by Anne Stuart
“Ah, that’s right, your father is a rector, is he not? I’m sure he’s told you all about the horrors of the Catholic Church. I did my best to embrace them, but I’m afraid Catholicism is not much different from the Anglican Church. The rituals are rather more elaborate, but no babies are sacrificed, no Satanic rites performed.”
“Is that what you were looking for?” she asked in horror.
“No, my pet. I was merely looking for some answers. I thought devoting my life to study and the stern, Catholic God would provide them for me, so I joined a monastery. The Durhams were, of course, delighted. Not only was I unable to own land or title, but now I was officially removed from their lives and would never surface again. But I’m afraid luck wasn’t on the Durhams’ side.”
“You can’t really believe they didn’t want you around. Even if you weren’t their true son . . .”
“They wanted me dead,” he said flatly. “Anyway, I’m getting distracted. You wanted to know where I learned to cook. It was during my years in the monastery in France. I can also bake bread, raise bees, tend a garden, and brew all sorts of herbal remedies. I could mix you up a powerful tisane for the headache I see still plagues you, but if you were that distrustful over chicken soup, you would probably refuse to drink it.”
She didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “How many years were you in the monastery?”
He smiled sweetly. “Five. Five years of sandals and praying and studying and hard labor. Five years of almost total silence, which failed to improve my command of the French language. It was astonishingly peaceful until I came to the conclusion that I didn’t believe in their God.”
“What!” Now he’d truly horrified her.
“I’ve never been particularly attracted to the traditional notion of Christianity,” he said mildly. “I told you, I have an inquisitive mind. I simply decided it was time to leave the monastery and see what answers I could come up with on my own.”
“I didn’t realize you could just do that. They let you leave monasteries?”
“And convents, in case you’re ever tempted to join one, though I devoutly hope that sad day never comes. It would be a tragic waste.” He took her bowl and went back to the fire, refilling it with more soup. “Of course I was excommunicated, which made me once again eligible to hold lands and title, but since that made Sir Richard furious, it had its uses.”
“Why do you hate him so much?”
He sat back down, placing the soup in front of her. “Because he’s a greedy, stupid, mean old man, who has no love for anyone but himself and his vapid children. He sold his birthright for money and title, and now he has no one to pass it on to.”
“He has four children . . .”
“In fact, he has two. Jane and I are no kin of the Durhams. He and his wife accepted me as their infant in return for this place, a title, and a generous compensation, which seemed a worthy trade. Apparently I was a sickly child, and they expected I wouldn’t live. Unfortunately for them, I did. I am legally his firstborn, and by law I inherit his lands, his title, and his wealth, with nothing left for Edward and Edwina.”
“Or Jane, then?”
“I’ll take care of Jane,” Gabriel said coolly. “She knows she won’t want for anything, though she’s as far distant from the greedy Durhams as night from day. All she wants is her precious horses.”
“I think there’s something more she wants as well,” Elizabeth ventured.
“Yes, she wants Peter.” He glanced across the cavernous kitchen at the deserted stairs. “Unfortunately I can’t give him to her. She’ll have to figure out a way to manage that herself.” He smiled briefly. “The course of true love never runs smooth.”
“I’m surprised you believe in such things as true love,” she said. The second bowl of soup was even better than the first, now that she was certain he wasn’t going to poison her.
“Oh, it’s admittedly rare, but I admit to it when I see it,” he said lightly. “Speaking of true love, why are you here?”
She dropped the heavy metal spoon. “What are you talking about?” she said weakly.
“Jane says you’re running away from an importunate suitor. What are you waiting for, a royal prince?” he drawled.
She picked up the spoon again, pleased to notice that her hand didn’t shake. “There’s a bit more to the story than that, but I don’t intend to bore you with it.”
“Why not? I’ve bored you with my life story. It would be only courteous to respond in kind.”
“And you’re so concerned about courtesy?” Lizzie replied, not fooled for a moment. “I was caught in a compromising situation.”
Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “Sweet Lizzie, you amaze me! I had no notion that a wanton heart beat beneath your prim exterior. Who was the lucky gentleman?”
“There was no gentleman,” she snapped.
“Well, then, who was the lucky lady?”
She stared at him in astonishment. “You’re joking,” she said.
“Such things do happen. All right, if you weren’t caught in flagrante delicto with someone, how did you manage your fall from grace?”
“I was dancing in the moonlight. In the woods. Alone,” she said, wondering why in heaven’s name she was telling him this.
“Wearing anything in particular?” he inquired mildly.
“Not much.” She couldn’t read the expression on his face, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “So I was sent away to meditate on my wanton ways, and when I return home I shall be a perfect, dutiful daughter. I am determined.”
“That would be a tragedy,” he said softly.
“Not for me. I’ll stay out of the woods, behave myself, and sooner or later true love will come along. I don’t intend to waste my time with anything less.”
“An idealist? You surprise me, Lizzie. How would you define love?”
“I don’t want to debate such things with you, Brother Gabriel.” She used the name deliberately. “And I don’t want to discuss my tedious past—yours is a great deal more interesting. Tell me what you did after you left the convent.”
“Monastery,” he corrected. “If it were a convent, I probably wouldn’t have left. It did appear that I was not a man made for celibacy. I did what any other healthy young man would do. I went to London and made up for those five long years.”
“Indeed?” she said frostily.
He was enjoying himself, she knew, but there was not much she could do to stop him. “Indeed,” he said. “I studied with scholars and academicians and theorists by day, by night I studied the pleasures of the flesh. I must admit I more than made up for five years of abstinence.”
“How delightful.”
“You shouldn’t wrinkle your pretty little nose like that, Lizzie. I don’t expect you to approve of my licentious behavior. I copulated with whores and duchesses, nuns and queens, priestesses and shopkeepers’ wives. I learned tricks and techniques that could dazzle the most jaded courtesan. I’m very very good in bed.”
She was getting hot sitting there. The fire was halfway across the room, and the air was pleasant enough, but she could feel a tingling in her breasts, a pressure between her legs, and she shifted slightly, surveying him with a frosty look. “How pleasant for you and your partners.”
“Alas, I’ve gone without partners for the last few months. I decided a bit of renewed celibacy would do my battered soul some good.”
“I rejoice to hear it.”
“Don’t rejoice too soon, my love. Every time I’m around you I reconsider my decision.”
She stared at him, the heat moving upward, over her breasts, covering her face. “Stop it,” she said sharply. “You’re just trying to make me uncomfortable. I don’t know why you get such a perverse pleasure out of it, but I promise you, I’m immune.”
“You don’t look im
mune,” he mused. “You look delicately flushed and just the tiniest bit . . . dare I say it . . . aroused. Do I arouse you, Lizzie?”
“Not likely.”
He laughed. “Dear Lizzie, you arouse me quite effectively. I’m afraid I want you to an almost desperate level, and when I want something I always manage to get it. Fair warning.”
The heat was still there, but she felt a sudden chill as well. “A warning?”
His smile was brief, kindly, almost impartial. “It’s time you went back to your safe little parish in Shropshire or wherever you come from. This is no place for a fey young virgin who roams the woods—there are bad people here.”
“Including you,” she offered.
“Including me,” he agreed. “Everyone’s warned you, but now I’ll be more direct about it. If you don’t go back to Shropshire . . .”
“Dorset,” she corrected him.
“If you don’t go back to Dorset, then I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
“You aren’t responsible for me as it is,” she said crossly. “I’m not afraid of you and your licentious boastings.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. She tried to jerk it away, but his grip tightened, and she was trapped. His hold wasn’t painful, but it was unbreakable, a reminder of just how helpless she really might be. “I would be the least of your worries, Lizzie. Go home while you still can.”
“What are you doing, Gabriel?” Jane was standing in the hallway that led to the stables, a stern expression on her face.
He released Elizabeth’s hand, taking a moment to stroke his thumb across the tender flesh. “Just giving Lizzie some well-intentioned advice. The same I gave you earlier. She should go back to her family, and you should leave here as well. I don’t like what’s going on around here.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Gabriel, and we all know it. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Three girls have disappeared in the last six months,” he reminded her.
“Girls run away from home all the time. One of the Twickhams tell me Maudie Possett was pregnant, and her father would have killed her if he found out. It was no wonder she took off. As for the others, they probably had just as good a reason.”
“You’re being willfully blind, Jane,” he said in a stern voice. “I’m not so worried about you—between Peter and me, we can make certain nothing happens to you. But little Miss Wander the Woods in My Nightdress is another matter.”
“In your nightdress? You didn’t, Elizabeth!” Jane said, scandalized. “It’s no wonder you got sick.”
“Tell her she’s not welcome here, Jane,” Gabriel demanded, all trace of humor gone from his rich voice. “She needs to go.”
“I’ll tell her no such thing!”
Peter appeared in the darkness behind Jane, stripping off his leather jacket. “What’s going on, then?”
Jane turned to him. “Gabriel says that Elizabeth should leave here. He thinks she’s in some sort of danger, though I can’t imagine what. Promise me you’ll look out for her as well as me.”
Peter and Gabriel shared a long, silent look. And then Gabriel shrugged, lazy, charming once more, as if that moment of intensity had never existed. “So be it,” he drawled. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you end up in a wicker cage.”
“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Some people think that’s what the Druids used to do,” Peter said slowly. “Take people and put them in wicker cages and burn them alive.”
A sick feeling formed in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach. “And people say that you’re the local high priest, Gabriel,” she said. “Would you be the one to light the torch?”
He rose, towering over her, but she resisted the urge to rise as well. She stayed where she was, and he reached down and took her hand, the one he’d held captive.
She could see the marks of his fingers on her pale flesh, and to her shock he lifted it to his mouth, pressing his lips against her skin. “I could think of better ways to set you afire, Lizzie,” he murmured.
She made a shocked little noise, but he’d already dropped her hand and was heading for the door.
“Where are you going?” Peter demanded, sounding not at all like the servant he was purported to be.
“I feel the sudden urge to visit Delilah Chilton,” he said lazily. “I want to see how they’re coming with their wicker cage.”
Chapter Twelve
VIOLET TWICKHAM WAS not in a very good mood that moonlit night. For one thing, she’d had a fight with her sister Rose, and she never felt good when they fought. It was Rose’s fault, of course. She’d been making eyes at young Billy Tompkins over at the Boar’s Knees, when she knew perfectly well that Violet had already decided he was absolutely perfect. Billy Tompkins was big as an ox and twice as stupid, but Violet had no interest in intellect. He would make a good husband, a good father, a strong provider. And Rose was nine months younger than she was. There was no way she was getting her hands on Violet’s intended, whether Billy knew his fate or not
She’d told Rose so, in plain and simple terms. Rose had replied in a manner that would have gotten her ears boxed if Ma had heard her, and then the two of them had had at it. Violet had a few bruises and a scrape across one arm, but fortunately Rose had a truly spectacular black eye and a nose swollen to almost twice its size. Billy Tompkins would think twice before gazing moonily at that.
The day had gone from bad to worse. Usually when the family left, Rose and Violet were free to do what they pleased. Miss Jane spent most of her time in the barn, and she never complained when no one saw to her room or her meals.
She was complaining this time, probably because of that ugly red-haired creature upstairs. Well, perhaps she wasn’t truly ugly, though what man would want to come within miles of that horrible head of hair was beyond Violet’s understanding. And she was too skinny. Violet weighed a good ten stone, and she knew from experience that men much preferred a woman of substance, not some flyaway creature like Miss Penshurst.
But Miss Jane had had them dusting and doing laundry, of all things, and even cooking, when they were scullery maids, nothing more, nothing less. Of course, Sir Richard was so tight with a penny they were used to being sent all over the house to work, not like in a proper household where there’d be strict segregation between the upstairs maids and the parlormaids, the sculleries and the laundry girls. Cook had told them stories of the great houses where she’d worked, and both Violet and Rose considered the Durhams to be poor employers indeed, not to understand the niceties of social distinction below stairs.
So Violet Twickham was still peeved at her sister, angry with Miss Jane’s silly demands, tired and hungry and entirely unwilling to spend the night up under the eaves with all those empty pallets and her angry sister. For all she knew, Rose would smother her in the middle of the night, or even worse, Miss Jane would come searching for her, demanding she bring hot water or some such nonsense.
Well, if Miss Jane decided she needed a late-night bath, then she’d just have to count on Rose to haul the hot water. Violet Twickham had better things to do on a night in late spring.
It was time things were settled with Billy. He needed to know what his future was and not go on making sheep’s eyes at her sister. He worked for the Culvers over at the Boar’s Knees and slept above the stable. So far Violet had wisely allowed him a few hurried kisses and a bit of fumbling beneath her skirt. Enough to keep him wanting more.
She planned to allow him a lot more than that this night, and tomorrow she’d be engaged, and there wasn’t a blessed thing her sister could do about it.
The night was dark and silent as Violet followed the narrow path that led away from the manor house. The quickest way to the tiny village was up a steep path, but Violet had already spent the day fetching
and carrying, and she was in no mood for a brisk climb. The path by the old abbey ruins would only take a few minutes longer, and it would be a lot less tiring. She needed to conserve her energy for more important things. Like Billy Tompkins.
She’d forgotten how eerie Hernewood Forest could be in the still of night. She could see the ruins rising stark and black in the moonlight, and she jerked her eyes back, suddenly uneasy. People said that ghosts walked the abbey ruins. Monks haunted the place, grieving for the loss of their home. Or grieving their damned souls. The vicar said that Catholics went to a special hell all their own, and if the vicar couldn’t be counted on to speak the truth, who could?
She heard a sudden, rustling sound, and she stopped, peering into the forest. It must be a wild animal, she told herself. A doe, perhaps, or even a rabbit.
Except that everyone knew that Hernewood Forest had grown very scarce of game in recent months, and the poachers had to look farther afield if they were to fill their family’s pots come Sunday. Too many animals had been found slaughtered and abandoned, and the smell of rotting flesh had driven the other animals away.
The notion of rotting flesh was far from cheering, Violet thought with sudden nervousness, moving forward at a faster pace. Perhaps she should have stayed on at the manor house. She wouldn’t have had to sleep with the disgruntled Rose—in a house that big with almost the entire staff dismissed there would doubtless have been a comfortable place for her to bed down. Cook had her own room and probably a better bed than Violet had ever known.
She paused, staring back toward the house. It was hidden beyond the trees, and a thick mist had risen, obscuring things further. She hadn’t realized she’d come so far already. Going back looked to be as much trouble as continuing on her journey, and it wasn’t Billy Tompkins who was waiting at the manor house, it was sour-faced Rose.
She kept walking, her sturdy shoes making a crunching noise as she trod the ground. A chill had crept into her bones, and she was that glad she’d remembered to take Miss Jane’s best cashmere shawl to wrap around her sturdy shoulders. Miss Jane didn’t appreciate fine things—she was too caught up with her horses to notice when things came up missing. She probably didn’t even remember she owned a cashmere shawl.