by Nicole Byrd
“Spoil sport.” The other woman sighed. “Determined to keep him all to yourself, I see how it is. Just because you are engaged to be married to the man . . . Oh, Mr. Denver, you must console my broken spirits.”
The young man stammered an answer. “I s-shall be only too happy to try, Mrs. Forsyth.”
Sally might find this insipid twig amusing, but Psyche was bored with him already. She turned back toward Gabriel; enough was enough. “Excuse me,” she said to Sally and her young conquest,
The sun was warm; she unfurled her parasol and lifted it to shade her face as she strolled closer to the knot of feminine admirers surrounding Gabriel.
“Oh, Lord Tarrington,” she heard a young woman simper. “You are so witty.”
“Indeed,” Psyche agreed, raising her voice just slightly. “And so perceptive. Perhaps you would enjoy a stroll among the rest of the flower borders, Lord Tarrington?”
He turned at once and smiled at her, a genuine smile she would have sworn, then inclined his head to the rainbow of gowns which flanked him. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies,” he said. “But you must excuse me; I would not allow my betrothed to fatigue herself by walking the gardens without me.”
He slipped smoothly through the throng of disappointed faces to take his place by her side, and Psyche felt a small thrill of satisfaction which she pushed aside as unworthy. It was all a pretense; he didn’t really prefer her company to any other lady’s.
“Thank you for having pity on my feminine weakness,” she said, her tone cool.
“I suspect you would endure the walk without me,” he agreed. “But I might not have survived the gale of fluttering lashes much longer; I was in great danger of being blown totally away.”
He sounded sardonic, not boastful, and she glanced at him in surprise. Did he truly not enjoy the adulation his remarkable good looks attracted? “I shall try to contain myself, then,” she told him.
He grinned, and again, it seemed so genuine, such a moment of shared understanding between two–two friends. But again, she doubted her own perception; he was too smooth, he had outplayed too many opponents across a card table with a face impossible to read. And that did not count the women he had lured to his bed. No, she would not be so easily taken in.
“Shall we lose ourselves in the maze? I understand it is quite famous,” he told her.
“And how many ladies offered to escort you there?” she countered, glancing at him through lowered lids. The Sutton Maze was a spot famous for stolen kisses and brief illicit trysts. “No thank you. I believe we shall be content with the flowers.”
They ambled toward the end of the beds at the far end of the garden, walking side by side but not touching hands. She felt a little self conscious, remembering the kiss in the attic, which she had tried hard to forget. Perhaps Gabriel was remembering, too.
“I shall not forget myself in public view, dear Miss Hill,” he told her, his tone mild but his lapis eyes teasing.
“I shall count on it,” she retorted, holding her parasol tightly in both hands, so that he had no excuse to take her hand. She pretended to lose herself in contemplation of the flowers.
Pausing in front of a large row of tulips, she heard Gabriel say, “They have even more in Holland. Someday, perhaps I will show them to you.”
She looked up at him in surprise, and he seemed for an instant nonplused.
“Just keeping up our pretense,” he said.
“But there is no one to hear,” she pointed out, glancing around.
“A good actor is always in character,” he assured her, taking a step closer.
She turned away at once, and he fell silent. But how long could anyone stare at a bed of flowers? After duly admiring the rows of scarlet tulips, she found they had run out of garden. Not wishing to return and be surrounded by Gabriel’s throng of admirers, Psyche nodded toward the far doorway.
“Shall we walk amid the fruit trees?”
He smiled and held open the gate; they passed through the thick stone wall that surrounded the formal garden and made their way into the orchard, with its rows of flowering apple trees. Psyche lowered her parasol. The blossoms made a white canopy above them, dappling the sunshine into mottled shade; the scent was intoxicating.
Psyche felt wistful. It was a setting conducive to romantic thoughts. If her betrothal was not a sham, if their attraction was not assumed, she might lose all her sense of decorum here; a kiss beneath fragrant clouds of flowering trees would be impossible to resist. But, though the engagement might be a sham, she could not lie to herself; the attraction between them was not in the least feigned. She tried to ignore the temptation, but even walking sedately side by side she could feel the allure of his presence, the spark that always flowed between them.
And Gabriel, keeping his gaze studiously averted as he studied, or pretended to study, the blossom-decked trees, did he feel it, too?
Perhaps they should allow someone to see them holding hands, she thought. That was not so very bad. A kiss she could not allow; it was not proper.
“We should look like an affianced couple,” she pointed out, trying to keep her voice suitably cool.
“Indeed?” He still studied the tree limbs.
“For the benefit of the rest of the party,” she explained. The fact that they had left the rest of the party behind in the walled garden did not seem relevant, just now.
“Oh, I agree.” Then he turned to face her, and she saw that dreaded look of mischief which always preceded his worst actions.
He put out his hands and grasped both her arms, and she shook her head. “Hand holding is enough, I think.”
“Really? I don’t find it enough for me, dear Miss Hill.”
He pulled her gently forward, and she found herself only a few inches away. She put her hands up against the superfine of his coat and held him away. She could not press against him like a servant girl kissing her footman beau in a back alley. She was not that far removed from her sense of what was proper. But he lowered his head, and she found her reserve melting. Perhaps, just one kiss–
But he paused and turned his head away. She felt him stiffen.
Psyche straightened, putting more distance between them. “Is someone coming?” she asked, blushing at the exhibition she had almost provided for some gossip to relish.
He didn’t answer; but she saw the tenseness in his shoulders. .
“What is it?” she repeated, keeping her voice low.
“Nothing. I think.” But he took her arm and quickened his pace, as if desiring to return to the company of the other party goers.
Then Psyche saw a movement behind them, and she glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a man peering around the corner of the wall,” she said in surprise. “Not a servant, and certainly not a guest, he does not look very well dressed. He has a jacket of some kind of poor brown cloth and rough trousers.”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m afraid he’s the same man I saw on your street yesterday,” Gabriel said, his tone grim. “He must have been keeping watch.”
“He’s a friend of yours?” Psyche asked, her heart sinking. What kind of vulgar people did Gabriel associate with? Was this his unknown past coming back to haunt them both?
“Hardly. The very opposite, in fact. I thought I had escaped them, but it seems I was wrong.”
“Who?” Psyche demanded, not liking his tone. “Escaped whom?”
“Walk faster, Miss Hill; I have no wish to put you in harm’s way,” was his only–and not very comforting–answer.
They increased their stride and Gabriel kept her hand securely tucked inside the crook of his arm, keeping her close to his side. She saw that he was walking at a slight angle back toward the garden and the rest of the guests, keeping his body between her and the stranger. She began to feel really alarmed.
“What does he want? If he is after our purses–”
”I’m afraid he may want more than that,” Gabriel said. “Don’t talk; we must make haste.”
They were almost running. But the man behind them, with no need to keep up any pretense, was sprinting after them. Psyche heard the rush of steps on the gravel path, coming closer.
“Gabriel?”
“Take my hand; we’re going to run for it,” he said. His tone was grim, and his mouth pressed tightly together into a thin line.
She slid her hand down and into his firm grip. She was frightened, but yet, with Gabriel beside her, not terrified, which she should have been. Who was this strange ruffian and what did he want?
She thought that Gabriel knew more than he was telling her, and once they were safely back amid the crowd, with servants and stout men who would thrust this intruder off the estate without ceremony, she intended to find out just what he was keeping from her.
“Run!” Gabriel directed, and they did.
They had increased their lead over the man in the brown coat, but then, just as Psyche was sure they would make the safety of the walled garden, another man stepped out of the wall’s shadow, just ahead of them.
Gabriel muttered an oath beneath his breath. Psyche shivered with shock as they abruptly slowed their steps. Now they found themselves between two strangers. The closest man looked even rougher than the first; his clothes were grimy and his eyes were narrow slits. His mouth was twisted by an old scar. Psyche swallowed hard.
“What shall we do?” Psyche breathed to Gabriel, whose brows were knit in thought. “If I scream–”
”They might not hear you,” he responded. And she knew it was true; even from here she could hear the high-pitched chatter from the crowd of party-goers.
“But if we both shout together,” she urged, feeling a chill run down her spine. The men were coming closer, and they blocked the path to the nearest doorway in the wall. “Perhaps if we yell–”
But then she heard, like a wailing banshee, the strident tune of a bagpipe. The garden party’s entertainment, and the special treat their hostess has hinted at in the invitations.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Gabriel snapped. Even standing by his side, she could barely make out the words.
Psyche felt cold with terror. They were lost.
Suddenly she felt Gabriel jerk her hand. “This way,” he mouthed. Then they were running again, but this time away from the sanctuary of the stone walls, leaving behind all hope of succor.
“Where are we going?” Psyche tried to say, but she bit back the words almost as soon as they left her lips. She needed her breath for their mad dash, and anyhow, she had realized their destination.
They were headed for the maze.
It was an impressive structure, eight-foot high walls of thick greenery carefully trained into an intricate maze of twists and turns, with–it was said–only one correct path to the center, which held a lovely fountain and benches to refresh those who had persevered till they found the heart of the puzzle.
Gabriel pulled her inside before she could question the logic of his strategy. The thick hedges rose around them and blocked them from sight; Gabriel pulled her into a side turning almost at once, and then they ran several feet and turned again.
They came to an abrupt halt, and Gabriel gestured for silence. It was unnecessary; Psyche felt her head whirl, and she was speechless. The pipe music had paused, and in the brief stillness she could heard the sound of running, and a muffled oath, words in a Cockney accent whose meaning she could only guess, and suspected that she didn’t want to.
Gabriel had his head cocked, listening.
Psyche stood, stiff with fear, till she heard the men blunder past them, pushing against the thick unyielding walls of prickly shrubbery and cursing again when they found they could not push their way through, but had to follow its twists and turns like anyone else.
The thick bushes smelt lush and green, and the shade was welcome after their mad dash, but Psyche could take little comfort in their moment of repose. Her heart was beating fast, and she tried to take normal breaths.
Gabriel was mouthing something; she couldn’t make out the words. She leaned closer, putting her ear almost against his mouth.
“Do you know the way in?” he was asking. “Is there any other exit?”
She shook her head twice, and his expression grew even more severe, his blue eyes were hard and looked almost black.
There was no sound from their pursuers. Where were they? “I’ve only been here twice,” she was emboldened to whisper back. “And I don’t remember the secret to the puzzle; indeed, I never found it out.”
He nodded, and they both paused to listen. Silence, then the wail of pipes rose again..
He motioned toward the way they had come, and she understood at once. If their pursuers had gone further into the maze, perhaps they could slip safely back out the entrance.
With Gabriel leading the way, they walked, swiftly but as lightly as possible, and retraced their steps. Gabriel seemed to remember the way they had come, for which Psyche was thankful; she was already disoriented and was sure she would have taken the wrong turn.
The tall hedges towered around them, and there was nothing in the clear blue sky to guide them; a bee buzzed amid the leaves, but otherwise, she heard nothing but the whine of the bagpipes, which–muffled by the thick hedges–seemed strangely distant.
Gabriel paused at a juncture of passages, and with a tightening of his grip on her hand, indicated that she should stay back. She nodded her understanding. Gabriel bent slightly and peered around the hedge; apparently the way was clear because he tugged on her hand, and then they ran.
But they had gone only a few feet when a shout cut through the background blare of the pipes. They had been seen! But they could still outrun the stranger–
No, one of the men was standing in the gap through which they had entered the maze. Gabriel swore, and Psyche suppressed a groan. She had hoped the rough-looking men were not clever enough to spilt up; perhaps they were more practiced at stalking than she had realized.
Just what in heaven’s name was Gabriel embroiled in? If they lived through this, she was determined to find out.
Again, they were caught between two foes. But in the maze, there were amble opportunities to slip out of sight. Gabriel turned into a side passage, pulling her with him, and they ran, taking another turn, and then another and another.
“Oh no!” Psyche exclaimed as they skidded to a halt; this time, they had come to a dead end. If the man, or the men, succeeded in following them, they had no way of escape.
Gabriel looked around, as if seeking a weapon. But the slender twigs of the shrubbery, though strong enough when woven together in the thick walls of old greenery, would be little defense if taken one by one. And anyhow, the green branches would be hard to break, and they had no knife.
Psyche drew a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Gabriel had not panicked, nor would she. Her mother had had no patience for swooning, shrieking women, and neither did Psyche.
“What shall we do?” she whispered.
“Wait, for the moment,” he whispered back, leaning close so that his breath tickled her ear. “And hope they do not find us here. I regret, dear Miss Hill, that I have led us into a blind alley.”
She lifted her brows. “Luck is fickle, even for the most practiced gamester,” she murmured back.
She saw him, incredibly in this moment of danger, smile. “I do love your sense of the ridiculous,” he said, lowering his face to her own.
His comment was so unexpected that she did not attempt to evade his kiss. His lips were as firm as ever, and he did not seem to be even breathing hard after their flight. His embrace soothed her, as perhaps he had intended; her own pulse calmed in the pleasure of his kiss. This time it was not demanding but gentle, comforting. It seemed to say, ‘Do not fear; I am with you.’ Not to face the perils of the world alone. For a moment, Psyche forgot her own trepidation; she wrapped her arms around Gabriel and pulled him closer. If she could stay here forever–
But she could not. The world awaited, not to say two dangerous men wh
ose mission she could only guess. She pulled away from his embrace and said, loud enough to be heard over the bagpipe’s wail. “I think we might try–”
Then froze, because the music had died away an instant before she stopped speaking. Had she been heard? Had their hiding place been exposed?
He gestured for silence, and they stood side by side, hardly breathing. Then he nodded toward the passage which had brought them to this dead-end, and she followed, tiptoeing. When they neared the end of the passage and Gabriel slowed his steps to check out the intersection with the next corridor, she stood just behind him, still very close.
He leaned to look around the corner of the hedge, while Psyche tried not to make a sound.
A knife slashed through the bush beside them.
Chapter 14
Psyche screamed, but the sound was lost in the blare of the pipes as the unseen piper began another tune.
The blade had come within inches of her throat. It was a large, rough-hewn weapon, and it must have been thrust with great ferocity to penetrate so far through the thick hedge. What kind of men were they dealing with? Psyche felt frozen for a moment with fear. She stared at the knife as if transfixed.
Gabriel straightened and grasped her shoulders, pulling her away from the threatening sharp edge. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice so grim that she hardly recognized it. Then he turned away, and before she could protest this apparent rejection, she saw why.
One of the men had stepped around the corner of the maze. There was nowhere for them to retreat to, the dead-end behind them blocked their passage, and she could hear curses as the second ruffian, pulling his knife from the thick hedge, tried to find his way back around to join his partner.
The other man held a smaller blade, smaller but still lethal, and his expression was set, his eyes devoid of any normal human emotion. It was the face of a man prepared to kill, Psyche thought, feeling cold all the way to her bones.
“Gabriel–” she whispered, then stopped, unwilling to divert his attention. He had put her behind him, and all she could see was the tenseness of his shoulders, but even the back of his head, as he watched the villain before them, revealed his alertness, his readiness.