The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

Finally Rory had done with the straightening of his apparel and now pulled back his lips in a grimacing smile to inspect his teeth. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he smoothed the ends of his mustache with a spit-dampened forefinger and turned round to face Gabrielle with a more natural grin.

  “So, lass, how long do you think it will take to make ol’ Zach mad with jealousy and ready to stick his neck in the marital noose?”

  Gabrielle wrinkled her nose. “Rory, you do have such a way with words. You make me sound positively predatory!”

  Rory shrugged one broad shoulder, saying, “Well, aren’t you scheming and plotting to catch him? Looks like the hound chasing the fox to me.”

  Gabrielle crossed her arms and tapped an irritated rhythm against the rug with one satin slipper. ‘‘I thought you understood. I’m not trying to trap Zachary, I’m simply bringing him to his senses. He thinks of me as a child, you see—which I’m not, of course. I don’t think he’s ever imagined me married to anyone, least of all himself! Our pretend engagement will open his eyes to the fact that I’m a woman”—Gabriel lifted her chin—“and that he’s in love with me. He just doesn’t realize it yet!”

  Rory snorted. “Poor devil!”

  Gabrielle stamped her foot. “If you don’t stop talking fustian, Rory, I’m likely to get a bit miffed with you!”

  Rory laughed and slid his large hands about Gabrielle’s waist, pulling her as close as her full skirts would allow, close enough that Gabrielle could smell the liquor on his breath and see the unnatural brightness of his blue eyes. Apparently he’d been making rather merry with the help of Sir George’s good Highland whiskey. She held herself away from him with both hands pressed against his chest. “Don’t take it personally, Gabrielle,” he said. “You’re a bonny lass, and if I were the marryin’ sort, why you’d be right there at the top of my list of potential brides.”

  Gabrielle’s lips curved in amusement. She reached down and tried to pry Rory’s hands off her waist. “I’m deeply flattered, Rory. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  Rory held her firmly. He ducked his head till they were nearly nose to nose. “One way I’d reduce my list to final contenders would be to discover whose lips are the sweetest. Your hair’s the color of honey, lass. Does that mean your lips taste like the nectar of the gods?”

  Gabby wriggled out of Rory’s grip with an agility that took him by surprise, leaving him with his lips puckered against empty air. “I’ve no intention of kissing anyone but Zach!”

  Rory raised his brows and threw up his hands in a gesture of innocent acquiescence. “Then he’s kissed you?”

  Gabrielle felt herself blushing. For a moment she was tempted to lie, but she didn’t. “No, we’ve never kissed. Well, at least not in that way. He kisses me—” She twirled her hand in the air as if searching for the right words, then in a deflated tone said, “On the head.”

  Rory tsk-tsked and moved to a rosewood table by the window. He flicked open a small enameled case, plucked out a cigarillo, and fit it between his lips. He lifted a three-tapered brace of candles and lit the cigarillo, leisurely puffing out a perfect circle of smoke before turning back to Gabrielle.

  His insouciance annoyed her. Despite their friendship and collusion in this betrothal charade, Gabby felt certain that Rory had no real understanding of how important the whole matter was to her. Besides putting off his matchmaking, nagging grandmother for a time, he probably saw their deception simply as an amusing lark to while away the dull winter months. His next words confirmed this suspicion.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. Fooling the people hereabouts has been no test of my acting ability. Convincing this Wickham fellow—someone who’s known you all your life—that I’m enamored of you, and you with me, presents a bit of a challenge, and I find challenges quite diverting. If the man’s been pecking you on the crown like some doddering old uncle would do to his favorite niece, I’d say my work’s cut out for me,” he added with obvious satisfaction. “How long do you think he’ll take to change his clothes and present himself in the salon?”

  “Zachary never fusses over his appearance—” Gabrielle noticed Rory’s slight sneer of pitying superiority and pointedly added, “Yet he still manages to look the very ideal of gentlemanly elegance. Some men are simply quicker at things than others.”

  “Being quicker at things is not always an attribute one strives for, Gabrielle,” Rory suggested lazily, his blue eyes sparkling with bawdy humor. “For example, in the case of lovemaking…”

  “You do not need to elaborate,” Gabrielle informed him with a withering look. “Perhaps I chose the wrong word when I said Zach was quick. Perhaps I should rather have said that he is more adept at things than most men.”

  Rory laughed appreciatively. “You’re loyal, I’ll give you that!”

  “Loyal and desperately in love, Rory,” she said fervently, reaching out to trail a caressing hand along the plush texture of his jacket lapel. “I’m depending on you. My whole future—Zach’s whole future—depends on you!”

  Rory dropped his cigarillo into a porcelain dish on the table and lifted Gabrielle’s hand to his lips, kissing the lacy back of her glove very tenderly. He was serious now, and Gabrielle felt relief flood through her. Rory could be an absolute dear when he was moved to honest emotion.

  “No, Gabrielle,” he advised her gently. “Yours and Zach’s future does not depend on me, but rather on you and Zach. If there’s love between you, you must work through whatever is keeping you apart. I can’t help but think Zach rather a fool, though, if the only thing that stands in the way of your happiness is the matter of a dozen or so years’ difference in your ages.”

  Gabrielle felt her eyes filling with tears. She looked down, swallowing back the emotion that welled in her throat. “No. There’s more to it than that, only I don’t know exactly what. It has something to do with a woman he once loved. No one would ever tell me the details. I was very young when she died.”

  She lifted her gaze back to Rory’s sympathetic, though unfortunately slightly befuddled expression. “For the past ten years, he’s traveled a lot. He’s gone all over England and Scotland, some say to lose himself in dissipation. But I don’t believe it for a minute! When a person embraces a wild style of living to forget his troubles, his appearance shows it. Zach always returns from his trips looking younger, rejuvenated. But after a time the moroseness builds up again, and off he goes on another journey! I want to make it unnecessary for Zach to leave his home—which I know he loves—in order to be rid of this pain of his. I want to be Zach’s … balm!”

  “Lord, Gabrielle, that sounded straight out of a penny novel!” Rory complained, laughing. “His balm?’’

  Offended, Gabrielle sniffed. “Oh, just when I think you might be understanding a little!”

  “I do understand, you minx, but you grow a trifle dramatic at times, which is exactly why I like you so much. I love high drama! Speaking of that, we had better get back to the salon before Zach makes his appearance, posing ourselves in a touching tableau which will make quite an impact on him the moment he enters the room.”

  Rory used his hands to frame an invisible square in the air, then stood gazing at the imagined scene. “By the fireplace, perhaps, with me looking soulfully into your eyes…” He squinted thoughtfully. “What do you think, lass?”

  Gabrielle knitted her brows consideringly, staring at the same empty space. “Or sitting on the Egyptian couch in that one alcove, holding hands, of course.” Her eyes brightened with sudden inspiration as he led her to the door. “I’ll use my fan to flirt with you! Nothing could make me appear more mature and sophisticated, I daresay, then to use my fan!”

  Rory grinned. “Ah, yes, the very thing,” he murmured dryly. “But if that doesn’t work, lass, there are other ways to make you look grown up!”

  Gabrielle smiled uncertainly. She appreciated Rory’s wholehearted participation and enthusiasm, but what could he possibly mean by that?


  Rather like a wedding march, Zach kept a halting step-wait, step-wait rhythm as he walked behind the aging footman down the long hall to the salon. No escort was necessary, since he could have followed the noise and not gone amiss despite the large size of the Murrays’ townhouse, but Sir George had insisted on leaving the servant standing outside Zach’s door for just this purpose. It would probably offend the old fellow’s dignity if Zach sped past him like a cocky hare kicking dust in the face of a persevering tortoise, so he endeavored to control his impatience. He pulled his watch from an inner waistcoat pocket and noted the time. Eleven-fifty-five. The new year was practically banging at the door. He wished the plodding footman would walk just a trifle faster!

  Zach derived a great deal of pleasure from anticipating the maiden morning of 1832 in the company of Gabby, just as he’d felt an unexpectedly large burst of happiness to see her gazing down at him from an upper window when he’d arrived. It was almost too coincidental that she should be looking out just when he pulled up in front of the house, since he’d not written to announce when he might be expected, but what other explanation could there be for it except coincidence?

  Zach had a silly notion that Gabby had somehow sensed his arrival, just as he’d felt an unaccountable, overwhelming urge to glance up toward the window. It had seemed as though he’d heard her call his name, but that was impossible since the window had been tightly shut against the cold winter night. Zach grunted derisively. Indeed, Gabby’s fanciful imagination was finally rubbing off on him after all their years of friendship! He would not believe a bit of it!

  To prod himself toward a more realistic train of thought, Zach looked down at his Wellington ankle boots and checked them for shine. As usual, Bleader had given them a brilliant luster. He needn’t worry about the tidiness of any other article of his clothing, either. Bleader never allowed him out of his chamber unless he looked absolutely immaculate, even when, as tonight, Zach had hurried him through the usual routine.

  Next to the colorful kilts of the Scots and a few bright holiday vests worn by the visiting Sassenach, he supposed he would fade into the background in his plain black toggery. So much the better, since anonymity suited him just fine. He only hoped he would not be so inconspicuous that he’d be unable to attract Gabby’s attention. He had to find her before the clock chimed midnight.

  Then another thought intruded on Zach’s happy anticipation to see Gabby. Memories of that wretched girl he’d picked up outside Old Town continually cropped up. She’d swooned in the carriage on the way to the women’s shelter and had been borne inside with considerably less trouble than when she’d been carried to the coach.

  The woman looked ready to burst with child, and her drinking like a crusty sailor on a three-day leave did not bode well for the baby’s health or the mother’s. He supposed her heavy imbibing was a well-established habit. Zach hadn’t had time to wait around for her to wake up so that he might ask her questions, so he left strict orders with Mr. Blake, the proprietor Zach had hired to oversee the charitable institution he’d established five years before, to keep her there till the morrow even if she must be restrained.

  Zach suspected that the woman had been abused by her husband. Once they had gotten her into the light, he had seen bruises on her arms and face, and there were probably more elsewhere. Just thinking about it made his blood boil. He had been a rather peacekeeping fellow over the past ten years, but nothing made him feel angrier and more capable of violence than the thought of a man bullying and beating a defenseless woman.

  There was that time when he’d actually seen such a despicable act taking place in the alley behind the shelter he owned in Liverpool. Zach rubbed the knuckles of his right hand, remembering how they’d been split open by the impact of his blow to the man’s face. He’d nearly killed the bloody bastard, but Zach wasn’t the least bit proud of the fact. Unfortunately the girl the man had been beating did die from her injuries.

  Lord, when he thought of all the senseless misery and death he’d witnessed over the years! The three nonsectarian women’s shelters he’d established and maintained with his own money, along with the contributions that eventually trickled in from the community, made only a small dent in all the suffering.

  Zach lifted his hand to gingerly touch the swollen area round his eye. He hadn’t yet considered how he would explain the injury to Gabby. Now that the doors to the salon were being opened for him and he was about to see her face to face, perhaps he had better think of something rather quickly!

  Zach stood at the entryway and looked about the room. Busy, so busy. Like an anthill built on the remains of an extravagant picnic, there was food and activity everywhere. And the chattering! It grew louder by the moment, like the honking cacophony of a cloud of agitated geese flying over a marsh. The excitement, the expectation of the clock’s chiming-in of the new year permeated the group—intensifying, building to a peak.

  Fortunately the room was large, the ceilings high, the air circulating relatively well. Thank God someone had decided to keep open the doors that led into the gallery. Otherwise he’d be feeling the first stirrings of phobia: the sweaty palms, the trip-hammer heartbeat.

  Eleven-fifty-eight. Zach felt a prick of uneasiness. Where was Gabby? Suddenly it was important to find her before midnight, to see the year out with her at his side, his only link to familial love and attachment in the relative strangeness of Edinburgh. He stood still, only his head and eyes moving as he surveyed the room. Then he saw her.

  Sitting on a scroll-armed, exotic-looking couch in an alcove not twenty feet away, she batted her lashes above the crimped edge of a blue feathered fan. She was not alone. Sitting next to her, bending over her gloved hand as if he were about to bestow a kiss upon it, was a man. He was dark and handsome with a neat, fashionable mustache, rather burly, with good shoulders and muscular legs well suited for a kilt.

  Zach’s reaction to seeing Gabby with her betrothed hit him like a fist to the gullet. It shouldn’t have been surprising to find her in the company of the marquess, yet Zach had not been thinking of sharing Gabby’s company as they greeted the new year together. In Cornwall he was used to having her all to himself.

  Zach sighed. Well, he would have to become accustomed to a different sort of relationship with Gabby now. The marquess probably would not look kindly on Zach monopolizing her attention. Though from the way she was gazing at her betrothed, Gabby’s attention might not be as easily gained and kept by Zach as in the old days. Everything was different now. Where had the little girl gone?

  Intellectually Zach had been aware of Gabby’s budding womanhood for some time, but perhaps he’d tried to ignore it so that he could preserve the innocence of their relationship. He looked at her. Candlelight, like the touch of Midas, turned Gabby’s hair to burnished gold. Her skin was tinted like ivory and roses, the delicate color and curve of her neck and shoulders set off by the low-sweeping neckline of her blue dress.

  That neckline … Something stirred in Zach at the sight of Gabby’s breasts peeking above the silk ruching of her gown. He knew the feeling, though he would rather not recognize it for what it was. It was arousal. Good God in heaven, he was feeling the beginnings of passion for Gabby!

  Zach was consumed with distressing emotions. First there was anger. How dare she grow up? By maturing into a beautiful, desirable woman she had effectively removed herself from the comfortable circle of their friendship. In essence, she had left him behind. He felt betrayed by the child who seemed suddenly, willfully, to have metamorphosed into a creature that he could not love for fear of destroying her. He dared to love the little girl she was, but he dared not love the woman she had become. After all, everyone knew that he brought nothing but unhappiness to the women in his life.

  But what was he thinking of, anyway? She was engaged already to this Marquess of Lome fellow, and Zach wasn’t here to speculate on his own feelings for Gabby—those were unimportant—but to ascertain whether or not the marquess was a suitab
le parti for his little Gabby.

  His little Gabby, indeed! There was no one in the room who fit that description any longer. An overwhelming sadness enveloped Zach. He had lost her.

  The clock began to strike the hour. A hush fell over the room. People were positioned in intimate littie circles of friends and loved ones, ready to embrace and kiss on the echo of the last chime. Then Gabby turned, and her eyes met Zach’s. He prayed she would not see the sadness he felt, for her face was alight with happiness. He pasted a smile on his lips and hoped it did not look as strained as it felt. She rose gracefully and strode quickly toward him, finally standing shamelessly in front of him in all her full-blown, ravishing, unrepentant womanhood. Gone was the little girl with heather sprigs tangled in her hair. Gone was the infantile scent of moor dirt and sunshine. Gabby smelled like … orchids.

  It had taken all Gabrielle’s power of self-control to keep from flying off the couch the minute Zach entered the room. She had surreptitiously watched him as he stood straight and tall and calm, the eye of the storm in the middle of all the gay confusion. She knew the minute his gaze rested on her. She felt his scrutiny as surely as if he had been touching her. She wished he were touching her with those long tapered fingers of his…

  She played her part, fluttering her fan and her eyelashes both. She flirted outrageously with Rory, coyly dimpling and simpering. Did Zach realize that while he stood there observing her, he was attracting the attention of everyone near him? In her peripheral vision, she saw the female heads turning, admiring—the male heads turning, envying, resenting. Did he know that the plain black elegance of his evening attire made his golden hair and eyes all the more striking?

  Lord, she’d felt jealous: jealous of anyone who presumed to look at him while she was denying herself such a treat. Rory had kissed each finger of her hand with lingering devotion. Still Zach did not approach. Then, when the cabinet clock began to strike the hour, she could bear the distance between them no longer. She must join Zach in this momentous occasion of new beginnings, for she prayed the new year would portend the beginning of a new relationship between them. She snatched her hand from Rory and walked quickly toward Zach, but when she finally stood before him with the last seconds of the year passing irretrievably by, she felt a restraint in Zach, a sadness. In response, her own happiness dulled a little, and she felt shy and awkward.