But what frightened her so? She was an enigma – and one he wasn’t in the mood to solve.
“I am quite capable of tending to myself,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the silence. “After all – Napoleon didn’t promote me to colonel because I was an invalid.”
She swallowed and stared down at their united grip. She drew her hands away almost in slow motion, surrendering to the demand with a subtle nod. Then she scooted away, creating the illusion of safety. “Very well. Best of luck to you, monsieur.”
Gabriel set down the tin. He blindly ran his fingers over the bandaging and searched for its opening. After a full minute, he wrestled with the linen and unwound it from his head in jerky movements.
Arms crossed over her chest, Ariah watched his every motion with unmasked irritation. Gabriel threw the linen onto the floor. He eased forward the slightest bit and reached for the fresh bandaging, which lay centimeters from her hand. Without warning, her slender fingers shot from the mattress and latched onto his wrist, stopping him midair.
Chords of awareness sang through Gabriel’s body. In spite of himself – in spite of being bedridden and overcome with a ridiculous amount of pain – his heartbeat increased its tempo. Such a reaction was entirely beyond his control. Her fingers were achingly soft and warm against him – a startling contrast to his callused hands. They enveloped his wrist in a snug cocoon and held him firmly in place.
Gabriel realized that she, too, was not immune to the contact. Her hand trembled, and she refused to meet his eyes. Her brows were several shades darker than her hair and generously arched … like two Cupid bows. She was a flesh-and-blood contradiction. Her delicate features, fiery spirit, and poorly masked fears reminded Gabriel of a determined child.
“The rag – it … it is still on your wound.”
“What? What rag?”
Regaining her composure, Ariah met his gaze and brushed a fallen curl aside. It swirled against the slope of her cheek. Clearly battling some inner fear, she adjusted her posture and folded both hands across her lap. “The purpose of the rag is to pressurize the bleeding.”
Offering no reply, Gabriel lifted his hand to the wound and felt for the rag. Indeed, a rolled ball of linen was positioned over the wound and soaked through with blood. He removed it in a quick motion. God’s teeth. He grimaced and bit back a lewd curse as his finger brushed against the tender flesh. Then he tossed the rag aside with mounting anger, letting it join the ever-growing pile on the floor. None too happy, Ariah tracked his careless disposal with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
“Are you so stubborn that you’d willingly risk infection for the sake of proving a point? I dare say you are far worse than my daughter – and she’s not even seven years yet. Forgive my brashness, but you are acting extremely childish.”
Needing an outlet for his frustration, he gripped the bed sheet and twisted it between his fingertips. He tried to form an intelligent, mature response to her criticism – but alas, he failed miserably. “I could do all this and more if I had a hand mirror.”
“Well, I am sorry to say, monsieur, but I don’t have the luxury of a hand mirror … as you might have gathered.” She shrugged her slender shoulders, gesturing to the room’s rather outdated state. No shame dwelt in her eyes, only a blunt frankness, which Gabriel couldn’t help but find endearing.
“My apologies,” he retorted – though his voice sounded anything but apologetic.
“Keep them. I don’t seek your apologies. Merely your cooperation.”
Gabriel curbed his reply and took a moment to study the room. For the first time, he noticed a mirror hung in one of the corners. It was moderately sized and centered above a peeling vanity. Positioned at an awkward angle, he was unable to make out his damned reflection.
He turned back to the items. What next? The salve? Or the alcohol?
“The iodine,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. He collected the small bottle from the mattress, uncorked its lid, and wet a piece of linen. Steeling himself for what was to come, he inhaled a rigid breath and pressed the material against the wound. Mon Dieu. It stung like the devil’s arse. Excruciating, mind-bending pain shot through his limbs and coiled around his spine. His entire body convulsed from the sheer agony. Ariah swept the iodine from his clutch in a tender movement. Then, through a sweet whisper that helped alleviate his anguish, she said, “Now the salve.”
He gathered the tin, unscrewed the lid, and dipped his finger into the milky liquid. It was surprisingly tepid. And pungent. With mounting unease, he rested his fingertip against the gun hole and smeared it across the inflamed flesh. Another wave of pain speared through his body in tight coils. Bile rose into his throat, filling his mouth with hot acid. Swallowing back his nausea, he winced, hesitated for a moment, and finally muttered a blasphemous curse. “Fils de pute.”
If Ariah took offense to the obscenity, she refused to show it. Instead, her blue eyes kindled with humor. “It is all over your face, monsieur,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm and patient, “and hardly on the wound.”
Gabriel’s hand fell from his skin and sagged against the mattress. Exhausted from the vain efforts, he squeezed both eyes shut and laid back on the pillow. He felt embarrassed. Weak and defeated. Mon Dieu, what had become of him, one of France’s most powerful military commanders? The resentment he’d felt days ago returned at full force. Icy fingers crawled up and down his spine as despair consumed his soul. In many ways, he had indeed died in the Seine that night. “Just leave me,” he spat, waving her off. “Get out. I don’t need you. I shall find a way to manage.”
“Oh, come now, monsieur.” A new warmth laced her voice. “You mustn’t give up on yourself so quickly and with so little fight.” Gabriel’s eyes sprang open. Ariah had scooted closer, causing the heat of her body to radiate toward him. She reached out and caressed his badge with a fingertip. His breath caught in his throat. He stiffened against the pillow and met her unwavering gaze. Tracing the insignia, she whispered, “You are a soldier. A fighter. And now you must fight. Not for the emperor, not for France … but for yourself.”
Gabriel swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words. Her face was mere centimeters from his own, their mouths sharing the same intakes of air. Golden curls slid across her shoulders in a fierce flurry, mirroring her inner spirit. Her hand fell from the badge, returning to the safety of her lap again. “Now may I proceed, monsieur?”
Time stood still. And in that suspended moment, Gabriel knew he could deny her nothing.
He surrendered with a brisk nod. She whisked the tin from his limp fingers, not missing a beat. Then she plunged a slender index finger into the salve, hesitated for a second, and brought the liquid against his flesh. He tensed at the subtle contact, preparing for a great flash of pain. But her movements were poised and delicate, and she went out of her way to ensure he remained moderately comfortable.
Yet her efforts were in vain. Indeed, Gabriel felt far from comfortable. He felt violated, humiliated, and was still pulsating with anger and frustration.
“What are you anyway, a nurse of some sort?”
She stiffened at his severe tone but never stilled her hands. Instead, she grew more dedicated and absorbed with the task. “Actually, I had a doctor examine you days ago.” Her fingertip smoothed over the bruising with a startling gentleness. “Now – if you would kindly turn to the side.”
He did as requested, fully exposing the gun wound and shattered bones. He knew the sunlight from the window illuminated his grotesque disfigurement; the heat illuminated his misery and summoned unexpected thoughts. Gabriel wondered if she found his appearance repulsive. The thought came without invitation, and he struggled to drive it away. He might resemble something out of a child’s nightmare, but he remained a man at heart.
He searched the room for distraction and failed miserably. After several moments, his eyes descended to Ariah’s left hand.
“Your ring.” She paused her handiwork and sucked in a hollow brea
th. “You are married, I take it?”
A weighted silence hung between them. Then she resumed once more, her tone casual, all emotions tucked behind a mask of indifference. “I have a daughter. Why wouldn’t I be married? And besides – I recall telling you that her father is away in the war.”
Gabriel shrugged. “She is what … five, six years of age?” She responded with a single nod. “And you? You are twenty-one, twenty-two by the looks of it?”
Her hands plummeted from his face. Unbeknownst to her, salve trickled from her fingertips and stained the material of those wretched skirts. “Twenty-two last spring. Though I can hardly see why my age matters.”
“After some arithmetic, I find that fifteen is a rather young age to marry and have a child.”
“Perhaps I was betrothed and forced into marriage,” Ariah said, resuming her work. “After all, it’s not so uncommon for girls to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“No – ” Gabriel flinched as a wave of pain crashed through his body. Ariah murmured an apology before resuming. “But something tells me you could never be forced into anything.”
She smiled at the last remark, and Gabriel felt something stir inside his chest. He shook the feeling away and braced himself against the female’s pretty charms. “And besides,” he continued, gesturing to the unfortunate surroundings with his hand. “I hardly see proof of a marriage of convenience.”
“You don’t suppose I fell deeply in love?” Her eyes lowered to his. The lush fan of lashes shadowed her cheekbones like butterfly wings. Her fingers paused midair, stopping centimeters from his flesh. Startling awareness replaced Gabriel’s despair. He felt the heat radiating from her … and he ached to lose himself in her warmth and comfort. “Maybe that’s why I chose to marry and start a family.” She’d grown very nervous, Gabriel noticed. A charming blush brandished her cheekbones, her breaths were strained, and her hand subtly trembled. But she fought to shroud her anxiety – and did a rather decent job of doing so. “Not much of a romantic, are you?”
“On the contrary. I’m a realist.”
“Mmm.” Her expression invited Gabriel to parry.
The playing field had evened. He decided to test her limits. Indeed, he was certainly not one to lose at sparring, whether it be with pistols or words. “And how would this alleged husband feel … knowing a strange man was lying in your bed? This is your marriage bed, I presume?”
Impenetrable silence took command. She forced a smile, though some of the light faded from her eyes. “Pardon me, good monsieur,” she finally said in a playful, mocking tone, “but I thought you were a colonel. Not an inspector.”
Gabriel studied her expression. It was cloaked with apathy and nearly impossible to read. Yet something was there – a powerful emotion. Indeed, the darkness had resurfaced. And despite her greatest efforts, it was a darkness she couldn’t conceal.
Not from him. Not from a man who’d lived and breathed darkness for over eleven years.
“Lisette – ” The name slashed through the silence.
Breath caught in his chest, Gabriel felt his heart pound against his rib cage in a fierce requiem. The sound traversed through his body and echoed in his ears with the audacity of a war drum.
“Who is she?”
He responded with silence. Cold, tense silence.
Then he reached his breaking point and shattered. “Why the hell do you ask? What business is it of yours?”
“Well … you … you spoke her name while you were unconscious. Continuously. And I just assumed – ”
Gabriel’s hand shot forward at lightning speed, cutting off the last of her words. His fingers latched onto her chin and curled around the pale curve. He secured her head in place, forcing her to meet his eyes. In that moment, all of her carefully erected barriers fell away, leaving her vulnerable. His grip was firm and direct, though he took care not to harm her. “Never mention that name again. Never again.”
Frustrated with her inquisitive nature … frustrated with her safely guarded secrets – frustrated with himself – Gabriel increased the pressure of his fingers.
Conflicting urges collided. Indeed, he yearned to break her pretty neck and consume her mouth with a sweltering kiss. Instead, he adjusted his grasp and gave her chin a firm shake.
Then everything shifted.
Ariah bounded from the mattress. She towered above his seated form, the intensity of her stare matching his own. Her right hand rested just beneath his chin – and with it was a small dagger. He felt the blade’s jagged edge against his skin … felt the potency of her gaze as it penetrated his bandaged face. For several weightless moments, only her labored breathing ruptured the quiet.
She leaned over the bed, the blade held perpendicular to his throat, positioned several centimeters above his Adam’s apple. Her hand quivered, causing the metal to draw trickles of blood from his neck. He swallowed deeply as they streaked down his skin and splattered onto the mattress. Shimmering and undulating across the dark blade, dawn’s light seemed to take on a life of its own. He tensed, daring to neither move nor speak. He simply met her fevered gaze and awaited her next move.
“Do it,” he finally urged, his voice no more than a strained whisper. “Go on. Finish what I started five days ago.”
Her stare was strangely blank, unfocused, inward. Gabriel wondered if she’d heard his challenge.
Then she blinked once, twice, three times – as if jolting back into the present. With a shaky breath, she lowered the blade from his throat, lifted her skirts, and tucked the weapon away. And without so much as another word, she fled the bedchamber.
Chapter Five
A sloppy, wet kiss jarred Gabriel from sleep.
His eyes blinked opened at the odd sensation. Surveying the room, he lifted his face with a groan and peered downward. Just as he’d feared, perched on the edge of his mattress was the dog’s colossal head. Below was its snout; slaver and God only knew what else saturated the bed sheet. Hot breaths wafted against Gabriel’s hand as the ugly creature panted expectantly. Annoyance speared through him and simmered inside his belly.
How the hell did the beast even get inside? Over the past few days, Ariah had appeared at brief intervals – only to disperse his medication, food, and water. Ever since the dagger incident and his lash out, she seemed to have erected a protective wall around herself. And Gabriel didn’t blame her. Sighing, he observed his uninvited guest, and a sudden realization surfaced: Ariah had purposely urged the dog inside.
Damn her.
“Get away from me, daft mongrel.” Pain dashed through the left side of Gabriel’s face with the force of a thousand needles. He cringed and sputtered a curse as a wet tongue swept across his hand. Irritated beyond comprehension, Gabriel shoved the mutt’s face aside, pushing him away with little success. Not comprehending the notion of rejection, the dog issued a pitiful whine and resumed his stare. “I said away with you. Go. Be gone.” Gabriel grabbed the dog’s muzzle and attempted to force him away again. Instead of taking offense to the gesture, he firmly rested his skull against Gabriel’s palm. His thin tail sliced the air while that speckled tongue rolled out from enormous jaws.
“Ah … pathetic simpleton.” Defeated, Gabriel sighed and ran his palm over the creature’s monstrous head. Mon Dieu, the dog felt worse than he looked. His skull was painfully thin, the bones protruding at prominent angles. “Well, you did put up a good fight. And, if nothing else, I’ve always appreciated a proper fight.” The dog’s jowls stretched into something that resembled a smile; absurd as the notion was, he couldn’t help but think the mutt was laughing. For a fleeting moment, Gabriel was swept back to his own childhood – to those warm, summer afternoons in Le Havre, where he, his trusted hound, and unruly cousins had scourged for game …
With each caress, rough patches of fur stung Gabriel’s palm and shed onto the mattress. The creature’s coat felt unbearably coarse beneath his fingertips – much like dried-out straw. “Oliver, is it?” Gabriel asked conversat
ionally. The dog responded with an insistent toss of his muzzle that urged his attention. He sighed and scratched at the scruff below his chin. Oliver’s pale, speckled tongue rolled out, spilling across the mattress like a royal carpet. His head tilted onto its side while his back leg madly thumped up and down. The planks boomed beneath the assault and seemed to vibrate the entire room. Gabriel lightly chuckled. His opposite hand unconsciously caressed his signet ring. “Found your special spot, I suppose.”
The beast’s ears were as unattractive and scraggly as the rest of him. Yet the companionship he offered warmed Gabriel’s spirit. And, for the first time in so long, he acknowledged just how lonely he’d become.
Gabriel had hardened himself to yearning for comfort. Aside from the occasional camp follower, for nearly a decade he’d known only death, ruin, and destruction. He’d forgotten the warmth of sharing in another’s closeness, the feeling of being wanted, needed …
And that damnable chit was to blame. Ariah Larochelle. She’d awoken dormant feelings that’d been long buried. And now a myriad of emotions stirred to life within his heart: bitterness, anger, and an unshakable sadness.
He needed to find a way out of this situation. If not, he’d lose whatever remained of his soul.
He turned his attention back to the mutt. “Bit of an ugly thing, aren’t you? Rather demanding, too …” Gabriel muttered, his voice harsher than intended. Oliver took no offense to the words. Instead, he gave a talkative bark and attempted to crawl onto the mattress. But the perils of arthritis and old age made the climb an impossible pursuit. “Sorry, old man. Not today.”
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