Rogues Gallery (28 page)

He began to regale Marisa's father with tales of the various costumes, and the rich foods Mister Dunsmore would have enjoyed, despite the turmoil it would have caused his gout.

Marisa listened for but a moment before her interest drifted elsewhere. As far as she was concerned, the only memorable aspect of the betrothal ball was the waltz she had danced with Lord Midnight. He had said then he wished to dance with her again at her wedding.

Regrettably there had been no opportunity. They had had their first argument, and then raced across the countryside as if the ceremony had only occurred inside her fevered brain.

Marisa considered the future she and her aunt would have with her new husband. She did not know how to inform Edmund of this new development, but she knew for certain he would not receive the news with aplomb.

Where would they live? How would they provide for themselves? She had once rashly declared these questions unimportant, but now she knew better.

Her thoughts were arrested when the talk turned to a highwayman. She pretended a fascination with the intricacies in the brocade sofa fabric, tracing the design with one finger to disguise her keen interest in the new topic of conversation.

"It seems this latest menace has a marked similarity to you, my lord," Bernard said.

Lord Westbrook stiffened, but he managed a tight smile. "Since these robberies take place in the dead of night, I cannot see how any person can be recognized."

"Then you are admitting it is you?" Bernard teased.

Marisa admired her brother's audacity, but he seemed unaware that Edmund was growing more displeased by the moment. "Perhaps someone is impersonating you," Marisa offered.

"Honestly, Marisa," her father snapped. "I wonder whether you have straw in that head of yours. Why should a highwayman want to impersonate Lord Westbrook?"

Marisa struggled to maintain a sober countenance. "It seems a great deal more likely than Lord Westbrook donning a cape."

"I don't know," Bernard said with a conspiratorial grin. "We can only guess what his lordship might do whilst we are safe in our beds at night."

Marisa giggled, and then Bernard joined in.

Mister Dunsmore glared first at Bernard and then at Marisa, lingering on his daughter as if she were the cause for Bernard's malfeasance. Marisa took a chaste sip of sherry, the better to hide her glee. Bernard flashed her a wink.

"It is criminal that your honor has been sullied in this fashion," Marisa's father proclaimed.

Edmund's lips relaxed. "Fortunately, before my reputation was completely in tatters, it appears this highwayman has met his maker."

"What?" Marisa blurted, praying she had misheard him.

Everyone's attention centered on her. Marisa's heart pounded, needing assurance that they had been mistaken, or that another highwayman had met such an unkind fate. Not knowing how to mask her despair, she used it to her advantage.

"You know how tenderhearted we females are." She pasted a weak smile on her face. "I cannot bear to hear of anyone's demise."

Lord Westbrook patted her hand. "I apologize, my dear. I should have considered your sensibilities." To Marisa's horror, there was no mistaking his satisfaction when he added, "It appears the young gentleman who shot him found his mark. This criminal will no longer harry unlucky travelers."

Marisa could not breathe for several moments as the full import of his words sank in. She would be wed, once more, but with no hope of dancing with Gabriel ever again.

She had finally found love, only to lose it in a most cruel fashion. This time she could not halt her cry. She stumbled to her feet, aware that her father complained about her clumsiness, but she did not care. She wanted nothing more than to return to her bedchamber so that she might grieve in private.

"I am not well," she said, her hand to her stomach. "I beg your indulgence, but I must retire."

She saw Lord Westbrook's frown, as well as Bernard's unabashed interest, but neither mattered to her in that dreadful moment. She rushed from the room before she could make a further spectacle of herself. Her throat ached with unshed tears, and the simple task of drawing breath brought its own torturous pain, more so than when she had tumbled from her horse.

At last she was safe in her bedchamber, the door latched behind her. Her body shook with the sobs she could hold back no longer. She wailed her distress to the capricious God that had stolen her happiness, and broken her heart for the rest of eternity.

"What wickedness have I done to earn such a penance?"

Marisa savored the dream, the only comfort she had had since crying herself to sleep hours earlier. Her mother, lost to her since she was a child, soothed her, bathing her fevered brow and crooning nonsensical phrases designed to comfort. Marisa basked in her attentions, crying at the injustices she had suffered since her mother's death. Her mother gazed at her, radiant with love. Marisa reached for her hand, but she faded into mist before she could touch her.

In her mind Marisa turned toward the French doors, as she had so many times in reality. Her heart caught in her throat at the picture of Gabriel standing at the portal. A dream Gabriel, but that would do for now. The wind had blown his hair loose—just the way she liked it—and he brushed it away from his face as he strode to her.

Her hand fluttered to her throat and she found herself unable to move. He walked toward her with slow steps, as if he had all the time in the world. He was no longer bound by earthly time. His white shirt billowed in the breeze, providing him with an otherworldly persona. To complete the picture, he carried a single white rose.

He had reached the bed—at last—and proffered the rose. She saw her hand reaching for it, yet she was afraid it would be snatched away from her, just as Gabriel had been. She blinked, unable to see for the tears pooling in her eyes.

"No! Do not go!"

He smiled in a beatific fashion. "Angel, I do not intend to leave you."

Marisa sighed with contentment, for he had come for her. She cared not whether he dwelt in heaven or hell, for she would follow him to either place. Anyplace was better so long as he were there. She reached for his hand, wondering if this spirit would dissolve as her mother had done moments earlier.

He felt so real. . . He placed his lips to hers.

"Dear Lord, Gabriel, you are alive!"

She threw her arms about his neck and sobbed. Tears poured from her eyes, tears that she had thought spent long ago. Her heart rejoiced at the realization that Gabriel was indeed alive, despite everything she had been led to believe.

"Ssh, angel, what is this?" He tried to lean back to peer into her face, but she would not release her hold on him, fearful that if she did she would indeed wake from a dream.

Marisa fought back one last sob. "Gabriel, you cannot know how dreadful this day has been. I was told you had been—" She hiccupped. "Killed."

"Touch me then and reassure yourself that I am indeed alive." He stroked her hair, cradling her while her hands roamed over his face and then his neck.

She grasped him by the arms to look him over. When he winced, she tore at his sleeve. "Where? Where did he shoot you?"

He stilled both of her hands in his, but he could not as easily dispel the panic in her heart. "I am quite hale and hearty, never fear." His dimple appeared, bringing her great joy at seeing it again. "I have escaped serious injury only to have you inflict it on me."

His teasing words caused her to throw her arms about his neck once more. "I feared so when I heard you were dead," she whispered. "I could not bear it, Gabriel, that you would never return to me. Not when I love you so."

He inhaled sharply, and Marisa knew a moment's fear that she had blurted a confession he may not have wanted to hear. But she could not regret it, for it was the truth. She was not ashamed of the love she felt for her husband.

To her infinite delight, Gabriel's eyes widened and he blinked, as if unable to believe she was real. Soon he was touching her and caressing her in much the same way she had done to reassure herself he was not a figment of her imagination.

"I have never in my life believed I would receive such a gift as you have given me." He shook his head, continuing to stroke her hair. "When it seemed I was at death's door, I balked, for I knew I could not leave you. Sweet angel, I love you."

Gabriel pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if there were no tomorrow, as if he could make up for the time when she had believed he would never return to her. She poured her soul into the kiss, intent on proving his avowal of love meant the world to her.

"There is much I want to tell you," Gabriel said. "Much that you have wanted to know."

Marisa shook her head. "Not now," she said. "It can wait. I cannot."

All at once she was impatient to commence the wedding night she had feared would never occur. Yet she had little idea of what to do beyond what she had already experienced with him. Indeed, her scheme consisted of implementing the previous proceedings and then offering a fervent prayer that Gabriel would know what to do next.

The time for prayers was past.

***

"G
abriel," she said so softly he almost did not hear it.

Her unaccustomed nervousness puzzled him. If he did not know better, he would think his brave adventuress was about to bolt—or worse, seek out a hiding place.

There was no hiding from him this night. He had cheated death twice. It seemed Providence wanted him to love Marisa before he left this earthly coil, and he was more than willing to cooperate.

He clasped her face in both of his hands. "Angel," he whispered, brushing her lips with his. "I have never seen you so frightened. Indeed," he teased, drawing her to the chair and onto his lap, "I wonder if I should summon Daphne to aid in calming you."

"You can expect no assistance from that quarter. I was too distressed to abide anyone's company earlier, so I informed her I was ill, with something dreadfully contagious."

She gnawed on her lower lip, eyeing him as though gathering courage. He knew she would soon divulge her thoughts, so he continued dotting kisses on her eyelids, and her cheekbones, the corner of her trembling lips.

"The lass that concealed me under her bedcovers that first night was less nervous than are you."

"Gabriel, had that lass known the powerful effect of you on her senses, she might not have cooperated with you!"

He nuzzled his face in her sweetly-scented curls. "A powerful effect, is it?"

She shifted on his lap, as if self-conscious by her blurted words. She stilled when her bottom came into contact with the rigid evidence of his arousal.

Gabriel bit back a smile at the curious look to her face. Before she could commence a delightful discussion as to what he concealed beneath his clothing, he said, "'Tis caused by the powerful effect of you on my senses."

This time he could not hold back the smile, for her look of amazement transformed into one of utter triumph.

He reached over and poured two glasses of brandy. He watched with complete fascination as she sipped the warming liquid, always relishing the moment when she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the fire coursing through her.

His own glass dangled in his fingers while he watched her. With a start, he realized she was holding her glass to his lips. Unlike other times, he took a judicious sip.

"Gabriel," she said in a mock admonishing tone. She tilted the glass to his lips once more and he took a longer swallow, amused at how she held her mouth open as if to assist his task.

When she had removed the glass, he dipped his index finger in the liquid and then touched his finger to her lips. She took a swift breath, and then her tongue darted out to lick the brandy, arousing him beyond belief.

He took another swallow of the spirit and, his lips still moistened with the liquid, pressed his mouth against hers. She traced her tongue over his lips, drinking in the flavorful brandy. Gabriel relished how sensuous his pupil proved to be, wondering if he could continue at the slow pace he had anticipated. Her avid responses made him doubt he could do so, not without going mad for wanting every bit of her passion.

He swallowed the rest of his brandy, nodding at her to do the same. When their glasses were drained, he set them upon the table and then rested his head upon one upraised hand. He gazed at Marisa as he thought of how to proceed. Should he arouse her further where they sat, or retire to the bed?

"You jumped!"

He pressed his lips to keep the smile at bay. When he could answer calmly, he said, "An apt description, I suppose."

She raised her eyebrows. Before he realized her intent, she had placed a gentle hand on the portion of his breeches visibly announcing his aroused state.

His loins reacted once more.

This time when Marisa looked at him, his face registered something which she took for approval, for her fingers began to stroke him in a maddeningly gentle fashion. His breathing quickened to the point that he could barely inhale at all, the small gulps of air not providing enough of the oxygen he needed while she continued to torment him.

He grasped her wrist, knowing if he did not make her halt, it would bring a most unwanted end to the delightful proceedings. When she looked at him with doubt etched in her features, he managed to say, "You have advanced to a future lesson, that is all. I meant to return to some of the preceding ones."

Her lips tilted up, as if she were satisfied by her aptitude as well as his ardent reaction to it. She leaned toward him and kissed him, with infinite care, and Gabriel lost himself in her passionate wonder. He surrounded her with his arms, closing them about her as if to dare anyone to separate him from her.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, preventing him from breaking off the kiss, even if he wanted to. He delved into her mouth with fierce possessiveness. She answered with a like passion, and he knew she was his, and, more importantly, that she wanted to be his.

His head spun. She wanted to be his. In a saner moment, he would have argued she would have wanted anyone who brought her such pleasure, for she was a most responsive, passionate woman. But he knew in the depths of his heart such an argument would fail, for she did not entrust her passion to another; indeed, she had so sweetly confessed her love for him.