by Liz Carlyle
“What, love?”
“Gabriel, you could have been killed!” she whispered, her voice choking. “And now I don’t know whether to kiss you or to slap you senseless.”
He speared his fingers into the thick, loose hair at the back of her head. “I vote for kiss,” he murmured. “Being slapped senseless isn’t nearly as exciting.”
Antonia leaned fully against him, turning her face to his. He molded his lips over hers, gently at first. And then it was as if a spark burst to flame between them. As with that night on the rampart, it was a sudden, fierce longing which could not be contained. An elated relief to find that they were alive and together despite whatever tragedy the world had thrown at them. Gareth deepened the kiss and was lost to her.
Antonia felt Gabriel’s arms come about her, warm and strong. She gave herself up to it; the allure of his touch, the hunger of his body. She felt that sweet, familiar ache go twisting through her, drawing at her very core. His mouth moved over her face, kissing her temple, her eyebrow. But it was not what she wanted. Sensing it, Gabriel returned his lips to hers, surging inside on a kiss that left her knees trembling.
His touch was insistent. Commanding. What she burned for. She pressed her body fully against his, offering herself out of love and desperation. His hands flowed over her, firing her skin. One hand slid beneath the curve of her buttock, and Gabriel pulled her firmly against the hardening ridge of his arousal.
Antonia knew she should urge him toward the bedroom, but there was a delicious wickedness to making love in the middle of one’s sitting room. “Take me,” she murmured against his mouth. “Now, Gabriel, please.”
“Antonia,” he whispered. “Oh, God.”
She felt Gabriel urge her backward. The edge of her rosewood secretary struck the backs of her legs. His mouth never leaving hers, he lifted her up. Her pens skidded off the desktop, landing somewhere on the carpet. They ignored them. His hands found her breasts, weighing them and rubbing them until her nipples ached and she was arching almost off the table, aching for more.
Antonia’s fingers went to the tie at the throat of her gown. Gabriel pushed the soft flannel off her shoulder and bit gently at the bare flesh. Inexplicably, a tremor ran through her. She sought out his lips, and he took her with a renewed desperation, exploring the recesses of her mouth with deep, hungry strokes. Antonia felt reality swirl away as he pushed up the hem of her gown.
Parting her legs, she let herself swim in the sensation of his touch, and as he plunged into her mouth again, she let her hand slide round his waist. She drew out his shirttails and skimmed her palms up the warm, hard muscles of his back. “Gabriel,” she murmured. “So beautiful.” She felt his body shiver with pleasure as his heat and tantalizing scent surrounded her. Soap and citrus. Wood smoke and a hint of musky male. His breath was sawing in and out now, his hands heavy and demanding.
Antonia slid a little nearer to the edge of the table and let her fingers go to the buttons of his trousers. In a heated rush, she unfastened them. The satiny head of his erection sprang away from the taut muscles of his belly. “God, Antonia,” he rasped. “I have to have you.”
“Then have me,” she whispered, frantically pushing away the fabric of his drawers. “Here and now. Don’t think. Don’t talk.”
“Why do I always find those words so persuasive?” he muttered, rucking up her nightgown. He stepped nearer and kissed her neck, his teeth nipping none too gently down her throat. Swiftly, his hand eased fully between her legs, touching her flesh, which was already wet with need.
He moaned and slipped one finger inside. “More,” she choked, sliding her hand up his warm, velvety erection. “Now. Please?”
In response, he pulled her to the very edge of the table. Antonia listened to her breath roughen. He pressed himself into her and entered her hard on one stroke. “Oh!” she said. “Yes.”
He thrust again, making the table thump hard against the wall. Antonia did not care. She let her head roll backward, almost emboldened by the fear of discovery; by the almost desperate need they felt for one another. Again and again, Gabriel plunged into her, holding her on the very edge of the desk, on the very edge of implosion. Unable to restrain herself, Antonia strained instinctively against him, an urgent, physical need building and building.
“Antonia,” he choked, one hand going to her breast. “Antonia, I can’t resist…”
She could think of nothing but the driving force inside her, of the desperate need to ease her torment as she urged herself against the heat and weight of him inside her. Gabriel’s hands and mouth were desperate, too. The urgency ratcheted up. She felt him thrust and thrust again. She cried out, and Gabriel’s head went back, his spine drawn taut as a bow. The rhythm drove them, dragging her to that fine, sweet precipice until her climax seized her. Her body shattered with sensation. Gabriel withdrew almost completely, then thrust deep on one last stroke. His head went back, the tendons of his neck straining, his cry of pleasure soundless as his warmth flooded inside her.
For long moments, they simply held one another, his head resting on her shoulder, his brow damp with perspiration. Then Gabriel’s conscience seemed to prick him. “Good Lord, Antonia,” he whispered. “I cannot believe I did this to you. Here. On a desk, for God’s sake.”
She lightly kissed the curve of his ear. She didn’t care. She couldn’t even fathom the risk they had just run. Every logical thought had been obliterated by her need for him. The desire which kept springing up between them seemed eternal and white-hot. “Gabriel,” she said quietly. “I love you. I know…I know you don’t wish me to say it. Perhaps not even to think it. But there, it is said.”
Gabriel lifted his head, and their gazes met. He cupped the side of her face in his hand, his eyes a little sad. “Perhaps, Antonia, you simply love how I make you feel?”
“Stop it, Gabriel.” She laid her hand over his alongside her face. “I am not like…like anyone else you have had sex with. This is not about physical pleasure.”
“No?” He lifted one eyebrow.
She felt her face flame. “Well, it is,” she admitted. “But it is so much more than that.”
His smile was muted. Wordlessly, he pulled his body from hers, then lifted her off the desk, and restored her nightgown to order. He shoved his shirttails back in with a few quick stabs. “Antonia, I care for you,” he finally said without looking at her. “A great deal. You deserve to know that.”
“Do you?” Her voice was amazingly steady.
He turned his back and walked to the window. The very window at which she had stood on that awful morning when she had denied making love to him. But her need for him could not be denied; she knew that now.
“I care for you, yes,” he said again, staring out into the rain. “Do I love you? Yes, Antonia. Desperately. I think you know that.”
He loved her? Yes, he must. Gabriel was not the sort of man who said things he did not mean. Hope stirring in her heart, Antonia followed him and set both her hands on his upper arm. “I cannot know, Gabriel, unless you tell me,” she answered. “I cannot guess. I am afraid, even, to hope.”
He shook his head, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. “Antonia, let us not rush into anything,” he cautioned. “You have been through so much. You have had so little opportunity to choose what you want.”
“I want you, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “I choose you.”
He hesitated, but Antonia could feel his resolve giving way. She waited and said nothing. It was not as though she did not understand his concerns. With her history, she was a grave responsibility to take on. Gabriel was also convinced his ancestry would be objectionable to her father—and he was probably right. But Antonia no longer cared what her father thought. And somehow, she must convince Gabriel of that.
Just then, a door opened and thumped shut again. Someone was rummaging about in the adjoining bedchamber. “It must be Nellie,” Antonia whispered. “She has come back.”
Gabriel kissed her
lightly on the nose. “To check on you, God bless her,” he said. “Go, quickly. Go to sleep, my dear, and know that yes, I do love you. To distraction.”
And then he was gone. Antonia was left standing by the little rosewood desk. From the bedchamber, Nellie called out her name. With a vague sense of disappointment, Antonia turned and went in to prepare for bed.
Gareth was up at dawn the following morning to survey the damage with Mr. Watson. The estate agent had had the good sense to call over the carpenters and stonemasons who had been at Knollwood, and he set them straight to work on the carriage house. Three bays, their contents, and all the rooms above them were beyond hope, and demolition was begun. By nine o’clock, the damaged doors were taken down and, just as Watson had promised, tossed to a refuse heap for burning.
Fortunately, at that moment, Mr. Kemble turned up and reminded them that the doors were evidence and must not be burnt until the perpetrator was found. Then he sent Talford off in the gig, which was amongst the equipment which had survived the fire, to fetch the justice of the peace from West Widding. Everything, Gareth realized, was in good hands. He returned to the house with Antonia much on his mind.
In the long, narrow office by the great hall, he found Coggins going about his usual schedule of sorting out the mail and assigning the day’s duties to the footmen. Gareth lingered in the corridor beyond as the last of the servants were dealt with.
It had become a part of his routine, this dropping by Coggins’s narrow office each morning to enquire about Antonia and to review the work which was planned for the day. He remembered the first occasion on which he had done so, just a few weeks past.
After leaving her last night, Gareth had realized that they had never discussed their quarrel by the lake. Perhaps they never would. Perhaps it had not even been a quarrel. He had wanted, he supposed, absolution of his sins. But absolution was not always the same as understanding. Could Antonia ever understand? Could anyone?
Her words last night had made his heart soar. But as he had said to her, he did not want her to throw away her choices, for life thus far had given her so very few. He meant it—and yet he was beginning to believe that Antonia knew her own mind. She had begun to break out of the shadows of the past. She was becoming the beautiful, gracious woman she had always been destined to be.
It was time they had a long and earnest talk. He knew that. He wished only that the truth would come out about Warneham’s death. If Antonia came to him, he wanted it to be because she truly could not live without him. He could not live in peace if he was left harboring even a shred of fear that he was only the best Antonia could do under the circumstances. And he needed her to understand and to accept not just what he was but what he had once been. It seemed like a lot to hope for.
Coggins was ticking down the last of the day’s schedule with the footmen. When they were finished, Gareth went in. Coggins snapped to attention, though he looked worn and a little on edge. His gray hair seemed a little thinner, and his long, solemn face seemed rather more so.
“Good morning,” said Gareth. “Has the duchess come down yet?”
“No, Your Grace,” he said, laying aside his ledger. “I have not seen her.”
“Very well.” Gareth tried to relax. “When you have a moment, Coggins, there are some things I should like you to take care of.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” he said. “How may I help?”
Gareth set one shoulder to the door frame. “Talford and the stable staff are going to need their things replaced,” he said. “Clothing, boots, razors, Bibles, you name it. They have nothing left. Do what you can. Go up to London for a day if need be.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Coggins. “I think Plymouth will have what they need. What more may I do?”
Gareth crossed his arms over his chest and considered his next words. “Mr. Kemble has a theory about the fire,” he finally said. “He thinks Mr. Metcaff may have returned to the neighborhood. Have you any knowledge of that?”
Coggins looked alarmed. “Heavens no, Your Grace,” he answered. “That is disturbing indeed. I shall make inquiries amongst the staff.”
Slowly, Gareth nodded. “Yes, do that,” he responded, letting his arms fall. “If anyone has seen or heard anything of Metcaff, I want you to inform Kemble at once.”
Coggins nodded. Gareth thanked him and turned to go, but at the last instant, the butler spoke again. “Your Grace, if I might have a word? A…a rather frank word?”
Gareth turned back around. “By all means, Coggins,” he answered. “I hope we are beyond walking on eggshells around here.”
Coggins clasped his hands behind him. “It—well, it is about the fire, Your Grace,” he began. The butler was not a man much given to emotion, but today he looked oddly pained. “Not about the fire, per se, but the…the writing which was found?”
Slowly, Gareth nodded. “Yes, what of it?”
Coggins looked at him plaintively. “I know, sir, that I speak for all the staff in saying—well, in saying that no one really cares, sir, if you are a…a Jewish person.”
Gareth managed to smile. “Thank you, Coggins. That is good to know.”
“And no one here would have written those words, Your Grace,” Coggins solemnly continued. “The staff is very happy to work for you, and pleased to see the many improvements which are being made to the estate. Indeed, Mr. Watson says you are quite a genius. Truly, sir, Metcaff was the only real rabble-rouser, and we believed, of course, that he was gone. So…that’s it, sir. That is what the staff wished me to say. We are all so deeply sorry for what happened.”
Gareth set a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I thought as much, Coggins, when everyone turned up in their nightclothes to haul water last night,” he said. “But thank you for saying so.”
Again, he turned to go, then thought better of it. “And Coggins?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Just for the record, I was confirmed in the same place as most everyone else here at Selsdon,” he said. “At St. Alban’s, to be specific. I recall it vividly. I was eleven.”
Coggins looked surprised.
Gareth hesitated for a moment. “My mother was a Jew,” he said. “Her parents were forced from their homes in Bohemia when they were young and fled to England in hope of a better life. I was deeply fond of them and proud of their piety. But for good or ill, I am just like everyone else around here. And if things ever settle down, I might actually shock them all speechless and turn up one Sunday for services.”
Coggins looked a little embarrassed. “Then we should be pleased indeed to see you there, Your Grace.”
Suddenly, a racket sounded in the carriage drive. Coggins went to his narrow window, which overlooked the front steps. “Why, I believe it is your friend Baron Rothewell, Your Grace. Were you expecting him?”
“Lord, no.” Gareth followed him to the window and looked out over Coggins’s shoulder. It was indeed Rothewell leaping down from his glossy black high-perch phaeton. “Poor devil,” Gareth muttered. “He really is quite desperate.”
Coggins looked up. “Desperate, sir?”
Gareth smiled faintly. “His sister recently married,” he said. “Now Lord Rothewell does not know what to do with himself. He has no one to quarrel with over dinner. Why else would he come back?”
A few minutes later, Rothewell was being shown into Gareth’s study. Kemble was already there, seated at the small writing desk and scratching out some sort of document. He did not look especially surprised to see Rothewell.
Gareth rang for coffee, then took one of the wide armchairs which flanked the hearth.
“Well, it looks as though there’s been some excitement here.” Rothewell stretched his long, booted legs out before him and made himself look entirely at ease. “The back of your carriage house has soot-blackened holes where some of its windows should be. What the hell happened?”
Kemble laid down his pen with a snap. “I was just making some notes on that little fiasco for our just
ice of the peace,” he said tartly. “We had a rogue footman exacting a little revenge, it would now appear.”
Gareth turned in his chair. “Are we certain of that?”
“It is as good as proven,” said Kemble with a sniff. “That rheumy stable boy of yours? He heard some racket in the tack room two days ago. He crawled out of his sickbed long enough to peek through the door. Metcaff was rifling the cupboards—looking for red paint and turpentine, I don’t doubt.”
“Good God!” said Gareth. “And the boy did nothing?”
Kemble reclined gracefully in his chair. “And the boy did nothing,” he echoed, opening his hands. “Now, in his defense—a slender reed though it may be—he was sick, and he had a snootful of Osborne’s infamous cough remedy. Care to guess what’s in it?”
Gareth could only groan.
“Perhaps we ought to go looking for the bastard?” Rothewell offered, rather too cheerfully. “The footman, I mean.”
“Oh, you really must be bored.” Kemble gave one of his dismissive hand tosses. “Don’t bother looking. Metcaff has already been spotted over in West Widding. Mr. Laudrey will have him under arrest”—Kemble pulled out what looked like a solid gold pocket-watch—“oh, right about luncheon, I daresay.”
“And then what will happen?” asked Gareth.
“A swift trial and a quick hanging—unless you wish to intervene,” said Kemble a little mordantly. “Perhaps you’d like to press for transportation to Australia? The man is, after all, your own blood kin.”
Rothewell was looking confused. “Yes, Metcaff’s the by-blow, is he not? How did he come to be involved in all this murder and whatnot?”
“In Warneham’s death, do you mean?” Kemble’s dramatic black eyebrows went up a notch. “That, I begin to believe, is a lot more not than what—though it’s the why, frankly, that I cannot quite make out.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Rothewell.
