by Nicole Byrd
“David, you are a hero,” Psyche said, her voice high with emotion. “Barrett is dead.”
David looked past them to see the body on the floor; he whistled. “Hell’s bells–oh, sorry. But never did a man deserve a bad end more.”
Psyche shivered and held fast to Gabriel’s arm. It could all so easily have gone the other way. It could be Gabriel lying there on the wood floorboards, a gaping hole in his chest, blood splattered about the empty room. Thank you, she thought, thank you for sparing him this time. He has suffered enough.
They walked out together. The shower of rain had stopped, only the occasional errant drop still fell. But their carriage was gone; Percy seemed to have appropriated it, with no thought at all as to their safety or convenience. David had his horse, which he offered to Gabriel. They helped Psyche up behind him to cling to Gabriel’s waist, and David retrieved the uninjured horse from Percy’s team.
“I don’t know if he is broken to ride,” Psyche worried as David prepared to ride bareback on the mount.
“Not to worry, never met a horse I couldn’t stick to,” David predicted, grinning. He vaunted up to the gelding’s bare back, and although the steed tossed its head and threatened a kick or two, the horse soon settled into a bone-numbing lope.
Psyche looked back at the estate as they trotted down the driveway; poor house, she was glad it had escaped a fiery destruction. It could be so much more, now that the Barrett’s claim on it was ended. Perhaps if Gabriel–no, one hour at a time; they were alive; she must count her blessings.
They rode slowly into the village and stopped at the tiny inn; there was no carriage to be hired here, but the landlord owned a small gig that could be used to start them on their journey, and he would send a hostler to retrieve and treat the injured horse they had left behind.
While Gabriel arranged for the gig and sent a message to the local magistrate about Barrett’s criminal activities and untimely death, Psyche sat on the front bench beneath the cloudy sky–there was no private parlor and the common room was small and cramped and held several curious farmers who stared at this unusual influx of gentry–as she sipped a glass of wine.
With David and Psyche to testify about Barrett’s death, Gabriel should not be in any danger from the authorities, she told herself. He would be free now, free to take over the estate and restore it–slowly, if necessary–but without fearing an assassin popping up behind his back every time he let down his guard. And there would be no more need for his pose of the Marquis of Tarrington. Exposing the fake title would cause a buzz among the Ton, Psyche thought wryly. But after all they had been through, she really was not concerned about a little gossip–or a lot. She would have her money, at last, she could hire the best teachers for Circe, allow her sister’s talent to grow unfettered. And if Gabriel really left, she would be at liberty to attract all the suitors she cared to.
But the thought left her feeling empty inside. He had still made no promises to her, and she tried not to let that thought send her into despair. Wait till later, she told herself, later she would be able to deal with this. Return to London, reassure Circe and her aunt, rest and eat a decent meal, then they would all be able to make more rational decisions. She took another sip of the wine.
But when Gabriel came outside to find her, something in his expression alerted her at once.
“David will drive you back to London; you’ll make the first part of the journey in the landlord’s gig, a bit crowded, but it will serve,” he told her. “You will be able to hire a chaise at the next town, and perhaps the services of one of the inn’s maids to accompany you for the rest of the trip, to make it all look more respectable.”
As if she were worried about propriety at such a time. Psyche felt her heart sink. “You are not going with us?”
He did not meet her gaze. “I think that since I am already closer to the Coast, I will hie the other way. I need to repair my almost-empty pockets, and the gaming in Paris and Madrid should be heated this time of year. I will be too well known in London for any decent games after this episode becomes the latest on-dit.”
“But your estate–” Psyche’s lips had gone dry; it was hard to speak.
“I have not the money to restore it, just yet. I will take possession in a year or two, perhaps. The disrepair will hardly get much worse in that time.”
A year or two, perhaps . . . Psyche swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. Perhaps.
Gabriel glanced at her face, then away. He could not tell her the truth–that if he rode with them all the way back to London, witnessed Circe’s happy cries that they were all safe, felt the lure of Psyche’s company once more, the chance to fall into the easy routine of feeling himself at home, with family, he might not have the strength to leave. And simply to embrace Psyche again, to kiss her full lips and pull her willing body close to his–just the thought made his blood stir and the familiar ache reawaken. No, he had to do it now, while his resolve was fixed. Above all, he dared not touch her.
“I had thought that you–that we–” Psyche paused, as if not sure how to continue. “I can marry where I choose, now–”
He could not leave her thinking that he did not care, no more false cruelties; she was too intelligent, anyhow, to believe them. “I feel only the greatest admiration for you, my dear Miss Hill,” he said. “The utmost respect, the deepest fondness. But you deserve so much more than I can give you.”
His voice faltered, then he summoned all his resolution and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “You deserve a prince among men, Psyche, not a make-believe marquis, a fake lord who has no reputation, no honor left to offer you. You deserve a man with an unsullied past, a noble character in every sense of the word, a man with a purer love to give you than I would ever be able to offer. No matter how far I am able to make my way back, repair my life, some things will not change. I have thrown away my innocence, lost my good name, and I fear I will never be the man worthy of your love, much less your hand in marriage.”
“But you are the one I love,” she whispered, her eyes glinting with unshed tears.
Gabriel felt his heart contract within him, and it was his turn to swallow hard. “I will treasure that thought every day that I draw breath. But for once in my misbegotten life, I will do the right thing. I will have the courage to walk away and allow you to have a better life, a more illustrious future than I could bestow.”
She stomped her foot in frustration. “You are being a fool!”
“It would not be for the first time,” he agreed wryly. He yearned to lift his hand to her cheek, but he dared not touch that warm, flawless skin, or all his precious self-control would desert him. He took a step back.
“You will be better off without me,” he repeated.
She met his gaze with stubborn resolve. “No,” she said. “I think not. But I will survive alone. I did not know that for a time after my parents’ sudden death, but I am stronger than I thought.”
He felt a surge of pride in her. “Of course you are.”
“But I will always love you, Gabriel,” she said softly. “Always. Even as angry with you as I am right now, I will never deny how I feel.”
The pain was almost too much to bear. Gabriel nodded, struck mute by the love shining from her clear blue eyes. She would forget him eventually, he was sure of it; with her beauty and her spirit and her courage, the men in London would make sure of that. But he would never forget this moment, nor the look in her eyes.
He would hold the memory to him many a lonely night and solitary day, but he would know that he had done the right thing, for once in his life, the noble thing. Psyche’s well-being was more important than his happiness. After so many mistakes, he would find his redemption in relinquishing the one thing he wanted most in all the world.
Footsteps in the passage announced David’s emergence into the sunlight. The younger man stopped, as if aware that he had walked into a tete-a-tete. “Um, I’ll just go round to the stables and check on the gig,” he sa
id. “Don’t mind me.”
“No, I was just going,” Gabriel said.
Psyche reached out one hand, then saw that he did not trust himself to touch it; she nodded instead. “God keep you safe,” she said very low.
Then she kept her expression composed, although she bit her lip so hard she found later that it had bled, until Gabriel turned and walked away. And only when he was out of sight did she weep upon the lapels of David’s blue superfine.
He rode hard through the early hours of the morning, striding his hired steed and galloping out of the inn yard before the sun was well up. He rode through the rising mists that obscured the green fields, through the first bird calls and then the rising cacophony of trills and warbles and less harmonious caws that greeted the rising sun. But he heard little, noticed little of the verdant pastures and golden grain around him, or the farmers in their fields harvesting the first hay, because his thoughts were centered on one thing only, on one woman only.
When he was an hour past Tunbridge and knew he would soon pass the entrance to his own bedraggled estate, Gabriel had a brief thought of stopping to inspect its condition, but he thrust the notion aside. It would hardly have changed much in a few weeks. It could wait; he had to get to London, he had to find Psyche . . . even now some callow youth could be bowing over her hand, eliciting the honor of an early morning ride in the park, lifting her up to her saddle. No one else should be holding Psyche, no other man’s hands should encircle that trim waist nor pull her close for an unbidden kiss–the thought made Gabriel curse a little and urge his tired horse onward.
But when he reached the drive which led to his own property, he slowed his mount despite his earlier resolutions. A wagon filled with lumber was turning up the driveway, his driveway. What would bring such a cart here? Had the driver mistaken his road? The weary horse beneath him snuffled into its reins, tossing its head. Gabriel hesitated, then turned his steed into the drive.
The lane showed signs of recent traffic, and the wagon lumbered steadily along. Gabriel tried to hail the driver, but the man seemed deaf to his call, so he followed, feeling increasingly more puzzled. In spite of the urgency that made him begrudge any moment wasted, he decided that he would investigate, very briefly. Had someone else claimed the estate? Was there some heir to Barrett who was contesting the deed? Had some band of gypsies made camp on the untenanted land? Someone must send them on their way.
The wagon rolled up to the front of the house, and Gabriel pulled up his horse just behind. But although two men came down to help the driver of the wagon unload heavy bundles of board, Gabriel’s attention had been drawn to the house itself. He looped the ends of his reins around a marble statue that had somehow appeared in the newly weeded greenery at the side of the entrance, and then climbed the steps. The door stood open; someone had rehung it–or perhaps, replaced it altogether–on shiny new hinges. Inside, he could hear the sound of hammering.
What in the name of– Gabriel stepped back to avoid a workman in a leather apron who hurried out, his arms filled with strips of wood.
“Sorry, gov’,” the man muttered, but he seemed to have no time to chat.
Gabriel frowned; he had to find someone in charge of this bedlam and find out just what they thought they were doing. Who had ordered this–this–he glanced around at the hallway, astonished to see how much change had been accomplished already. The walls gleamed under new paint and paper, and decayed parts of the wainscoting had been replaced. The first room that he glanced into had men working industriously. Sunshine glinted cheerfully through clean window panes, and the dust had been removed from the floors; there was no mouse in sight and the only sounds he detected were the banging of hammers. The house smelt of new paint and beeswax and soap and linseed oil. He could hardly credit it was the same derelict house that he and Psyche had walked into only a few weeks before.
Psyche–he had to get back on the road to London. He had to find her, beg her forgiveness, plead for another chance . . . Gabriel hastened his steps, determined to have words with someone in charge and then return to his tired steed.
He almost walked past the library, as no sounds of obvious labor emerged from within. But as he strode by, he saw something from the corner of his eye that made him wheel swiftly to return to the doorway. Astonished, he paused and stared. It was a vision, conjured up by his days and nights of dreaming of her, it must be.
The vision raised her fair head; her eyes widened slightly, but she made no exclamation of amazement. “Hello, Gabriel,” Psyche said. She sat in front of a handsome desk; papers littered the polished top.
For a long moment, he simply feasted his eyes on her face. Her fair hair was arranged much more softly than her normal tight knot. Her becoming soft pink gown was cut low across the bosom—too low, he decided, frowning briefly. She had never looked more delicately lovely or feminine. But he knew that ‘delicate’ wasn’t a completely accurate description. Psyche was strong–strong enough to watch him walk away and allow him time to get the truth through his own damned thick skull.
She looked recovered from their ordeal, but was it a vain hope to detect signs of strain around her blue eyes? She regarded him thoughtfully, yet she hardly seemed surprised.
Dear God, let her have missed me, too. Don’t let her have changed her feelings about me.
He took a step inside, than another. Still, she did not speak.
“Can you forgive me?” he asked, his voice husky.
She looked down for a moment at the sheets of paper in front of her and folded her hands gracefully. “The question is, have you forgiven yourself?”
Silence. He thought about it before answering. “I think I have made a start, laid some of the ghosts. And I did not think of my father at all, this time.”
He hoped she would inquire just who he did think of, but instead she asked, “Where did you go?” She still sounded matter-of-fact, as if they had parted only a few hours before.
“I made it as far as Spain,” he said, keeping his tone light with great effort.
“The gaming was not good?”
“Oh, it was, my pockets are much better lined, but the cards bored me. And the weather there is bad this time of year.”
“Too much sunshine?” she suggested, her tone dry.
“Too much heat,” he agreed. “And I found I had lost my taste for paella and sangria, and I could not sleep at all of nights. The crickets were too loud in the twilight, and the birds too shrill in the dawn. I had planned to go on to Italy, but I knew I should not like it there, either . . . Because you would not be there.”
She gazed at him, her face calm, her beautiful eyes betraying nothing. He felt the first stirrings of panic; she had never been so hard for him to read. Gabriel had to clear his throat; he felt as awkward as a green boy. “All I could think of was you; I saw your face in the first golden blush of daylight, and I heard your laughter when the church bells rang. You were always with me, but you were not with me, and I thought the ache of your loss might drive me mad.”
“So you came back?”
Still, she did not smile. Perhaps it was too late. His heart lurched at the thought.
He nodded. “I am so sorry, Psyche, my dear Miss Hill.”
“For leaving or for returning?” Her tone was still detached, and she had not moved toward him. He thought he might die of the longing he felt to hold her in his arms. What if she told him to leave, to never return?
“For both, I suppose,” he said, sighing. He took one more step to close the gap between them, and she watched him, her gaze solemn. “I tried for once in my life to do the noble thing, and I could not. I know I am not worthy of you, goddess, there is no way that I can change that much. But despite that, I cannot forget you; I cannot excise your image from my heart. And dammit, I don’t want to!”
Gabriel stared directly into her eyes, offering himself as plainly and humbly as he knew how. “I am the man I am. I will never be a saint, but I will do my utmost to make you happy. Beyon
d that, I don’t know what else to do except tell you that I love you.”
She pressed her lips together, then they parted, so smooth, so soft–he yearned to kiss them just once more–no, to kiss them every day, every hour. She seemed about to speak, but Gabriel heard another footstep behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and Psyche lifted her brows as she gazed at the workman.
“Yes?”
“Beg pardon, Miss, but w’ere you want this’ere mantel?” He gestured behind him, and Gabriel saw the handsome carved piece that two men were laboring to carry.
“That goes in the drawing room, the large room on the next level.”
The men withdrew, and it was almost a relief to consider other questions. “What on earth are you doing here? What is all this?”
Psyche’s lips twitched, as if she were fighting a smile. “Uncle Wilfred has released my money, and I have agreed not to implicate my cousin Percy in any criminal charges. So I decided to begin the renovations.”
He blinked. “Psyche, Miss Hill, I cannot allow you to throw your money away on this wreck of a house.”
“But I like this house,” she protested. “And I have found, Gabriel, that I have even more money that I had suspected. So I can afford to redo this house, our house, just as I like. Oh, and I have invited Mrs. Parslip to come to us as housekeeper; she insisted on giving two weeks notice to your father, but she should arrive tomorrow. I hope that is satisfactory?”
“Of course,” he agreed, feeling hope rise inside him with the force of a tropical hurricane. “But–does that mean you still–” Gabriel covered the last of the distance between then in two long strides and took her by her shoulders, lifting her to her feet and guiding her away from the desk. “Psyche, does that mean you will have me, flawed as I am? You will marry me?”
She smiled at him at long last, her face soft and content. “Since all the Polite World thinks we are already engaged, that would be the most expeditious solution, don’t you think?”
