Broken Wing (11 page)

Gabriel prided himself on his control. He’d learned how to produce an erection at will, as well as how to suppress one. It wasn’t working very well around Sarah, though, he noted sourly. Once she was gone, he left the table, returning to his room. Throwing himself on the bed, he freed his throbbing organ. Swollen with need, stroking, and pumping, imagining her lying wanton and willing beneath him, he brought himself to release.

Sarah waited for him on the cliff edge, leaning back on her elbows, legs dangling over the side, thinking about last night. After he’d left, she’d lain in her bed too shaken to move, shocked by what he’d told her, and stunned by the depth of his rage. She’d sensed that she wasn’t the cause of his anger, but she’d certainly been the catalyst. She regretted how she’d handled it, bungled it really, driving him back into the night when he’d clearly come to her looking for some kind of comfort.

She wanted to help him. At first, it was because of what he’d done for Jamie, but that had soon changed. The more she came to know him, the more she was drawn to him, until he invaded her thoughts, day and night. She was already more than half in love. Seeing him last night, lonely and lost on the floor by her bed, she’d wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms and hold him tight. Perhaps she should have, instead of asking questions. Why must it be so complicated? She’d worried about him the rest of the night, and she’d been tremendously relieved to see him safe, and in one piece, this morning.

It took him just over a quarter of an hour to catch up with her. She turned her head to watch his approach. His stride was long and he moved with the same fluid grace that had so fascinated her when she’d first seen him in Paris. He awakened an intense sensuality in her
she’d never once suspected she possessed. At breakfast, she’d been studying his lips, for heaven’s sake! Closing her eyes for a moment, she heard his voice again, cool, seductive,
I was tasting her, pleasuring her, I’m very good at it
. Feeling a stab of guilt and shame, she jumped to her feet, determinedly banishing the memory, and her reactions to it.

“Well, Gabriel, I must say, you look a good deal improved.”

“Yes, I feel much better, thank you. The coffee,” he said with a hint of a smile. They continued down the path together, an awkward silence between them. “I suppose I should apologize, Sarah, for my behavior last night. It seems I’ve acted the brute again.”

She stopped walking and turned to face him. “More like a bloody big fool, I’d say.”

“I’m really very sorry.”

“And so you should be. It took me half an hour to clean up that mess, and I cut my thumb doing it.” She held up her abused digit for his perusal.

“It won’t … it won’t happen again.” He would make sure of it. These visits to her room were too dangerous for his equilibrium. They would have to stop.

“Well, whether it does or not, I won’t clean up after you again. You make a mess, Gabriel, you should stay to clean it up.”

He looked down at his fists. “I know. I just …”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I know. I upset you terribly and you had to leave. I have to learn not to go blundering
about in other people’s private affairs. I apologize for that. Again. I didn’t mean to. It seems we both keep repeating the same mistakes.”

Meeting her gaze, he saw the worry and concern in her eyes. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but that shouldn’t be a surprise, when everything about Sarah was so … unexpected.

“Friends?” She held out her hand to him, an expectant look on her face.

Her invitation almost unmanned him. Unaccountably, he wanted to cry. He stood there in the middle of the path, doltish and inept, with no idea how to proceed.

Grinning, and playfully raising her brows, Sarah spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a simpleton, “Gabriel, this is where
you
say friends, and we exchange a hearty handshake, leaving all last night’s unpleasantness behind us.”

He blinked, then smiled in gratitude and relief, taking her hand and bowing gallantly. “Friends.”

As his mood eased and the tension between them evaporated, the boyish grin he gave her was so genuine and so beautiful it curled her toes, and made her glow all over. Vastly pleased with each other, they continued the rest of the way to Davey’s, chattering about horses and composers, and telescopes and the moon.

Friends
. It was such a simple word. She was the only one who’d ever cared to know any more about him than what they could see. The only one who’d ever asked, and in response, he’d told her things he’d
never told anyone else. He realized that he’d
wanted
to tell her about his dream. He’d needed to know if she would still welcome him, still accept him, if she knew, really knew, what his life had been like. He’d allowed her a glimpse into the dark horror of his past, and foolish girl, wise in all ways but this, she’d extended her hand in friendship. She knew what it meant, as much as anyone could, but she couldn’t possibly have known what it meant to him. There had never been anyone to share thoughts or ideas with, hopes and dreams, fears or hurts or sorrows. Until Sarah, no one had cared.

He waited three days, afraid to test the boundaries of this new friendship, afraid to make a mistake, but on the fourth night he went to her, drawn like a moth to the flame.

Sarah was asleep when he arrived, and something was different. It took a moment before he realized the window seat was strewn with cushions, furs, and blankets. A leather wine flask had been left, as well. The gesture offered comfort and invited him to stay and take his ease. He wasn’t used to anyone caring for his comfort, and it convinced him that her offer of friendship, and the welcome he’d seen in her eyes, was genuine. Choosing not to wake her, he settled in between the furs, falling into a deep, dreamless, and much needed sleep, and left silently with the dawn.

He came often after that, no longer hesitant of her welcome. He stayed for hours on her balcony, watching the stately dance of constellations as they spun slowly overhead. It struck him that there had always been other worlds surrounding him, just outside his reach, unexpected and unseen. They were opening to him now. Sarah was opening them. They spoke long into
the night, their voices joining in easy laughter and lively debate. For the first time, Gabriel shared his opinions and ideas. They discussed the philosophers, Voltaire and Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau. They discussed composers, Haydn, and the prodigious Mozart, and Sarah discovered, much to her delight, that Gabriel was as talented with violin and guitar as he was with the piano.

Gabriel felt intoxicated, as if he’d stepped through some fairy-tale mirror into an enchanted world. He knew he was in love with her, deeply, sweetly, madly in love. His world had been dark and colorless before she’d come into his life, devoid of any strong emotion, except hatred, despair, or fear. She’d opened his eyes to wonder, had welcomed him into her home as warmly as she did her brothers, or Davey. She filled his every waking thought and his heated-longing dreams, keeping the nightmares at bay and giving him a reason to welcome sleep, rather than dread it. He was always respectful, careful never to jeopardize the bond growing between them, and he was truly happy for the first time in his life.

The next few months went by in a blur of activity. His days were spent under Davey’s tutelage. A hard taskmaster, Davey insisted that Gabriel learn his way about the ship, sending him aloft, clambering up the shrouds with the topsmen over a hundred and fifty feet above the deck until he was at ease skylarking in the rigging. He learned how to set, reef, and furl a
sail, edging out along the swaying yardarms with only footropes for support, each roll of the ship whirling him about in dizzying circles.

Balancing on heaving deck and narrow rail, he practiced with short sword, cutlass, rapier, and a curved sword Davey called a
katana
. The long weeks of strenuous physical activity hardened and honed his body, sculpting him into an engine of muscle and sinew and fluid grace. His early experiences had taught him to distrust his body, to distance himself from it, divorcing mind and sensation. Now, his training with Davey forced him to meld mind and body—focused, present, and aware. As his training continued, he became more comfortable and at ease within himself. He enjoyed the gentle ache that drugged his arms and legs after a long session. He enjoyed the way his body responded and moved, as quick as thought, and he found himself running, jumping, and climbing, for the sheer joy of it.

The focus that had allowed him to survive his disastrous childhood, now helped him to be one with his weapon, as Davey taught him to channel his anger and passion into the blade in a living, breathing dance of beauty, steel, and death. A natural athlete and thirsty to learn, he poured himself into the rhythm of sea and ship and sword, until they were an extension of himself, as natural to him as breathing. He exulted in it, and despite his late start, he soon excelled.

Gabriel was as susceptible to Davey’s roguish
charm as were Sarah and Ross. He valued the man’s opinion, understood what Davey expected of him, and found himself able to fit in with the assorted collection of misfits and eccentrics that made up Davey’s crew, in a way that eluded him in other settings. He knew he excelled at the things Davey taught him, and the man’s irreverent good humor and world-weary cynicism struck a chord that resonated deeply within. Davey was enough of the outlaw that Gabriel felt comfortable, on occasion, sharing some small part of his past. Davey greeted these revelations with humor at times, but never shock.

His relationship with Davey was far easier and more relaxed than the one he had with Ross, who had undertaken to instruct him in estate matters, and matters of trade and investment. He suspected the older man was trying to prepare him to make the most of his ten thousand pounds when their bargain was complete, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. He also felt that he was being measured against some standard he didn’t understand, couldn’t relate to, and could never achieve. It never occurred to him that these feelings of being judged and found lacking might involve his own interest in Ross’s sister. He respected, admired, even liked Ross, but he never felt completely at ease in his company, and it amazed him that the two men, who seemed so different in temperament, were such close friends.

As much as Gabriel’s days were filled with challenge,
hard work, and physical effort, his nights were filled with magic. Some evenings they would all join on the lower terrace. Davey would come with one or two of his ragged crew, or Gypsy friends from across the river. They would sing and play throughout the night, drinking whiskey and wine and raising their voices in laughter, conversation, and song. Trading words and melodies, challenging each other with whatever the moment, the mood, or their imagination allowed; they made wild and beautiful music against a background of sea and sky, in a warm and wonderful communion that left Gabriel feeling exhausted, happy, and replete.

Most nights he waited, breathless and excited, for the sun to set, the moon to rise, and the house to settle for the night. Then he’d climb the oak to her room, to watch the sky and talk, listening to her voice, husky with excitement, watching in fascination as her eyes flashed with passion, lit from within, and watching in envy as the evening breeze caressed her cheeks, ruffling her hair and playing with the tendrils as he longed to do.

On cooler nights, he settled himself in the place she’d made for him on her window seat. He told her more about his time at the château. How he’d loved the stables and the horses, and what it had meant to him to discover music and learn to read and write. In time, hesitant and careful, he told her more of de Sevigny, how he would have done anything in his power to please him so that he might stay, how he’d tried to escape, and
how in both ways, mired in shame and confusion, he was an active participant in his own ruination. He told her how badly it had hurt, how much he’d hated both de Sevigny and himself, and how much he’d hated going back to Madame’s.

Sarah seldom said much as he told her these stories, just lay in the dark listening, a soft comment now and then. “You loved him because he made those things possible, the books and the music. He gave you the only pleasure you’d ever known.”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t care for you. Not at all. You were just a thing to him. Something to use. And he let you do those things, let you ride and play and learn, to make you a more valuable thing.”

“Yes,” he rasped.

“And so? You took what you could, what you wanted and needed, and then you left. Or you tried to, at least. You survived him. What else could you have done, Gabriel?”

He shook his head in the dark, uncertain, never having thought about it quite that way before. “I don’t know.” He fell asleep there, more often than not, warm and peaceful in her cozy room. He imagined it possessed some powerful, protective enchantment, because the nightmares could never seem to find him there, not even when he opened the door to bitter memories.