Dark Angel (Entangled Edge)

by TJ Bennett

  I cracked open my eyes only to be assailed by the view of emerald-green silk stretched out in long swaths above my head. A soaring canopy clung to four wooden bedposts carved in intricate details of cavorting fauns, swirling flora, and nubile nymphs. I averted my gaze from their naked limbs, instead following the pattern of the scrolled woodwork down to the massive bed in which I lay. Sumptuous linens embraced me, enclosing me fully in their downy depths. Turning my head, I saw a fire lit in a nearby hearth, the fireplace large enough to hold a man standing upright. The warmth blazed forth in crackling arcs of flame, and yet the light thrown off was not enough to illuminate the far corner of the enormous room, where someone stood shrouded in shadow.

  My savior watched over me. I felt his presence as I would perceive the sun at noontime even if my eyes were shut tight against its brilliance.

  “Will you come forward, sir?” I whispered.

  He heard me. The stillness about him heightened into a wary tension, although he did not move.

  “Please?”

  He hesitated, then took a step forward, but the shadows clung to him still.

  I struggled to sit upright, holding the sheets to my chest. A glance downward revealed I wore a nightgown of fine lace fastened at the neck with a tiny satin bow. The gown was demure in that it obscured every inch of skin below my throat to the triangle points of lace covering my wrists, and yet provocative in that the garment was obviously intended to highlight the femininity of its wearer. I flushed and pulled the sheet higher, hugging it to my shoulders.

  A bump beneath the lace revealed that I still wore my cameo pendant, the links of the silver chain cool around my neck.

  Perhaps the nightgown belonged to his wife. My spirits flagged at the thought, but I immediately shrugged it off. It was nothing to me, I assured myself, trying to ignore the sense of possession—or more accurately, connection—that must come from having one’s life saved by another.

  Still, I would not be dissuaded for the mere sake of my modesty from thanking my savior for my life. I beckoned him forward. “I wish to see your face.”

  He moved toward me and warmth bloomed across my cheeks at the sight of him. The radiance from the fire reached him; his gray eyes, reflecting the dancing flames, glittered like diamonds, his haughty cheekbones more pronounced in the play of light on his skin. The unrelieved black he wore explained why he’d so effectively blended into the dark. He was a man who did not wish to be seen.

  “Thank you, sir.” I drew a deep breath, trying to loosen the vise of apprehension twisting my stomach. “I am in your debt.”

  “There is no debt,” he said quietly. “You should sleep. Heal. I cannot—” He stopped and seemed to choose his next words carefully. “It is easier if you sleep.”

  His voice was as mesmerizing and as beautiful as his face. The deep rumble of it flowed over me. He spoke the Queen’s English as well as I, yet it was obvious he was of some foreign clime. I could not place his faint accent.

  I shifted, and some little ache caused me to wince. He flinched an instant later, as though he, too, were in pain, and my nurse’s instinct rose to the fore. I noted the sheen on his forehead, the slight tremble in the hands he moved to clasp behind his back.

  “Are you well, sir? May I assist you?” I asked anxiously, my own pain forgotten.

  He regained control.

  “It is you who are in need of assistance, which we have provided to the best of our ability. If you will not sleep, then tell me, how do you feel?”

  I considered this, remembering the faces of my shipmates as they sank below the surface of the water.

  “I feel as though I have been drowned and brought back to life,” I whispered, and a shudder racked through me. I tamped it down. I would mourn them later, in private. “You are the cursing man who rescued me. May God bless you, sir.”

  “If He did, it would be an astonishing first.”

  I did not understand him, and my expression must have said so. He made a vaguely Gallic gesture with his broad shoulders as if to say it did not signify. He stood with his feet apart, his carriage erect, looking down at me intently for long moments, his towering height making me feel even tinier by comparison. My thoughts, unmoored by that gaze, drifted away until I could no longer recall what I had meant to say. I merely stared up at him in admiring awe while the fire in the hearth crackled and sang.

  “Tell me your name,” he finally said, his words no less a command for the fact that they were softly spoken.

  I licked my lips, suddenly thirsty. “I am Mrs. Jonathan Briton. Where am I?”

  His lips thinned. “Mrs.?” he demanded, ignoring my question.

  “I-I am a widow.” I was taken aback by his tone.

  “Ah.”

  There was a note of satisfaction in that word, though why he would take comfort in my sorrow, I could not imagine.

  “Then you were not traveling with your husband. You lost him at some other time.”

  The way he said it made me feel as though I had been careless, perhaps misplacing my husband in the pocket of my winter overcoat. Still, it explained his tone—it must have been relief in his voice that I had not lost my husband in this recent tragedy, only a distant one.

  “I traveled alone.” By necessity. The nature of my mission had required it. I was unwilling to involve anyone else in the consequences I was prepared to bear for the children.

  The children.

  My gaze darted to the nearby nightstand and, not finding what it sought there, ricocheted around the room.

  “I have lost something, sir.” I swallowed my anxiety, forcing my voice into a normal pattern despite the screaming panic in my mind. “Did you find a reticule on my person, or near about, when you brought me from the water? It was black with jet beads.”

  “I did not. It is likely sunk to the bottom of the ocean by now.”

  Despair sheared through me. No, it cannot be. After everything…I bit my lip to stifle my cry of anguish, pressed down hard to stop it from escaping.

  He noted my reaction, his body shifting as if to protect me from a danger he could not possibly comprehend. “This thing was of importance to you?”

  What could I say? Only that it meant everything, and I could not possibly replace it? That I had lost all hope with the loss of the money in that bag, money I had been told I had no right to possess? What good would it do to bemoan my fate, to rail at the sea that had stolen my future and that of the children?

  I traced the oval shape of the cameo beneath my nightgown and neatened my face into a bland semblance of normality for the sake of appearances. It was a long-ingrained habit appropriate to my strict Victorian upbringing. A well-bred gentlewoman never revealed her inner turmoil to another, even when she wanted to scream and beat her bosom.

  Especially not then.

  “It is nothing. A trifle. Do not think of it again,” I managed, my throat squeezing shut.

  “A trifle.” He regarded me, speculation in his gaze.

  I did not realize my hand on the sheet clenched and unclenched, twisting the fabric into knots, until he tapped his fingertip gently against it. I stilled instantly, and his hand moved away.

  “What is your name?” he asked again.

  I blinked in confusion. “I told you, Mrs.—”

  He knelt down before me, so close I could see the ring of coal black surrounding the gray of his irises. The movement had been swift and soundless, startling me back against the plump pillows.

  “Your Christian name.”

  “C-Catherine,” I stammered, surprised into answering by his proximity. He radiated energy, a subtle magnetism that suggested he was accustomed to obedience.

  “I will look after you now, Catherine. Whatever troubles you becomes my trouble, too. Whatever you need, I will provide.” He smiled, a flash of white teeth, and my heart nearly stopped. “‘Ask, and it shall be given you.’”

  “‘The devil quotes scripture for his own ends,’” I rejoined without thinking, then g
asped at the sheer audacity of my remark.

  His smile only widened further.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “That he does.”

  He stood in the same lithe motion in which he’d knelt and turned away. He was nearly to the door before I realized he intended to leave.

  “Wait,” I called out. “What is your name?”

  He stopped, his back to me, but he did not turn. He seemed to be contemplating his response. “You may call me Gerard, if it pleases you.”

  Regardless of the intimate nature of our conversation, or perhaps because of it, I became determined to establish some sense of propriety between us. “May I inquire as to your family name?”

  He turned his head slowly, so slowly I feared the expression I might see on his face. Jaw clenched, he directed a look over his shoulder at me that could have singed eyebrows. I felt as though I had trod on an ancient grave and made its inhabitant furious.

  “I have no family.” He nearly spit out the last word. “Your choices are Master, as my servants call me, or Gerard.” He turned toward me and I noted with that same sense of awe the hard width of his chest, the coiled strength in the hands at his sides, the subdued power in his stance. “Choose.”

  The word whipped at me, compelling me to submission.

  Servant or equal?

  I called no man master. “Gerard it will be, then.”

  He smiled in triumph, and I realized he had received a sort of submission from me after all. I had not achieved the boundary of formality I sought. There would be no “sirs” or “madams” between us.

  His glance strayed to the window, which revealed the first inklings of dawn beyond its bubbled panes. “One thing, Catherine. Can you tell me the date?”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “I am not so addled that I do not know what day it is.”

  He did not speak, waiting with a tension in his frame I did not understand.

  “I set sail on October twenty-fifth,” I finally said.

  “Of what year?” At my expression, he added, “Indulge me. You took a knock on the head. It might affect your ability to recall simple information.”

  “Why, it is 1859, of course.”

  He stared at me for a long time. “Sleep, Catherine. We will speak again tomorrow night.”

  With a tilt of his head, he pulled open the door and was gone, leaving me with too many questions and not nearly enough answers to suit.

  Master, indeed.

  …

  I slumbered fitfully, tossing and striking out at vague phantoms, startling awake when the bite of the dreams assailing me became too much to bear. Of course, there were the usual nightmares—those of little Eliza and my husband Jonathan and the others—but those had now become intertwined with newer ones involving seawater and suffocation, black beasts and gray eyes, attacking until I finally succumbed to the dark void of unconsciousness.

  When I awoke, my eyes bleary, my head aching, I found that someone had left a covered tray of food on the nightstand beside my bed.

  Whatever you need, I will provide.

  My savior was absent; I did not sense him in the room, but he had made his presence known nonetheless. I stared at the food, a sense of disquiet invading my mind.

  The truth be told, I was starving. I could not remember the last time I had eaten. It was only natural my host would provide a proper meal.

  I pushed the heavy mass of my hair out of my face and sat up, inspecting the tray.

  For all the opulence of the ornate china and silverware, the fare it held was simple: roasted rabbit; stewed carrots, leeks, and onions; a baguette of crusty bread. I hovered my hand over the meal. It was still warm. The mouthwatering scents mingled and made my stomach growl.

  Red wine glimmered in a fine crystal decanter, and though I would have liked tea, I poured the wine into the glass provided.

  I ate quickly, my bare feet dangling over the side of the bed since I left the tray on the nightstand and helped myself from it. The storm had blown itself out. Night settled over the horizon through my window, darkening the sky to royal blue.

  My hunger satisfied, I pushed the dishes away. I had slept the day away and wondered if Gerard would visit me again before the night was through. While I had eaten, I thought continually of the children—I waited anxiously for someone to come. I had to make plans. I needed something to wear, information about my location, and how soon I could book passage to Liverpool—my ship’s destination—and find transport to London.

  I went to the ornately carved door with its polished brass knob to flag down a passing servant, but the door would not open.

  It was locked.

  Outrage, and then apprehension, quickly followed. Why had I been locked in?

  I tried hammering on the door and calling out, but when no one came, I returned to the bed. I distractedly picked up my wineglass and drank from it while I contemplated my situation.

  As if summoned by my thoughts, the door opened and in strode Gerard. I had not heard the key turn in the lock.

  I quickly tucked my bare legs beneath the blankets, nearly choking on my wine in my haste. I sputtered and my eyes watered.

  “Do you not knock before entering someone else’s bedroom?” I demanded, mortified.

  The question brought him up short, as though it had never occurred to him before. Perhaps it had not. His manner with me earlier indicated he was a man of some privilege and rank. He had likely never been denied entrance to any room in his home he wished to enter.

  “I have never had occasion to do so,” he finally responded, confirming my suspicions. “Is it your preference for me to knock?”

  I nodded vigorously, clearing my throat as I wondered whether he was admitting to never having had the occasion to knock, or of entering someone else’s bedroom.

  “Why was I locked in here last night?” I demanded. “Am I a prisoner?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Merely a precaution. You were quite dazed. I did not wish to risk your well-being if you wandered away.”

  “My well-being?” What was he protecting me from in his own house?

  His gaze was steady. “There are places here which are not safe. It is best to have an escort at all times.”

  I had no choice but to accept his explanation, but a sense of unease lingered.

  He tilted his head, his expression curious. “Why do you wish for me to knock before I enter?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Was he mocking me? The expression on his face spoke only of mild curiosity, nothing more.

  How to respond? He had entered without warning or chaperone into the bedroom of an unattached, undressed female, and he did not seem to understand the shattering of propriety his act entailed.

  If word filtered back home, I could be—would be—ruined beyond all redemption. Due to Jonathan’s status in society a few of my transgressions had so far been overlooked, but hosting a man in my boudoir would not be one of them.

  I tried to think of a way to explain that did not reveal my own disquiet at being alone with Gerard. My apprehension in his presence surprised me—he had rescued me, cared for me, seen to my health. I doubted he would go to such trouble if he had meant me any harm.

  Then again, he had also locked me in.

  “Why? Surely you must realize it is simply not proper. Others might judge us.” I did not know what else to say.

  He snorted. “Who?”

  “Everyone. Your servants, to begin with.”

  One black brow rose imperiously. “The opinion of servants is not a consideration.”

  I might have expected such a response from him. “Your friends, then.”

  He looked away, out the window, to where the dusk had turned to full night. “I have no friends…no friends of any consequence.”

  Something about the stiffness in his stance, the melancholy in his profile, made me believe he had changed his words as an afterthought. Could it be possible a man such as he—with a becoming appearance, in possession of appare
nt wealth, and perhaps a lord by custom if not by right—might not have friends? My heart softened and I bit my lip, wondering how to offer my friendship without having him misinterpret the gesture. Before I could act on my impulse, he turned back to me.

  “If it pleases you, then I will knock next time.”

  “And wait for my permission to enter?” I imagined him offering a peremptory knock as a mere sop to my request before barging in on me again.

  He sighed dramatically. “Will these conditions never end? Very well, I will wait until you say I may enter.”

  I smiled with relief, which was short-lived at his next words.

  “As long as that is what you say.” He tilted his chin down to look at me directly. “For you would not keep me from you for long,” he said softly, his gaze warm and frank, “if I thought you might have need of me.”

  Oh my. My breath stopped, then started again.

  I trembled under his regard, drawing the sheets higher around me. I felt exposed, the silver mists of his eyes enclosing me like a cool fog.

  “You’re shivering,” he observed with concern. “Are you chilled?”

  I grasped at the excuse as a drowning sailor would a life preserver, though that might not be the best analogy given my recent experiences. “Y-yes. The fire has died. Would you send for someone to relight it?”

  “I will do it.” He went to the fireplace at once and knelt before it, reaching for kindling and logs.

  “Do not trouble yourself with such menial labor,” I told him hastily. “You will dirty your hands.”

  He stepped away from the fireplace, and astonishingly, the flames were already beginning to rise. I had not even seen him strike a match. He turned to me with a wicked gleam of amusement. “It is accomplished.”

  “Well.” I stared at the roaring blaze, dumbfounded. “It most certainly is. You have a promising future as a chambermaid should you ever decide to abandon your life as a gentleman.”

  “I will try to remember that.” He searched behind him, spying and seizing on a large, overstuffed chair he pushed to my bedside with ease. He sat down in it with some ceremony, and leaning forward, rested his hands on his knees. “Now, tell me, how are you feeling today? Have you recovered from your ordeal?”