by Darci Hannah
“Oh, so you found out about that, did you?” Although he smiled to keep up appearances, his eyes darkened. I had put a chink in his armor. Sir George was a man used to getting his own way, and he didn’t like being challenged by a woman. “Well, I’m sorry. I truly am. But it should ease your mind to know that I wasn’t the first. And they didn’t complain; in fact, your little maids mightily enjoyed themselves. I offered the same to you, but you locked me out of your room, if you’ll remember.” He smiled sweetly, innocently—as if his inability to master his urges was somehow my fault. It was preposterous! “Open the gates, my gentle dove, and you can judge for yourself if anyone was mistreated.” The men loved this. I wanted to put an arrow through his profligate heart.
“Are you really this dense, my lord? Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? I shall make it plain for your simpleton’s mind then. You are not welcome at Blythe Hall! Ever! Go home!”
“You forget,” he said, and this time there was no hint of amusement in the compelling face, “I am to be the Lord of Blythe. It is a role I was born to play, my dove. I know the secrets you hide here, Isabeau. Nothing will keep me from them now. The King of Scotland has decreed it. This castle is as good as mine.” For the life of me, I didn’t know what secrets he was talking about, unless he was referring to the Chapel of Angels, which, in the wrong hands, could be sold off piecemeal for a sizable fortune. I would never let him do it! He had also mentioned the king, and nobody was fool enough to comment on what had happened to him. It was yet another worry that sickened me. I glared down at Sir George, silently cursing myself for being so foolish—for letting myself walk in the shadow of his seduction; for letting myself be lulled by the power of his mesmerizing gaze. He smiled back, drinking in my anger as a lover indulges in an aphrodisiac. The fine features sharpened, the tan skin darkened as blood coursed just below the surface, and his eyes burned like fiery emeralds. His desires were quite clear; it was the power of them that terrified me.
“You have two choices, my sweeting,” he called up to me. “You can open the gates and be civil about this, or you can keep them locked and I will break them down. You cannot possibly think you can defend Blythe Hall with a couple of old men and shepherd boys. But if it amuses you, you’re welcome to try. Then, after you’ve had your fun, why then, my little angel, then it will be my turn. And I can assure you that once you’ve experienced my idea of fun, you’ll be wishing you had never left my room.” His men, his built-in audience of well-paid retainers, wildly approved of this sentiment. The debased creatures. “I shall give you a moment to consider,” he added, as if it were a great courtesy.
I was seething with anger and fear, and he knew it. He knew we had little chance against his might, just as he knew how to weaken my resolve. And then he went for the kill.
“Oh, I nearly forgot. Seraphina sends her regards. Such a feisty old bird! Such spirit! And I marvel at how a woman as fine and gentle as yourself could just cast her aside like that—a woman who has loved you and cared for you like a mother since your birth—without a backward glance. It chilled me to the bone, Isabeau—that you could just leave her without thought or care at Kilwylie Castle like you did.”
His words were spears aimed at my heart, each one mortally painful, each one spurring a press of remorseful tears. This man was exquisitely cruel, and he enjoyed it.
“You know I have no use for an old woman.” A grim yet thoughtful expression appeared on his face. “But I shall keep her. For you. If you ever wish to see her again, my gentle dove, you will stop acting so foolishly. It is time to grow up, Isabeau Blythe. Grow up and do the right thing for your shepherd boys and old men, even if you won’t for your devoted governess. Grow up and open these gates.”
He then cast me a look confirming my deepest fears. He had set down his sticks and stones and was now playing with a razor-edged sword. His knights fell silent behind him. The sparring between lovers had taken a dangerous turn, and they knew their lord was finished quibbling. Sir George had the devil’s tongue, and he was stroking me with it, lulling me into believing he was counseling me to do the right thing. I wanted to put an end to it; I wanted to end it there and then, and so I reached down for my bow. But it wasn’t there. In my haste I had left it in the chapel room.
I turned from the Lord of Kilwylie and left the gatehouse, tears streaming down my face, shaking uncontrollably. He believed I was going to open the gates, and maybe I should have. Because my prayer had not been answered; I had not been saved, and I was going back to my father’s magnificent chapel for perhaps the last time.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, I saw him. He was kneeling before the altar, golden head bent, gloved hands grasping the hilt of his mighty sword as he prayed in an aura of parti-colored light. I stopped, breathless. He turned when he heard me enter, and slowly began to rise. My heart stopped beating for the space of a second or two when I saw his face, because I found that I was staring into the eyes of the man from my vision. It was, to say the least, unbelievable. And even more unbelievable was that he was just as magnificent in real life as he had been in any dream. He too looked stunned to see me there—and I thought I caught a flash of recognition in his eyes. I gasped and stood unblinking as I watched him slowly unfurl to his full golden height. He was radiant and serene as any angel, beautiful, achingly so, and yet there was a hint of something wild and dangerous in his Viking dimensions. I caught the glint of a chain-mail hauberk under the rich surcoat of black that fell below his knees. The surcoat, with a small white cross over the left breast, was belted at the waist, and he gently placed the great sword he’d been holding back into the sheath that hung at his side. He didn’t utter a sound as he stood looking at me, his heavenly blue eyes twinkling, his lips pulling to a disarming smile. I wanted to stay like that forever, staring into a face that represented to me everything good, and right, and hopeful in the world.
I had been a fool. I had been a fool of the worst kind. For I had avoided this chapel like the plague, believing it would turn me mad. And it had. But it was a glorious madness, a compelling madness, that enveloped me like a cocoon, and filled my every fiber with boundless joy. All thought left me. I was no longer shaking with anger and fear, and the tears that fell from my eyes were born of vast and grateful relief. For outside stood the devil and his legions, but in here—in this odd little chapel—was an angel. My angel. And I knew that he had finally come to save me.
“I … I have dreamed of you,” I finally uttered, standing as still as he was, while trying to ignore the sound of my name as Sir George bellowed from outside the walls.
“And I …,” he breathed, incredulity touching his strong, noble face. “I have dreamed of you.” His voice was soft, and yet there was a richness to it that penetrated my bones. He then took off his gloves and stepped from the shaft of light that fell from the window. And when he stood before me, with great hesitation—as if he were about to touch the most fragile piece of glass—he lifted his mighty hands and cradled my face. His touch was like the crackle in the air before a lightning storm, and my body tingled with joy at the feel of him. I covered his hands with mine, holding him tightly as tears streamed unchecked down my face, and I knew that he felt it too—a connection stronger than anything I had ever known.
He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the heavens. No one could doubt the sincerity of the emotion that took him then—a look that was sublime and yet humbled—as if he had passed untold trials of hardship and was now finally home. I understood that look. I felt it too. And I didn’t want to let go. It was a moment before either of us could speak. “I had no idea you would grow to be so lovely, Isabeau Blythe,” he whispered, looking once again at my face. The sound of my name on his lips thrilled me. He knew who I was. And I believed I knew who he was.
“I’m not lovely,” I corrected, smiling through my tears as he tried to dry them. “I’m crying, I’m filthy, I smell like horse, I haven’t slept in days, and I’m sure my eyes are perfectly red and
puffy. But thank you, Michael.” And I smiled as I rolled his name off my tongue.
“Michael?” he repeated. His hands stilled. With a gentle pressure, he tilted my head to look him in the eye. “Who’s Michael?”
I pressed his hands tightly, not wanting to lose his touch—the divine connection we had—and answered with question thick in my voice: “You are?” It was not my best moment, and I knew it.
This caused him to arch a golden brow while a frown replaced his look of wonder. “I am not Michael. My name is Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” I said, and we both took our hands away. It clicked then. In my desperation I had prayed to Michael, but in my dreams I saw Gabriel. Gabriel! Archangel of God. Dear God, I had been dreaming of, and fantasizing about, an archangel! I was certain it was a great sin, or the height of blasphemy. Likely both. My face flushed as I recalled my vivid dreams—how I had felt, what I had thought, what I had done! Dear God, I was worse than Julius! He at least limited his lust to human women. My heart could not be stilled as I cast a covert glance at Gabriel’s oil likeness. Yes, there were some similarities: tall, broad-shouldered, golden as the sun. I could see no wings, but they could be hidden. Yet gentle Gabriel, glorious and breathtaking as he was, was not the incorporeal being I had called on, and that puzzled me.
And then I thought of Julius, and of the task he begged of me, and I knew this man before me had something to do with him. My heart sank at the thought, for how could Julius, debased outlaw and abductor of kings, be connected with this glorious sublime angel? And yet, and yet it made a modicum of sense, for Julius, like it or not, was my brother, and since stepping foot in Blythe Hall I had been having visions of the very being he was pressing me to find. But why?
“I am sorry,” I uttered, seeing that I had startled him. I offered a watery smile.
“You do not remember me?” Gabriel asked, gentle question hanging in his eyes. “But how could you? You were just a little girl.”
I thought of the little angels then, the two little boys. “I do,” I said, my eyes locking with his. “You were in this room.”
“Yes,” he smiled, relief crossing his face. “Only it was much different then. I must tell you”—he cast a quick glance around the room—“this chapel is wondrous. Beyond compare. Your father is a remarkable man.”
At the mention of my father my heart stopped for the second time. “My … father? You knew my father?”
“Yes. He’s partly the reason I’m here.”
“You are his messenger,” I breathed. It was unbelievable, and entirely impossible … but not really. I looked around the room, absorbing each piece of the improbable shrine, and felt the bittersweet sting of tears. If anybody could have sent down an angel to save his children, it would have been my father. “Is he …?”
“Concerned? Yes. Very, for you and for Julius. And I see I’ve come at the right time. Who is that obnoxious ass?” he asked, motioning with his head to the commotion outside. It was growing in intensity and getting hard to ignore. “And what the devil is he doing bellowing such atrocities to a lady?” He walked to the other side of the room and looked out the open window.
I stared at the archangel, so magnificently human in his earthly form yet somehow wholly divine. “That is Sir George Douglas, Lord Kilwylie. My betrothed.”
“Kilwylie? Your betrothed!? Dear God, I have come at the right time! I feared I’d be too late. I ran into a bit of trouble on the way.” He turned back into the room with a heart-stopping smile, a smile that lingered pleasantly over my form. “I take it you are not thrilled with the prospect?”
“Thrilled? I’m horrified.”
“Excellent!”
“Excellent? I don’t mean to be offensive, but what can you possibly do about it? We are pitifully understaffed here. I have no army. That man has an army, and they’re about to break down the gates! While I have no doubt you can handle a sword, and I see that you have a very big sword, I believe, unless you are an epic warrior like Michael, commander of the heavenly hosts or something”—here I pointed to the panel of the triptych depicting Michael—“that we should run … if we can. If we stay, I’m afraid a man like Kilwylie would eat you alive.”
He pulled back at this affront as his golden brows furrowed with something akin to indignation. There was no serenity about him now, only fierceness. “I … cannot … fight?” he bellowed. “And what, pray tell, makes you think I cannot fight!?”
I stared at him, stricken by this change. “I’m … sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m not questioning your strength or your integrity here. In my opinion you have no equal. But … well, even you must know that you’re not exactly known for your fighting, Gabriel.” I crossed my arms and studied him. Again, I believed that I had said the wrong thing.
“Really?” He glowered and placed his large hands firmly on his hips. “Because I rather thought that I was.”
His emotions were remarkably human, remarkably male, and I was silently amused by how he bristled when his honor was in question. I was also sorry to think that this little flare-up endeared him to me all the more. “Well,” I said consolingly, “and perhaps you are where you come from, but things are different here. We are not battling Satan for souls. We are trying to prevent Lord Kilwylie from entering Blythe Hall.” I cast him a nervous glance, for I had no wish at the moment to tell him why. “Our gates won’t hold him forever.”
“Maybe not. But we’re inside the gates. And a fortress can be defended.”
“Can you defend a fortress?” I asked, the merest glimmer of hope shining through.
“Can a popinjay sing, Mistress Blythe?”
“I don’t know. Can it?”
“Only if it’s been properly taught.”
I thought about this for a minute, because I had never heard a popinjay sing. “So, are you saying that you can defend this castle, or cannot?” There was a loud crash that foretold of men charging the gate. He ran to the window and looked down at the chaos in the yard.
“Forgive me, but now is not the time to be arguing about this.” He turned back into the room with a look I had seen many times. It was the cool, hard resolve of a warrior. “Stay here, Isabeau, and lock the doors.” He made to leave. I stepped in his way.
“I’ve just found you. I have no desire to lose you. I don’t want you to go out there,” I said softly, hearing the fear and desperation in my voice.
This gave him pause, and his face suddenly softened along with his compelling sky-colored eyes. “And I have found you, Isabeau Blythe,” he replied, and took my hands in his. “Half an hour ago, I thought I knew my mind. I believed I was content. But I now know why God has guided me here. I am God’s warrior, and I am here to protect you. No fire bolts will fly from my sword, and I may not devastate with quite the same flair as your precious Michael. But I am here. I am all you have, and all I ask is that you put a little faith in me.”
“I do,” I breathed fervently. “I will! And Michael is not precious to me. I was just … desperate.”
“Of course you were, my heart.” He smiled and gave my hands a gentle squeeze. He cast one last glance out the window to where Sir George was still, very vocally, making his intentions known. “And I’ll be back. But right now there’s an insufferably rude nobleman who’s begging for a swift lesson in manners and humility.” He let go of my hands and went to retrieve his bow, which was resting beside my much smaller one. He was about to walk out the door when I stopped him once again. This time there could be no mistaking what I wanted. I threw my arms around him at the same time that he wrapped me in an embrace so tight I could hardly breathe. And then, just as in my dreams, he brought his lips to mine.
It was nothing like my dreams. It was nothing like I had ever experienced before. His lips were soft and warm, gentle yet urgent. His command over my senses was absolute, and yet there was nothing in him for me to fear, because he was honest, and pure, with a desire as great as my own. He held me tightly, as if I were his support in this
world. I could not deny that he was mine, and I wanted him to know it. I ran my fingers through his thick golden hair, down the base of his powerful neck, over his broad, mail-covered shoulders, and down along the valley of his spine, reveling in the feel of him, the smell of him. He was all man; his skin held the essence of the wind, the heat of the sun, the tang of long grasses and cool, peaty streams. He tasted of salty oceans, of exotic spices, of musky, worn leather, and of the finest French wines. His response to my touch was maddening in its sweetness. His hands traveled the length of my back, over my hips, and around to my buttocks, where they stayed, caressing, pulling me closer as his lips became bolder, his kisses deeper. And then, suddenly, he let go.
“Dear God,” he finally said, backing away as if I were a pariah. He was breathing heavily, yet instead of being fraught with passion as I was, his words sounded puzzlingly like remorse. “Dear God, I should not have done that. Forgive me,” he uttered, his eyes looking troubled. “Forgive me.” And without another look back he disappeared out the door.
I slumped to the floor of the chapel, the skirts of my gown pooling around me like a muddy fishpond, suddenly overcome. I felt heavy, disoriented, my mind reeling from the quicksilver emotions that coursed through me. And it was with real effort that I fought to collect my thoughts and my breath. What had just happened? What did I do? I had no answer. And that I found devastating.
Out in the courtyard I heard a commotion. Men cheered. Orders were given. And then came the rich voice of Gabriel, now fearsome in its anger, now terrifying in its pitch as he cried: “George Douglas of Kilwylie. It is I, Gabriel. You have a lot to answer for, and now you will answer to me!” A mighty cheer went up again, followed by a loud snap as many bowstrings released at the same time. The air filled with the sound of flying arrows racing across the sky.
I dried my eyes on the sleeve of my dirty gown, stood, and picked up my bow. There was a devil at the gates of Blythe who wanted me, and an angel inside who didn’t. And there was a part of me that didn’t care anymore who would win the day.
