by Carie, Jamie
With one hand on either side of her head, he pulled her back and directed a level stare into her eyes. “If you ever need me, I will be where you first found me—on the road to Whitehaven. Write or come and I will be there. Any day. Any time. Just find me, do you understand?”
She pressed her lips together, nodding, the solid stones of grief in her heart crumbling into humble thanksgiving. “I don’t deserve you.”
His lips curved into a smile and his blue eyes lit up. “No one does.”
A tiny laugh burst from her chest to mix with the constant tears that seemed her life now.
They’d prayed together then. Praying for help when it was all too much to bear. Praying for forgiveness. Praying for strength.
The next day she sailed away from the Land of Fire and Ice a changed person. A woman grown up. Possibly a mother-to-be. A frightened daughter of the King of kings and a lonely exile, without friends or family or home.
Where are you, my duke? she’d asked in the weeks hence.
Was he on this ship? If so, why did he not come to her?
She looked for him, roaming the ship by day and dreaming of him by night. But no one would answer her questions. No one would speak with her above the instructions for meals and talks of time and weather. It was as if she were a ghost no one saw or wanted to acknowledge. So she clung to the rail and watched London pass by and wondered, hoping she was in God’s hands, what her future might hold.
GABRIEL STOOD HALF HIDDEN BY the corner of Destiny’s foredeck and watched Alexandria make her way down the ship’s gangplank. She walked away from him, sure-footed with one hand grasping up the satin blue of her skirts, the wind blowing her hair loose from under her hat, her back straight, too straight. Like an arrow to his heart he watched her narrow shoulders, but then she stopped and turned her face to the side, as if sensing him. He took a step forward, seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, the way her gaze swept the shore as if she was looking for someone, as if she was searching for him. Wanting, needing him to come to her.
His heart leapt at the sight of her profile. Pure sweetness, a beauty that shone from her eyes in such a way that left him breathless, soul-stirring to his core. He wanted nothing more than to go to her and tell her everything was going to be all right, that the horror of John’s death would fade and beg her to forgive him, but he didn’t. He grasped tight to the wood of the mast and gritted his teeth against the urge to call out her name. Alexandria!
He looked away. He couldn’t bear it. When he finally looked toward her again, stepping from his hiding place, the wind brisk against his face, he saw her continue down the plank toward the awaiting carriage he had arranged to take her to St. James Palace. Her red cape flared out, her stride brisk as she followed the lieutenant to a duke’s royal coach. Would she know it was his? Would she recognize his crest? If only she would turn around. Just for a second.
He took another step toward her, unable to miss the moment when she stepped inside his world, when his guardianship would begin in a new, more intimate way of everyday living with her. More steps and he stood at the railing, one hand curled around the iron bar, the other he forced into a fist, not allowing it to move and attract her attention. This was neither the time nor the place. He would face her, her love or her scorn, soon enough.
What would she think of him then?
The question had haunted him during all the long, seasick hours while he hid in his cabin. There were too many strikes against him here. And now, with John’s death bloodying his hands . . . God help him, she had been so shocked, her face, her lovely face looking up at him with those wide blue eyes, questioning, horrified, grief stricken.
He couldn’t endure that look on her face, so he’d done the only thing gut instinct had demanded. He hurried her away from him, back to the inn, back to a place where he couldn’t hurt her any longer. And where he didn’t have to face what he’d done.
His jaw clenched as the lieutenant, young and resplendent in his red-coated uniform, smiled down at her, bowed, and opened the carriage door. John’s death flashed before Gabriel’s eyes. He’d been wearing a red robe of some sort, grasping for the rope, pulling it and shaking it . . . his face full of angry astonishment and determination. It was that determination Gabriel had recognized in a millisecond. In an instant, a flash of time and gut knowing, he’d seen that John Lemon would not give up until he had Alexandria as his wife, conquered her completely.
Gabriel had snapped inside.
That’s why he’d pulled the pistol out. It wasn’t that a man was coming after them on a rope. No, it was a man coming after them as her husband. But he wasn’t her husband and he wasn’t meant to ever be that. Gabriel’s act had been as if a wild beast had been after her, intent on taking her to his lair and making her his servant. John would wring her dry and leave crackling bits of her still alive to function as his wife; he just didn’t see it yet. And while she might have a clue of it, a doubt that she couldn’t explain, Gabriel saw it all, fully formed, in that instant.
And he acted as his role suggested he should. He pulled that trigger with no more than that moment’s insight and instinct and guarded her from it all, that whole life she would have lived if he hadn’t done his job.
But how to explain that to anyone? Even her?
Gabriel watched the carriage pull away and knelt on one knee at the railing of the ship. He leaned his face against the hands clasping one rail.
God, they don’t understand. Only You know what happened in that moment. I don’t know what to do.
The murmurs of the townsfolk of Reykjavik rushed back over him. Their take on it was that it was dark and he’d not been able to see whether John pointed a weapon at them, and with the duke unable to hear what John was screaming at them . . . well, they’d soberly nodded and said it was a misfortunate but necessary act. Not that that had made him feel any less wretched about it.
Then, seeing Montague at the funeral from where he stood afar off . . . God, Montague! How can I ever explain it to him?
Gabriel had walked back to the blacksmith shop and spent the next hour on his knees, praying for God’s forgiveness, praying for Montague and Alexandria’s forgiveness, hoping one day he would be able to explain it. That he had been doing his job as guardian in the only way he knew how.
Still grasping the railing like a drowning man, he looked up from his closed eyes and saw the carriage disappear around a corner. Someone touched his shoulder. He stood and turned to find the captain.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?” He enunciated clearly, indicating the shore with a sweep of his arm.
Gabriel nodded, seeing the second carriage waiting for him. “I pray that I am.” He clapped the captain on the shoulder. “Thank you, Captain. I hope to never board a ship again as long as I live, but that has nothing to do with your kind treatment.”
The captain bowed his head and then reached into his pocket and held out a root of ginger, brows raised with a smile.
Gabriel chuckled, took the root from his hand, and hauled it back with a mighty throw. It landed in the Thames with a splash. “Nor do I ever want to see that again.”
The captain chuckled back, gray eyes full of shared amusement, and then gestured behind him toward Gabriel’s lone bag. He laughed seeing it, remembering the enormous wardrobe and accoutrements he’d bought in Ireland to impress Dublin society and find his recalcitrant, lovely, wayward, irrepressible ward. Wonder what Meade had done with it all.
The thought of seeing Meade in the next hour brightened his mood further. With his stalwart secretary at his side, Gabriel might be able to face the regent and, God willing, the woman who held his heart in her hands.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alex stood before a gilt-edged mirror in the opulent room she had been assigned for her brief stay at St. James Palace and sank into a low curtsy, trying not to stare like a bac
kward country girl at the white gown embellished with blue decorations and trim. La! The lace alone, delicate and feminine, that adorned the bodice and then draped into a lace-trimmed train in the back was more elegant and lovely than anything she’d ever seen. The train was her favorite part—white satin trimmed in lace with a blue lining on the underside that gleamed like a blue waterfall when she draped it across her arm. The skirt was white satin, and adorning the bottom two rows of scrolling lace were blue flowers and blue velvet ribbon.
She wobbled, almost toppling from the weight of the enormous white feather hat, feathers waving from every direction in her periphery and up and over her eyes. What if it fell forward when she curtsied? The image of the hat falling onto her face before the regent caused a horrified giggle from her chest.
“No, no, no!” A woman led by two court pages charged into the room, her thin arms waving as if a great tragedy had occurred. Alex took one look at her frowning face, gaunt cheeks, and thick brows pulling down over her eyes and shrank back. “We only have a few minutes, so do pay attention, Lady Featherstone!”
A few minutes for what? “Who are you?” Alex bolstered her courage enough to ask.
“I am Lady Wickham, one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. I’ve been told you are to be presented to the regent and to make sure you are prepared. You must learn the proper protocol and that curtsy I just observed. . . .” She shuddered and turned her head away as if Alex had made the greatest faux pas imaginable. “Pay attention, Lady Featherstone. We haven’t much time!”
Alex swallowed hard and nodded.
“Now,” she lifted her skirt enough to show skinny ankles, “put your weight on your right foot and lift the left foot to the toe, slightly in front. Then with a graceful move,” she lowered her head and glowered at Alex, “swing the left foot around until it is behind your right foot. Try that.”
Alex lifted her skirt and copied Lady Wickham’s movements.
“Only the toe of the left foot touches the floor!” the woman squawked.
“Oh yes, I see.” Alex did the movement again with an inner roll of her eyes. With her skirts down, the regent wouldn’t even see this movement.
“Now, sink down into a low curtsy with your weight on the right foot and tilt your head forward.”
Alex sank as low as she could go without ending up sitting on the floor, feeling a bubble of laughter rise from her throat as the hat tilted forward. If she leaned forward any further, she’d be face-first on the floor.
“Don’t tilt your chest forward so much! Just your head.”
With a deep breath, Alex stood and tried again. It was difficult to remain upright and sink down so low, but she was determined to make this woman happy.
“That’s better. Now, when you are down as low as possible, ever so slowly, without anyone able to tell, tilt your weight back onto your left foot and rise. This will free your right foot to take the next step.”
Alex’s eyes widened. How was she to rise on her left toe? A bead of sweat started at her temple as she tried the maneuver again and again. Her thighs were trembling in burning agony by the time one of the pages came back and motioned for them to follow him.
“It will have to do.” Lady Wickham pursed her lips.
“Thank you for your help!” Alex gave her a quick hug, smiling at the look of astonishment that came into her narrowed eyes, and then turned and followed the page from the room.
After winding through corridors and passing suites of rooms, Alex stood just outside the entrance to the throne room, the splendor inside taking her breath away. Her heart sped up as she saw, across the vast space, a man clothed in a red robe with a suit of white and gold beneath it. His hair was dark brown and curling, his face pudgy but with an intimidating glare as he spoke to someone she couldn’t see. She was suddenly very thankful for Lady Wickham’s lessons.
A hush settled over the room as the Lord Chamberlain came forward and motioned her inside. She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked as gracefully as her full skirts would allow to the place in the middle of the room where she had been told to stop. The Lord Chamberlain announced her in a booming voice just as Lady Wickham had said he would.
“Your Majesty, may I present Lady Alexandria Featherstone.”
The prince regent beckoned her forward. Alex took a deep breath, walked slowly to the front of the throne on its raised dais, and sank into her best curtsy. Rising with as much grace as she could manage, she looked into the regent’s eyes for the first time.
“So, Lady Featherstone, we finally meet. You’ve caused a great deal of trouble, I’m told.” His eyes narrowed at her.
Alex stifled a gasp as her gaze swept to the other inhabitants of the room. Her breath whooshed out of her when she saw Gabriel for the first time since the day of John’s death. Dressed in an impeccable suit of dark blue, he was seated beside a man, both of them leaning over a book, off to the left side of the room. Why didn’t he look at her?
“I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty, if that is the case.”
“Do you doubt my words?” the regent thundered.
“No!” Alex cast a glance back at Gabriel for help, but he remained focused on the book. Whatever could he be reading at a time like this? His dark hair was clipped short again, his face still thin though. Seeing him so close and yet he seemed so distant brought a pang of helpless longing to her heart. She needed to see his face, to see his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I only meant that any trouble I have caused has been unintentional.” She pleaded understanding with her eyes.
The regent’s mouth softened and he looked at the duke. “You didn’t mention how fetching she is, St. Easton.” He chuckled. “I believe I have a better understanding of the situation now.”
Alex cast another glance at Gabriel to gauge his reaction to those astonishing words. He read from the book and then looked at the sovereign and shrugged a shoulder in an almost bored fashion. “As you say, Your Majesty.”
His deep voice reminded her of the time at the masquerade when he’d asked her to dance, sending a wave a warmth through her. She looked down, confused, unmoored. Wasn’t he happy she’d finally come to him? It was what his letters had said he wanted, hinting at more between them.
The regent returned his attention to her. “Lady Featherstone.” She looked up at his steady stare. “I demand you give up the search for your parents. It is time you face the truth, my dear.” His tone softened. “They are lost to us. Think of them in heaven if you wish. I find it helps me with the queen’s recent passing.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, you will reside with your guardian, properly chaperoned by his sister, I am told. I will give you one season to find a suitable husband that has St. Easton’s approval. You will cooperate, of course.” He waved his hand. “Have your season and bring the ton’s youngbloods to their knees, no doubt. St. Easton will see that you choose wisely among your adoring throngs.” He steepled his hands and raised his brows at her. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alex sank into another deep curtsy, anger simmering in her heart. She still refused to believe her parents were dead, but she did acknowledge that she had little choice but to obey for now. She would find a way to continue her search, even if for a time that meant investigations from a London town house. What she needed was another clue.
Rising, she glanced back at the duke. He had risen and was bowing toward the regent. The prince started to say something to him and then shook his head and waved him away, appearing to change his mind.
Gabriel came up to Alex and took her hand, looking into her eyes for the first time.
A current of sparks seemed to leap from his fingers as they grasped hers. She took a little inhale, her eyes searching his eyes, roving over his face.
“Allow me to escort you home, my lady,” his deep voice murmured.
Yes, home. She nodded, gripped his offered arm, and allowed herself to be led to her new life as the ward of the Duke of St. Easton.
HE COULDN'T LOOK AT HER. Tight breath, sweaty palms, racing heart—it did things to his body that made his world tilt toward madness, leaving him reeling in senses gone awry. Instead, Gabriel kept his gaze on the passing view outside the carriage window as they made their way through London’s streets toward his town house. He had one knee drawn up, an elbow resting on it, his fingers gripping his chin in what his close friends would say was a gesture of deep concentration.
Meade sat beside him and across from Alexandria, carrying the conversation for him, making Gabriel appear an arrogant aristocrat he supposed, but better than a deaf one. He couldn’t bear to tell her or even look at her for longer than a moment. Not yet. Not until he had these emotions under control.
He glanced at Meade’s animated, smiling face and a streak of pure jealousy and rage burst through him. That should be him sharing stories and making her feel at ease in her new surroundings. It should be his remembrances of their time in Ireland that were causing her to laugh, colors bursting through the carriage at the sound of her laughter so vibrant he had to turn away and stare out the window. He hated himself. Hated this blasted weakness. He balled his hands into fists and turned his head further away, closing his eyes.
The carriage finally rocked to a stop. Thank God. Gabriel sprang from the conveyance before it had come to a complete stop and bolted for the front door. He shouted directions to the household as he rushed through the hall and up the stairs to his suite of rooms.
“Lady Featherstone is here. Jane! Come take care of things. Mrs. Miller, make certain her room is ready; it has to be perfect. Dinner at eight.”
Jane burst into the hall. “Gabriel?”
He swung toward her, his voice lowering. “I can’t do it yet. No one is to tell her. Do you know what I am saying, Jane?”