chapter Two
A harsh groan pulled Gabriel from a dreamless sleep. Odd. He very rarely didn’t dream . . . not unless—
The groan came again, close this time. Too close. Had that pitiful sound come from him? Gabriel fought to open his eyes, but the struggle hardly seemed worth the effort. It was as if his lids were sealed together with wax.
A light touch brushed his forehead. Just a cool arc of sensation, like delicate fingertips caressing his skin. The phantom stroke brought a whiff of mandarin and vanilla, but it faded quickly. He’d probably imagined it, as he did so many things these days.
Still, he tried to reach out and capture the—
He couldn’t move his arms! Alarm clenched his gut as Gabriel strained harder, panic clawing its way up his throat and forcing his eyes to unstick.
“Ah!” He sucked in a pained breath and slammed them shut again as blinding light seared them.
“Dim the lamps,” he heard a woman’s voice command. “I believe his eyes are sensitive to the light.”
Gabriel desperately wished to see who was speaking, but he didn’t risk the agony. He tried again to move to no avail. His heart hammered faster as he fought against whatever held him down.
God! Christ, not again!
Harsh, rapid breaths echoed loud in his ears. His own, he knew. He could feel the hot puffs of air against his upper lip.
Calm yourself, man.
Gabriel forced himself to think. She’d said “dim the lamps.” There were no lamps on the battlefield to be dimmed. Nor did he smell the stench of blood and death or the horrid aftermath of decomposition. He was not in Belgium. He was not. That was . . . years ago. He was sure of it.
He flinched as a hand touched his face.
“Shhh, Gabriel. ’Tis all right.”
Again, the scent of mandarins and vanilla teased his nose.
“Cease your struggles,” the woman crooned in the darkness.
Gabriel relaxed, turning his face into a soft palm.
“That’s right,” she said. “Sleep.”
He drifted in and out of consciousness, his stomach churning in rolling waves. He had no idea how long he floated in that turbulent sea, but his first thought as true awareness crept in was Devil’s balls. He hurt everywhere. It was as if he’d been tossed violently onto a beach by an angry Poseidon and now lay naked and bruised in the surf. His skin felt stretched and dry, as though he were covered with a coat of rough sand that had been baked on by the sun.
He moved to stretch his knotted muscles, but his arms wouldn’t budge. His eyes flew open and he squinted into near total darkness. But he could see enough. He’d been strapped into a bloody straight-waistcoat. Again.
Hell. He’d had another episode.
Gabriel grimaced, and even that hurt. He searched his mind, but gave up after a few moments. There was a great void where his memory should be, and his head felt swollen and thick. The last thing he remembered, he’d been . . . reading. Yes, reading crop reports Edward had sent up from the estate. Benign business matters. Nothing that should have sent him into such a state that he now found himself trussed up like a madman.
Like a madman? Gabriel, you are a madman.
A sharp ache twisted in his middle as everything in him screamed denial. But how could he continue to think otherwise? It was getting worse. How long would it be until the madness overtook him completely?
“You’re awake.”
Gabriel started as a woman’s voice reached him in the darkness.
The heavy velvet drapes that hung around his bed parted, and a silhouette appeared in the void. Females were not allowed to attend to male guests at Vickering Place. Yet here one stood. Her lithe shape was unmistakable. Not curvaceous but most assuredly feminine.
He must still be in the throes of the episode, then. People who’d witnessed his madness told him he often talked to people who weren’t there while he was in the grips of his delusions.
“Your body seems to have cooled,” the figment of his imagination murmured, nodding as if that made her happy. “Dare we risk a little more light?” she asked him.
He had no idea what he dared, but he nodded anyway. Something about this apparition made him feel safe, and truthfully, he wished to see what pretty face his mind had conjured up to soothe him, even if he wouldn’t remember her later. He never did.
She reached up and tugged the drapery to one side. The fabric scraped roughly along the wooden canopy. Daylight slowly crept in, revealing the shape of a nose, the curve of a lip, the tilt of a chin—
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Every scintilla of good feeling flew from Gabriel in a rush.
Penelope? “Do you know where you are, Gabriel?” she asked him.
He must have looked as horrified as he felt, because she raised one hand out before her in a calming gesture. “’Tis all right if you don’t,” she assured him.
“Of course I know where I am,” he snapped defensively, as mortification fast forced out his confusion, replacing it with shame.
Of all the people to see him thus.
And yet . . . what the hell would Penelope be doing here? He’d not seen her in two years. In fact, she wouldn’t even know he was in Vickering Place, would she? She couldn’t be real.
He tried to blink away the remaining blurriness in his dry, burning eyes as he looked more closely at her. She was dressed entirely in black, as he’d seen her last at Michael’s funeral. That made no sense. A woman was required to wear mourning clothes for only half a year after the death of her husband. Penelope should have long moved out of her blacks and into the happier colors of her youth. Wouldn’t the real Penelope be wearing something sunnier by now?
That meant he’d invented her, didn’t it?
Well, he’d just put her to the test. Ask her a question only he and she knew the answer to.
A grim snort of amusement escaped him. Idiot. If he knew the answer, so would a phantom Penelope, given she would have sprung from his mind. That would be no sort of proof.
There was nothing for it but to swallow what was left of his pride and ask the question.
“Are you real?” he croaked, feeling desperate. Pathetic. But maybe, if he conversed with her long enough, he would get his answer one way or another. If she weren’t real, eventually she’d say something that made no sense.
Penelope’s blond brows knit as her head tilted slightly left. “You . . . you cannot tell?”
He gave a slight shake of his head, but even that small movement threatened to send his world spinning again. He fixed his eyes on her to steady himself, looking for any clue that might tip the scales one way or the other. “Usually I can. But you must admit, your being here is not usual.”
Her features pursed in an expression he’d not seen on her before. An interesting mix of perplexity and . . . guilt? “Your mother did not tell you she asked me to come, then?”
Gabriel’s stomach clenched. Mother had mentioned she’d arranged for someone to see him. Someone who might help him kick this horrid affliction. He’d agreed to see this new doctor, of course. He’d do anything to regain control of himself.
But Penelope wasn’t a doctor and therefore wasn’t real. His mind had just mixed his fantasy with an actual conversation he’d had with his mother.
Gabriel released a pent-up breath as relief infused him, overwhelming him so much that he almost forgot he was restrained like an animal.
Phantom Penelope’s lips quirked. “What has put that smile on your face?” she asked, her voice tinged with amused curiosity.
Gabriel smiled wider. He couldn’t help it. “I just deduced that you are not really here.” Belatedly, he feared that by voicing his realization, he might make her disappear. While he’d never wish the real Penelope to witness his disgrace, he was strangely comforted by the imagined one. He didn’t wish her to go—not yet.
“Ah,” she answered. Her brows dipped further, but she didn’t try to convince him otherwise. “And this makes you happy?”
“Indeed.” What could it hurt to speak the truth? She was only in his head, after all. “I could not live with myself if you ever truly saw me like this. However, since we’ve established that this isn’t real, let us talk of other things.”
“Mmmm.” She nodded slowly. “Such as?”
“Such as . . .” Gabriel felt one side of his mouth rise in a half smile of chagrin. What did one talk about with one’s fantasy woman? He had no idea.
But he did know what he would say to the real Penelope—if he were a whole man again. Words that had burned in his soul for months, years even.
He was grateful that he’d never had the courage to voice them. It would have been a horrible mistake, unfair to both of them, especially given everything that had happened to him since Michael’s death.
But he could say them to this Penelope. Maybe that would be enough to finally purge her and the damnable hope she’d wrought in him from his heart. Yes, maybe that’s why his mind had called forth her image, so he could once and for all let the hope of her go. Because the bleaker his future became, the more that impossible hope hurt.
Gabriel took a deep breath, amazed at how hard his heart hammered in his chest even though none of this was truly happening. “Such as how I feel for you. How I’ve always felt for you.”
“Gabriel—”
“I’ve wanted you for so very long.”
Penelope’s mouth hung open, much as he imagined it really might have done had he been fool enough to utter those words to her after Michael’s death.
But saying the words aloud did seem to lighten his heart, so he pressed on. “There is something about you that awakened me, Penelope. From the moment we met, you made me yearn for things I had long put away. I never would have told you then, of course. You were my cousin’s wife. But after Michael died, it was torture for me not to—”
“Please!” Her voice rose on the imperative even as her palm clamped down over his mouth.
Funny, he knew the mind to be a powerful thing—after all, his had tricked him considerably in the past months—but her “touch” jarred him more than he would have expected. The heat from her hand, the warm, sweet citrus smell of her skin, the pressure of it—it all felt so very real.
“Please,” she repeated more softly. “Say nothing more you will regret.”
A man’s muffled voice came from somewhere behind her. “Mr. Carter informs me our patient is awake and speaking.”
Allen?
Penelope’s hand disappeared from his lips as the draperies were pulled wide.
Gabriel blinked against the brightening light. As his vision adjusted, he saw the director and one of his regular attendants standing there.
But Penelope was still there as well. Not as he remembered her, but as she would be, were he seeing her today—two years past when he had seen her last. Older. Sadder about the eyes and, yes, oddly still dressed in black. But still heartbreakingly beautiful. “Yes, he is,” she said, looking at Allen rather than at him. And worse, the director was looking at her.
Gabriel stopped breathing, the horrible reality quickly sinking in, even if he couldn’t quite get his mind around it. If Allen was talking to Penelope—
“He also appears to be calm and lucid,” she went on. “Surely you can remove his restraints now.”
Oh Christ. She was real. What was she doing here?
“I’m surprised you are so willing to trust, Lady Manton,” Mr. Allen replied, “given his lordship nearly crushed you to death only yesterday.”
Gabriel’s gaze flew to her. “What?” He struggled against the straight-waistcoat.
“You are upsetting Lord Bromwich,” Penelope scolded in an authoritative tone he’d never heard her utter before. “You are also making too much of the incident.”
“What the hell happened?” Gabriel demanded. Curse his memory! And curse these damned restraints!
Penelope placed her hand on his shoulder to still him. “It’s nothing to worry about, Gabriel.” But when she looked at him, he knew. Knew that whatever it was, she’d witnessed him at his worst. He could see the concerned pity hovering in pale green eyes that had once looked upon him with laughter. Even if he couldn’t remember his actions, were they anything akin to things he’d been told he’d done during past episodes . . . Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut against the truth.
This was worse than a nightmare.
He opened them again as he sucked in a breath. And then he’d gone and told her how he—
“Now that Lord Bromwich has recovered, I insist he be released from these bonds. I am sure a bath and a change of clothing would also be in order.”
No, what would be in order would be for a great gaping hole to open beneath him and suck him down to the very depths.
Beside his bed, Allen and Penelope stared each other down like opposing generals trying to take the same territory. The director stood stiff and imposing. “You cannot expect to stay while we—”
“Of course not,” Penelope answered. “I shall, however, remove myself only to Lord Bromwich’s parlor. No farther.”
Allen’s lips pressed together in an unhappy line while Penelope’s eyes narrowed with determined stubbornness as a silent battle waged between them. Dark smudges marred the pale skin beneath her eyes, however. Allen had said she’d been here since yesterday. She must have watched over him all night. Why would she do such a thing?
Well, he might not know why she was here, but he damned sure wasn’t going to allow the director to treat her inhospitably while he figured it out.
“Have a supper tray brought up to Lady Manton in the parlor immediately,” he commanded.
Both Allen and Penelope snapped their gazes to him. Penelope relaxed visibly and offered him a slight smile while Allen’s lips thinned further.
“Thank you, Gabriel, but I shall wait to take my refreshment with you. We shall talk when you are ready to join me,” she added gently before turning to depart the bedroom.
He watched her go. Shame, anger, confusion and despair roiled inside him. When he was ready? That would never be. How could he face Penelope now that she had seen what he had become?
* * *
Penelope paced the floor alongside the bay window in the parlor, watching the sun make its early-winter dive for the horizon. Servants bustled about stoking the fire and lighting lamps, wall sconces and the dozens of chandelier candles before nightfall closed in.
Others laid out a light evening repast, setting the table much as would be expected in a nobleman’s country home—with linens, fine china, crystal and silver. It gave the whole moment a very surreal quality.
She cut her eyes once again to the closed doors of the bedchamber. It had been more than an hour since she’d left Gabriel in the care of Vickering Place’s staff. She’d heard nothing from the room. No raised voices, no thumps. Nothing to indicate aught was amiss. But as the time dragged on, it was becoming more difficult to resist the urge to see what kept him.
She suspected pride might have something to do with why Gabriel hadn’t presented himself. She winced as she recalled how his face had blanched white when he’d realized the truth of her presence and what he had revealed to her.
I’ve wanted you for so very long.
Penelope smoothed an open palm over her fluttering stomach. She couldn’t even think about that shocking admission right now. She was sure it meant nothing. Just words whispered in the dark to someone he thought wasn’t there.
No, words whispered to you, whether he thought you were real or not. She frowned, unsettled.
Well, whatever it meant, it was likely adding to his embarrassment—an emotion that would do neither of them any good if she were to be of any use to him. And she was determined to be. Though she very much feared she might be in well over her head, from the moment he’d begged for her help last night, her heart was committed to the task. She could never desert him now.
She looked at the door once more. She’d give him five more minutes, and if he didn’t show, she’d march right back into his bedchamber and—
The door cracked open, swinging outward with a barely audible creak.
Gabriel stepped across the threshold, looking very much the man about town. Penelope caught her breath. Not that she’d expected him to be in the altogether, as she’d last seen him in this room. But neither had she anticipated him looking quite so dashing, considering the circumstances.
I’d like to paint him like this as well.
She frowned, pushing the errant thought away.
His buff pants were topped with an ivory-and-wine-striped waistcoat covered by a burgundy jacket. The cut was quite handsome, as was the contrasting chocolate velvet trim that so complemented his dark brown hair. A snowy-white cravat completed the image, as if he were just a man popping by for a friendly call while going about his business.
Penelope experienced an odd sense of being transported back in time. How many times had Gabriel done just that during the early days of her and Michael’s marriage? Too many to count. In fact, he’d come around so often Michael had once joked that if anything ever happened to him, she wouldn’t have to look far for a replacement husband. She’d laughed then, thinking nothing of it. But now . . .
After Michael died, it was torture for me not to—
She forced Gabriel’s words out of her mind.
“You look well, Gabriel.” The compliment was automatic but sincere. It also reminded her of what a veritable fright she must look after these past many hours spent by his bedside. She tried to smooth her riotous curls. They bounced right back into disarray as she removed her hands. Her hair was hopeless even on the best of days, much less when she’d been up all night. “I hope you didn’t go to all that trouble for me,” she added self-consciously.
Only after she heard the words aloud did she realize how they might be taken. She felt her eyes widen even as a shutter came over his deep golden brown ones. “N-not that you would dress to please me—” Oh, dash it all. The last thing she wanted was for there to be any more awkwardness between them than the situation already merited. She and Gabriel had always been easy in each other’s company, and there was no reason to let the last few hours change that. She shook her head and huffed a self-deprecating laugh. “What I mean to say is simply what I said. You look well, Gabriel.”
Gabriel’s stance relaxed, but only a little. He didn’t smile with her, however. “You look tired, Lady Manton.”
She ignored both the insult and the “Lady Manton,” easily recognizing his attempt to throw up protective barriers between them. His well-tailored appearance was likely more of the same.
“You also looked famished,” he added with a frown. “Allen tells me that you refused to leave, not even to take meals.”
She answered his charge with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I was afraid if I left your rooms, he would bar them against my return.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid our Mr. Allen doesn’t much like my being here.”
“Yes, well, neither do I.”
Penelope drew back at his unexpected rudeness, her smile fading. “I’m sorry?”
“I don’t know what my mother was thinking, Penelope, but you shouldn’t be around me.” A muscle ticced in his jaw, the only indication that Gabriel was not as coldly calm as he seemed. “Allen informs me that I hurt you yesterday, quite badly.”
Ah, that explained it. “Well, Mr. Allen needs to learn not to overexaggerate,” she retorted, grateful that her clothing hid the ugly bruising from Gabriel’s sight. “As well as not to interfere,” she grumbled.
“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, his voicing rising with his agitation, “that I did not swing from that chandelier like an uncivilized ape and hit you full force?” He pointed up at the fixture without looking at it, as if she could mistake which chandelier he meant. “That I did not knock you to the ground and pin you beneath me?”
Gabriel stepped toward her and she reflexively took a step back. The movement caused her hip to twinge. She sucked a swift breath between her teeth.
His lips firmed and his eyes narrowed.
Dash it all again. Either she’d confirmed for him that she was in pain, or he thought she feared him. Likely both, and neither good. She took a deliberate step forward. “I would hardly call you an ape,” she countered. “Nor uncivilized. Did Mr. Allen say those horrible things?” She gritted her teeth. “I am going to give that man a piece of my—”
“No, I did.” Gabriel exhaled a deep breath and tunneled the fingers of one hand through his hair as he turned away from her. She could tell by his posture he was castigating himself.
She followed, placing her palm against his shoulder. He stiffened beneath her touch. That wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t be able to help him if he buried himself in guilt or self-flagellation. “Gabriel, despite what was happening inside your mind yesterday, you never tried to hurt anyone. Goodness knows you could have, but you were only trying to get away from whatever it was you saw.”
He breathed shallowly and he tensed against her palm, as if he were containing some great emotion. But he didn’t pull away from her. That was progress. She decided to push it a little further.
“What did you see?”
His hands fisted at his sides. “I . . . don’t know.”
“Do you mean you can’t describe it? Perhaps if you tell me what you can—”
“No.” He did shake her hand off then and stalked a few feet away. “I mean, I can’t remember it. Not any of it. Not what happened. Not you. The only reason I know what I do is because Allen filled in the details.”
“But that makes no sense,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. She’d known yesterday while observing Gabriel that his symptoms were unlike any she’d seen before. However, in every case of lunacy she’d studied, either in person or in books, the person had some recollection of the episodes. They might be confused memories, disjointed ones or flashes out of sequence, but to have no memory at all?
What exactly was she dealing with? Helping Gabriel was proving to be much more challenging than even she’d prepared herself for. And yet the idea of walking away curdled in her stomach.
“Nothing in my life makes sense anymore,” he said bleakly, finally turning around. He walked purposefully back toward her, stopping when they were nearly toe-to-toe. The torment in his eyes solidified her conviction to stay with him and see this through.
“Especially not your being here,” he said. “While I thank you for your charity, I wish you to leave.”
Penelope blinked up at him, unable to believe what he’d said. “What?”
“I wish you to leave,” he repeated firmly. “Go home, Lady Manton.”