by Anne Stuart
There was nothing he could do about the Chiltons without cozying up to them, something he still fiercely resisted. He’d had enough of their kind, spiteful and shallow and utterly without redeeming merit. Neither of the Chiltons was particularly stupid, yet even a few minutes in their presence left him feeling both incredibly bored and ever so slightly unclean.
Unlike Lizzie. All he had to do was look at her, sleeping so peacefully in his bed, and he felt alive and refreshed and ready for anything. He’d had his first wet dream in that bed. He’d had the usual satisfying solitary fantasies any young boy could enjoy, probably more, since his appetites were powerful. But he’d never actually taken a woman in that huge, high bed.
And there lay a woman he wanted quite desperately. Granted, she was sick, but he didn’t normally let such trifles interfere with his pleasures. He was a skilled man—he could make her forget all about her indisposition.
He didn’t move from his seat in the shadows. There were times when temptation and anticipation were far more pleasurable than fulfillment, particularly in the case of well-bred virgins. He was better off fantasizing about Lizzie Penshurst than actually doing anything about it.
And so he’d keep insisting to himself, until he finally came to believe it.
WHEN ELIZABETH woke she was alone in a different room, with no idea how she had gotten there or how long she’d been lying in a strange bed. Her head pounded, her mouth felt as if she’d been chewing on rat droppings, and her entire body was a mass of aches, but she was undoubtedly better. She’d feel better still if she managed a bath and a hearty meal—she was utterly starving. At least the fire in the fireplace was uncharacteristically hearty. The Durhams must have been worried indeed to sanction such a willful waste of wood, she thought as she managed to pull herself to a sitting position on the high bed.
It was full dark outside, and the house was still and silent, only the crackle of the fire breaking the quiet. She pushed her hair away from her face, and then she saw him, sitting in the shadows, watching her.
Obviously she wasn’t feeling as well as she thought. More likely she was still asleep. Why else would she find herself in a strange room that she’d never seen before, warmed by a generous fire? She’d often had dreams about finding different rooms in familiar houses—this must be one of them.
However, she didn’t usually see a beautiful man waiting for her in the shadows.
Part of her fever dreams, she reminded herself. She wanted more than the imagined touch of his body. She shouldn’t have given in to the fantasy, she thought. It had just made her want more.
“Go away,” she said in a rough, cranky voice. “I’m not going to give in to temptation this time.”
“Am I tempting? You surprise me.” His voice came from the shadows, a little more substantial than her previous dream, but still disembodied.
“You’re not really here,” she said. “Any more than you were last night or whenever it was that you . . .” She wasn’t quite sure how she could describe what he’d done to her, so she wisely let her words trail off.
“When I what?”
Even fever-induced apparitions could taunt, Elizabeth decided with a certain amount of irritation. “When you touched me,” she said after a reluctant moment. “Do go away. This is my dream, and I don’t want you here.”
“If it’s a dream, then why are you worrying about the consequences?”
“Because the last dream gave me nightmares.” She shouldn’t be having this conversation with a phantom, but then, what was the harm? Perhaps she had to deny the dream-Gabriel before she could resist the real one.
“Did it? Why? What have you got to be afraid of? The dreams had to come from inside you, Lizzie. I wasn’t anywhere around.”
“I’m not interested in arguing metaphysics with an apparition.”
“I’m always interested in arguing metaphysics, whether I’m an apparition or not. Besides, I would think it would be particularly apt. What better person to argue with?”
“Go away,” she said crossly. “If this is my dream, you might at least behave as I want you to.”
“And how would you like me to behave, sweet Lizzie?” he murmured.
“I want you to go away and let me rest.”
“Liar,” he said softly. “You’ve had more than enough rest. What do you want from me? Shall I lie beside you on the bed and soothe your fevered brow? You don’t look particularly feverish right now, but I could be mistaken. Personally I think you’re absolutely glowing with health.”
“I can’t be,” she said. “I wouldn’t be seeing you here if I were fully recovered.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re so angry with me? What did I do when I invaded your dreams last time?”
“You took indecent liberties with me,” she said in a muffled voice.
“You’re such an innocent I’m surprised your imagination was able to conjure up such things. What did I do?”
“You touched me,” she said. “You made me feel very . . . odd. And you didn’t even kiss me.”
“You sound most disgruntled. Shall I kiss you now?”
“I’m sick.”
“Apparitions aren’t susceptible to contagion.” He rose, and the firelight hit his tall body, illuminating it like an aura. “You can show me what kind of touching I did, though I expect I know just how it made you feel. Wouldn’t you like to feel that way again? I could make it even better, I promise.”
He was coming closer to the bed, and instead of shimmering away into nothingness he seemed disconcertingly solid. She looked up at him warily, waiting for him to disappear, and when he seemed to have no intention of doing so she scrambled off the bed, oblivious to the thin chemise that was her only clothing. Besides, the real Gabriel had seen her in not much more, when she’d made the mistake of wandering in the woods in her nightclothes.
“Keep away from me,” she warned him.
He halted, the wide bed between them. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the rumpled sheet, and she stared down at them in fascination. He had beautiful hands, with long, narrow fingers. Strong, deft-looking hands. Very solid-looking hands. “Do you really want me to? After all, what harm can a dream do? Come back to bed, sweet Lizzie, and I’ll show you how pleasant dreams can be.”
She almost wavered. She looked across the wide expanse of the bed at him, at his lost, beautiful face, his elegant mouth, his haunted eyes, and she wanted to reach out to him, to feel the imagined warmth of his skin against hers once more. This was sin, hot and wicked, and she wanted to feel it.
At that moment the door to the room opened, and Jane stood there, flustered, a branch of candles in her hand. “You’re better!” she said in relief. “I was so worried! But what in heaven’s name is Gabriel doing in here? And why are you out of bed?”
Elizabeth could feel the hot flush of embarrassment sweep over her body like a flood. The bright candles illuminated the room far better than the flickering fire, and the man staring at her across the bed was no fever dream induced by unspoken longings. He was real. He was there, and he knew exactly what temptations she’d been wrestling with.
He moved back from the bed into the shadows once more, so she was spared his expression. “I found her sleeping in my old bed, Jane. I assumed she was a present for me.”
“Go away, Gabriel,” Jane said with sisterly annoyance. “Elizabeth’s in no mood for your jokes. Go help Peter—he’s in the kitchens trying to force some sense into the Twickham girls.”
“Is that who’s been left behind? The Twickham twits? God help you.” He skirted the bed, unfortunately coming very close to Elizabeth’s rigid figure. Before she knew what he was doing, he put his hand against her face, cool against her flushed skin. “She’s hot, Jane, but I don’t think she’s feverish.” There was a light of wicked humor in his eye
s.
“Stop teasing the girl!” But Jane was across the room, and Gabriel was still touching Elizabeth, his eyes still caught with hers.
He leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the side of her face. “I wasn’t teasing,” he whispered. And before she had time to react, he was gone, leaving the two women alone in the room.
“Back in bed with you,” Jane said briskly. “I’m delighted to see you’re feeling better, but despite what Gabriel says, I still think you look feverish. I’m not certain you’re ready to get up.”
“I’m much better,” Elizabeth insisted, letting Jane help her back up into the high bed. For some reason she kept seeing Gabriel’s hands as they rested on the rumpled sheets, and she could feel her face flush even hotter. “I think I’d really prefer to get up. I feel like I’ve been lying in bed forever.”
“It’s only been two days,” Jane said. She eyed her with a professional manner. “You know, Gabriel might be right. You do seem fine now. I don’t understand it—just this morning you were utterly miserable. I was afraid it might go into an inflammation of the lungs.”
“When I get sick I get quite sick, but I recover quickly,” Elizabeth said, acutely aware of whose bed she was in. “I’m really feeling almost completely better, and I’m certain if I were able to come downstairs, I’d be completely cured.”
Jane looked doubtful. “I suppose we can try it and see, though I can’t promise you much of an improvement downstairs. George isn’t strong enough to keep all the fires going, so we’re making do with one in the kitchen and one in the library, and with the housekeeper gone there isn’t much fresh food available.”
“Where is everyone?”
“They›ve left,” Jane said succinctly. “My mother panics in the face of illness, and she was convinced both she and Edwina would contract a putrid disease and die immediately. Not that either of them is the slightest bit likely to become ill. For one thing, they came nowhere near you the moment they discovered you were feeling ill, and for another, the two of them are as strong as horses. Particularly Edwina.”
Elizabeth managed a rusty chuckle. “I don’t imagine she’d appreciate being compared to a horse.”
“In truth I was giving her a compliment. If I had to choose between my younger sister and a horse, I wouldn’t hesitate for long. Edwina may be absolutely lovely, but she’s shallow, mean, and selfish, caring only for her own comforts. Horses are strong, brave, and noble creatures.”
“Even when they run away with you?” Elizabeth murmured.
“Marigold . . .”
“. . . is as gentle as a lamb. So everyone has informed me. I can only suppose she mistook me for some lamb-stealing wolf.”
“They know when you’re frightened of them,” Jane said firmly. “As soon as you’re better I’ll take you out again, and this time you’ll have a chance to accustom yourself to Marigold. Learn to listen to her.”
“I think that as soon as I’m well enough to travel I should head back to Dorset.” The notion was unaccountably depressing. “After all, my host and hostess have departed, and it would be rude for me to stay on.”
“It was rude of them to leave,” Jane said flatly. “And they would want you to stay. My father expressly told me that I was not to allow you to return home. ‘You must stay here,’ he said, ‘and enjoy the peace and fresh air.’”
Dead animal corpses and pelting rainstorms and Gabriel Durham’s eyes were not Elizabeth’s idea of peace, but she didn’t bother informing Jane of that fact. In truth, she didn’t want to leave this place. Even if it meant riding that devil horse, Marigold, or tripping over more butchered animals.
She didn’t want to leave Hernewood until Gabriel Durham kissed her just one more time.
Chapter Eleven
SHE ASSUMED, STUPIDLY, that Gabriel would be gone. Elizabeth dressed in one of her plain, enveloping gowns and wound her long red mane of hair in a loose knot at the back of her neck, letting the length of it hang free. She couldn’t find her hairpins in this new bedroom, and she didn’t have the energy to go searching for them. Besides, she still had the remnants of a pounding head, and binding her hair tightly against her skull would surely make it worse. An excuse, she knew it, but the best she could come up with.
She couldn’t find her shoes either, but going around in her stockinged feet was more comfortable, and the shabby old shawl she draped around her shoulders was soft and warm.
She descended the back stairs in search of food and warmth and companionship.
What she found was Gabriel, standing in the middle of the deserted kitchen.
She came to a frozen standstill a few steps from the bottom of the stairs, strongly tempted to turn and escape back to the confines of her room. His back was turned, and with luck he wouldn’t even know she’d been there, and she should leave, fast, except that she couldn’t tell what he was doing, and she was, as always, regrettably curious.
“Are you just going to hover on the stairs, or are you coming in?” His voice was even, hardly curious, as he continued whatever he was doing. So much for escape, she thought, descending the last two steps into the warm room. It was hardly her fault if she kept running into someone she’d be much happier keeping her distance from.
“I’m hungry,” she announced.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You may be the very first woman I’ve ever heard admit to such a thing. Sit down, and I’ll pour you some of this soup.”
If Elizabeth had been surprised before, it was nothing compared to her current astonishment. Gabriel Durham was cooking.
“Sit!” he ordered impatiently, when she made no effort to move.
Elizabeth sat.
She hadn’t yet ventured in the kitchen area of the manor house, and since she had no strong desire to stare at Gabriel’s back, she surveyed her surroundings with great interest.
“Never seen a kitchen before?” he murmured, looming over her. Bringing the tantalizing scent of chicken soup with him.
She allowed herself to look up into his beautiful eyes, then focused on the earthenware bowl he was holding. “Not one of this magnitude.”
He set the bowl down in front of her and took the chair opposite her at the large, well-scrubbed worktable. “Eat,” he said.
She dipped the spoon into the savory broth then hesitated, stealing a glance at him. “Did you make this?”
“I did. It’s not poison, I promise you.”
“You aren’t the type who would poison,” she muttered, tasting it. The soup was sinfully good.
“And what am I the type for?” he asked idly.
The ritually slaughtered animals in the woods came to mind, but she quickly banished that thought, hoping it wouldn’t show on her too expressive face. “I have no idea. I expect if you wanted to murder me, you’d probably use your bare hands. You’ve looked as if you’ve wanted to strangle me on more than one occasion.”
He laughed that soft, deep laugh that stirred her bones. “At least you don’t think I’m about to try virgin sacrifice. Though there’s a variation that might prove entertaining.”
“Oh, really?” She was halfway through the soup, trying to keep from devouring it as she wanted to.
“One could always sacrifice the virginity but keep the former virgin. I can fancy all sorts of interesting rituals . . .”
She glared at him. “Why do you think you can get away with such insulting behavior? Is it because Sir Richard is gone, and there’s no one to answer to?”
“Don’t worry about it, my precious. My behavior is insulting toward everyone. In truth, I’m rather better with you than I am with most people I come across.”
“I find that hard to believe. Why?”
“Why?” he echoed, considering it. “Probably because you entertain me. Very few people do.”
“How gratifying.”
“It’s your temper, I think. It goes with your red hair, of course, but it’s really quite delightful. You do your best to be demure, with your ugly little dresses and your downcast eyes, and perhaps an idiot like my foster father might be fooled by it, but I’m not. You’re refreshingly hostile, my love, and it enchants me.”
She stared at him, stupefied. “You’re easily enchanted.”
“Now that, I assure you, is not true. Tell me how you like my soup.”
Safer subject ground, she thought with relief and regret. “It’s adequate,” she said.
“Adequate?” He let out a hoot of laughter. “Child, you are in the face of culinary genius, and you only consider it adequate? Obviously your palate is too unsophisticated to appreciate it. I need to take you in hand and introduce you to the wonders of the senses.”
“You need to keep your distance. Where did you learn to cook?”
He leaned back in the chair, smiling benignly. “That would require that I tell you the story of my shamefully wasted life, and I’m not certain you’re strong enough to hear it.”
Elizabeth met his gaze calmly. “I’m stronger than you think,” she said.
He shrugged. “Perhaps you are. I’ve lived a very colorful life, my pet. I’m afraid I’m cursed with an inquisitive mind. Durham was required to hire the best tutors, but I rapidly outstripped them in knowledge, and I was never one to accept the conventional answer when there were other possibilities. I believe Sir Richard had some vague notion of making me a churchman when I attained my majority. Anything to get rid of me. I’m afraid I went one step further and joined the Catholic Church. He and Lady Elinor were properly horrified.” He smiled fondly at the memory.
“I didn’t know one could convert,” Elizabeth said.