Broken Wing

by Judith James

  “Ungrateful little bugger practically tossed us out on our ears. Couldn’t wait to be shed of us, eh?”

  Both men burst into laughter and Gabriel felt a warm rush of appreciation. One had to admit that for a pompous ass, Huntington wasn’t a bad sort at all. In better spirits as they neared home, he noticed a large three-masted sloop in the harbor below. “Is that one of yours, Huntington?”

  “Eh? What? Be damned! It’s that rogue, Davey, home at last! I’ll wager he’s already up at the house cozening Sarah with gifts and tales of derring-do.”

  Gabriel stiffened in his saddle, causing his horse to dance and snort in protest.

  “Come along, lad, you’re in for a treat,” Ross said, grinning, as he urged his horse into a gallop.

  The house was awhirl with excitement, all of it centered on a large charismatic fellow holding court in the library, as the servants and Sarah crowded around him. Broad-shouldered, merry-eyed, with braided, coal black hair, he had a broken nose and a dashing scar that scored him from jaw to cheekbone. He was a wildly romantic figure. Dressed all in black, with leather boots and breeches, he looked every inch the pirate.

  “Well, if it isn’t Gypsy Davey, returned from the sea, and turning my household upside down.”

  “Ross!” the dark-haired giant boomed, striding across the room, and throwing his arms around him, lifting him up off the floor.

  Laughing, Huntington enthusiastically returned the other man’s embrace. “You took your time, you canny bastard! I was beginning to fear you were swinging from a rope somewhere, you old pirate!”

  The man they called Gypsy Davey placed a finger against his lips and winked. “Shhh, my darling. Not in front of the children, and it’s privateer, if you please.” Turning to look at Gabriel, he grinned and bowed. “And who’s this pretty child, Huntington?”

  Gabriel returned the bow, replying before Ross was able, eyes hard, voice cold and dangerous, “Why do you ask, my dear? Do you fancy a tumble?”

  “Oh, ho! What’s this? Huntington, the cub has teeth!”

  “Aye, that he does, Davey. That he does.” Quickly stepping next to Gabriel, Ross gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I’m hoping you can teach him how to use them.”

  Cocking his head to one side, Davey looked at Gabriel again, assessing him. “Well, it appears you’ve some spirit, at least. If you’ve any ability, I might consider teaching you a thing or two, to please my old friend here. What would you say to that?”

  Gabriel wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, and it showed clearly in his eyes, but he wouldn’t embarrass Sarah, or Ross, by insulting a friend in their home. Remembering what Ross had said about this man, he struggled to contain the rage his careless comment, and more to the point, his obvious interest in Sarah, had engendered. “I would say, monsieur, that I would hope to show myself most appreciative of anything you might care to teach me.”

  Davey regarded him with renewed interest, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Your name?”

  “Gabriel, monsieur.”

  “Ah, a fellow Frenchman, yes? Et bien, Gabriel, I’ll be staying on my ship for now. Make yourself available in the morning and we’ll see if you’re worth my while.” Turning to Sarah, he bowed gallantly. “Sarah, my darling, I must do my duty by your brother. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll continue my tale at supper.”

  Ross and Davey retreated to the study, leaving Sarah alone with Gabriel for the first time in over two weeks. She’d been a little surprised to wake snug in her bed after the meteor shower. He must have carried her there, and the thought of it made her blush. She rather regretted she hadn’t been awake to enjoy the experience. He’d seemed hesitant, almost shy in her company since then, but that was a vast improvement over cold and surly she thought with a grin.

  Something fundamental had shifted between them since their rough encounter in the hall. She’d appreciated his apology, though she’d never really feared he would harm her. His coldness and contempt were what had wounded her, and that had disappeared since his visit to her balcony. They had shared something magical that night, and it had sown the seeds of a fragile but budding friendship. They had been careful with each other since, neither of them wanting to presume or impose.

  Having acquired the habit of studying him, Sarah hadn’t missed Gabriel’s angry reaction to Davey’s careless comment. She knew, better than most, how it would have stung. It couldn’t have been easy for him to see Jamie off, either, she reflected. With a smile of sympathy, she walked over to thread her arm through his. “You mustn’t mind Davey. He’s a little wild and tends to say whatever he pleases, but he has a heart of gold and there’s no truer friend. Come, walk with me, and tell me what happened at Sidney’s. Will Jamie be happy there, do you think?”

  He answered her questions as best he could, soothed by her touch. As they walked, he realized he had many questions of his own. How did this man they called Gypsy Davey fit with Sarah and her family? How had they lost Jamie in the first place, and why had it taken so long to find him? Had she really been married before? Conditioned to acceptance of whatever fate sent his way, he’d taught himself to be incurious unless a matter was likely to affect him directly. Now he was realizing there were many things he needed to know. “Who is he, Sarah? This man? What is he to your family? Everyone speaks of him.”

  “Davey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. He’s of Huguenot descent, a second cousin on my mother’s side. His family left France for Ireland when the persecutions started. His parents were killed in some futile border skirmish and he came to live with us. I remember him being great fun, and wickedly adventurous. He was like an older brother to me, but he was rather wild, always off with the Gypsies, or getting into some scrape or another. We had some grand adventures together growing up, and of course, he and Ross connected immediately.”

  Gabriel snorted, “That’s a little hard to believe, mignonne.”

  “Oh, but it’s true! They were closer than brothers. They still are. They used to sail and adventure together all the time, but Ross has settled somewhat since… over the past few years. I don’t know that Davey ever will. He’s disgusted with politics and religion and sick of what he’s seen done to the Irish and his own people. He’s called Gypsy Davey for his childhood adventures, and because he’s always restless and moving from place to place. He’s quite proud to call himself a man without country or religion.” She grinned. “That’s terribly convenient for a privateer and a smuggler, you know, as he feels free to take commissions where, and as, he pleases. My brother is seriously worried that he’s becoming too bold. He wasn’t joking about seeing him swing from the neck.”

  Gabriel tried to picture the reserved, immaculate Lord Huntington engaged in pillage and high seas adventure, with little success. “And he lives with you? When he’s not at sea?”

  “He lives with us when he pleases. We are his family, and he is ours.”

  Emboldened, he managed one more question before they were summoned to dinner. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, mademoiselle, for sharing your observatory with me. It was a night I shall never forget. I was wondering if I might visit you again, when the moon is full, to view it with your telescope.”

  “Of course,” she said with a bright smile. “As I’ve told you before, you’re welcome to come whenever you wish.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle”

  “Sarah, please.”

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  Feeling in charity with the world, he went in to dinner. Putting aside his fears for Jamie and his alarm at Sarah’s obvious admiration for her handsome cousin, he relaxed and enjoyed the good cheer, ready wit, and fine wine, enthralled as Davey regaled them with tales of battle and adventure, exotic ports, and narrow escapes on the high seas.

  Plagued by a growing restlessness for several days now, Gabriel was already waiting for Davey, idly fishing off the dock, when the sun rose the next morning
. He was set to work hauling rope, pumping bilges, cleaning decks, and doing other menial labor. Davey’s motley crew greeted him with whistles and catcalls, smirking and blowing kisses. He had no difficulty ignoring them. It wasn’t his habit to concern himself with what others thought. The crew’s opinion meant nothing to him. It wasn’t Davey’s comment that had angered him last night. Under other circumstances, he might have found it amusing. But he’d made it in front of Sarah, and for better or worse, her opinion did matter. Somehow, it had come to matter very much.

  It was midday before Davey came and tapped him on the shoulder, sending him on his way. The crew, faced with his complete and utter indifference, had long since abandoned their harassment. Muscles aching, weary and hungry, he returned to his room. Sleep still eluded him. It came to him that night, though, and so did the dreams.

  The boy is lost, somewhere in the big house, lost and calling for him. He searches frantically, racing down endless corridors, tearing open doors, hunting from room to room, sick with dread. He finds him, whimpering, terrified, cowering before a grunting, red-faced satyr. He knows him well. The German. Enraged, he reaches for his dagger, stabbing and stabbing, sharp blade into yielding flesh, plunging through cartilage and tissue, grinding against bone, over and over as the boy sobs in terror and blood gushes and spurts and pools on the floor.

  He looks around. The boy has disappeared. There’s blood on his hands, but the urgency and rage are fading. He’s calmer now, floating, detached. He sees the bed. Luxurious, opulent, red silk and satin, a woman on it, beautiful and coarse, wearing only stockings, legs splayed wide in invitation, her busy fingers tugging, sticky with her own juices. “Come,” she tells him, command, not invitation.

  Waking with a groan, his heart pounding with rage and fear, Gabriel heaved himself from the bed and prowled restlessly about the room. He stopped by the window, leaning his forehead against the cool pane, his body still shaking. Letting loose a gasp that was half sob, half laughter, he fumbled about until he found his brandy. He’d been drinking less these past weeks, but he always made sure he had a ready supply, close to hand. One never knew. He padded to the fire, stirring it and adding another log, trying to ward off the sudden chill that seized him.

  It seemed the longer he went without sleep, the more vivid his nightmares became, and the worse they became, the more he avoided sleep. He’d hoped that hours of strenuous labor would purchase some dreamless slumber, but he couldn’t seem to escape the vicious cycle that robbed his nights of rest or peace. He was grateful for it in a strange way. He’d been forgetting himself lately, caught up in a fantasy world, pretending he had a place here. It was foolish, and dangerous. The dream had served as a much-needed reminder of who he was and where he came from. He smacked his fist into the wall, abrading his knuckles, the sharp shock of pain helping him collect himself. This place was the fantasy, only the dreams were real. Best not forget it.

  Knowing he’d sleep no more this night, he donned a pair of breeches. Neglecting to put on boots or fasten his shirt, he made his way outside and down the steep cliff face to the beach. Still shaken, the dream had been so damn real, he began applying himself to the bottle in earnest. Wind whipping his hair and shirttails around him, grim and weary, he looked up toward the house. It was quiet and cold tonight, retaining none of the warmth and cheer that had been there earlier in the day. It had passed through, evaporating, as if it had never been.

  Nursing the bottle, he noticed with dull surprise that the moon was almost full. It reflected off the surface of the still water, a brilliant, beautiful, ghostly highway, beckoning unwary travelers to a haunted world of mystery and imagination. Duplicitous bitch! He shuddered and raised his bottle in salute before starting back, not really aware of how he managed the steep path in the state he was in, not really aware of where he was or what he was doing, until he found himself standing under the tall oak, looking up at her room.

  Well, she’d promised him the moon, he told himself with a drunken chuckle. Barefoot, with a bottle in one hand, he managed to pull himself onto the lower branches. In short order, he leveraged himself over the balustrade and onto her balcony, without spilling a drop. Her door was open to the breeze, and he nudged it wider, standing there for several moments framed in the moonlight, watching her sleep.

  Well this was damned disappointing! If a wench was going to give a fellow an invitation, the least she could do was stay awake and wait for him. Overall she was a good girl though, he thought charitably. She’d let him use her Mr. James Short telescope; she wasn’t a telltale, and she always smelled very nice, indeed. He moved closer to the bed, until he was standing over her.

  Her skin glowed alabaster in the moonlight, and she smiled in her sleep, soft and innocent. Her breasts, though, full and rounded like … melons, juicy and succulent, meant to quench a fellow’s thirst, rising and falling with her breath, inviting a man to caress them, kiss them… now they were downright sinful! He held out an unsteady hand, and then drew it back. Best not to wake her, best to leave, but he was exhausted and cold, chilled bone deep, and he wasn’t too drunk to fear what he might do if he was alone this night. Sighing, he let himself slide to the floor, knowing he shouldn’t be there, but unable to bring himself to leave.

  Waking from a dream, Sarah moved in an instant from drowsy to wide-awake. There was someone in her room! She raised herself cautiously on her elbow, straining to see. A tiny flame licked in the grate, casting more shadow than light. Gabriel was sitting on the floor beside her bed. One knee was drawn up to his chest and he had a bottle in one hand, resting on his lap.

  She studied him carefully. Shirt open, he was bare-chested and disheveled, his hair in wild tangles about his shoulders. His eyes were unfocused, gazing inward. He seemed lost in a trance, contemplating some long-ago sorrow, the hurt clearly visible in his face. She wanted to be angry with him. He had clearly been drinking and he’d given her a fright, but he looked so tired and lost. She felt an odd combination of pity, lust, and the desire to comfort.

  When he finally realized she was awake and watching him, he acknowledged her with a sad, crooked smile, and an unsteady salute.

  “You’re drunk!”

  “Completely foxed,” he agreed with a genial grin.

  “How did you get in here?”

  He crooked a finger toward the balcony. “Tree.”

  “You climbed that tree in this state?”

  “Mmm,” he agreed. “The tree, the cliff, the stairs. As long as I’m drunk, what does it matter?”

  “You’re an idiot! You might have been killed!”

  “And you, mignonne, are very astute.” His head was beginning to clear. The more he drank, the more it took to put him under and keep him there. “I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Why did you, Gabe? What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

  “A bad dream,” he said tiredly. “Nothing more.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, why don’t you tell me about it? It might help you sleep.”

  “Christ, woman, I came here for some peace, to escape it, not to wallow in it!” He pulled himself to his feet. This had clearly been a mistake.

  “You don’t honestly think you can escape it by ignoring it, or running away, do you?”

  No, he’d never thought that. Only hoped. He’d hoped he might escape for a while, by running to her, and hoping was the thing that would destroy him in the end. He knew it. He turned, glaring at her in the dark. “Shall I tell you then, Sarah? Do you really want to know? Would you like to know what I was doing the night before you and your saintly brother arrived at Madame Etienne’s?”

  Her silence drove him on.

  “I was auctioned off that night, my services for the evening, to the highest bidder. I did my best to appeal, as half the proceeds were mine to keep. I was a very valuable asset there, you know. I’m surprised she released me.”

  He stalked toward her, his body tense, vibrating. His voice became cooler, deliberately seductive and compelling
. “It was a husband and wife, or a man and his mistress, a playful pair. I was the wicked footman”—despite his obvious tension, his voice sounded amused—”burning with lust for my haughty countess. I was … tasting her, pleasuring her, a thing I’m very good at, when her husband arrived, catching us in the act. Naturally, he was furious and determined to punish us both. I, the insolent servant, was taught to regret my impertinence by being bound to the bed and whipped by his lordship as his lady knelt between his legs, vigorously sucking his cock. Fortunately, she was thorough enough that he was not inclined to complete his amorous designs upon my person.”

  Silence. It continued unabated, except for their breathing. He knew he’d shocked her, had strangled something delicate that had been growing between them, and he wasn’t done yet. “And do you know what else, my dear?” he asked, his voice mocking. “I thoroughly enjoyed it.” He wasn’t sure what he expected from her—horror, condemnation, and disgust, certainly not a reply as cool and detached as his own.

  “Well, now, if you’d enjoyed it, it wouldn’t be giving you nightmares, would it?”

  Rage blasted through him, demolishing years of hard-won control. The bottle flew from his hand, shattering in the corner as a distant part of his brain noted that broken glass was becoming a habit, a different form of comfort. Damn her! Damn her! He took a ragged breath, then another, clenching his fists, refusing to look at her lest she provoke him to further violence. Stiffly he turned toward the balcony and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Gabriel spent the rest of the night walking the sand. The surging waves resonated with the turmoil inside him, allowing him to reassert some measure of balance to his shattered nerves. Sleepless nights were nothing new to him, and well before dawn he made his way to Davey’s, spending several hours scrubbing decks and climbing rigging, grateful for any activity, the more strenuous the better. Numbing his mind, he channeled his dismay and confusion into physical exertion, until Davey called him down and sent him on his way.