Broken Wing (15 page)

“If you would have my aid, I suggest you don’t insult me. That popinjay, Brey, and his slovenly scow are no match for the
L’Espérance
, and well you know it. I’ll be hoping to pluck a juicy French pullet or two come spring, but in the meantime, the free trade with
Guernsey is fat and lucrative enough to pay my men and fund their retirements. You’re doing well enough by it yourself. The lad’s of age and he has no wish to be beholden, Ross, and as much as I value your opinion, I will do my training as I see fit.”

“Times are changing, Davey. You weren’t here last year when those fools on the
Lottery
murdered a customs officer. It was a bad business, soured things all the way around. Those who used to turn a blind eye, or take their cut took it personally. I’ve met this fellow, Brey. He’s no fool, and you’d be wise not to underestimate him.”

“Ross, my boy, let’s not argue. I promise you I’ll think on it, but for now, what say we put it aside in favor of a warm woman and a cold beer.”

“Aye. A man has needs. Give me a moment to finish this cigar and I’ll join you.”

“Fair enough. I’ll check on the children, shall I?” Davey wandered out to the music room to join Sarah and Gabriel while he waited.

Ross watched them thoughtfully through the open door. His thoroughly unconventional widowed innocent of a sister was deep in conversation with a beautiful, doe-eyed and deadly ex-prostitute, and a charming, roguish, undeniably attractive sea-captain-cum-smuggler-cum-pirate. Ah, well. He shrugged his shoulders, readying himself to leave. If anyone tried to harm her, they’d be filleted and fried before they hit the ground, and with that, he must be content.

Whatever notice Davey took of Ross’s warnings, it didn’t stop him from the lucrative free trading that kept his ship at the ready and his crew content. Gabriel had been out to sea several times now. On occasion they were gone for several days, flitting back and forth across the channel running wool from England to France, stealing back from Guernsey under cover of night with shipments of brandy, gin, and tobacco. He’d grown familiar with the system of caves and tunnels that made this stretch of coast a smuggler’s paradise, and a nightmare to the many ships that foundered on her reefs. His cool head, quick wit, and willingness to lend a hand won him the respect of Davey and the crew, and promotion to midshipman, and his lessons now included navigation, nautical astronomy, and trigonometry. As his lessons in seamanship and swordplay continued apace, he found himself responding to the approval in Davey’s eyes
with a growing sense of accomplishment and pride.

Bright and teasing, ferocious and deadly, cobalt, silver, or phosphorescent green, Gabriel loved the ocean in all her changing facets, but Sarah claimed his soul. She was never far from his thoughts, and the adventures that fueled his days came truly alive when he was able to share them with her. Having spent almost two years with Davey and his men, Sarah had her own stories to tell of exotic ports and wild nights of music and dancing on faraway shores. Although she loved the ocean as much as Gabriel did, she’d known little joy at the time, consumed in those dark days by guilt, her grief for her parents and Ross, and her fears for Jamie. As she listened to Gabriel tell his stories, she found the old longing and excitement return, and it didn’t take much for him to convince her to accompany them on some of their shorter jaunts, much to the delight of Davey and his crew.

Training, sailing, kissing and talking with Sarah, everything seemed to be going well for Gabriel as winter edged to spring. He was at a loss to understand why his dreams, which for several months now had receded to the odd or occasional nightmare, had returned to haunt him with a vengeance. He dreamt
of de Sevigny, cold and terrible in his anger, waking him from his sleep,
Réveille toi, mon ange
, determined to punish him, mark him, debase him for daring to leave, then passing him to his friends as a thing of no value. He dreamt of cruel hands holding him down, strong arms binding him tight, and brutal invasion. He dreamt of blood and savage hatred, and once he dreamt he was walking on the moon and could see the earth, impossibly beautiful, bright with warmth and light, far in the distance, beyond his reach as he wandered a stark landscape, frigid and completely alone.

Some nights he didn’t dream at all, but lay in bed awake, contemplating his future, sick dread knotted in his chest. With the coming of spring his contract with Ross would be complete and there’d be no reason for him to stay. Jamie had adjusted to his new circumstances so well no one would ever have guessed he hadn’t been raised in them. He didn’t need Gabriel anymore. In truth, they hadn’t spent more than a few hours together over the past six months.

He knew he should be making plans regarding where he would go and what he’d do with his money, but thinking about it made him decidedly uncomfortable. He didn’t discuss it with Ross, fearing to remind him, worried it might hasten his departure, something he was finding increasingly difficult to imagine. He’d come to feel he belonged here, but he wasn’t some distant relation or a friend of the family, and it would soon be time for him to go. He was being handsomely paid and he’d be able to
arrange his life as he pleased. He should consider himself fortunate, but all he wanted was to stay with Sarah.

February turned into March and he became taciturn and withdrawn, much as he’d been upon his arrival. As restless nights continued taking their toll, Sarah asked him repeatedly if there was anything wrong but he denied it, unwilling to have his nightmares and worries intrude on the time they had left.

Despite his denials, Sarah
was
worried. He had a bruised and haunted look she was seeing more frequently. Tonight, when he’d come to her room, pulling her down beside him on the window seat, his delicious kiss had been extravagant and lush, tasting of brandy and tobacco. He had that fragile, bitter edge she’d noted before when he drank to excess, something he seemed to be doing more often after a period of relative abstinence. “Tell me what’s bothering you, Gabriel,” she pleaded. “I know there’s something. You’re so quiet these days, and you seem so far away.”

“I’m sorry, mignonne. It’s nothing… really. I’m merely tired, and a little stiff and sore.” He shifted, easing his back and twisting his neck.

“Here, let me.” Moving to stand behind him, she began a gentle, rhythmic stroking.

Startled, his first instinct was to resist, but it felt too damn good, and he found himself leaning back into her touch.

“Is Davey overworking you, Gabe? Perhaps Ross should speak to him?”

“Non
, mignonne … Jesus, that feels good!”

She deepened her strokes, her deft fingers kneading and soothing, relaxing taut muscles. He groaned with pleasure as she moved her hands from his neck to his shoulders. “Perhaps you’re spending too much time here and not getting enough sleep. Maybe you should take to your bed early for a few nights.”

“Christ, no!” he said, twisting away from her. “This is the only place I find any peace at night,
chère.”

He offered no resistance as she reached for his shoulders and drew him back against her, her hands resuming their magic. The silence continued for several minutes, punctuated by occasional blissful groans of pleasure as muscles, stiff from hard work, eased and loosened. After a time, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned her chin atop his head. “Now, tell me what’s bothering you,” she coaxed.

Eyes closed, Gabriel savored the feeling as she traced his cheekbones with her fingertips. Ignoring the question, he turned his face into her palm, kissing her fingers, catching them with his lips as he drew them one by one into his mouth, sucking and teasing with his hot, wet tongue. Shivers went through her, and she leaned into him, soft and feverish. He opened his eyes, heavy-lidded, and looked at her with raw hunger. Moaning, she sought his lips, tugging at his loose shirt, trying to pull it off his shoulders, wanting the feel of his skin. Unthinking, white-hot with need, drunk with alcohol and desire, he helped her.

Sarah gasped with shock and pity. A distant part of her brain noted with dull surprise that she’d never before seen him without a shirt on. Now she understood why. His back was laced with scars from whippings, beatings, cuts, and burns. She raised her eyes to his and they glittered back, cold, angry, and very dangerous. He stood without a word, reaching for his shirt and jerking it from her hands, and then she saw his wrists.

“Oh, my God, Gabriel! What happened to you? And what have you done to yourself?” She reached for his arm but he twisted away. His wrists were crisscrossed with scars, most of them old and long-healed, but there was an angry red line on his right wrist that must have been put there recently, perhaps this very evening. Shocked at the depths of despair that might drive a man to mutilate himself that way, she considered, for the first time, that he might really be beyond her reach, that he was far more dangerous than she’d imagined, and needed far more help than she could offer.

Gabriel felt as if he was going to be sick. Shame and humiliation twisted his guts. He’d never meant her to know, taken care that she wouldn’t see. He’d always worn a shirt, covering his back and wrists on even the hottest of days. She’d made him forget himself, and her reaction had been everything he’d feared: horror, pity, and disgust. As he fought to control himself, he felt a rush of cold rage against everyone who had ever used him, against a god indifferent to his fate,
and against her.

An icy calm enveloped him. “Come now, mignonne,” he drawled. “I thought you knew. Did I neglect to tell you? Perhaps I did. It was one of the more unsavory parts of a childhood we both like to pretend I never had.”

“Tell me,” she whispered hoarsely.

He reached for the flagon of wine she kept by the window seat and downed half of it, wiped his lips on the back of his hand, then sat, cross-legged, insouciant, and dangerous, on the edge of her bed. “What do you want to know, my dear? Shall I tell you there are those who take pleasure from another’s pain and humiliation, those who will pay to watch it, or to inflict it themselves? I was a whipping boy, my dear, before I was a whore. And surely I told you about de Sevigny, how angry I made him.”

“I … I didn’t know. I didn’t realize … I had no idea.”

He stood up and began to walk toward her, an air of menace surrounding him. He stopped in front of her, eyes glazed, muscles rigid, breath harsh and shallow. “Did you take a good look, mignonne? I confess I was caught up in the moment, and forgot what an innocent you are. To most of my clients, such marks add a certain … spice, to the proceedings. Certainly none of them seemed to mind. You didn’t know? You didn’t realize? You had no idea? Then it’s past time you did. I’ve certainly tried to tell you, but as you’re
so slow to comprehend, let me be perfectly clear. I’ve been trained to please a man or a woman, with mouth, and hands, and tongue, anyway they might desire. I’ve been taken and used in every way imaginable.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, whispering soft and husky in her ear. “I’ve dressed as a woman, mignonne. I can make myself appear as pretty and desirable as you.” He nibbled on her earlobe as she stood frozen in place, and then nipped hard, making her jerk against him. Grasping her hand, he forced her fingernails to cut a jagged scratch across his heaving chest “I can also take pain, and turn it into pleasure,”

Freed from whatever spell she’d been under, she fought to pull away. He released her abruptly and she stumbled back, massaging her wrist.

“Voilà
,” he said, spreading his arms out wide. Do you understand now?
This
is what I am, mignonne. This is
who
I am. Now you know. Neither of us should ever forget it.”

“And what of those, Gabriel?” she asked him, pointing to his wrists. “No one did
that
to you. You made those marks yourself, didn’t you? Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

He blinked and stumbled. “Damn you, Lady Munroe! Why must you be such an interfering bitch? You can never leave well enough alone. What will you do when I leave? Who will you have to torture?” He reached for the abandoned wineskin and sketched an
elaborate bow.
“Au revoir, ma belle
. Sleep well. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, et cetera, et cetera.”

She had no words for him, shocked and confused, stunned by his barely controlled violence and shaken by the scars on his wrists. She was sorry she had asked, sorry she had opened old wounds, and sorry he had told her. He left, as he’d come, over the balcony and out into the night, and all she felt was relief.

Gabriel made his way down to the beach, drinking from the wineskin with no expectation of relief. He was hollow inside, and the wine did nothing to fill his emptiness. It had little power over him now, did nothing to soothe the ragged edges of his soul. What does a man do when his medicine no longer works, when nothing eases his pain?

The tide was coming in, and the surf sizzled wildly, matching the wildness in his heart. The wind caught at his hair, whipping long strands against his cheeks and mouth. The sky glittered overhead, and the moonlight shone across the bay, bathing the night in an opalescent, silver glow, making it appear as beautiful and empty as the face of a porcelain doll. It reminded him of the night, almost a year ago, when he’d awaited her arrival.