jaded whore. There were times when he saw himself through her eyes and he knew she thought him brave, strong, and kind, because of her brother. She had no idea that his rescue of Jamie had been largely a selfish act, as necessary to his own survival as it had been to the boys. But when she looked at him that way, he j found himself wanting to be that man.
What would she think if she knew what he did to her in his dreams, how he made her cry out, made her forget her loathsome husband, made her forget herself. She would be disgusted and disappointed if she knew. He realized, belatedly, that by allowing himself to dream about her, waking or asleep, he was only making things worse. Determined to cut back his visits until he'd reasserted some control, his resolve lasted two days, and then he found himself mooning like some lost puppy below her balcony again. Bewitched and bedeviled, prepared to sabotage everything he'd built in his life over the past half year, in defiance of all his own rules, he decided to do what he'd been dreaming of doing for the past several months. He decided he was going to kiss her. A part of him clamored in alarm, shouting that he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life, but as he took the familiar path into the starlit night, he ignored it, promising himself if it was a mistake, she would forgive him.
Sarah waited for him, snug in her bed, hidden beneath a mound of blankets and books, and her ugly nightgown. A fire was lit against the November chill. She watched uncertainly as he approached. There was something u
nusual about him this evening. His eyes glittered and he seemed edgy, restless, as he stopped beside her bed. She'd not seen him the worse for drink for several weeks now. Not since he'd told her of his nightmare, and though he seemed somewhat unsteady, different somehow, he didn't appear to have been drinking.
"May I, mignonne?" he asked, gesturing to the bed.
"Of course." She drew up her legs and moved her books and cushions, making a space for him. "I didn't think you'd be coming." It was a question as much as a statement.
Choosing to ignore it, he settled his length beside her. "What are you reading, chereV he asked, his voice soft and beguiling.
She shivered at his tone. It struck her suddenly that she'd been playing a dangerous game inviting this man to her room, to her bed. Except it hadn't been a game. It had seemed natural and right, and somehow innocent. But the man beside her now was no innocent, and he watched her with eyes that were hot and hungry. He reached out his hand and she held her breath as he plucked the book from her frozen fingers, and tossed it to the floor. He held her captive with his eyes, intent and predatory, and his lips curved in a slow smile as he drew a path along the curve of her arm with his fingertip, gently skimming her skin through the thin material of her gown. Sensuous, unhurried, his wicked fingers traced the contours of her body, barely brushing her elbow, her shoulder, the curve of a breast, leaving delicious thrills of pleasure and anticipation in their wake.
Stunned, unable to move, she knew she was seeing a part of him she'd never seen before. She'd guessed at it, the first night they met in Madame's library; she'd seen a flash of it when he'd wanted to punish her and warn her away, but this was something else, someone else, and though she searched his familiar face, there was no trace of the man she'd come to know. She was bedazzled, unable to turn away as he shifted his body, moving closer, his fingers tracing her neckline now, stroking gently back and forth, hooking and tugging at her gown as her heart thudded in her chest and her body strained and ached, longing for his touch. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears as his clever fingers lightly brushed the swell of her breast, and then tightened around its bud. She gasped. Released from his spell and frightened by her own reactions, she tried to push him away. "No, Gabriel, stop!"
Lost in sensation, he was only dimly aware of her struggle, and it took him a moment to collect himself. When he did, lust was replaced by anger. What had she expected, inviting him to her bed? What had he expected, that she'd welcome him? He'd known she'd be disgusted, but it wounded him, nonetheless. Well, he'd come for a kiss, and a kiss he'd have. Pulling her roughly beneath him, he held her hands above her head and plundered her mouth, claiming the prize he'd come for. Letting her go abruptly, he sat up, his back to her, and fought to master himself. He knew he should apologize. He knew he should leave. But at that moment, he was afraid to look at her and he was incapable of speech. They sat there for what seemed an eternity, lost in a sea of silence.
Finally she spoke, "One would think, with all your vast experience, you would make a better job of it."
He turned to look at her, and replied with a voice as cool as her own. "This is the second time you've complained of my kisses, mignonne. I shall be certain not to trouble you with them again." Rising from the bed, he moved toward the balcony, hesitated, and turned instead to sprawl on the window seat. Reaching for the wine flask, he took a swallow, grimaced, and leaned back tiredly, resting his head against the wall. She was still talking to him at least. He might as well wait until she threw him out.
Sarah noted with some satisfaction that this time he hadn't run away. She decided to reward him. "It wasn't the kiss I objected to, Gabriel. It was the manner in which it was delivered."
"What do you expect, mignonne? I am a prostitute, though we both choose to forget it at times."
"You were one," she allowed. "What does that have to do with it?"
He lifted his gaze to hers, overwhelmed by her innocence and saddened at the enormity of the gulf between them. "I am very fluent when it comes to sex, my dear, believe me." Looking away, he continued, "But kissing, well, it's something that lovers do, sweethearts, husbands and wives, not whores and their clients. It's far too intimate and personal, you see." He glanced her way again, with a hint of a smile. "You are, in fact, mignonne, the only woman I have ever kissed. I trust it was memorable at least. My apologies, mademoiselle," he sketched a mocking bow, "for botching the job."
Something sweet and painful pierced her breast. She looked at him, dissolute, debauched, and achingly beautiful. Vulnerable and alone, he challenged her with his humor and his pride. She thought him magnificent. Tears welled at the back of her eyes and she fought to contain them. He wouldn't appreciate her pity. "I'm honored," she said, ignoring his mockery.
Gabriel watched with puzzlement, then mounting alarm, as she threw back the covers and made her way across the icy floor, stopping an arm's length away. She reached out her fingers, lighdy touching his jaw, and he hissed on indrawn breath. "Don't, mignonne," he pleaded. He grasped her hand gently, pushing it away. "No, Sarah," he whispered hoarsely.
"Then how will you learn to kiss me properly?" she coaxed. "Let me show you, Gabe. It's just a kiss.n Giving in to the hot urges and wild imaginings that plagued her every time she looked at his beautiful mouth, she took another step toward where he sat, splayed like some great jungle cat on her window seat.
Mesmerized, he made no further protest, no move to stop her.
Slowly, deliberately, she placed one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, and lifted her gown with the other, high enough to allow her to swing her leg to straddle him as she settled on his lap.
Whitehot need shot through him, chasing away every trace of fatigue, every lingering doubt, or warning thought. His body jerked awake and he moaned low in his throat as he reached for her hips.
"Shhh," she quieted him, taking his hands and placing them on either side of the seat, "this is a kissing lesson, Gabriel. Will you promise to remember?"
"I will try, mignonne," he managed, but it felt more like torture, as he used his trembling hands to brace himself.
She shifted her weight in his lap, making him throb with blissful pain, his swollen member aching as she raised her hands from his shoulders to tangle them in his hair. "You have such beautiful hair," she murmured. "Like chocolate and honey, toffee, and cinnamon. When I first saw you, I thought of candy, and I wanted to taste you." He moaned in anticipation as she continued to stroke his hair, the back of his neck, nuzzling him with her lips, breathing soft against his cheek. Softly, gently, she kissed his brow. "Close your eyes, Gabriel."
He did, and felt her fingertips delicately tracing his face, his brow, his cheeks and jaw, the column of his throat. Her soft lips followed her gentle fingers, exquisite torture. Nibbling, nuzzling, they tugged on his ear and a bolt of desire, sharp as a knife, stabbed through his vitals as he rasped for breath. Christ! No one had ever...he'd had no idea...she had no idea what she was doing to him.
Unaccustomed to being hugged or kissed in tenderness, starved for affection, desperate to hold her closer, he tried to shift her, to move her beneath him, but she gripped his shoulders, pushing him back. "No, Gabriel, just kissing. You promised. Stay still, and let me kiss you.w Her voice was warm, humming in his ear, interspersed with soft, moist kisses. It robbed him of breath and curled his toes. "Just enjoy it. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to go anywhere. Just relax."
Her voice bewitched him. Her tongue swirled hot in his ear and she nibbled his lobe, making him groan, but he did as she said, her kisses, her fingers, drugging him into a sweet surrender. He forgot where he was. Everything around him receded until there was only her whisper, her touch, her tender, aching kisses. After an eternity of intoxication and mad desire, her fingers bracketed his mouth and she finally, mercifully, brought her lips to his. Sobbing with relief and hunger, he clutched her wildly, his strong, skilled hands shaking as he pulled her closer, plundering her mouth, drinking her scent, and
tasting her, sweet as sin. He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, seeking her, finding her. They thrust and parried, the movement of lips, and tongue, and mouth, matched by that of their hips, grinding and rocking together.
He slowed then, and gentled. Not much experienced with kissing, he was nevertheless a sensual man. He'd thought it a curse until this moment. Now he surrendered to it, trusted it, softening his kiss as he stroked her lips with his tongue, dragging his full firm mouth back and forth across hers, gentle and slow, then hard and deep. Mouth, tongue, soft whispers and tender caresses, they continued long into the night, drugged and lost in each other.
It was Sarah who finally broke the spell. Pulling away with a shaky laugh, she laid her head against his shoulder and hugged him close. He gathered her tight in his arms and pulled her back against his chest, deep into the window seat with him, cradling her, warm under the blankets. "Sweet heaven... I... What was that?"
He had no words with which to answer her. He didn't know any more than she did. He'd never experienced anything as powerful in his entire life. All he knew was that his world had just been turned upside down and inside out, and nothing would ever be the same again. As the dawn broke over the horizon,
Sarah eased off him, slightly embarrassed, and though his hands were firm and gentle, supporting and guiding her as she stood upright in the morning gloom, he was unable to meet her eyes.
He rose to his feet, his legs so weak he could barely stand. "The sun’s almost up," he said, cursing himself for being unable to find anything better to say, after receiving such a gift. WI... Davey will be waiting."
Her breath caught in her throat. He was blushing, awkward and vulnerable and clearly bewildered, not sure what he was supposed to do. How did you end a night like this? She didn't know herself. Impulsively she moved into his unresisting arms and hugged him fiercely, planting a firm kiss on his cheek. "Best you go then, Gabe. Thank you, for last night. I'm sorry about what I said before. You kiss like an angel!"
