Robin Schone (11 page)

“ ‘Your breasts ache to be fondled and suckled by a man,’ ” he quoted, silver eyes glinting. They were

far, far more dangerous than a knife blade. “ ‘The eternal hunger of a woman.’ ”

The words were seductive in script; spoken in that silky, caressing voice they were fantasy given

speech.

“ ‘I would soothe your aching flesh,’ ” he continued. “ ‘I would satisfy your hunger.’ ”

Victoria’s heartbeat faltered.

The silver-eyed, silver-haired man looked as if he had never ached or hungered in his entire life.

Who was the real Gabriel?

The man who had asked her if she would let him hold her
dripping with sweat,
or the man who

effortlessly wielded the deadly knife?

“ ‘Soon your suffering will cease, and you will know the pleasure to be found in a man’s arms,’ ”

Gabriel continued quoting. “ ‘You will know the pleasure to be found in
my
arms, Victoria Childers. I will

care for you, comfort you, rescue you from the burden of your impoverishment... All you need do, my very

dear governess, is gift me with your maidenhead, and you need not suffer anymore.’ ”

Memory filled in the missing half sentence:

. . . I will care for you, comfort you, rescue you from the burden of your impoverishment, an

evil which I’m sure you will come to understand as necessary when I have fully satisfied your

desires. All you need do, my very dear governess, is gift me with your maidenhead, and you

need not suffer anymore.

“You have an excellent memory, sir,” she said evenly. Wondering when her self-possession would

disappear like the illusion it was.

It should not be possible for a man who moved so leisurely to eat up space so quickly.

“Yes, I do, Victoria Childers.” Gabriel stood over her, face pale, expression enigmatic. Holding the knife

and the short, snub-nosed pistol out for her inspection, he gently asked, “Were you looking for these?”

He appeared calm: he was not. Victoria could feel the energy radiating from him.

He did not like having his drawers searched: she didn’t blame him. He did not like the fact that she

would escape him: for that she did blame him.

Would he kill her now, or would he let her live?

Whatever the outcome, she would
not
beg.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

He stepped to the side of the open drawer. Her face turned upward to his. Warily following him.

Not knowing what to expect.

Not knowing when to expect it.

Gabriel dropped the pistol and the knife.

Instinctively her gaze followed the fall of silver. The two weapons landed inside the bottom drawer on

top of a pile of neatly folded, starched shirts.

The dark wooden pistol grip and the leather-bound knife handle sank into the pile of white shirts more

deeply than did the silver barrel and blade.

“You did not need to search my bedroom, mademoiselle,” he said in that deceptively smooth voice. “

There are weapons inside the bathroom.”

Victoria did not answer.

“A toothbrush, for example, can pierce the throat if applied with enough force.”

Yes, Victoria had seen all manner of death these last six months.

Lifting up her head, she resolutely met his silver gaze; the crackling fire snapped and popped inside her

ears. “It does not sound like a very effective weapon.”

“Then I would recommend that you use the derringer.” Silk whispered, leather boots creaked. One

second Gabriel loomed over Victoria, the next second he hunkered down, legs an inviting black V, hands

resting lightly on his thighs. “It shoots accurately within a distance of three feet. A knife is certainly sharper

than a toothbrush, but it, too, requires a certain amount of force. It also entails a larger degree of risk than

does a revolver, especially for a woman. You must get close to your intended victim in order to use it; if the

man—or woman—whom you intend to dispatch is stronger, the knife will be taken away and used against

you. Unless, of course, you’re proficient at throwing a knife, which I doubt you are. But I leave your choice

of weapon up to you.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. “Are you inviting me to kill you, sir?”

“Yes.” Picking up the short, snub-nosed pistol, he turned it and held it out grip first. “Take it,

mademoiselle.”

Tak e it
echoed over the crackling fire.

She had rummaged through his underwear—thin silk socks, embroidered silk handkerchiefs, fine woolen

drawers that were softer than down.

This could not be happening.

A man who wore silk socks, embroidered handkerchiefs and fine woolen drawers did not ask a woman

to kill him.

Victoria numbly took the proffered pistol; the hard wooden grip was warmed by his hand.

There was neither encouragement nor discouragement in his silver gaze.

Victoria licked her lips, flesh rough and chapped. “If I shoot you, the waiter outside will apprehend me.”

Gabriel’s lips looked petal soft. “Probably.”

The pistol dropped from her nerveless fingers; a muffled impact filled her ears, the collision of the pistol

and starched shirts. “Then you will pardon me if I do not accept your invitation.”

He leaned forward, reaching . . .

Victoria did not take her gaze from his.

Slowly he lifted the knife in front of her.

Light glinted off the serrated blade. A blade that had been designed for no other purpose than to kill.

To kill while inflicting as much pain as possible.

He knew how to use that knife, Victoria thought with a catch in her breath. For pain.

For death.

Expertly he balanced the ivory grip in the palm of his hand. “But you see, mademoiselle,” silver glinted

through long, dark eyelashes, “it is not a choice that I offer you.”

Slowly his eyelashes lifted, silvery gray eyes gleaming unimpeded. “If you do not kill me, then I will kill

you.”

Victoria glanced at the snub-nosed pistol half buried inside his pile of starched shirts. She glanced at the

knife so casually wielded in his left hand.

The desire to live warred with the desire to survive.

Taking a deep breath, she met his gaze. “In that event, I would prefer that you shoot me, sir. I believe it

would be less painful than being killed by a knife. Unless, of course, it is your intention to cause pain.”

“This is not a game.”

Victoria’s heart lurched, sped to make up for the skipped beat. “It is certainly not one that I am familiar

with.”

“You do not think I will kill you,” Gabriel said flatly, expression unreadable.

“On the contrary, sir.” Victoria’s heart surely could not maintain its current level of activity—she would

die of heart failure. “You were generous enough to advise me as to which weapon would be most effective

in the hands of a woman. I merely wished to relay my preference as to which weapon I would have used

against me.”

“Are you afraid to die, mademoiselle?”

Yes.

“I have lived with the thought of death these last six months,” Victoria said with a calmness she was far

from feeling. “I am tired of being frightened.”

“But you are frightened.”

“Fear is a natural response to that which is unknown.” The serrated teeth glinted hungrily. “I have never

before died.”

The little death.

The
final
death.

“Desire is natural, also, mademoiselle. Yet you are afraid of that, too.”

Anger leaked through Victoria’s fear. “I will not become a victim of a man’s lust.”

“Nor will you beg.”

“No.” She firmed her lips. “I will not beg.”

“A man can make a woman beg, mademoiselle.”

For pleasure,
he did not need to say.

Scalding blood filled Victoria’s cheeks.

“Some women, perhaps.” She defiantly tilted her chin. “I am not like that.”

“We are all like that.”

“Men do not beg for sexual release,” Victoria said scornfully.

Her father had taught her that. Women were weak, not men.

Women paid the consequences of their desires,
not men.

“I have begged for sexual release, mademoiselle.”

Victoria stared.

Darkness glittered inside Gabriel’s eyes.

She remembered how he had avoided contact with her hand when she had reached for the silk napkin.

If I had not bid on you, mademoiselle, you would die a far worse death than any caused by

corrosive sublimate.

Victoria grappled with the truth. “This man whom you believe directed me to the House of—to
your

house—”

Gabriel silently waited for Victoria to complete the connection.

“—it was he who made you beg,” she concluded.

“Yes,” he said bluntly.

Waiting for Victoria to condemn him.

Perhaps she would have six months earlier.

“And you think that this man would ... do ...
things
... to make me beg.”

“If you leave this house, yes.”

“Why?”

Why would a man whom she had had no knowledge of prior to this night wish to harm her?

“Men kill for many reasons. Some men kill for money. Some men kill for sport. And some men,

mademoiselle, kill merely because they can.”

The blood drained out of her face.

In the last six months she had seen respectable men physically abuse beggars, genteel ladies verbally

assault streetwalkers, and children taunt children because they did not have shoes or unfrayed clothing.

Simply because they could.

Victoria rallied. “You said he would kill me, sir, not rape me for his enjoyment.”

“What he does has no bearing on pleasure or enjoyment.” There was no pleasure or enjoyment in

Gabriel’s eyes.
What had the man done to him?
“In the end, he would kill you.”

“He did not kill
you.”

“It was not a part of his plan.”

Rape.
Death.

Laissez le jeu commencer.

Let the play begin.

When would it
end?.

Victoria tried to match Gabriel’s cold logic. “But my death
would
be a part of this plan.”

“Yes.”

“Because I am dispensable,” she repeated his earlier words.

The serrated silver blade glittered in agreement.

“Yes.”

Yellow orange and blue flames leaped inside the satinwood fireplace.

Victoria had never known burning logs could emit so much cold.

“Do you plan on killing me, then, to spare me this ... death?”

“You would thank me in the end.”

Anger bubbled up inside Victoria. “The man who wrote those letters said that after I gifted him with my

virginity I would understand the ‘necessary evil’ of losing everything I’ve ever worked for. Now you claim

I would thank you for killing me. You will forgive me, sir, if I do not agree with either of you.”

“The man who wrote the letters did not offer you a choice. I do.”

“A choice between what?” Hysteria rang in Victoria’s voice. “The manner by which you dispatch me?”

“I give you the choice of life, mademoiselle.”

First death, now ...

“And what do I have to do in order to obtain this life you offer me?”

“Be my guest.”

“I beg your pardon?”

How many times had Victoria now begged his pardon? she wondered incongruously. Four? Five? More?

“Remain here, in my chambers, until it is safe.” Safety—there was no safety inside his eyes. His room.

His house. “I have men who will guard you.”

“You said earlier that you could not guarantee I would be safe,” Victoria retorted.

“Nor can I.”

The brass bed gleamed.

There was no invitation in his eyes to share it.

She thought of the streets that awaited her. And contrarily chose them.

“I cannot stay here in your private chambers,” she said firmly. Sounding like the thirty-four-year-old

spinster governess that she had once been.

“You came here prepared to do more than sleep in my bed, mademoiselle.”

The memory of his rejection when she had reached out to touch him chafed.

“But you do not want me ... in that manner.”

Her jaws audibly snapped shut. Why had she said that?

Gabriel had said that if he took her, she would die.

“When this is over, I will pay you two thousand pounds,” Gabriel offered.

With two thousand pounds Victoria could live the rest of her life in comfort. Without fear of hunger.

Cold.

A man who waited to snatch her virginity ...

“I have no desire for money that I do not earn.”

Victoria cringed. She sounded self-righteous even in her own ears.

“I will find you a position, then,” the silver-eyed man calmly rejoined.

“As a governess?” she asked. And wondered why she did not feel more eager to resume her

profession.

“Yes.”

“I do not think that family men would be eager to hire a governess who has spent time inside the House

of Gabriel.”

“Mademoiselle, my patrons would far prefer to hire a governess who has been my guest than to have

their sexual idiosyncrasies made public.”

Victoria should not be surprised. So why was she?

“That’s blackmail,” she said uncertainly.

“That’s the price of sin,” he returned implacably.

“You are offering me your protection,” she said slowly, trying to understand, to reason,
to not give way

to panic.

“I am offering you my protection.”