by Danice Allen
Once inside the stable, his ardor was squelched completely by shock. McKeen’s piebald mare was nowhere to be seen! He couldn’t imagine the animal getting out of the stable on her own, nor even wishing to if she could. McKeen must have gone! Just to confirm this fact, however, Zach quickly ascended the ladder to the loft and went inside. He felt a shiver of remembered apprehension just entering that little room, and turned around quickly as he suddenly imagined that McKeen might have tricked him into coming up there with plans to close and lock the door behind him.
Of course there was no one there. McKeen wasn’t closing the door and locking him inside that minuscule chamber, but Zach’s heart still beat heavy and hard, making a sloshing, deafening echo in his ears. He wanted to run out of that room as fast as he could, but he made himself stay till he’d calmed down. He wanted to leave of his own accord, not be driven out by demons of irrational fear.
Zach breathed deeply and thought calming thoughts, finding the most soothing images were of Gabby holding him, loving him. Presently he felt quite composed—tranquil enough to sit in that room till dawn broke. But he couldn’t, nor did he want to. He had other more pressing things to do. He had a feeling that when McKeen left the loft, enduring a horrendous hangover to boot, he’d headed straight for the shelter. McKeen was a desperate, unhappy man, and he had a headache that would make the devil himself water at the eyes. Those were not sensations one would wish to feel all at once, nor even separately. And they were not conducive to rational behavior.
There was no choice in the matter. Instead of going straight to Charlotte Square, Zach must take Gabby with him and go first to the shelter. He had to make sure that all was well there, that Kate was safe. She was due to deliver those twins any day now, any minute. She did not need aggravation, and who knew what mischief McKeen was up to?
Gabrielle had never seen a door with so many locks. And once inside, she’d never seen so many happy male faces. She found this rather a diverting idea when she thought about it—the parlor of a women’s shelter full-to-bursting with men. She would have laughed, except that her mouth was still frozen from the long ride. She could only imagine how chilled Zach was. He’d not even had his redingote to fend off the nippy wind, but only the smelly blanket from the loft and her arms wrapped tightly round him.
She’d been shuttled close to the fire the instant she’d entered the room, surrounded by the happy men, some of whom she recognized and some she didn’t. In truth, the returning warmth to her body was bringing with it a kind of pleasant stupor, and she smiled equally on them all whether or not she knew them. They were each obviously pleased to see her, and that sort of agreeableness deserved a smile, didn’t it?
Zach immediately asked about Kate and McKeen and was preceded out of the room and down the hall by a stout, pleasant-looking man in plain clothing, his soft-voiced conversation punctuated by “thees” and “thous.” A Quaker, she surmised, smiling. How nice. She supposed he always spoke softly, but she was encouraged by the attitude of Mr. Blake—who else could the gentleman be?—and decided that Kate must be all right and Douglas McKeen must not have come there, after all. But where was he, then? She couldn’t help but worry.
Rory was there, relief and affection written all over him. He leaned down once to where she was snuggled into a chair beneath several blankets and pushed as close to the fire as she could tolerate, whispering, “I’ve told the Murrays everything. You don’t need to worry about that, so don’t. And there’s something else.” He leaned closer, his blue eyes dancing with happiness. “Regina and I are engaged.”
Gabrielle smiled, whispering back, “I’m very happy for you! Zach and I have come to an understanding, as well. Mama will be thrilled”—her smile broadened—“even though Zach is not a marquess like you, Rory. But I can say without equivocation that he does share one of your talents. He’s a first-rate kisser!” Rory whooped with laughter and moved away to fill a cup with hot tea for Gabrielle to drink, now that her teeth had quit chattering.
A very large man with sandy-blond hair, whom Gabrielle believed was the person who had opened the door and let them in, leaned against the far wall. He was smiling, too, but he didn’t join in the conversation with the other men. In fact, she didn’t remember hearing him say anything since they’d arrived. But he had an aura about him of serenity and strength and security, like a mountain—like the rugged, benign mountains of Scotland. She smiled at him, and he blushed, looking hastily away.
Bleader was there, too, standing at a discreet, respectful distance, but grinning from ear to ear, looking for all the world like a tomcat who had just snared himself a fat mouse. Returning his smile, she remembered Ralph, and her smile fell away. “How’s Ralph, Bleader? Is he all right?”
“Right as rain, miss, though he’s sportin’ a knot on ’is noggin ’e didn’t have this mornin’.”
“That was too dreadfully shabby of McKeen, and I told him so!”
“I told him as well, Gabrielle,” said Rory, shoveling spoons full of sugar into Gabrielle’s tea.
“You told him as well? McKeen’s here, then?”
“Yes, sitting with his wife in one of the back bedchambers. He fell off his horse trying to get here from the cottage, hitting his head against a rock, which was, perhaps, Providence’s way of getting back at him for Ralph’s goose-egg.”
“So, you know all about where Zach and I’ve been? You know that McKeen abducted me?”
“We know everything,” Rory informed her calmly. “We got it all from McKeen. He was in dreadful shape when he got here, but he was revived with heat and bandages, food and plenty of steaming coffee. As he was wearing Zach’s coat when he arrived, we feared the worst and were ready to draw straws for the privilege of beating him senseless again once he regained consciousness. Though I daresay Blake wouldn’t have allowed it,” Rory added regretfully. “When he assured us that you and Zach were both perfectly safe, we were persuaded to let him live, unless, of course, he was proven later to be lying.”
Rory put a generous dollop of cream in Gabrielle’s tea and commenced stirring. “It’s just as well we didn’t beat him, as it happens, because his wife was having twins and calling for him.”
“She’s had them, then? Is everyone all right?”
“Yes. It was rough going for a while, but she came through. A plucky lass, Blake tells me. Both are boys. She’ll have her hands full taking care of them, I have no doubt.” Rory offered her the tea at last, and Gabrielle pulled her hands free of the blankets to take it from him.
She took a swallow, relishing how the hot liquid eased down her scratchy throat.
“I am delighted for Kate,” said Gabrielle, staring into the fire as sober thoughts took the edge off her happiness. “But she’s got more on her hands than those boys to raise. What about her husband? What about his drinking and his …” Her voice trailed off.
“It seems Zach had extended an offer to Kate to take Douglas into the shelter and help cure him of drinking,” Rory told her.
“Zach extended the same offer to McKeen at the cottage. But McKeen didn’t seem inclined toward taking him up on it.”
“Well, he has now. And if he’s cured of the drinking, perhaps the other will remedy itself. But if it remains a problem, Kate has told her husband that she will by no means tolerate any sort of bullying again. She has friends and resources she can turn to now, and McKeen knows it. He’s been warned, and I think he’s a sober man tonight in more ways than one.”
Gabrielle nodded, encouraged. “Does he like the babies?”
“He’s smitten,” Rory admitted with a grin. “I think we all are, aren’t we, Bleader? Aren’t we, Charlie?”
Bleader grunted and Charlie shrugged, unwilling to admit they wore smitten with anything.
“How do they look? Are they awfully small? Are they handsome?”
“Why don’t you come see for yourself, Gabby?”
Gabrielle turned at the sound of Zach’s voice coming from the door that led int
o the hall. Zach had shed his jacket and hat, and the snow on his hair had melted, making his straight bright hair glisten with dampness. “But aren’t you cold, Zach? Shouldn’t you warm yourself by the fire?” She didn’t want him dying of a lung inflammation just when she had finally got him exactly where she wanted him!
“I’m quite warm. Come, do you want to see the babies before Kate goes to sleep?”
Gabrielle certainly wanted to see the babies, and Zach knew it. Even as a small child she’d been fascinated by anything infantile. Puppies, kittens, piglets, bunnies, even a nest of barn mice. They all held a measure of charm and attraction for Gabrielle. She pushed off her blankets and stood up, a little wobbly on her recently thawed legs. Zach obligingly stepped forward and gave her his arm to lean on. Oh, how nice it was to know that his arm would always be there for her, the two of them—God willing—growing quite old and rickety together.
As they walked to Kate’s bedchamber, several women found something to do that necessitated leaving their rooms and hovering in the hall or the doorways so they could look at Gabrielle and Zach, some gaping openly, some smiling shyly from behind a curtain of hair. Some were pregnant. Some had obvious bruises. Some were so thin they looked as though they might snap in two. Gabrielle smiled at all of them, her heart full of empathy. But she was glad for them, too, because they were in the shelter, exactly where they needed to be to help them work through their problems and start life anew. She squeezed Zach’s arm. She was so proud of him.
As they entered Kate’s bedchamber, a room she shared with two other women, Gabrielle’s gaze first fell on Douglas. Kate had the center bed, and Douglas was sitting next to it in a chair, holding one of the twins. Mr. Blake stood at the foot of the bed, benignly looking on and, just possibly, keeping an eye on Douglas. Douglas didn’t notice when they came in; his head was bent, looking at the baby. He had a bandage over one brow. His hair was combed neatly back from his brow, and his face and hands had been scrubbed clean.
Gabrielle wasn’t sure how to feel toward the man. Everyone seemed to have forgiven him everything and was supporting him in his endeavor to change. She wanted to feel the same way, she wanted the magic of the moment to fill her with confidence for the future, but she instinctively knew that the glow of fatherhood wouldn’t be enough to get Douglas through the horrors of liquor withdrawal. He would need to make up his own mind to do it, not just for the babies and Kate, but for himself as well.
Gabrielle turned to Kate, who was holding the other child. Kate looked back at her, a tentative smile tilting her lips that conveyed a friendly curiosity. She was a pretty, petite girl, though rather pale and tired at the moment from having given birth to a couple of strapping boys. She hardly seemed old enough to have children of her own, but they were hers, all right. She glowed with maternal pride. Gabrielle could see why everyone was so willing to forgive Douglas and hope for the best. It was for Kate’s sake. She was charming—instantly likable.
“Ye’re Gabby, then?” She blushed, correcting herself. “I mean, Miss Tavistock.”
Gabrielle smiled reassuringly. “Do call me Gabby, if that’s how you know me.”
“I do feel I know ye a little, miss. Wickham has talked of ye considerable.”
Gabrielle smiled up at Zach, who shrugged his shoulders and looked slightly sheepish. “Good things, I hope,” she teased, then turned back to Kate. “I’ve come to see the babies before you go to sleep, which I’m sure you’re dying to do.”
“Aye, miss, ’tis a pleasure t’ show ’em to ye, but first me and Douglas have somethin’t’ say. We’re more’n sorry fer the trouble and—”
“No, Kate,” Douglas broke in, lifting his head and looking Gabrielle straight in the eye. “You dinna do nothin’ wrong, Kate. It was me, and it’s my place t’ beg the lass here t’ pardon me wrongdoin’.” The baby made a wee squeaking sound, and Douglas bounced it gently, as natural as can be in his new role as “Da.” “I’ve been a villain, Miss Tavistock. I’ve been sick with the bottle fer a long time and doin’ things I should’na do. When Kate run away, ’stead of realizin’ it were my own fault, I blamed my misery on Wickham. All I wanted was me Kate back, but I dinna think beyond that. I hurt ye and scared ye and I’m sorry fer it. I hope someday ye’ll find it in yer heart t’ forgive me.”
“You have my forgiveness already, Mr. McKeen, if you keep your promise to Kate and take up Zach’s offer of help. I want you to succeed. I can see you’re going to make a first-rate father and enjoy a wonderful family life, if you learn to control your drinking.”
Douglas looked grateful and humble. “I will, miss. I promise I will.”
The apologies given and accepted, Gabrielle’s favorite part was at hand—the inspection of the babies. Zach lifted the one Kate was holding and placed him in Gabrielle’s eager arms. He was tightly swathed in a flannel blanket. Gabrielle gazed down into the tiny red face, the eyes slightly swollen from the trauma of birth. She nuzzled her nose against the wispy dark hair on his head and breathed in the “new” scent of him. Then suddenly Douglas was there, handing her the other twin. They were so light, it was easy to hold both of them. She kissed the newcomer. They were exactly alike. Exactly.
Zach’s heart was bursting with love for Gabby. Standing there, holding the twins, her fair head bent over them in delighted examination, she radiated womanhood. She was right. She’d been right all along. She wasn’t a child. She was a woman ready to have her own children, their own children.
Zach felt a tug of prideful hope. Maybe she was already breeding. Maybe they’d already started a baby together today, in the cottage, by the fire. Just in case that were true—his chest puffed out a little at the possibility—they had better get married right away. In Scotland it only took two witnesses and a willing lass. He knew his lass was willing, and he’d witnesses to spare. It was as good an excuse as any to hasten the nuptials. And frankly, any excuse would do.
He leaned over and kissed her, above the babies, in front of everybody, and didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed.
The wedding was a small affair, held in the Murrays’ drawing room two weeks after Kate’s babies were bom. The guest list was limited to a select few. The Murrays were there, of course, and Regina, Rory, Aunt Clarissa, and the servants. The Tuttles, all five of them, were in attendance, sitting with Ralph, with Bella holding on to his hand as if he might lift off like a hot-air balloon should she dare to let go. Will had been seen by the doctor, and his ears were already on the mend. They all looked spruce and clean and happy. In fact, they looked so respectable that Lady Grace was forced to modify her general opinions about the poor and decided to sponsor them.
Gabrielle had already made up her mind that Ralph would marry Mrs. Tuttle—Caroline was her given name—and move to a little farm in the country. Mr. Tuttle could be located and a divorce demanded. Gabrielle wasn’t sure yet if the parties involved would fall into her plans as readily as she thought them up, but she had great hopes. The children already loved Ralph, and judging by the way Caroline slid shy and admiring looks in Ralph’s direction, it was apparent that that lady’s affections were speedily blossoming. That left only Ralph to deal with, and Gabrielle had great confidence in female persuasiveness and charm, which she’d no doubt Caroline possessed in the usual quantities and was eminently capable of exercising.
Mr. Blake came from the shelter, but it was understood that Kate and Douglas would not be able to attend. Kate sent word that she was thinking of them and imagining how beautiful Gabby would look in her wedding finery and how braw Zach would look in a kilt.
Everyone knew that Douglas wouldn’t be thinking much about the wedding at all. He’d be concentrating on getting through the day without a drink. The first week was always hellish, and he was in hell, sure enough. His nerves were on fire. His head ached, and his stomach rejected food, only wanting whiskey. They were patient with him at the shelter, but unwaveringly firm. When he ranted and raved, they restrained him. When he begged and entreate
d, they listened sympathetically but didn’t budge an inch.
In his saner moments, he thought of Kate and the babies and looked forward to the time when he could face them a sober man. He wanted to get on with his life, resume gainful employment, and come home at night to his smiling Kate and his strapping boys. He was going to do it for them, and for himself. After all, he’d promised.
As for Charlie, he couldn’t be spared from the shelter, especially with Douglas needing to be tended. Gabrielle would send him some cake.
Dressing for her wedding, Gabrielle had thought of her mother, Beth, Alex, and the children. She wished they could be there, but she knew it was impossible at such short notice and in such inclement weather and traveling conditions. They had sent their love in long letters, and it was apparent that each of them had been hoping that Zach and Gabrielle would make a pair. In fact, Beth and Alex’s letter implied that they had expected Zach’s trip to Scotland to settle the matter one way or the other. Their approval and deep satisfaction over the way the matter was settled at last resonated from each affectionate sentence. Gabrielle had never imagined she could be so happy.
Her dress was made in a great hurry by Lady Grace’s usual modiste, and done discreetly so as not to alert the whole of Edinburgh to the news of the wedding. The Murrays decided to keep the developments of the past few days a secret for a while, giving Zach and Gabrielle time to leave town on their honeymoon without having to dodge a lot of questions and impudent stares. Shortly after, they would announce Rory and Regina’s engagement and give a short explanation about “the young people finally realizing who they were actually in love with,” and leave it at that. The persistently curious would be snubbed.
Gabrielle’s dress was a dream, made of white silk brocade and embossed with white roses. An off-the-shoulder deep ruffle exposed her shoulders and the line of her neck. Her hair was swept up in a coiffure dubbed by the fashion plates as “Cimodocee,” named after the Greek sea nymph Cymodoce. Naturally Gabrielle’s fanciful imagination had been intrigued by the name, but she liked the style, as well. It was rather simple, her hair pulled back and braided and looped in a sort of whimsical topknot. A wreath of myrtle crowned her head, with a diaphanous flowing veil attached at the back, hanging nearly to the floor.
