by Nicole Byrd
Even if he had to break a vow he had sworn to uphold all his life.
When they turned into the coach road, Gabriel conferred briefly with the driver and then returned to the carriage. He sat quietly for some miles, keeping his gaze directed toward the countryside that flowed past outside the carriage window. This time, the demons that he wrestled with were uniquely his own.
The voices in his head were louder than the steady echo of the horses’ rhythmic gait. “No problematic whelp of mine will disgrace the family name in such a fashion! You disgust me . . . No whining, dammit, this time you’ve gone too far . . .” Gabriel’s jaw clenched with the memories of old pain, anger that still simmered deep inside
Psyche watched him, knowing she should demand more information as to where this mad flight was taking them. After all, it was her safety which hung in the balance, too. But the strange sense of contentment that had outlasted their few hours of passion lingered. However their future would unfold, whatever fate had in store, she thought that perhaps it was important to savor each moment they spent together, even if it involved nothing more than rolling along side by side in her carriage down a quiet road, the hedgerows alongside filled with the chatter of birds and the rustle of small animals and all the other sounds of late spring in the English countryside.
She didn’t want to think of the future, of afterwards when Gabriel might not be with her. Now, the carriage swayed, and she could hear the pounding of the horses’ hooves and the occasional crack of the driver’s whip swung over the team’s heads to keep them alert, never touching their burnished chestnut backs. She was aware of Gabriel’s presence in every inch of her body; his ridiculous costume would have looked absurd on anyone else, but Gabriel’s easy poise transcended what he wore and made any fanciful outfit seem only a minor detail compared to his beautiful face and well-shaped body.
So she allowed her eyelids to lower till she could see only a glimmer of light, and she relaxed against the soft squabs, giving herself up to the gentle rock of the carriage. As long as she was with Gabriel, she would not fret over assassins nor scandal nor the threat of family outrage. Gabriel’s presence, Gabriel’s love was talisman enough to ward off the dangers of the morrow.
When she woke, she raised her head from the cushion; the swaying of the vehicle had ceased, and she heard a horse stomp its foot. She felt his absence at once, even before she glanced at the empty seat. Psyche bit back a cry. She was alone in the carriage, and the light was dim. Where were they? Where was Gabriel?
She peered out the small window, the glass dusty from their travels, and saw that the afternoon was advanced and the sky had clouded over. Before her she saw a high stone wall and a gatehouse; they seemed to be paused at the entrance to some large property. Gabriel was talking to the gatekeeper, and their discussion seemed animated, though she could not make out the words. The gatekeeper waved his arms, his voice shrill. Gabriel spoke more quietly, but she caught just a trace of his steely tone. At last, Gabriel appeared to prevail. The gatekeeper went to push open the large iron gates, and Gabriel climbed back into the carriage.
He was frowning. She looked toward him, her expression inquiring. He reached to take her hand.
“We will stay the night at an–um–acquaintance’s house,” he told her. “You will be safe here from Barrett’s gang.”
Judging by the size of the wall and the intransigence of the gate keeper, she found that easy to credit. But what old acquaintance was this, who kept such a large and secluded holding? The mysteries about Gabriel’s past continued to mount. She thought of the old rumors of murder, but pushed the memory aside. He would tell her when he was ready; she would not be added to those who marked him guilty without any proof. Did she not know him better than that? She knew his heart was good, no matter how cynical the shell that he tried to hide it beneath.
So she refused to question him now, though curiosity stirred. But it was such a new feeling to have someone else looking out for her, someone else ready to make decisions after years of bearing so much responsibility all alone, that she found it strangely easy to put herself into Gabriel’s capable hands. For now she would enjoy the comfort of having a comrade in arms to lead them into the fray, someone she would–could trust completely. So she rode in silence, knowing that Gabriel’s brow was furrowed with thought. She felt his tenseness, and she knew that Gabriel was weighing every danger, every possible ruse and defense and option, knowing with every instinct in her that he thought of her safety first, that her well-being was paramount. She would have trusted no one else so completely.
The wood they rode past was thick with towering, century-old trees, and once she saw a deer lift its graceful head from browsing on a patch of grass. The drive was neat and well cared for. At last the carriage rolled to a stop, and Gabriel, his expression wooden, opened the door and alighted, turning back to offer her a hand.
Psyche stepped down and looked around her. The house in front of them was enormous, a great pile of gray granite imposing in its formality, and strangely silent. No dogs barked, no servants could be heard calling to each other, no children laughed amid their play. She glanced toward Gabriel, but he was giving instructions to the driver, who nodded and flicked the reins, taking the carriage around back to the stables. The sound of the carriage wheels and the horses’ hooves seemed loud in the unnatural stillness.
Gabriel offered her his arm.
“Do they know we are coming?” she asked, wondering if some lady was going to be upset by the unheralded arrival of two guests.
“No, but there is no shortage of guest rooms,” he told her, flashing one quick smile. It did not lessen the tenseness of his jaw, however, nor the guarded look in his eyes.
“You are sure they will make us welcome?” she asked again, feeling unusually shy.
“Umm, not exactly, but they will house us,” he said.
Before she could demand an explanation of that cryptic comment, she heard the front door open, and a footman at last emerged.
Gabriel took her hand and led her up the wide steps. “Greetings,” he said.
The servant gaped at him in surprise. The man wore a heavy wig and full livery, despite their isolated location, but he seemed a little dim-witted. “Um, the m-master’s not at home,” he stammered
“He will be to me,” Gabriel said calmly. He ignored the footman who blinked at them in confusion and led Psyche through the open door.
Inside, an elderly butler hurried up, waving his hands. “Here, ye canna come in like this, the master won’t allow it. Out w’ye afore I loose the dogs.”
Psyche paused in alarm. “We don’t want to intrude,” she said to Gabriel.
He didn’t seem to be listening. “There are no dogs, McDuffie, he can’t abide their fawning ways. Don’t you remember how he drowned the stray puppy I brought home, the year I was eight?”
Psyche stared at her companion, her eyes wide. The tall, skinny butler looked as if he might faint.
“It’s yourself, sir! Come back to the manse . . . I wouldna have credited it. ”
Psyche’s curiosity was not just astir, it positively boiled, and she wanted desperately to pull Gabriel aside and demand to know where they were and what was going on. “Gabriel–” she whispered.
Gabriel was focused on the servant who was wringing his hands.
“But his lordship–he promised he would have ye horsewhipped if ye showed your face again after what ye said to him the last time–I dinna think–”
”Leave his lordship to me, McDuffie,” Gabriel said, his voice strangely calm in the face of the servant’s agitation. “I suppose he’s in the study? I will speak to him. Oh, and tell the housekeeper to prepare two guest chambers and add two settings to the table for dinner; we will be staying the night.”
Ignoring the man’s stuttered protests, Gabriel strode down the hall, and Psyche roused herself to catch up with him. He glanced down at her. “I would spare you this interview if I could, but unless you want to wait in the
drafty hall, I have no place else to put you. He will not have fires built in any room but the one he uses every day. And it’s hardly fitting for you to huddle in front of the kitchen hearth.” Gabriel smiled at her, but his lips were taut, and the expression seemed more like a grimace.
“Gabriel, where are we? I don’t think–” Too late, they had evidently arrived at the study. Psyche bit back her protests.
Gabriel rapped sharply on the heavy oak door and then flung it open. The room was dark; a fire flickered on the hearth at the far end of the room, but no lamps had been lit even though the afternoon was overcast. Heavy draperies covered much of the windows, and the air smelled stale, as if the room were in need of a good turning out.
Gabriel stepped inside. Psyche followed, feeling as if she were walking into a spider’s lair. It did not reassure her that Gabriel nodded to her to remain near the door; she folded her arms and struggled with an impulse to hide herself behind a large sideboard. Gabriel walked on into the center of the room, then looked toward the hearth.
“What the hell are you doing disturbing me at this hour? It’s not dinner time yet,” a hoarse voice roared.
“We will be brief,” Gabriel said. “I thought you would wish to know that you have guests for the night.”
Silence, then from the shadows of the room, a figure stirred. The man had been sitting in a large wing chair pulled up to the fire, and Psyche could not see his face until he rose and turned toward them. She held her breath for an instant, then shook herself mentally. Why did she feel like a child whose book of tales had opened to reveal an ogre?
The man who took two heavy steps forward and stopped to glare at Gabriel was indeed impressive in statute. He was as tall as Gabriel and as broad shouldered, though his frame was massive, thicker through the waist. He had sandy hair and fair, freckled skin, and his features were not as pleasing. Of course, given the grimace of surprise and displeasure that twisted his face, it was somewhat difficult to judge.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” His tone, as well as his words, was deliberately insulting. Psyche gasped, but her indignation faded into shock when Gabriel answered.
“Hello, Father. I was sure your welcome home would be warm.”
Gabriel’s inflection was even, his expression politely cynical; how much effort each cost him she could only guess from the tension she sensed in his body. He stood very still, as if prepared to face a foe more dangerous than any they had so far encountered.
“Why should I welcome you? After the words you tossed at me when you left, what else do you expect?” The large man folded his arms, his initial surprise overladen now by anger and what Psyche suspected was an habitual scowl.
“I believe I said, ‘What kind of father are you?’ ” Gabriel pointed out, his tone still almost casual. “Under the circumstances, it seemed a reasonable query.”
“Damn impertinence,” the older man retorted, his tone close to a growl. “After what you did–”
”Yes, but that is water under the bridge, is it not? An old argument, for another time. Just now, for reasons of our own, I am here, with a lady, and we must stay the night. We will be gone again in the morning, and your peace will once more be unbroken.” Gabriel turned away before the other man could answer.
His father? Gabriel had not even introduced her, Psyche thought, still bewildered by these continuing revelations. Why had Gabriel never said that his father was so wealthy? How had they come to such bad terms? The murder, the rumored murder of a well-bred lady–did it all return to that?
Without further discussion, Gabriel offered her his hand and she was relieved to slip out of the room. Gabriel closed the door behind them, and they found themselves alone in the hall.
“Gabriel–”
”Later,” he said quietly. “I know you have questions.”
Questions? She was overflowing with them. But he still held her hand and he guided her through the empty hallway–had the servants fled, totally nonplused by the arrival of guests that she had to suspect was a rare occurrence? Psyche began to feel that the house was indeed haunted as in some fairy tale, a manse inhabited by ghostly denizens and at its dark heart, a pugnacious demon who snarled at any unwelcome intruder.
She found that Gabriel was leading her down a side hall and out another door. Had he changed his mind; were they leaving already? But the relief of getting out of that unwelcoming house was palpable; Psyche drew a deep breath.
“What–”
Gabriel did not answer. He led the way past a garden which was almost painfully neat; not a weed dared to protrude through the formal beds, yet the whole effect was strangely sterile. Like the house, it was nominally well tended, but it had no heart. Gabriel paused long enough to pluck one early rose from a climbing vine, then walked on.
Psyche tried to conceive of a small boy growing up in such a bleak house, and she could have wept for the young Gabriel. What was his mother like? Surely she could not be so harsh and unfeeling as the man Psyche had just glimpsed.
“Gabriel?” She tried again to pierce the wall he seemed to have drawn up around himself. His brow was knit, and he frowned, almost unconsciously.
“In a moment,” he said again. “I wish to see–I’m seeking my mother.”
Psyche pushed back the queries that threatened to spill over and followed him in silence, past the formal garden, past a kitchen garden filled with orderly rows of vegetables, where even the bean vines seemed to grow in straight lines. Why would Gabriel look for his mother here? Did she usually hide out in the gardens; was this her only refuge? With such a husband, it was easy enough to imagine.
But they continued walking, past an orchard where no single twig littered the grass beneath the trees, past groves of trees. At last they came to another smaller stone wall, and inside the boundary she saw a family graveyard and in the center a small chapel of gray stone. Did his mother take refuge in prayer? The door of the chapel was closed; she expected him to walk that way, but he turned aside and led the way down the pebbled path, then paused a moment to look around him.
Psyche began to understand. Most of the headstones were weathered with age; some leaned at crooked angles. The Sinclairs seemed to be an old family; how had the current patriarch come to such a solitary existence?
Gabriel moved forward; she followed a pace behind him when he walked to a grave obviously more recent than the others. The small stone read simply, Mary Gillingham, with the dates of the woman’s birth and death. Why Gillingham, Psyche wondered, then a wave of empathy pushed aside inquisitive thoughts as irrelevant. His mother had died three years ago while Gabriel was still abroad. Psyche had also lost parents; she knew the aching grief. She felt a lump in her throat and she wanted to touch him, to offer him comfort. But Gabriel stood very still, his whole body stiff, and his thoughts seemed far away.
“A graceless stone, with no inscription at all,” he muttered, as if to himself. “Damn him, he couldn’t give her even that. I shall have it replaced with a proper headstone.”
Psyche nodded, daring to put on hand on his arm. Gabriel’s body was so rigid he might have also been carved from stone. Inside him, there must be enormous turmoil, pain and perhaps other emotions as well, if he struggled so hard to contain them.
“She used to plead with him to have done, when he beat me,” Gabriel said, his voice husky. “When he sent me to bed with no supper, she would slip up with bread and butter wrapped in her handkerchief. She tried to look out for me, but my father was too strong for her, too unfeeling.”
“Your mother must have loved you very much,” Psyche said, her voice low.
She felt him shudder, as with too much grief too long contained. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice dull. “But she did not come to argue when he sent me away. I had thought she might have confronted him more openly just once, when it was so vital, but–”
”Perhaps she was too afraid?” Psyche ventured, though her every instinct recoiled from the idea of a mother who would not defend
her child, would not at least try. In truth, she could not imagine any woman, certainly not the timid, gentle soul that Mary seemed to have been, prevailing against the brutal man Psyche had glimpsed in the study. What a life the poor woman must have had! And as for Gabriel–
“How did you stand it?” she asked, wondering how he had grown up to be charming and sympathetic, with such a brute for his only model.
As always, he seemed to know the direction of her thoughts. “In my earliest childhood, he was not quite–as he is today. He was always gruff, unaffectionate, but he was not so quick with his fists or with his curses. But–he thought that my mother had betrayed him.”
“Oh dear,” Psyche breathed, not sure what to say.
“If she did, she had good enough reason.” Gabriel’s tone was grim. “But after that, he became obsessed with the thought that I was not his natural son. I look little like him, whereas my older brother has his nose and his sandy hair. I think I simply resemble my mother’s family, but–the idea seemed a canker inside him. He became increasingly resentful, abusive to my mother and to me.”
“He did not consider divorce?” Psyche dared to ask, trying to understand the embittered man she had glimpsed in the dark study.
“No, he has a morbid dread of scandal, so that later–” Gabriel paused and drew a deep breath. “My mother sent me away as much as she could. I spent long visits with my maternal grandfather. He was a gentle, scholarly man–much like your father, perhaps. Grandfather may have been my salvation; he gave me cause to believe in myself, despite my own father’s rejection, cause to feel that I was not the total failure my father seemed to believe.”
