Valiant Soldier, Beautiful Enemy (19 page)

Gabe frowned. “They are no longer here?”

“Gone several days already.” He tapped on his book.

Emmaline made a small cry. Clutching Gabe’s arm, she asked, “Did Edwin Tranville stay?”

The innkeeper pointed to names on the page. “I cannot read the names. There were two others with that lot, though, come to think of it. Can’t say if the fellow you are seeking was one of them.”

Gabe peeked at the page. The signatures indeed looked like scribbles.

Emmaline spoke up. “He would have a scar.”

The man raised a finger. “Ah, yes! Scar on his face from here to here?” He pointed from his temple to his mouth.

“That is the one,” Gabe responded. “What can you tell us of him?”

The innkeeper laughed. “I can tell you he depleted my stores of brandy. More than that I do not know. He and his friends left the same day, thank the Lord.” He shook his head. “You could ask in the stable. One of the workers might know more.”

“We will do that.” Gabe gestured to their baggage. “Can someone take our things up to the rooms? We’ll go to the stables now.”

The innkeeper called to a boy in the other room and told him where to take the luggage. Gabe gave them both coins in exchange for their assistance. He and Emmaline hurried to the stable.

“I recall them,” one of the stablemen said. “They left in a private carriage. It came and fetched the lot of them and carried them away after the horses rested.”

Another man spoke up. “There was a crest on the side of it. With a bird, I think.”

“Do you know where they went?” Gabe asked.

The first man scratched his head. “Can’t say I do. The coachman waited inside the inn. Did not pass the time with anyone here.” The other shrugged in agreement.

“
Pardon,
sir,” Emmaline broke in. “Was there a young Frenchman here at that time? He would have been a
connoisseur
of the horses.”

“Mableau?” He grinned. “Nice fellow. Not French, though. Said he was from Brussels. He left about the same time as that other lot, come to think of it, but I did not see him go.”

The other worker also shook his head.

“Thank you.” Gabe tipped both stable workers. “We are staying at the inn. I would be grateful if you would come and tell me if anyone else knows more.”

As they walked out Emmaline grabbed Gabe’s arm. She needed steadying. “What do we do now, Gabriel?”

What, indeed? Gabe had no notion of how to look for a group of young men who had left in a private carriage. They could be anywhere.

“We go back to the inn.” What else could they do?

She stepped in front of him and clutched at the lapels of his uniform coat. “We cannot give up! Claude has followed them. We must find him before it is too late!”

He dug his fingers into her shoulders, not knowing whether to push her away or to enfold her in his arms and comfort her.

He released her, now pulsing with desire and resentment. It was madness to feel attached and distant at the same time.

By all rights he should abandon this charade. He needed to return to London, to be present if word came of a commission. If an opportunity presented itself, he had to pounce on it or lose it to one of the countless other men eager to return to full military service.

He opened his hands as if telling himself he would not touch her again. “We will walk back to the inn where you will stay. I will go to the cock fights and ask among the spectators. Perhaps someone will know where they were bound.”

Her eyes met his and roused his tenderness again. “I want to go with you.”

He turned away and started walking. “Not to a cock fight.”

She said nothing else to him as he escorted her back to the inn and arranged for a meal to be sent up to her room.

Gabe spent a good two hours watching birds attack each other so men could bet on them. When a boy, watching the fights held all the excitement of the forbidden, but now it disgusted him. He’d seen too much bloodshed during the war. Watching birds jab and slash each other held no amusement.

He did manage to engage a few men in conversation. Some recalled seeing Edwin but only now noticed he and his friends were gone. Gabe found no one who knew where they might have travelled next.

“They lost a great deal of money,” one man said, patting his coat pocket. “I know because I profited nicely from it.”

Where would spoiled young gentlemen go if low on funds? Gabe had no idea. He checked in a few nearby taverns before making his way back to the inn. These Blackburn streets were both familiar and strange. Like his home town, Manchester, Blackburn, too, had changed. The mills had multiplied. A canal had been built. More people crowded its streets. Dusk had fallen and Gabe imagined they were bound for their homes and families. He fancied they’d settled into a life where they could predict what would happen one day to the next. He did not know whether to envy or pity them.

With the inn in sight, Gabe stopped. All he had to offer Emmaline this night was more disappointment. How long could he continue to search, especially with no clues at all of where to look next?

He must eventually face the fact that he could not help her.

Gabe pressed his fingers against his forehead. He needed a drink. Or two. Or three. He turned around and went back to the tavern he’d just left.

Seating himself in a dark corner, he signalled the serving maid. “Brandy,” he ordered.

“Open the door, Frenchie!” The man’s voice was slurred and Emmaline heard one of his companions laugh, as if those words were very droll.

He pounded on the door again and the wood bent with the force.

Emmaline jumped back and hurriedly dragged a wooden ladderback chair to wedge under the doorknob. Remy had taught her the trick many years before. It was her husband’s version of protecting her when he marched them into places of danger.

“Let us in!” the man growled. “You know you want us.”

That brought more laughter.

She feared no one would hear them. Her room was a considerable distance from the stairway, at the end of a long hall and around a corner from Gabriel’s.

Gabriel.

Where was he? He’d been gone for hours. Had something happened to him?

“Open, woman! No more teasing.” The door bowed again under the man’s fist.

Emmaline dug into her portmanteau for her sewing scissors, securing it in her hand so that its point made a weapon. If the men broke in, she would scream. She would fight. She would stab.

She’d done it before, the day Gabriel had encountered her in Badajoz and prevented her from killing Edwin Tranville.

Where was Gabriel?

“Frenchie!” the man called again.

Suddenly a new voice roared, “Stay away or you’ll answer to me!”

Gabriel!

Through the door Emmaline heard sounds of a scuffle. Gabriel was only one man against three. She must try to help him. Still gripping her scissors, she pulled the chair away and flung open the door.

Two of the men were already fleeing down the hall. Gabriel lifted the remaining one by the collar and tossed him after them like a sack of flour. The man scrambled to his feet and scampered away.

Gabriel turned to her, his eyes still flashing with violence. He breathed hard as he took one step towards her. “Are you injured?” His voice was rough and it frightened her.

“Non,”
she managed.

He advanced closer and she backed into her room.

“You will wish to know what happened,” she said quickly. She’d been foolish and had not heeded his orders. He would be angry at her. “I did not stay in my room. I went below to ask about Claude in the public rooms. Those men followed me back here.”

His gaze bore into her, too much like a jealous Remy when he thought another man had taken notice of her.

She raised her palm and continued to back away. “I did nothing to entice them. I did not even speak to them. They would not leave me alone. I left when their attentions became unseemly.”

He leaned closer to her. “I told you to stay in your room.”

Emmaline felt transported back in time. How many times had she played a scene like this with Remy? Next she would admit her mistake, promise never to defy him again, beg his forgiveness.

She stopped herself. This was Gabriel, not her husband. She could speak her mind to Gabriel.

She lifted her chin. “How many hours were you gone, Gabriel? I thought something bad had happened to you.” He smelled of spirits. “I did not guess you would spend the hours in a tavern.”

He glanced down for a moment before raising his eyes to her again. “No matter. You should not have left your room.” A line creased his forehead. “What if I had not come upon them when I did?”

She lifted her hand, still holding the scissors. “I armed myself.”

He stared from her hand to her face and his angry expression dissolved. Bracing himself against the bedpost, he swept his arm toward her portmanteau. “Pack your scissors and other things. You will stay in my room tonight.”

A thrill rushed through her.

He had never shared a room with her, not since Brussels. At every inn along the road he’d secured separate rooms. When her room was next to his, she would be so lonely for him she would press her ear against the wall and listen to him moving about. When his bed creaked beneath him, she longed to be lying beside him, returning to those nights of lovemaking they’d once so happily shared. Alone in her bed, she’d yearned for his arms to comfort and protect her when she woke in terror from the nightmare, the one that placed her back in Badajoz, Edwin laughing at her husband’s death, Edwin forcing himself on her, the stench of spirits on his breath.

Emmaline packed swiftly, aroused that his gaze followed her every move. Closing the buckle on her portmanteau, she said, “I am ready.”

He reached for the bag, brushing against her, her skin delighting in the contact. It was all she could do not to skip down the hall after him.

They turned the corner and stopped at the door to his room. He fumbled with the key, but finally gained them entry. The room was nearly identical to hers in its furnishings and space. The bed was as small, but she did not mind that. It meant sleeping close to him.

Maybe if they shared lovemaking again, he would talk to her again instead of merely barking instructions. Maybe if she joined her body with his, they would both rediscover a piece of the bliss they’d shared at Brussels.

He placed her bag on a stool near the window and turned to her, his eyes raking her from her head to her toes.

Her breath quickened and she waited.

He crossed the room to her, stopping inches from her. He took her hand and lifted it.

And placed a key in her palm. “Lock the door behind me.”

She gaped at him. “You are leaving?”

He gazed down at her and her senses filled with him, making her ache for wanting him. He leaned closer, his lips nearing hers.

He straightened. “I will sleep in your room.”

He turned to pick up his own bag.

Emmaline’s voice trembled. “Do not leave me alone.”

With a resolute look, he headed towards the door.

She felt sick inside, bereft that he did not wish to be with her, that he no longer desired her as she desired him. It made her despondent at what this boded for their bargain, their eventual marriage.

He placed his hand on the doorknob.

“Gabriel!” she pleaded.

He turned back to her.

Chapter Twelve

G
abe knew he should not have turned back. Her face was flushed, her breathing rapid, her eyes pleading with him to stay.
Do not leave me alone,
she’d begged.

How heartless could he be? She’d nearly been attacked by drunken men. She’d endured that horror before at Badajoz.

But how could he convince her that at the moment
he
was not safe, not when the blood was surging through his veins from tossing those men away from her door, not when the sight of her now aroused him into a fevered state.

“No harm will come to you here,” he forced himself to say. “If those men dare return, they will find me in your room, not you.”

Her hand trembled. “I want you to stay. I do not want to be alone.”

He still gripped the doorknob. “I have been drinking, Emmaline. So much that I cannot trust myself with you.”

She walked towards him. “But I trust you, Gabriel.”

He held up a hand for her to stop. “I am as dangerous to you right now as those men.”

She came closer. “What would you do to me, Gabriel, that I would so dislike?”

He stiffened while desire coursed through him. He longed to tear the clothes from her body, to feel her bare skin beneath his fingertips. He longed to taste of her dark-rose nipples, to bury himself inside her.

She extended her hand to him. “Stay.”

He dropped his bag and seized her by the shoulders. “Emmaline—”

She winced and he loosened his grip. He had not meant to cause pain. The brandy had eroded his control—could she not see? It muddled his thinking. “You want this?” he rasped.