Broken Wings

by Judith James

  February turned into March and he became taciturn and withdrawn, much as he'd been upon his arrival. As restless nights continued taking their toll, Sarah asked him repeatedly if there was anything wrong but he denied it, unwilling to have his nightmares and worries intrude on the time they had left.

  Despite his denials, Sarah was worried. He had a bruised and haunted look she was seeing more frequently. Tonight, when he'd come to her room, pulling her down beside him on the window seat, his delicious kiss had been extravagant and lush, tasting of brandy and tobacco. He had that fragile, bitter edge she'd noted before when he drank to excess, something he seemed to be doing more often after a period of relative abstinence. "Tell me what's bothering you, Gabriel," she pleaded. "I know there's something. You're so quiet these days, and you seem so far away."

  "I'm sorry, mignonne. It's nothing... really. I'm merely tired, and a little stiff and sore." He shifted, easing his back and twisting his neck.

  "Here, let me." Moving to stand behind him, she began a gentle, rhythmic stroking.

  Startled, his first instinct was to resist, but it felt too damn good, and he found himself leaning back into her touch.

  "Is Davey overworking you, Gabe? Perhaps Ross should speak to him?"

  “Non, mignonne ... Jesus, that feels good!"

  She deepened her strokes, her deft fingers kneading and soothing, relaxing taut muscles. He groaned with pleasure as she moved her hands from his neck to his shoulders. "Perhaps you're spending too much time here and not getting enough sleep. Maybe you should take to your bed early for a few nights."

  "Christ, no!" he said, twisting away from her. "This is the only place I find any peace at night, chere?”

  He offered no resistance as she reached for his shoulders and drew him back against her, her hands resuming their magic. The silence continued for several minutes, punctuated by occasional blissful groans of pleasure as muscles, stiff from hard work, eased and loosened. After a time, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned her chin atop his head. "Now, tell me what's bothering you," she coaxed.

  Eyes closed, Gabriel savored the feeling as she traced his cheekbones with her fingertips. Ignoring the question, he turned his face into her palm, kissing her fingers, catching them with his lips as he drew them one by one into his mouth, sucking and teasing with his hot, wet tongue. Shivers went through her, and she leaned into him, soft and feverish. He opened his eyes, heavy-lidded, and looked at her with raw hunger. Moaning, she sought his lips, tugging at his loose shirt, trying to pull it off his shoulders, wanting the feel of his skin. Unthinking, whitehot with need, drunk with alcohol and desire, he helped her.

  Sarah gasped with shock and pity. A distant part of her brain noted with dull surprise that she'd j never before seen him without a shirt on. Now she understood why. His back was laced with scars from whippings, beatings, cuts, and burns. She raised her eyes to his and they glittered back, cold, angry, and very dangerous. He stood without a word, reaching

  for his shirt and jerking it from her hands, and then she saw his wrists.

  “Oh, my God, Gabriel! What happened to you? And what have you done to yourself?" She reached for his arm but he twisted away. His wrists were crisscrossed with scars, most of them old and long-healed, but there was an angry red line on his right wrist that must have been put there recently, perhaps this very evening. Shocked at the depths of despair that might drive a man to mutilate himself that way, she considered, for the first time, that he might really be beyond her reach, that he was far more dangerous than she'd imagined, and needed far more help than she could offer.

  Gabriel felt as if he was going to be sick. Shame and humiliation twisted his guts. He'd never meant her to know, taken care that she wouldn't see. He'd always worn a shirt, covering his back and wrists on even the hottest of days. She'd made him forget himself, and her reaction had been everything he'd feared: horror, pity, and disgust. As he fought to control himself, he felt a rush of cold rage against everyone who had ever used him, against a god indifferent to his fate, and against her.

  An icy calm enveloped him. "Come now, mignonne," he drawled. "I thought you knew. Did I neglect to tell you? Perhaps I did. It was one of the more unsavory parts of a childhood we both like to pretend I never had."

  "Tell me," she whispered hoarsely.

  He reached for the flagon of wine she kept by the window seat and downed half of it, wiped his lips on the back of his hand, then sat, crosslegged, insouciant, and dangerous, on the edge of her bed. "What do you want to know, my dear? Shall I tell you there are those who take pleasure from another's pain and humiliation, those who will pay to watch it, or to inflict it themselves? I was a whipping boy, my dear, before I was a whore. And surely I told you about de Sevigny, how angry I made him."

  "I... I didn't know. I didn't realize ... I had no idea."

  He stood up and began to walk toward her, an air of menace surrounding him. He stopped in front of her, eyes glazed, muscles rigid, breath harsh and shallow. "Did you take a good look, mignonne? I confess I was caught up in the moment, and forgot what an innocent you are. To most of my clients, such marks add a certain ... spice, to the proceedings. Certainly none of them seemed to mind. You didn't know? You didn't realize? You had no idea? Then it's past time you did. I've certainly tried to tell you, but as you're so slow to comprehend, let me be perfectly clear. Fve been trained to please a man or a woman, with mouth, and hands, and tongue, anyway they might desire. I've been taken and used in every way imaginable."

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, whispering soft and husky in her ear. "I've dressed as a woman, mignonne. I can make myself appear as pretty and desirable as you." He nibbled on her earlobe as she stood frozen in place, and then nipped hard, making her jerk against him. Grasping her hand, he forced her fingernails to cut a jagged scratch across his heaving chest "I can also take pain, and turn it into pleasure."

  Freed from whatever spell she'd been under, she fought to pull away. He released her abruptly and she stumbled back, massaging her wrist.

  "Voila" he said, spreading his arms out wide. Do you understand now} This is what I am, mignonne. This is who I am. Now you know. Neither of us should ever forget it."

  "And what of those, Gabriel?" she asked him, pointing to his wrists. "No one did that to you. You made those marks yourself, didn't you? Why? Why would you do such a thing?"

  He blinked and stumbled. "Damn you, Lady Munroe! Why must you be such an interfering bitch? You can never leave well enough alone. What will you do when I leave? Who will you have to torture?" He reached for the abandoned wineskin and sketched an 152 elaborate bow. uAu revoir, ma belle. Sleep well. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, et cetera, et cetera."

  She had no words for him, shocked and confused, stunned by his barely controlled violence and shaken by the scars on his wrists. She was sorry she had asked, sorry she had opened old wounds, and sorry he had told her. He left, as he'd come, over the balcony and out into the night, and all she felt was relief.

  Chapter 14

  Gabriel made his way down to the beach, drinking from the wineskin with no expectation of relief. He was hollow inside, and the wine did nothing to fill his emptiness. It had little power over him now, did nothing to soothe the ragged edges of his soul. What does a man do when his medicine no longer works, when nothing eases his pain?

  The tide was coming in, and the surf sizzled wildly, matching the wildness in his heart. The wind caught at his hair, whipping long strands against his cheeks and mouth. The sky glittered overhead, and the moonlight shone across the bay, bathing the night in an opalescent, silver glow, making it appear as beautiful and empty as the face of a porcelain doll. It reminded him of the night, almost a year ago, when he'd awaited her arrival.

  Well, here he was now, by the sea, as he'd always wanted. The boy was safe and happy. It was past time to leave. What kind of idiot had he been to imagine, even for a moment, that there was any other way? Moving from a back
alley, to a brothel, to a country estate, didn't change what he was, but God curse it, why did he have to tell her? What sick, sad compulsion had driven him to reveal any of it?

  Because you're lonely, he answered himself. So damned tired of being alone. Well, he'd guaranteed it now. Milady sunshine, Sarah, had been suitably shocked, and in fairness, one had to admit she didn't shock easily. At least now she knew. There were no more illusions left for either of them.

  Tilting back his head with a bitter laugh, he tipped the bottle and let the remainder of the wine drain down his throat before abandoning the empty container in the sand. The wind had picked up. Clouds studded the sky and moonlight illuminated the jagged rocks along the shore. His skin pricked with excitement, and he was filled with a curious elation. Bending down to remove his boots, he continued along the beach, closer and closer to the water until he stood in it, knee-deep. The cold seared him, sharp as a knife. He winced in pain before deliberately closing his eyes and submitting to it, waiting until he could feel the sensual pull of the surf as it tugged at his ankles, caressing and coaxing, drawing him farther, one step, then another.

  Caught in its spell, he swayed with the waves, embraced by the cold sea and the cool night air. Looking out, he could see clouds of phosphor and foam. He took another step forward, wanting to be a part of the great mystery frothing and humming around him. He wanted to swim, as far and as long as he could, half-convinced that if he had the courage, if he was strong enough and swam far enough, he might reach some distant shore where he'd find welcome and peace.

  "Gabe? Gabriel?" Her voice floated above the water, insistent and concerned. "Gabe?" a little sharper now, cutting clearly through the hiss and swoosh of surf on sand. He turned slowly in her direction, swaying with the force of the water, confused, as if he didn't recognize her.

  "It's beautiful, isn't it? Grander than any cathedral."

  He answered her with a bemused nod.

  Barefoot, holding her ridiculous nightgown above the waves as best she could, she stepped into the water, hissing with pain. She held out her hand. "Come. Let's go for a walk."

  He watched her in silence, his haunted eyes distant and confused.

  "Gabriel, please come. I'm freezing!"

  He extended his hand slowly, until the tips of his fingers brushed hers. A frisson pulsed through him, starting his heart pounding.

  Entwining her fingers through his, Sarah took him in a firm grip and tugged him toward the shore. "Let's walk," she said again.

  He looked into her eyes, startled, focused now, and managed a sardonic salute with his free hand. "As my lady commands."

  She smiled as he stepped from the water, and something strung bow-tight inside her, eased. He was back. Back from whatever dark and faraway place had tried to claim him. She didn't release her grip on his hand as they walked back toward the house, not even as he bent to retrieve his boots.

  "You followed me, mignonne?"

  "No, Gabriel. I felt like a stroll and a quick dip in my bedclothes on a freezing night. Of course, I followed you, you dolt! You're lucky you didn't break your neck coming down here drunk as a—"

  "Why?" he rasped.

  "You frightened me," she said simply. "I didn't like the way you looked, as if you were lost, not really there. I was worried about you. I also wanted to apologize. I had no right to pry, Gabe. I keep saying I'm going to stop, yet somehow I never do. I am sorry."

  "Don't," he pleaded. "Please, Sarah, don't... I ..." he struggled to find words, to let her know how grateful he was that she'd cared enough to come after him. No one, except Jamie, had ever given a damn if he lived or died. It meant everything. Sarah squeezed his hand, then wound her arm through his and pulled him closer. "You're shivering. Let's get you back before you catch your death." Leaning into him, she tried to share what little warmth she had. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the blood pulsing through his arm, vibrant and alive, but his skin was clammy and cold. He smelled of wind and sea and she wanted to kiss him, to slap and shake him. Impulsively, she stopped and flung her arms around his neck, pulling his head down into a scorching kiss, before pushing him away. "Fool! Idiot! Stupid, stupid man! What were you thinking? Don't ever frighten me that way again! Promise me!"

  "I promise," he whispered, soft against her lips. He returned to her room, by the stairs this time, lips blue, and shivering with cold. Businesslike and efficient, she tossed him a blanket and turned to stoke the fire, briskly ordering him to remove his wet clothes and get into the bed. He did as he was told, climbing onto her bed with the blanket wrapped around him for modesty's sake as she spread his wet clothes in front of the fire.

  "Under the covers, Gabe," she said, pulling the blankets back and plumping the pillows. Warming a glass of brandy in her hands, she came to sit beside him on the bed. "Drink this." Her fingers soothed his brow.

  Gabriel was chilled to the bone, and shudders racked his body, but he was enjoying the novel experience of being taken care of. He swallowed the fiery liquid and settled into the nest she'd made for him, turning onto his side, and closing his eyes to avoid her gaze.

  Concerned that his shivering continued unabated, Sarah dropped her sodden nightdress on the floor and crawled under the blankets to warm him. With only the sheet between them, she pulled him tight against her, vigorously rubbing his shoulders, arms, and back, as his body shivered with cold and delayed shock.

  She'd been relieved when he'd left her chamber, overwhelmed by his pain and frightened by the anger and the barely controlled violence that simmered beneath his surface. She'd also glimpsed the desolation in his eyes, and had been terrified at the thought of what he might do, alone and lost, this night. She clutched him tighter, her nose pressed into his damp hair, glad she'd followed her instincts, glad to have him close and safe beside her, feeling as if she'd won some battle, snatched him back from the hands of some unseen, malevolent, and utterly merciless foe.

  Gabriel relaxed against her as the room warmed, and the brandy and her heat began to chase the chill from his body. Speaking into the silence, he answered the question she'd asked him a lifetime ago. "Sometimes I feel nothing at all, Sarah. Sometimes I feel so empty I think I'm dead. When I feel the pain, when I see the blood, I know that I'm alive."

  Hugging him tight, she answered, sweet and husky in his ear, "If you feel like that... When you feel like that, come and see me, and I'll give you a kiss that will curl your toes and you'll know damn well you're alive, Gabe."

  With a soft laugh, he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, and then placed it snug against his heart.

  "What did you mean, earlier? When you said you were leaving?"

  He shifted uncomfortably, and sighed. "I'll be gone from here in two months, mignonne, a little less."

  Alarmed, she pulled herself up, leaning over him, trying to read his face in the dim light. "Gone? Why would you leave? Where would you go? I thought you liked it here. I thought you were happy."

  He did. He was. "I don't know yet, Sarah. I haven't given it much thought. London, perhaps."

  "I don't understand. Why do you want to leave us, Gabe?"

  "I don't."

  "Then why would you?" she asked, resting her hand on his shoulder.

  "I signed an agreement with your brother, Sarah. It's March already, and our agreement ends in May. He'll not want me here after that. That's always been understood."

  "By who? I want you here," she said, relaxing and giving him a hug as she settled back against him, "and you're wrong about Ross. He wants you here, too. He can be a little high-handed, and I don't suppose he felt the need to discuss it with you. He just assumed you'd learn to like it and would want to stay. He and Davey have great plans for you. Davey wants you to be a privateering adventurer, and Ross would have you a respectable merchant sea captain. They bicker over you like little old ladies."

  "Really?" he asked, startled.

  "Oh, yes. It's quite comical. Oh, Gabriel! Is that what's been bothering you? I'm so sorry
! I thought you knew."

  "I had no idea," he whispered.

  Drawing him closer, she murmured in his ear, "This is your home now, Gabriel. We're your family now. Don't run away from us."

  Warm in her arms, warmed by her words, he fell into a deep and healing sleep. He awoke the next morning, naked and snug in her bed. His arms were wrapped around her, their limbs were tangled together, and his face was buried in her hair. Disoriented, he tried desperately to trace the route that had placed him there. When memory flooded him, his face turned hot with embarrassment. His sex stirred, turgid and aching, and he fought the urge to rub it, rock-hard, against her bottom. It would be a poor return for her care of him last night. He gritted his teeth and carefully extricated himself, trying not to wake her.

  It was the first good sleep he'd had in weeks. Yawning and stretching in the chill morning air, he reached for his clothes. He looked back at her fondly as he pulled them on. She looked like a lost waif, curled in the big bed by herself. Despite his embarrassment, a heavy weight had been lifted from him, and he had no idea how to thank her. .

  When Sarah awoke an hour later, she smiled to see that he'd lit a fire for her, and fetched her nightgown from where she'd left it to dry. He had truly frightened her last night. He might have drowned in those frigid waters, accidentally, or on purpose. She'd been too much the coward to ask. All she'd wanted was to bring him back and keep him safe. Now she wondered what to do. Common sense, warred with instinct and desire, telling her that by allowing Gabriel into her room, into her bed, she was risking more than discovery and the good opinion of people she cared about; she risked breaking both their hearts.