Anthony maintained a bland expression.
Abigail fidgeted on the edge of her chair, looking both confused and uncomfortably self-conscious.
Fortunately, before anyone had time to say anything else, Kemp arrived to announce that dinner was ready.
After dinner Abigail and Honor took tea in the blue drawing room. Abigail rapidly lost her, shyness in Honor's company. Gifford's sister-in-law possessed a natural charm which made her an entertaining, yet reassuring, companion. She didn't ask Abigail any awkwardly personal questions, something Abigail had been rather dreading. She did speak briefly of what an unimaginable relief it had been to Cole to discover his brother and cousin had survived the privateers' attack.
'Cole was told that Gifford and Anthony were dead,' Honor explained. 'He sold out of the army and came back to England to take up his new duties as head of the family—then Gifford and Anthony reappeared on the very day of our wedding.'
She smiled, tears shimmering in her eyes, at the memory. 'I have never seen Cole so happy,' she said. 'You must not think, because he teases Gifford sometimes, he is not sincerely attached to him. He was devastated when he thought his brother was dead.'
'They both seem to have a very forceful... ah...unconventional...way of expressing themselves sometimes,' Abigail said tentatively. 'I don't mean in any way to sound critical,' she added hastily.
Honor laughed. 'Unconventional is a mild description of the way they can occasionally behave,' she agreed. 'Their father raised them to consider problems logically, to think for themselves at all times, and not
to be swayed from relying upon their own judgement by the force of public opinion.'
'Logical!' Abigail exclaimed. 'Gifford is one of the most illogical people I've ever met!'
'Male logic is often indistinguishable from complete irrationality,' Honor readily agreed. 'At least according to my mother.'
'Anthony seems a little more sensible,' Abigail said fairly. 'He plays chess. That's a very logical game.'
'Perhaps, but there's nothing logical about his paintings,' Honor replied. 'No, that's not fair. His draughtsmanship, his awareness of perspective, of other technical considerations, are all excellent. But there is such depth of colour and emotion in his work. I've spent hours looking at the pictures he brought back from his voyage with Gifford.'
'May I see them?' Abigail asked eagerly. 'Do you think he would mind?'
Honor stood up. 'Many of them have already been hung in the large drawing room. I'm sure he'd have no objection to you seeing those—any visitor to the house may do so. Would you like to look at them now?'
'Yes, please.' Abigail followed Honor along a wide landing, marvelling again at the magnificence of the house. Were Gifford's other houses equally fine—or were they even grander? She was fascinated by the novelty of her surroundings, but no longer overawed by them. It was the man who mattered to her—not his possessions.
Chapter Sixteen
The ladies are in the large drawing room, sir,' Kemp told Gifford. 'Admiring Mr Anthony's paintings.' He forestalled Gifford's next question.
'We'll join them,' said Gifford briskly. The three men had lingered at the table, not to savour their port, but to discuss the problem of finding and dealing with Charles Johnson.
Gifford had told Abigail the truth when he'd said that his brother and sister-in-law knew nothing about her mistreatment at the hands of Miss Wyndham's great-nephew. But that had been when they had first arrived. Since then he'd given Cole the bare outline of what had occurred because he needed his brother's help. Gifford intended to hunt Johnson down, but that might mean leaving Abigail alone in London. In his absence, he wanted Cole to protect her.
'I hope he does call here for his money,' Cole declared, a deadly gleam in his eyes. He was as enraged by what Johnson had done as the other two men.
'It's unlikely,' said Gifford, 'but not impossible. Kemp, if any gentleman calls for Miss Summers bring him immediately to one of us—whichever of us is at
home. But give the gentleman the impression that you are taking him to Miss Summers. Lull him into a false sense of security.'
'Yes, sir,' said Kemp. 'Any gentleman in particular, sir? Or all gentlemen?'
'All gentlemen,' said Gifford firmly.
Abigail was fascinated by Anthony's paintings. She admired all of them, but the one which drew her gaze again and again was a picture of Gifford standing on the quarterdeck of the Unicorn.
He was wearing his uniform, his hands linked loosely behind his back, his feet braced against the movement of the ship. He looked confident and in command. A man at peace with himself in his true element.
It hurt Abigail to realise that Gifford had never been truly at peace with himself, all the time she had known him. Except...
Just once. Immediately after he had made love to her. She remembered how relaxed he had been as he held her in his arms.
Not for the first time she wondered if she was going about her mission to win Gifford's heart the wrong way. If she married him, he would no doubt make love to her every night—her cheeks grew warm at the thought—and afterwards he would be quiet and peaceful. Perhaps if he felt quiet and peaceful every night for several weeks, he would become more even-tempered the rest of the time—and that might encourage him to feel affection for her.
Abigail wished she knew more about men, but it wasn't a subject on which she could easily seek advice. She also wished she might have an opportunity to spend time alone with Gifford, so that she could gauge his feelings for her more precisely. Recently it seemed as if they were surrounded by curious witnesses every time they met.
She heard the door open and looked around to see Gifford come into the room, followed by his brother and cousin. They were all impressive men. Tall, broad-shouldered, and fiercely masculine. But only Gifford held her attention.
He wore his formal evening dress with as much assurance as he'd once worn his uniform. Her heart rate accelerated as he came towards her. He moved like a tiger. Soft-footed but unimaginably powerful. His gaze was hot and hungry as it swept over her body. Her breath caught. She felt nervous but excited. She wasn't afraid of Gifford. She'd never been afraid of him.
'Abigail likes your pictures,' Honor said to Anthony. Her voice jolted Abigail back into an awareness of her surroundings.
'They are truly wonderful!' she exclaimed, sounding more vehement than she'd intended because she was uncomfortably flustered by the direction her errant thoughts had taken. She turned away from Gifford and focussed all her attention on his cousin.
'Thank you,' Anthony replied, looking both amused and pleased.
'Honor says that you have many sketches of your voyage,' Abigail continued breathlessly. 'I would very much like to see them—if you don't object.'
'Not at all. You may see all my sketches if, in return, you will allow me to paint you,' Anthony returned.
'Paint me?' Abigail gasped. 'Whatever for?'
'Possibly in the character of Boadicea,' Anthony mused, studying Abigail with his head on one side.
'Under no circumstances!' Gifford said categorically. 'Paint her at the pianoforte.'
'A somewhat commonplace pose that would not do justice to her courage, her beauty, or the fiery resolution that sometimes flashes in her fine eyes.'
'You are not painting her dressed in a sheet!' Gifford said forcefully.
'Certainly not. I would wear my normal clothes.' Anthony maintained a straight face. 'We can have a special costume made for Abigail. I think she should hold a spear.'
Abigail finally found her voice.
'Stop provoking him!' she ordered Anthony, well aware he was trying to bait his cousin. 'And you can both stop talking about me as if I'm not here.' She put her hands on her waist and glared impartially at the two men. 'If...if,' she emphasised, 'I agree to be painted I shall choose my own pose and my own garments. I will not be painted wearing a sheet—and I definitely won't hold a spear. Good heavens! I would look utterly ridiculously carryin
g a spear.'
'I find it quite easy to picture you with a spear,' Cole observed from the background. 'I must admit, the significance of the sheet eludes me.'
Abigail flushed scarlet with embarrassment.
'Everyone be quiet!' Gifford ordered, a note of sharp warning in his voice.
He reached out and stroked his fingers gently down the side of Abigail's neck and along the curve of her shoulder, accessible to him because of the relatively low cut of her gown.
Abigail's breath locked in her throat. He touched her with such casual, yet delicate intimacy. She stared up at him, unable to take her eyes from his face.
'You should have your portrait painted,' he told her quietly. 'Anthony has painted all of us. But you may choose a pose you are comfortable with. It is very tedious remaining still for so long, but it isn't otherwise an unpleasant experience.'
Abigail swallowed. She was aware that they weren't alone, but she couldn't look away from him. 'I think most people would be honoured to be painted by Anthony,' she whispered. 'He is a very fine artist.'
'Hmm.' Gifford's gaze fastened on her mouth for several seconds before he managed to wrench it away. 'Let her choose her pose,' he commanded Anthony. 'But I still think it would be most appropriate if she is seated at the pianoforte.'
Abigail walked restlessly around her bedchamber. She was tired, but her mind was too busy to allow her to sleep. The situation between her and Gifford was unresolved and unsatisfactory. She wished she could sit down and speak to him quietly about the future, but he didn't seem inclined to discuss anything with her. He simply gave her orders. It was very frustrating.
On impulse she decided to have another look at his portrait. If she couldn't have a conversation with the
man himself, perhaps she would gain inspiration from his image. It was a very lifelike portrait, painted by someone who knew Gifford extremely well. Perhaps it would help her gain an insight into his character.
She went down to the large drawing room. She was surprised so many candles were still burning. She knew Honor had retired to bed some time ago and she'd assumed the others had done the same. She hesitated in the doorway and heard Gifford's voice.
'We know the location of his family estate, but not of his current lodgings in London. Tidewell was only able to give us the direction of his previous lodgings. In the circumstances—'
'You're talking about Charles!' Abigail exclaimed. Gifford, Anthony and Cole were all present, and they all stood to attention as she walked into the room. 'You're talking about Charles without me!' Her voice rose, partly because she was genuinely indignant, but mainly because she felt unreasonably hurt at being excluded from the deliberations.
'It's not necessary for you to be bothered with this,' Gifford said stiffly.
'Not necessary? I'm the one he sold! Of course it's necessary for me to know what you mean to do.'
Abigail glanced from one man to the other, and saw that they all wore the same closed, hard, ruthless expression. She remembered what Anthony had said several days ago, that it would be a toss up whether he or Gifford found Charles Johnson first.
'What do you mean to do with him when you find him?' she asked grittily.
Gifford pressed his lips together. He didn't say anything and his gaze was cold and dangerous when he looked at her.
Abigail was chilled by his expression, frightened by the implications of his silence.
'He must stand trial,' she said croakily.
'If this comes to trial there will be a scandal,' Gifford said flatly. 'It would be impossible for you to remain untouched by it. You might have to give evidence in open court. It is unthinkable that you should be called upon to do so.'
'It is unthinkable for you to seek retribution by any other means,' Abigail said fiercely.
'You don't know what you are talking about,' Gifford retorted.
'Yes, I do.' Abigail advanced further into the room. 'I know that aboard your ship you have the power of life or death over your men. You can order them to engage in a hopeless battle at your whim. You can have them flogged if they disobey you. But we are not on the Unicorn now. It is not for you to assign Charles's punishment—it is for judge and jury. He must stand trial.'
'Are you willing to give evidence? To become the subject of the worst scandal of the Season? Of the year?' Gifford demanded fiercely.
Abigail squared her shoulders. In truth, the idea horrified her. But she was determined not to let Gifford take Charles's death upon his conscience. Nor did she want it upon her own conscience.
"Yes," she said.
'Well, I'm not willing to let you,' he countered ruthlessly.
'I am the one he sold. I am the one who has a right to decide what to do about it,' Abigail replied. 'If— no!' She planted her hand firmly on his chest as he drew in a breath to speak. 'I haven't finished.'
Gifford closed his mouth and watched her grimly.
'If you overrule my wishes,' she said slowly, thinking out her argument as she made it, 'if you disallow my preferences...then you are acting as if you truly did buy me. As if you have a right to dispose of my body as you wish—or to discount the thoughts in my head or the emotions in my heart as if they are of no consequence. Because you own me. But you don't. You don't own me. I belong to myself and I can make up my own mind.'
Intense silence followed her words. Gifford looked down into her face, and at the hand she still braced assertively—yet strangely possessively—against his chest. He could see the resolution in her eyes, her fierce determination that her opinion would be heard.
He had never been willing to debate his decisions but, in appropriate circumstances, he had always encouraged his junior officers to express their views. He was training them to be competent officers, not a crowd of sycophants.
Abigail was not one of his subordinates but, when she defended her views so steadfastly and with such dignity, he felt proud of her. The burden of responsibility on his shoulders eased a little as he realised how willing she was to share responsibility for deciding Charles Johnson's fate. Ultimately, as befitted a man
in his position, Gifford would make up his own mind what he would do about Johnson. But it was... liberating...to be reminded of Abigail's courage.
And her hand on his chest. That felt strangely like an anchor, holding him securely when sometimes it felt like he was adrift on an unfriendly ocean, endlessly confronted by enemies both phantom and real. A man could grow weary of everlasting battle.
He realised he had been silent for a long time.
'You are willing to face the consequences of Johnson coming to trial?' he said gruffly.
'Yes.' She held his gaze unwaveringly.
Gifford's chest heaved in a great sigh.
'So be it,' he said.
Abigail looked around at Anthony and Cole. 'You must agree too,' she said.
Both men nodded, then confirmed their agreement aloud.
'Good.' She sighed herself. Truth be told, she was afraid of the scandal, but she was more afraid of the possible consequences if she didn't hold firm to her beliefs. She felt as if she'd just confronted a tiger. She wasn't scared of Gifford, but his personality was so strong she hadn't been sure she would be able to hold her ground against him.
She decided it was best he didn't know that. He was already far too sure of himself.
'In that case I will tell you the direction of Charles's most recent lodgings,' she said instead.
'You know where he lives?' Gifford seized her upper arms in his hands. 'How? Why didn't you tell me immediately?'
Abigail pressed both hands against his chest. She half-expected him to shake her in his exasperated impatience—but he didn't. He held her in a firm but not painful grip and stared down at her. She could feel the tense anticipation in his powerful body as he waited for her response.
'Miss Wyndham corresponded with him regularly,' she said breathlessly. 'But her hands were too painful with rheumatism to hold the pen. I wrote at her dictation.'
/> 'The direction?' Gifford demanded.
Abigail repeated it. 'I have no idea what kind of place it is,' she said. 'Charles always claimed it to be very fashionable. But the Blue Buck didn't seem fashionable to me. Perhaps this place will be similar. You must—' she tapped her fingers against Gifford's chest for emphasis '—be very careful.'
'I'm always careful,' he said, an odd expression on his face.
'Good.' She nodded once, very firmly. 'Well, then.' She stepped back from him and, after a momentary hesitation, he let her go. 'I will go to bed. Goodnight, everyone.'
She was already halfway to the stairs when Gifford caught up with her.
'Abby?' He put his hand on her arm to turn her. 'I thought you'd already gone to bed. Why did you come down again?'
She looked up at him, wondering what to say. She was still shaken from their clash of wills a few moments earlier. She wasn't ready for another tense encounter with him. Not when so much was at stake.
'I wanted to l-look at Anthony's paintings,' she said, quite truthfully.
'Oh.' For a second or two she thought he looked disappointed, dejected even, at her answer. Dejection was not an emotion she associated with Gifford Raven, but it passed so quickly she thought she must be mistaken.
'Particularly the one where you are standing on the quarterdeck of the Unicorn,'' she said. 'It is so much easier to imagine your life at sea now that I've seen that. I must look at it again in daylight. Anthony is a very fine artist.'
'Yes, he is,' said Gifford absently. His gaze was upon her auburn curls shining in the candlelight. 'He must paint one picture of you with your hair down— but not for public display.' He stroked her cheek with one gentle fingertip, then caressed her lower lip with his thumb.
Abigail's heart began to race. Instinctively she swayed towards him. His gaze focussed on her mouth and he started to bend his head...
Then muttered a curse under his breath and abruptly straightened up.
'Goodnight,' he said hoarsely. 'I won't be able to show you the sights of London tomorrow morning, but don't go out with Honor. Maybe later in the day we can... dammit! Goodnight.'
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