Passion

by Gayle Eden

  “I’ll eat after I bathe, if that is all right.”

  “Of course. Whatever you wish.” The woman helped her up to sit, and then left her to draw the bath. Gabriella held the sheet around herself, smelling the smoke scent in her hair, singed somewhat.

  When the bath was ready, she excused the maid who closed the door behind her. Dropping the sheet, she lowered herself in and dunked under, lazing for some time just letting it ease her muscles.

  Washing herself was a slow and painful business. Gabriella tried not to think beyond the moment. She wanted to know two things—nothing mattered though, as much as knowing it was done. It was over.

  She lingered in the bath and then dried, wrapping herself in the toweling. The maid was there, on the other side of the door, waiting.

  “I’ll see to your hair.”

  Submitting, Gabriella allowed her to snip, trim, and then comb it. She tied it back and by then the clothing came—a simple gown and robe was what she chose, eyeing the riding habit and carriage suit the girl drew out of the boxes, stockings, boots, as well.

  Before eating, she let the maid smooth on the salve, their eyes meeting several times, and the maid instead of Gabriella, doing the wincing. Gabriella felt every welt and burn and bruise was worth it.

  Sitting in the robe, she ate, and the maid left with the tray afterwards.

  By the window, Gabriella stared out and sipped coffee with thick cream. When the knock sounded, she turned her head and watched a young woman come through the door.

  Strawberry hair and aqua blue eyes, the woman was dressed in a silk gown with swags of net on the hips, a low and round neck, and she wore pearls in her ears.

  She was handsome, and cultured in voice, when she spoke. “How are you feeling?” she asked, and then waved her hand. “Never mind, that sounds like an obtuse question, doesn’t it?” Walking over with a swish of that expensive material, she half sat, facing Gabriella. “I’m Lady Caroline. We’re half-sisters.”

  Gabriella looked at her closer. “Gabriella…or Tara…”

  “Gabriella…that’s a beautiful name. Father will be up to see you. I think he’s a bit nervous—as I am, truthfully.” The woman smiled and Gabriella watched her scanning over her face. “I thought it might help if I explain his story, before he tells it.”

  “He doesn’t owe me an explanation,” Gabriella returned quietly. She shrugged and turned her gaze out the window. “I could have come to him, when….I could have, but I chose not to.”

  “Yes, well. He regrets not being in your life.”

  “It wasn’t a life,” Gabriella muttered and then looked at her. “Your pardon. I’m not blaming him...”

  “No. Don’t be.” Those light eyes went over her face. “You’ve obviously been through a lot.” Standing, Lady Caroline said, “I haven’t told my father that I knew about you, I discovered his relationship and your birth…. I was trying to find you.”

  Gabriella swallowed, not knowing what to say. She eventually offered, “Its better you didn’t. But—I don’t want him, or you, to think I can’t take care of myself.”

  “We—“

  “I never wanted anything from him.”

  “That’s too bad,” Lady Caroline told her softly, “He very much wanted to be your father, to look after you, and I very much wanted a sister. My mother was not around often, not after I was five. There has only been father and myself…”

  Gabriella came to her feet, meeting that gaze. “You were fortunate to have one devoted parent, a superior life, obviously.”

  Quietly Caroline said, “Perhaps it is too soon. We all need time to sort everything out and get used to each other. Father wants to take you to his estate in Sheffield.” Her blue eyes were full of meaning. “It’s for the best, while the investigations proceed.”

  “Do you know—“

  “Raith Le Clair, Lord Montovon?”

  Gabriella nodded, surprised that under that polish and seeming perfection, there was some feminine keenness in Lady Caroline.

  “He was very seriously injured, but at latest report alive. His father, the Duke of Eastland, is also getting him out of the city and to Eastland Hall.”

  She had gone to the door before she turned and then asked Gabriella, “The man who….the man who owned that house. Did he do that to you?”

  “Yes. But this wasn’t his worst.” Gabriella answered gruffly, “His worst was done to my mother—and to Lord Montovon’s wife.”

  The woman chewed her lip a moment, and then nodded. “Will they find his body in the house?”

  “Yes. If the fire did not destroy it.”

  Their eyes held a long time, and Gabriella wondered if she should have been so honest.

  However, for all the woman looked what every perfectly rich heiress should, she told Gabriella kindly, “I hope you will allow yourself to have peace then. I hope you will allow us to show you a different kind of family and life.”

  After the door closed, Gabriella, still mulling that encounter, went back to the bed. She sat on the edge of it, and was still there when a man entered. No one had to tell her who he was. He looked every inch the Duke, and though she had spied him from afar before, up close, it was easy to see both his proud blood and the traces of handsomeness clinging to him.

  He was taller than she had thought, fit, and though his hair was graying, it was thick. His eyes were beautiful—and there was a kindness to him, despite his unconscious dignity. His gaze had been going over her too and when it met hers, she saw tears.

  “I beg your pardon…” voice gruff, he turned away a moment.

  She offered, “It doesn’t hurt half so bad as it looks.”

  “It hurts me. Hurts—to my very soul.”

  She came to her feet slowly.

  He turned around, his eyes heartrending as he took two steps toward her. “Must I introduce myself?”

  “No. I know who you are.”

  “You’re—“

  “Gabriella, although, my mother called me Tara.”

  He smiled and carefully raised his hand to touch her cheek. “You look so much like her, it makes my heart ache. I loved her more than words can…”

  Gabriella knew that. Her mother knew it too.

  He said gruffly. “You have some of me in you though.” His smile was not steady. “The shape of the eyes, and that nose…it’s my mothers.”

  Gabriella stood quietly while he looked at her, and tried to step out of the surreally but could not.

  He had her sit, and he then, told his story— and afterwards he began to ask her questions. Gabriella told her own story, more detached, and still sad for her mother. However, the Duke wept and wept. His tears and pain were real, and even when he got up and paced, they ran down his face.

  By the time she explained her contract with Raith he was shaken and sat again. She told no details of her “training” and only explained they set out to destroy Marcus Stratton, all traces of him. She told of no intimacy between her and Raith either, but was frank about her role. She did not tell him what happened before the fire. His expression and gaze on her was both disturbed and awed.

  “My dear, child. I could have spared you that.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “However much it disturbs me, I can understand it, the why.” He stood and came to her, getting on his haunches before he took her hands. “If you will allow me, I’d like to take you away from London. Give you time to heal. Perhaps, offer you a chance to finally live a normal life.”

  “I will never fit.” She shook her head. “I’ll never be other than I am.” She realized that during her time with Stratton with the reality of it all.

  “We shall see.” He touched her cheek, his eyes welling again. “I will not lie, besides, you know the world far more than most your age…I cannot claim you publicly. I will get around that, however. I will give you all that is in my power. My love, for as long as I am alive. You will not want for anything. Please, give me that chance?”

  She searche
d his face and felt his pain acutely, wishing in some distant part of her that her mother had chosen him—yet knowing that kind of thinking was as futile as wishing her own past had been different. It had not been. Gabriella nodded.

  He brought her hands to his lips. “This ring,” He touched it. “I bought it for her, when you were born.” Bordwyc bowed his head, pressing them against his forehead. “Rest. That is what you need. Time and rest. We shall depart in two days.”

  “All right—”

  “Father. In private at least.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, then tucked it back. “Take your time getting used to it.”

  He took his leave shortly after.

  She lay in the bed, trying to feel what she should feel. Gabriella could not yet. She was thankful though that Raith survived. She prayed with all of her being that he would recover—and have his peace.

  Pressing her fingertips to her lips, she closed her eyes... she missed him…already, she missed him terribly, achingly. She felt only half present, the other half of herself—wherever he may be.

  Chapter 8

  Caroline was in a panic.

  Her father had announced in more than his usual distracted air that he had requested Stoneleigh escort her to the assembly tonight, and that they would all meet in his study to discuss “things” before leaving for the country.

  She had tried to reach Harriet, but her friend had sent back word she was unwell and would see her next week.

  Next week was too bloody late!

  Now Caroline stood by the coffeehouse, hoping to catch the Captain on his comings and goings, since he obviously lived in the neighborhood. Desperate, she could only think of one thing, and that was to see him one more time.

  Oh, God. She pressed her hands to her stomach, creasing her blue cape, feeling herself trembling, and hating the confusion that would not let her think straight. This was not like her usual self-possessed ease. This clandestine business was so bloody nerve wracking!

  She was staring toward the opposite street, when someone exited the coffeehouse and walked toward her.

  “I take it you are waiting on my cousin?”

  She spun and stared up at the man. He was swarthy, like the Captain, and a bit rugged, made more so by an eye patch and scars that reached below his cheekbone, a tall and muscular man, wearing mostly black, save for a long wine leather coat.

  “I’m Ry.” He smiled and arched his brow.

  She wet her lips and asked, “Where is he, the Captain?”

  “At his fencing lesson,” he said that dryly and then took her elbow. “He’ll return shortly. You may as well wait for him at home, as to be standing so conspicuously on the streets.”

  Caroline knew she should protest, yet she was nothing but relieved as he escorted her across the street. They walked up, passing several houses before entering one.

  “You were…in the war, also?”

  “Army,” he answered and showed her inside. “The study is this way.”

  She followed him, seeing a butler head toward them.

  To the man Ry said, “I’ll make the lady comfortable. Some wine, mayhap?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Inside the study, a neat and orderly one, Caroline pushed back her hood, sitting tensely while wine was brought, aware that the man looked at her while she drank half of it down—too fast.

  He was over by the door, herself in a chair by an unlit fireplace, slightly facing. She understood the order in the room, and gathered that as blind, the Captain would need to place things just so.

  Glancing at the male again, she tried to smile and failed. His gaze said he knew very well some sort of game was afoot. However, as he straightened, all he murmured was, “Make yourself at home. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  The door closed behind him. She took off the cloak and then sank back in the chair. She must be mad. She must be…desperate. Yes, that is what she felt, and she did not have Harry to calm her down.

  Sometime later, Caroline heard the sounds in the hall. Sitting up, her fingers tightened on the glass. Her eyes were pinned to the door when it opened.

  The Captain entered and halted, his face turning in her direction. “Is something amiss?”

  She got to her feet. “No I just wanted…I had to…see you.”

  The expression on his face softened from the initial alarm. Blaise shut the door behind him, walking toward her with confidence of one who indeed knew the room well. When he was a step away, she smelled the scent she loved on him, and noticed he wore no cravat. His dun trousers were snug, casual, as were his boots, and he was without a coat.

  Caroline had already felt that he was tall, but he seemed taller inside this house, and his shoulders wider, his face more handsome. In the brighter light from the window, she saw a hint of his eye color, a very light brown.

  “I’m sorry. I…have intruded…”

  “No.” He reached and took her hands, the one with the glass he cupped at the wrist. “I’m surprised, but pleased…very pleased.”

  She let her held breath release.

  “I should change…refresh,” he murmured even as he leaned his head down, and kissed her a most welcoming and lushly erotic kiss. Their lips clung, reluctantly parting as he lifted his head.

  Caroline stared at his mouth. Such beautiful lips.

  As if sensing that stare and thought he took the wine from her hand, finishing it himself, he then led her over to a sofa. Pulling her down beside him, he half turned, his fingers touching her cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted.

  “Your scent doesn’t offend me.” She whispered and covered his hand. “I’ve…thought of you…” she could not finish, apparently did not need to because he kissed her again and again. It was not long before she lay flat on the sofa with him half over her.

  “Close your eyes…”

  She did so. His fingertips began tracing her face. Slowly, softly, he skimmed around the shape of it and back to her brow, very delicately touching down her nose and to her lips.

  Scarcely breathing, she told him, “I like that. Is that what 'tis like, to be blind?”

  “Um.” He traced around her lips and then lowered his to them. “I’d rather see you. I would rather be able to look into your eyes, see your expression, after I’ve kissed you.”

  Her hands reached for him and held his upper arms through long sensual kisses.

  Dizzy, tingling, Caroline said when he lifted once more and began tracing her throat, her shoulder, “You are not upset that I’m here?”

  “Upset? No. God, no.” He leaned his head down, hair brushing her skin whilst he pressed soft kisses at her throat. She groaned and arched it, soon turning her head so he could treat the side and the delicate shape of her ear to the same.

  A bit bolder, his hands moved, skimming, from her hip to outer breasts and then across the left one, while he kissed her lightly, smoothly, and teased her tongue with his, she felt his fingers on the latches.

  A breath from her lips he asked, “Shall I?”

  “Yes.” She let her lashes open when he rose slightly and began undoing latches. He had them undone down to her ribs and skimmed his hand inside. Her skin was blanked with chills, breast tingling, the nipple tightening. The pad of his finger went round the areola, before he ever so leisurely traced both globes.

  Panting, aware he tilted his head to hear her breathing, Caroline’s fingers tightened in the fabric she held to.

  “Lovely.” He kissed her before pushing the material aside and softly kissing what his fingers touched.

  Her hands transferred to his head. “Oh, oh my…” she whispered at the first swipe of tongue. By the time he started suckling, she had arched her back, her hands splayed and holding him to her. Although in her own world of new sensations, Caroline could feel his heat and tension, and his hotter breathing. She felt such indescribable pleasure when he began kissing down her ribs, downwards still—until he reached the end of the latches and made his way back u
p.

  She shuddered a breath against his damp mouth before it covered hers. Her kiss to him was hungry, excited, so aroused, she did not think of how she kissed him, but needed his taste—and was famished to feel the textures and intimate, silken heat inside his mouth.

  He lifted a whisper away, and then his teeth worried her lower lip teasingly before he husked low, “You’re trembling.”

  “I…feel…Oh...” She smoothed her hands down his head, to his shoulders. “I feel dizzy. My heart is pounding. My skin feels…strange, but wonderful. Like I’m flying and burning at the same time.”

  He kissed her short, supple. His hand skimmed down, gathering the flimsy skirt of her gown and dragging it upwards. His palm smoothed over her stockings. At the tops, where he met skin, he paused a moment, his masculine palm sending more tingles through her blood...

  Caroline watched his face, saw desire there and something that echoed what she was feeling. Although she indeed trembled, she loved the feel of his touch as much as his kisses. From the side of the lenses she could see his eyes were closed, and there was a savoring look on his face that told her he was enjoying it as much as she.

  Nibbling, placing small kisses over her lips, her cheek, and ear, he skimmed his palm inward, gently parting her legs.

  Caroline drew in a sharp breath. His touch was light, delicate, but it trailed up, over her curls and then down again, this time parting them and gliding, moving smoothly in her moist heat, to a spot between the lips. There he circled, touched sensitive nerves with the tip of his finger, whispering in her ear, “Soft and silken. You are incredibly beautiful to touch.”

  She moaned, everything inside her tightening, all senses centering on that exquisite burn he was stoking. Caroline was helpless when her hips bucked, jolted by an intense spark. She whispered, “It feels wonderful, exquisite. I never knew…”

  “Neither did I.” He groaned and kissed her. It was deeper, more passionate, so that everything seemed to tighten and heighten between them. She heard her harder breaths, heard his grow darker. His finger eased inside of her.