chapter Five
“Mad?” Penelope echoed, unable to say anything else as her mind whirled.
Gabriel’s eyes flashed bright as he narrowed them on her face. There was an intensity in his gaze that reminded her so much of Michael that it hurt to look upon him.
“Of course not.” But her voice sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.
How had their conversation turned so fast? She’d been cautiously thrilled by the progress they’d been making. But then he’d figured out exactly where her questions were leading and turned them on her with knifelike precision. She hadn’t even known she’d been cut until her heart started bleeding.
She wouldn’t discuss Michael with anyone. She would not.
“I believe we’ve accomplished enough for this morning,” she said, relieved when her voice didn’t tremble. “I suggest we go back to the manor and warm ourselves. You can get some rest, and we can start again this afternoon.”
She tugged the hood of her cloak back up, shielding her face from him as she turned to retreat. Now that her heart was sliced open, every painful memory she’d worked so hard to put behind her seethed in her chest, stinging just enough to let her know they were still there. Waiting for her to uncage them. She needed to be alone when they broke free.
“No.”
His voice rang with such command that Penelope immediately stilled. Gabriel closed the distance between them, coming up behind her. She didn’t have to see him to know. She felt him, the way a blind woman sensed things she could not see. She heard the scrape of leather and cloth, smelled subtle hints of sandalwood and sage on the breeze, and her body tingled with the realization that he was close by.
“You will answer my question. Was my cousin mad?”
She whirled. Even though she’d known he would be there, his nearness startled her, sending a shimmer of alarm through her. No . . . not alarm, she thought. Awareness. Of him. As a man.
Oh, no. Her head shook of its own accord. No, no. That was completely unacceptable.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed further upon her. He thought she was denying his demand, she realized.
Better that than the truth.
She backed away from him. “That isn’t relevant,” she said as she turned back toward Vickering Place and started off at a fast clip.
“The hell it isn’t!” he called after her. “Michael and I share the same blood. If he was crazed, then my madness could be inherited.”
Penelope kept walking. It wasn’t long before she spotted Carter. The attendant must have given up on following them, as he was sitting on the stump of a felled tree, waiting for them to return. He leapt to his feet as she neared, his face twisting first with an “about time” expression and then with confusion as his eyes darted from her to Gabriel—who she assumed was still some distance behind her.
Let Carter make himself useful and see that Gabriel made it back to the manor safely.
“Penelope, wait!” Gabriel’s voice and footsteps were muffled by her cloak’s hood, but it sounded as though he were coming up fast. A second set of footfalls echoed those, letting her know Carter was close behind. Good. Gabriel wouldn’t wish to air his private family business in front of the attendant.
Still, she sped up her pace just the same, blinking against tears that blurred her vision.
She was well aware of what she was doing—avoiding. Avoiding Gabriel, avoiding his questions about Michael, and avoiding the sudden recognition of an unholy attraction to a man who was not only her cousin-by-marriage, but for all intents and purposes, under her care. And quite likely mad on top of that.
But it was the best she could do in the moment. She needed time to think. She dashed a tear away from her eye. She needed time to—
“Oh!” Penelope’s toe caught on something and she stumbled. A wrenching pain shot up her leg as her foot tried to stay put while her momentum sent her pitching forward. She cried out as she landed hard, first on her knees and then on her stomach and chest, the side of her face coming to rest on the overgrown footpath.
“Pen!” She heard Gabriel’s worried shout, felt the rumble as he and Carter came running.
Lord, her calf was afire. And something pricked at her cheek. She lifted her head, blinking as she got her bearings. Dried yew needles stuck to her skin. They covered the path, dropped from the ancient fragmented trees that lined it, their branches stretching and entwining into snarls of barren foliage. Had she tripped over a root? She’d been so caught up in trying to get away that she hadn’t been watching her footing. Fool.
She wiped the dead needles from her face, groaning as she pushed herself up from the ground. Strong hands caught her beneath her arms from behind and turned her as she eased into a sitting position on the path.
Gabriel knelt beside her. He smoothed her cloak’s hood off of her head. But his palms remained, warm against her skin, cradling either side of her face as he tilted it gently. The intensity in his eyes had gone, replaced by concern. “Pen, are you hurt?”
She shook her head, as it seemed her lips refused to utter the lie. Goodness. Her knees smarted, for one, and her right calf burned. Thankfully she’d landed on her front rather than her still sore backside. Between his landing upon her person not quite two days ago and her own just now, muscles she’d never even felt before twinged in protest. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted. “If you could just help me to my feet?”
“Of course.” Gabriel gained his own feet in a graceful movement. He slipped an arm behind her, beneath her shoulder blades, curving his hand around her rib cage, where he could get a decent grip. The heat of his touch, even through her cloak, sent warmth flowing through her chest. He placed his other hand upon her hip to guide her as he pulled her to her feet.
Penelope tried to steady herself. The sooner she did, the sooner there would be no reason for Gabriel to touch her. No reason for her to feel sparks where his strong hands gripped her. But as she straightened, she sucked in a pained hiss. Agony flared in her calf as her right leg collapsed beneath her.
She sagged against Gabriel, shifting her weight to her left.
“You are hurt,” Gabriel accused, a fierce frown pulling at his features.
“No, it’s only—” She cried out again as her calf bunched in an unrelenting squeeze. “Oh! Ow!” She hopped on her left leg as if trying to get away from the pain. But the spasms wouldn’t let up. Her muscles rolled and bunched again.
“Is it your calf? Is it cramping?”
She bit her lip against the pain, nodding jerkily.
Gabriel lowered her to the ground. When he released her, she braced herself by placing her palms slightly behind either side of her hips as he came around to kneel at her feet. Without asking permission, he reached his hands beneath her skirts and squeezed them around her calf tightly.
Penelope gasped as her muscles fought against his grip.
“Just breathe, Pen,” he encouraged, his gaze catching hers. “Through your mouth, like this.” Gabriel panted in quick, harsh breaths.
She kept her eyes on his and did as he asked.
“That’s right,” he crooned. “Just focus on your breathing.”
“I’m”—pant, pant—“trying!” Pant, pant. But the squeezing was merciless.
Then his fingers started moving, massaging.
“Oh!” she cried, throwing her head back. For a moment, the flare of agony was so much worse, she didn’t know if she could bear it, but then . . . it loosened. Just a little. Gabriel kept up his ministrations, molding, squeezing, rolling her knotting muscle until the tide started to turn. Deftly, he kneaded with strokes of alternating length until the clenching subsided.
Penelope was finally able to take in a deep breath, then another as her body slowly relaxed. But now that the pain was no longer overpowering her nerves, she began to feel other things. Things strangely familiar and yet not. Pleasurable things.
She tugged her calf from Gabriel’s grasp. “’Tis better now,” she murmured as she smoothed her skirts back down to her ankles. She glanced over at Carter, embarrassed that the man had likely seen too much, but the attendant had thankfully turned his back.
Gabriel gained his feet and extended both hands to her. “Let me help you up.”
She stared at his long, capable fingers, encased in gloves of the softest leather. Hands that had touched her with gentle healing, that had rescued her. Her stomach fluttered. It would be a mistake to let him touch her again. Yet she wasn’t certain she could rise on her own.
She took his hands.
It was a mistake. Even through both of their gloves, she felt it—a frisson of connection she couldn’t deny. It was as if now that her mind had noticed the attraction, it pulled her inexorably.
Gabriel lifted her to her feet as if she weighed nothing. She balanced her weight on her left side and gingerly placed her right toe on the ground to test her injured leg. She winced and pulled her foot up again.
“What does it feel like?” he asked.
“My calf quivers like a strung bow,” she answered. She feared it would start that horrid clenching again. But it did not. “There is a deep ache—one that threatens to cramp again with little provocation.”
He nodded. “You may have torn your muscle. Strained it, at the least. We shall need to keep you off of your feet.” His hand, which was still at her back for support, slid down to her thighs as he made to scoop her up.
Penelope’s breath caught. In a panic, she pivoted on her good leg, evading his grasp. She nearly toppled as she overbalanced, but with a few little hops, she managed to stay upright and put a bit of distance between them. “What are you doing?”
His lips flattened. “Carrying you back to the manor, of course.”
Oh, no. She wouldn’t be able to bear that. Her senses, which had been asleep for so very long, had most assuredly awakened—and it felt as if they intended to make up for lost time.
“Nonsense,” she said, wobbling a bit. She glanced down the lane. They were a good quarter mile from Vickering Place, she’d bet. Drat. This was going to hurt like the dickens. Still . . . “I can make it back on my own.”
Gabriel didn’t speak, but raised a sardonic brow at her that spoke volumes.
“Oh, all right,” she conceded. Perhaps she would need his help, but she had to keep the touching at a minimum. “But there’s no need to carry me.” She glanced over at Carter. “If the two of you would just get on either side of me—sort of like crutches. It will take some time, but I am certain I can make it—”
The clouds chose that moment to open up, as the storm that had been threatening all morning finally made good.
Lines of annoyance bracketed Gabriel’s mouth as rain pelted them. Droplets of water found those tiny furrows and traveled them before dripping off of his chin. He started toward her.
“Gabriel,” she implored, putting her hands palm out before her. “If anyone should carry me, it should be Carter.” She glanced at the attendant, who frowned uncharitably at her. Blaming her for the fact that he was stuck out in the rain when he could be inside, dry and warm, no doubt. Still, better to be carried to the manor by an irritable stranger than to be pressed close to Gabriel all that way. “He’s—he’s burlier.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. Without even slowing his stride, he bent, slid an arm behind her knees and the other around her shoulders and scooped her up into his arms. Before she could utter another protest, he cradled her close to his chest as he turned them toward Vickering Place.
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled. Gabriel, however, just kept silently trudging ahead. Rain dripped down the stark lines of his face, but it didn’t seem to bother him. She imagined that as a soldier, he’d grown quite accustomed to marching through inclement weather without voicing complaint.
She had the feeling she could rail at him to put her down the entire way, and he would just ignore her as completely as he did the storm.
Well, she may have to accept her fate, but being cradled like a child made her feel as if she’d given up all control. She slid one arm over his shoulder and tugged herself up, shifting the balance a bit. Gabriel allowed it, adjusting to her adjustments without comment.
Her gloved palm now rested against his chest, where his heart beat vigorously with its extra burden—so strong, so steady.
While she’d become a bundle of nerves. The side of her that was pressed up against Gabriel burned hot. With each step, his muscled frame moved against her, leaving her tingling and breathless. Her other side, the one exposed to the chill and rain, felt strangely numb in comparison. The dichotomy of cold and heat sent her poor body into shivers.
Gabriel tightened his arms around her, and despite everything, she felt the strangest sense of security. “We’re almost there, Pen.”
She glanced toward the manor, the imposing house barely visible behind the haze of fog that was being chased away by the rain. They had quite a ways to go yet, in truth. In the meantime, foreign-yet-familiar stirrings swelled in her middle. Dear Lord, what was wrong with her? Was she destined to desire broken men? First Michael and now Gabriel. And not a one in between.
Penelope took a deep breath. She had to get ahold herself. All right. If she were advising someone who came to her with unwelcome feelings they wished to banish, what would she tell them to do?
Penelope chewed on that thought a moment. Well, she would suggest they face their emotions straight on. Often just looking at things for what they actually were dispelled fears and other such unhealthy thoughts.
She was going to have to face this attraction to Gabriel and pick it apart. She studied him in profile. His face was more angular than it had once been. He was leaner than he had been two years ago, as well, though the change simply made his shoulders appear broader, she noted. His brown hair, while it had never been overly long, was now closely shorn. Austere, she’d describe him.
Yet he was still a strikingly handsome man. Maybe even more handsome than she remembered.
Penelope mentally shook herself. She wasn’t supposed to be looking for things that made Gabriel more attractive, dash it all.
Besides, his form wasn’t the type she’d ever fancied. Physically, he was as different from Michael as . . . well, as night was from day. Michael’s blond beauty and romantic features that had so captured her youthful heart contrasted in every way against Gabriel’s dark appeal.
Perhaps that’s why you’re drawn to him, a voice whispered in her head. Because he is nothing like the man who broke your heart.
A tear slipped from Penelope’s eye, only to be caught up in the rivulet of raindrops and washed away, hopefully unseen. That was unfair. Michael couldn’t help that he’d hurt her. He had been a sick man.
As is Gabriel.
Something inside her went cold. Penelope wiped at her face, taking in another deep breath. Right. That was precisely what she needed to kill her wayward longings—a healthy dose of reality.
‘Twas a cruel irony that the first physical stirrings she’d felt since Michael’s death were for a man she could never be with. She would never again live with the kind of instability that had marked her first marriage. Her traitorous body had best get on the same plane with her mind on this. She was frankly amazed the two were so far apart.
But wait . . . What if they weren’t? She knew better than most that the body oftentimes echoed the mind. Whatever malady plagued Gabriel ignited her curiosity; she could not deny it. She might simply be mistaking excitement from the challenge of his case with physical attraction.
Her body relaxed against him with relief. Yes. Yes, that must be it.
At least that’s what she told herself all the way back to the manor.
* * *
The door to Vickering Place opened shortly after Gabriel stepped onto the main path. A servant rushed out with a large black umbrella, followed closely by Dunnings, one of the sanatorium’s more gorilla-like attendants. Allen, Gabriel noted, stayed dry and warm, watching from just inside the doorway.
As the two parties met a few yards from the stairs, Gabriel pulled Penelope tighter to him. It had been an exquisite torture to carry her so close to him. The endless walk had felt as if he were in the second circle of Dante’s hell, the one reserved for those souls who were overcome by lust, with his punishment being to carry the object of his desires for eternity without being able to have her.
Yet he’d be damned if he’d relinquish her to Dunnings.
His worry was for naught, however. “Need help with him?” Dunnings grunted to Carter with a narrow-eyed gaze at Gabriel. Carter shook his head in a quick negative.
Hell, had Dunnings assumed he was responsible for what had befallen Penelope and was therefore a danger?
Gabriel let out a harsh breath and continued his trek up the stairs, slowing only enough so that the other servant was able to keep his umbrella over Penelope’s head.
“Lady Manton tripped upon a root,” he said as he gained the top step, just as Allen opened his mouth presumably to ask.
“I can speak for myself,” Penelope scolded, for his ears only.
Gabriel shrugged, drawing a surprised “Oh!” from her as she rose and dropped with the movement, coming to settle more closely against his chest.
“I warned you that this excursion was ill advised,” Allen said in his pinched nasally voice, giving them an equally disapproving look that lingered on the puddles they were dripping on the marble floor.
“Nonsense,” Pen answered in a tone that quite impressed Gabriel. Not every lady could put a man in his place while in the ignoble position of being carried like a child by another man. “His lordship made excellent progress this morning. Had it not been for my unfortunate tumble, I would claim it a complete success.”
Gabriel huffed. Oh, they’d made progress, all right. But not nearly as much as they were going to. If she thought he would let her continue to dodge his questions about Michael, she was crazier than he.
But first he had to get her dry and take a look at her calf.
“Lady Manton has injured her leg. I expect she will be unable to properly walk on it for a few days.”
Penelope started in his arms. “Surely it’s not all that bad.”
“She will require a room here until she recovers.”
This time, it was Allen who started. “That is quite impossible, my lord.” He sniffed. “Vickering Place is not an inn.”
Gabriel raised an imperious brow. “I am well aware of what Vickering Place is and is not. However, I am also aware funds are quite dear. I will, of course, cover the expense of her stay plus additional coin for the trouble.” He was still Bromwich, after all. His family couldn’t wrest control of the finances from him until the hearing, at least. “Have the best room made up for Lady Manton immediately.”
“I hardly think—” Pen began.
“Now, see here—” Allen spouted at the same time.
Gabriel ignored them both, turning on his heel with Penelope still in his arms. “Until then,” he said loudly enough to overpower their arguments as he strode for his rooms, “she shall wait in my parlor. Allen, go ahead of me and unlock the doors.”
God, it felt good to be decisive again. Better than it had felt to be outside. He’d been so intent these past months on staving off his descent into madness that he’d lost a part of himself. Forfeited it to fear. He vowed not to let that happen again. No matter what the future brought, he would not forget who he was. Not while he had presence enough to remember.
Gabriel moved to the right of the hallway to let Allen know he expected him to pass and do his bidding. After only a moment’s hesitation, the man did, but not without continuing his protest.
“All of the rooms that might be suitable are occupied by other inmates,” the director said as he fumbled with a large metal key, fitting it into the lock. He turned his wrist with a quick flick and the bars opened. “The best we could do would be to find Lady Manton a bed in the attics. Hardly befitting a lady of her station,” he intoned.
Gabriel frowned as he carried Penelope over the threshold. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t have Pen treated little better than a servant. “Unacceptable. She shall have to take my rooms, then.”
“Your rooms?” Allen’s black brows winged high. “And where would you sleep?”
“The attics, of course.”
Allen’s lips turned down into a disapproving frown. “I am sorry, my lord, but the attics are not properly secured for a man of your . . . condition.”
Humiliation burned in his gut. “I have never had an episode right on top of another,” he growled. “A few days in the attic should not be an issue.”
Allen’s face settled into an expression that was supposed to be sympathetic but fell short. “Nevertheless, I cannot allow it.”
He said it in a placating tone—one used on children who demanded privileges they were not yet mature enough to handle. The smarmy prig. Allen clasped his hands in front of him in a show of subservience, but Gabriel knew the man enjoyed lording what authority he had over him.
Well, not anymore. He would no longer allow it. “Very well,” he said tersely. “Have a cot brought into my parlor and I shall sleep there.”
Allen opened his mouth, but Gabriel cut him off. “Have Carter stay here with me, if you must. But this discussion is at an end.”
Allen had good sense enough to retreat. Having a marquess as a patient was quite a boon when trying to convince other well-paying peers to place their loved ones at Vickering Place. He wouldn’t want to risk making Gabriel angry enough to demand his family move him to a different sanatorium, would he? The loss of income, not to mention prestige, would be a blow.
Gabriel dismissed the director with a command to bring tea and hot water, and to send for Penelope’s things.
Pen held her tongue until Allen departed.
“I cannot stay here, Gabriel.”
He looked down at her then. It was bad enough he’d had to argue with Allen over the matter. He was not about to fight it with her, too.
He lowered her gently to a standing position, his arms staying loosely around her for support, choosing not to address her statement. “Rest your weight on your good leg while we get you out of this cloak.”
He shrugged off his own coat as she pursed her lips. But she complied. His blood was still boiling over his spat with Allen, but he fought not to let it show. He needed to be gentle with Penelope as he helped get her settled, as she must be quite tender after her fall.
Gabriel carefully removed her sodden cloak, circling her as he tugged so she didn’t have to move any more than necessary. His knuckles brushed against her shoulder, her forearm, her wrist. They skimmed along her back, every incidental touch soothing his anger and yet transforming his frustration into a different sort entirely.
He guided Penelope to a nearby chaise and helped her to sit, then moved a few paces away to put some distance between them. He shook her cloak, flinging the droplets of water that clung to the fur collar every which way. He imagined it was himself he was shaking, willing himself to let his impossible desire go.
“It’s fortunate that you have an eye for quality,” he remarked, trying to get his mind on anything but how the inside of the garment was still warm from her heat. How it smelled of her. “As soaked as your cloak is, your dress seems mostly dry. I feared we might have to raid a maid’s closet until your bags arrive from the inn.”
Penelope sighed, repeating her earlier declaration. “I cannot stay here.”
Damn. It seemed he would have to fight her, after all. “You can, and you will,” he commanded. “I’d wager you tore your muscle.” He laid her cloak over the arm of a chair before dragging an ottoman over in front of her. “It will not heal properly if you go about walking on it. I’ve seen too many soldiers develop a permanent limp because they didn’t have the luxury of staying off of their feet.”
Pen looked down at her lap. Hell. His intention hadn’t been to shame her into acceptance. Penelope, he was beginning to understand, had a keen appreciation for what soldiers had sacrificed to keep England safe and must hate even the implication that she was being ungrateful. Still, he was glad his words had worked.
He settled himself upon the tufted fabric of the ottoman, facing her, and scooted it back until there was just enough room between them that he would be able reach down and pull her calf into his lap to examine it.
When he looked up to tell her what he intended to do, the sight of her sitting so close arrested him. The moment held such intimacy . . . Christ, it was as if they were not Penelope and Gabriel. Not a widow and a lunatic. But instead, a simple husband and his wife, at home in their own parlor, settling in for a quiet afternoon in front of a toasty fire.
A swift ache of longing stole his breath.
He uttered a low curse. He’d thought he’d put aside dreams of her long ago. When he’d realized he was fit for no one, least of all someone as precious as Pen.
Her eyes widened, almost as if she could read his mind. But then her gaze darted away. She shifted in her seat, inching back as far on the chaise as she could get from him. “J-just the same. I cannot stay here. Not with you.”
Her apparent fear was like a swift kick to his gut.
“Of course,” he bit out, understanding dawning. “Even you are afraid of being locked in with the madman.”