by Darci Hannah
As Hume came barreling down on the battlefield, Julius must have understood what was happening. He was no longer the force that could turn the tide of the attack but the prime target. Watching with disbelief from the safety of the battlements, I had the nagging thought that Sir George Douglas—after failing to abduct the king, after learning of my flight, after realizing what I knew of his plans—had sent a messenger to Lord Hume apprising him of the situation, which simply and honestly was that Julius was back in Scotland and had, this time, successfully abducted the king.
Sir George had attacked Blythe Hall because he understood that what I knew would ruin him. He also knew that Julius could not stand by and watch it fall. Just as he knew that Lord Hume and his highly feared arm of the law would come and crush the outlawed rabble against his grasping, desperate sword. It hit me then, the lengths Lord Kilwylie would go to see Julius destroyed. The cold, aggressive calculations were chilling. And I realized, standing with my heart in my throat, that Sir George Douglas was about to make the final move in this twisted and lethal game both men had engaged in, perhaps long ago. It was then that something inside my tired, weary, heartsick head clicked and I saw what Julius had been trying to tell me all along. Damn Julius, I thought, as tears of remorse began to cloud my vision. Just like the consummate older brother he was, he had made me figure it out on my own.
It happened fast then. Seeing Lord Hume, Julius had given the order to his men to disperse, and many of them did, heading for the Tweed, where they’d risk drowning before being caught. But Julius could not escape. He saw that he was surrounded, caught between the devil and the law. Kilwylie was an old friend turned enemy; Lord Hume was an old master he had crossed. Julius, having little choice, quickly and efficiently chose the law, placing his life in the hands of the man who would, due to past charges and his latest affront to Scotland, ultimately hang him. It was, like throwing water on a burning door, prolonging the inevitable. But at least the law would give him a fair trial; at least Lord Hume would keep Julius safe until I could talk with him. With only a handful of men remaining, my brother rode to Lord Hume’s army, where he and his depleted band of mercenaries made a show of dropping their weapons and raising their hands high in the air in the universal symbol of surrender. The battle had ended, and Sir George was victorious. But even he would not stop there.
He did not get the ultimate prize.
Seeing that Julius was putting himself under the protection of Lord Hume, Lord Kilwylie gave his last order. His men picked up the battering ram and made ready to knock down the gates.
I could hear Hendrick shouting orders at Gabriel, who stood beside me. “Get her out of here!” he cried. “Get her out of here! For God’s sake take her away! Now!” Yet although I heard the desperation of his words, I could not move. My eyes held the field where Julius, defeated and weaponless, was riding toward Lord Hume with his hands in the air. I saw it then, a glint out of the corner of my eye, flying like a demon over the bloody green. A crossbow had been fired. I screamed at the same time that the bolt hit Julius in the back, piercing his steel cuirass. His body was thrown forward under the impact, and then he slumped, lifeless, across the neck of his powerful black charger. The horse capered under the impact, and Lord Hume, crying in outrage, dashed forward to retrieve him.
Tears coursed from my eyes unchecked as I stood in disbelief, staring at the lifeless form of my brother. And then, without warning, the world brightened and visions from a day long past—the day when the English had come to Blythe Hall—crossed before my eyes. I saw a blue sky. I felt a gentle wind that rustled the tall grass all around me. The Tweed, like a lazy blue snake, moved beneath the puffy clouds, threading its way to the sea; and I held a puppy. Joy filled me. And then I saw Julius, an untrammeled spirit that was one with the horse beneath him. My heart began to beat loudly, and I knew that it beat in time with another. I had no fear. I trusted completely. And I reached for the hand that reached for me. But I could not touch it. I could not reach it, and the hand, a hair’s breadth from mine, moved slowly beyond my grasp. I screamed then. I screamed because I had lost my brother. I had lost my trust in him. And I had lost Blythe Hall. A white-hot and blinding pain struck my back between my shoulder blades and radiated outward. It was debilitating, absolute. The sunlight faded as darkness formed at the edge of my vision. There was a loud crash. Men shouted. Smoke filled my lungs. Hendrick was still screaming. “Gabriel, get her out of here!” And then I heard no more; because the darkness had finally come for me.
Chapter 16
THE AWAKENING
I WAS IN PAIN. I DIDN’T REMEMBER WHY, BUT IT RADIATED through me with jarring force, and with a rhythm very like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. My head was throbbing, because the pain that hit my bum shot to my skull, exploded, and then started again, in my bum. My thighs ached, my feet were tormented with the numbing prickle reminiscent of a stroll through a nettle patch, and I doubted I could move them, even if I tried. And then there was that pressure, firm and binding, across my waist, that secured my back against a hard and immoveable object. I wanted to open my eyes. I tried, but the pain was too great, and I let out a moan instead. The pressure across my waist tightened. “Hold on,” said a voice near my ear. It was low yet harsh, and most desperately pleading. It was also slightly familiar. My mind, mired in blackness and chivied with pulsating pain, fought to make sense of it. Why was someone whispering to me? And what in the name of heaven did I need to hold on to? A moan, high and pathetic in its thinness, hit my ears. Pity filled me then; it was my nature to pity a creature so forlorn, until I realized, with a sinking heart, that the sound had come from me. The voice came again, this time with more desperation. “Hold on, Isabeau. Hold on, my heart.”
I remembered the voice. My lips pulled into a smile as the face of the owner materialized in my mind, pushing away the darkness, challenging the tenacious webbing of pain like an intrepid maid with a feather duster. Broad, golden, noble, both divine and tangibly earthy, it was an inimitable combination and one that, in its purity, drove the pain from me. “Gabriel,” I uttered, and opened my eyes. Expecting to see his face, I was stunned, for only impenetrable blackness filled the space before me. I felt a rising panic. I didn’t know where I was or what was happening to me. I heard Gabriel, but I couldn’t see him.
I shifted, pressing against the force that bound me. Yet instead of breaking free, I was gripped even tighter. My hands, suddenly coming awake, instinctively grabbed at the unrelenting binding. It was solid, like the trunk of an oak. And then I felt worn leather, as in the cuff of a glove, and thick wool, and a gap where the two materials met containing warm skin. I thrust my hand beneath the rugged wool, beneath a layer of soft linen, and ran it along a heavily muscled forearm that shivered slightly beneath my touch. The coarse hair stood on end, and I gently brushed my fingers over it, drawing a particular comfort from the solid feel of him. I understood then what was happening. We were on a horse; the pain that had roused me out of oblivion was in response to another long bout in the saddle—only Gabriel was holding me, keeping me upright. I brought my arms over his and held tightly. “Isabeau,” he said in my ear, only this time there was no desperation or pleading, only a burst of relief. “You’ll be awake?”
“I think I am. But I can’t see a thing. What’s happening?”
“We’ve been riding,” he whispered, “in a very surreptitious manner trying to put as much distance between ourselves and Blythe Hall before my poor horse drops from exhaustion. Dear Bodrum was ready to drop five miles ago.” I felt him lean forward and pat the animal in question. And then, as he settled once again behind me, he lifted the hood off my head. A burst of cool air hit my face. “I’ll ask your forgiveness for burying you inside my cloak,” he said, and I felt his warm breath near my ear, “but it was for your own protection.”
I marveled at the improbability of it all, for we were no longer inside the walls of a castle, and it was no longer daytime. It was night. I was on a horse—
a powerful gray with a silvery black mane—that I didn’t recognize, presumably Bodrum. I didn’t know where we were but for the dull observation that we were riding along the marshy banks of a small lake, for the moon, rising in a sky with just the faintest hint of afterlight visible in the blue-black dome, was casting its reflection on the rippling water. It looked lonely, and isolated, and I suddenly felt a rising apprehension. It was then that I remembered the battle. It was then that I remembered Julius.
“Dear God, what happened?” I uttered, looking up at the firm jaw, now lightly dusted with golden stubble, that lay just above the top of my head. He did not look at me. Instead the arm around my waist tightened, as did the jaw. Met with this foreboding silence, I tried again. “At the castle … what happened?”
I felt the rise and fall of his powerful chest with every breath he took, and my question had made the breathing deeper and measurably forced. This was troubled silence, and it was the only answer he was willing to give. It confirmed my deepest fears. It was the last and final shred of self-preservation removed. A mere five days ago I had left Edinburgh with a dream of one day making the name of Blythe Hall ring with greatness again. In the short time since then I had been pushed to the edge of madness and beyond. I had been methodically stripped of everything I held dear. And now, on a cold and starry night, as we navigated the banks of a reedy little lake in the middle of nowhere, reality, like a ball of fire falling from the sky, came crashing down around me. The result was absolute devastation; the consequence was unalterable. I had no family left in this world. I had lost Blythe Hall, my inheritance. The pain of it shook me, and my tears, when they came, were unstoppable.
“Isabeau …” The sound of my name, suspended helplessly in the darkness, contained a naked pathos that matched, and resonated with, the void in my heart. This man, this divine being, was not trying to silence me, or to keep me from grieving my loss. A part of him understood it. A part of him shared my emptiness in a way that could only mean his connection was nearly as deep as my own. It was a thought that floated within me, not quite taking hold. I was further distracted as he lowered his head and placed his rough cheek next to mine, offering comfort, offering strength.
“They’re all gone,” I sobbed, falling completely apart. “My family. Their legacy. I’ve failed. Who will remember them now but me? I watched him kill … Oh God! I’m all alone …”
His arms, firm and gentle, held me closer. “You are not alone, Isabeau. You have never been alone,” he whispered, boldly, heatedly, and with an undeniable desire. At first I didn’t understand what he meant. But then, as with a seed planted too deeply, a small, pale shoot finally broke the surface, and I understood the truth in what he was saying. I was not alone. I had never been alone, because Gabriel had always been with me. And Julius, dear Julius, had understood this and tried to make me believe it as well. I thought of him then, forgiving him of everything—his waste and destruction, his brilliance and his unabashed profligacy—because of this one last gift. My sorrow slowly abated. My tears began to ebb. I leaned back, feeling Gabriel’s warmth while gently brushing my cheek against his. I covered his arms, hugging them to my body and running my hands along the length of them as they grew bolder, straying from my waist. Our connection was spiritual, but there was an animal desire rising in him that my body instinctively responded to. It was palpable, visceral, becoming as insatiable as rampant fire, and I fed into him with a hunger to match his own.
Gabriel was my heart, my soul, my gift, and I would cherish him as he was meant to be cherished.
The horse, expertly trained and highly sensitive to the subtle movements of his master, moved slowly from the grassy bank of the lake and began to climb the dark, tree-covered slope of a hill. Bodrum wove his way patiently between the gnarled shadows of sparsely covered oak and the spindly scrub that clung to the hillside. His footing was sure, his instincts sharp as his master’s, and when he reached a sheltered landing between rocky outcrop and the tall, conical shadows of ancient evergreens, he stopped, exhausted. Silent, yet breathing heavily, Gabriel swiftly alighted from the horse. I came next, assisted by his large, capable hands. They were slow to come away from my waist. I stood, languid and dreamlike on the soft ground, watching as he removed his gear, stripped the horse of saddle and bridle, and sent him off with a firm slap on the rump. Bodrum, steaming and silvery under the soft moonlight, threw his head, gave a throaty cry, and clamored down the hillside, disappearing into the night. Gabriel stood a moment watching the horse; his shoulders, covered by the black surcoat, were rising and falling with a building rhythm that had nothing to do with the arduous ride. My own heart was pounding just as fiercely as I stood watching him.
For a moment I feared that he would also run, now free of my touch. I understood that he wanted me; I had felt his desire as sharp and consuming as my own, but the memory of our last encounter in the chapel had made its mark. There was much about Gabriel I didn’t understand. But I did know that I could not suffer his rejection. Not now. My confidence had been manipulated and shattered under the hand of corrupt and careless men. My heart was as frangible as the translucent wing of a dragonfly. I was on the edge of utter desolation, but for the promise of something alive and pulsating I could not even name. I had let myself come close once—believing I had no choice—and the thought, as I stood breathless in the sheltered darkness, terrified me. Yet what terrified me even more was not finishing what we had started, for I feared that if he turned from me now, he would be gone forever. Resolute, and more determined than I had ever been, I walked up behind him. Sensing me, he turned, his face and the tips of his wild, pale hair gently illuminated by the full moon. I could not read his thoughts, but I could see the emotions that crossed his face. I had been correct in assuming that he wanted me, for he was fraught with passion, heaving with naked desire, yet he was clearly aggrieved by it. He was a man battling an inner demon I had no notion of, and it startled me more than I would have liked to admit. Did he think he would harm me? Did he think I would turn him away? I had no idea what he was thinking, and so, watching him closely, I took his hand, gently removed his glove, and pressed it against my heart. “Please,” I said, “do not leave me. Not tonight.”
His movements were swift and fierce. He took me in his arms, holding me as if he too was afraid I would disappear. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to, because I knew this time that he was not going to run away. With both gloves now removed, he took my head between his hands and kissed me with astounding tenderness. He uttered my name. The sound of it caught in his throat, laying bare the sweet anguish that battled within him. It brought tears to my eyes to hear it, and I held him with even more desperation, trailing kisses from his lips, over and under his trembling jaw, and down the thick column of his throat, wanting him to know that whatever battle consumed him, he would not be fighting it alone.
My hands moved inside the heavy surcoat, and fumbled with the sword belt. When it finally came away, the weight of it shocked me, and it fell to the ground with a careless thud. He made no move to pick it up. He stood, with eyes large and wondrous, watching me. I ran my fingers over his haubergeon, the short-sleeved chain-mail shirt he still wore that fell a few inches short of midthigh. The steel links were warm and thick with the sharp tang of battle. With haste I tried to remove it but failed miserably. He was gently amused by this, and showed me the secret of removing a haubergeon.
Beneath his mail he wore a thick, quilted jupon or arming jacket. It was similar in length to the mail but fit him perfectly, and was secured with about twenty tiny buttons. As I attacked these with a driving purpose, I offered, “I suppose a nice, plain doublet and hose would be too much to ask?”
“I was wrong to think light armor would protect me,” he answered softly, teasingly. But there was a tone of stinging truth in his voice. “I have never been so weak in my life. May God forgive me, but I am helpless under your touch.”
With the last button undone, the jacket came away. “You fear
that my touch weakens you? Perhaps you are looking at strength and weakness from the wrong angle?” I replied, breathing a bit heavily as I ran my hands along the fine linen shirt, warm from the heat of his skin. He was solid, and so finely made he could have been a work of art. “Close your eyes, Gabriel. Close your eyes and let me fill you with a strength you have never known.”
Helpless, perhaps even weakened, he did as he was told, and tilted his head toward the star-strewn heavens. My fingers, restless with anticipation, snaked beneath the barrier of his shirt. At the instant of my touch, a burst of air escaped his lips and his warm flesh moved beneath my fingertips with the light and frenetic flutter of a butterfly’s wings. I realized then that I was trembling too. Unable to stop—unable to resist—I allowed my unsteady hands to explore every inch of his hard, sarsenet-smooth torso. Growing bolder, driven by an insatiable need, I felt alive and vibrant, and willed him to feel the exquisite energy that coursed through my veins. I pulled off the confining cambric and pressed my lips to him, kissing, tasting, teasing. His pulse was quick beneath my touch, and it beat with the pounding force of a war drum.
Unable to stand the assault, he crushed me to him, and I felt, for the first time, the urgency of his need. My hands slowly trailed down his back, following his spine until it disappeared beneath his close-fitting hose. They were of soft leather, and they accentuated the firm and supple roundness of his backside. My hands lingered here as he kissed me, and I gently, very gently, pulled him to me, holding his straining hardness against the softness of my body. His reaction was instant. He stopped kissing me, straightened, and, breathing as if he had just run a mile uphill, motioned for me to be still. I watched in silence as he turned from me, the bare muscles of his back straining under the pale moonlight. He bent to pick up his bedroll, which lay beside Bodrum’s saddle. He brought it to a sheltered spot and unfurled it over a nest of soft pine needles. He then came back to me, scooped me up in his arms, and gently placed me on the makeshift bed. It felt like heaven, and I pulled him down beside me.