The Forgiven Duke Part 17

They'd won.

Alexandria was safe. He could take her home now. When he found her, that is. He should be thanking G.o.d for their victory. So why did he feel so wretched? Why did he grieve the lost lives of his enemy?

He stayed there, in the rocky sand, on his knees praying and grieving for a long time. The men dispersed, going back into town to celebrate, leaving only a small troupe to guard the area in shifts all through the night. Gabriel started to rise and go with them but found that he couldn't get up. His legs were too weak. He couldn't seem to move.

He sank back down to the ground and lay there for a while, resting and breathing, not caring if he slept the night through in the open or not. He thought of Ryan, grief stabbing at his stomach. How had the man, such a good man, gotten mixed up in all this? Bad luck? A senseless death added to all the other senseless things in this world around him. Gabriel prayed G.o.d would reward him in heaven. He prayed G.o.d's plan for every life really did make sense.

He felt a nudge and turned his head toward it. Montague stood over him, holding out a hand and motioning that he would help him up.

"Oh, very well." Gabriel let him, knowing that he needed water and decent shelter from the cold wind for the night if he was to survive.

He stood and took a few wavering steps. Montague reached out and started to support him with his arm around Gabriel's waist. "I can do it." Gabriel shrugged him off, embarra.s.sed and hara.s.sed. "We'll talk tomorrow. I just need some rest."

Montague bowed, seeming to understand his need to be alone, but Gabriel could feel him watch his progression for a long time as he stumbled back into town.

With his head down he made slow progress toward the inn, thinking of a hot bowl of that fish stew, a bath if he could manage it, and then some long hours of sleep before he began his search for Alexandria.

Gabriel . . . Gabriel . . . Gabriel.

He blinked hard and glanced up. He'd heard his name. Heard it. Someone had said his name.

He looked around and saw no one. He clapped his hands feebly together, hearing nothing.

G.o.d?

Perhaps he was dying and G.o.d was calling him home. G.o.d knew he felt close to death. He looked at the sky. Is that You? The dark form of a bird flew by overhead. He followed it with his gaze, sensing . . . something. His gaze swept the sky and then the street ahead. Something white fluttered from the corner of a second-story window in the distance.

He blinked again as thoughts and ideas shifted through his mind, triggering the memory of the story of how Alexandria had saved that boy. Alexandria?

Could it possibly be her? Could she be right here in town? Right under their very noses?

And if so, was someone holding her against her will? Was she locked in up there, the flag her way of signaling for help? As the questions loomed his stride lengthened, the strength of fresh hope filling his muscles and pumping his heart.

When he reached the building, he saw it was the blacksmith shop. He peered into the front windows, seeing nothing but pitch black. Pulling out the pistol he had shoved into the back of his waistband, he tried the door and found it firmly locked. If someone was on the ground floor, he couldn't afford to make any noise, not knowing how many there might be and how armed he might find them. No. He needed to be smart about this.

He peered through the moonlight at the smooth wood of the walls. No way to climb that. But the roofline was low on either side, with the second-story window directly in the middle of the building. If he could just reach the roof.

Further inspection of the area revealed a water barrel, half full, on the side the shop. With a grunt, he tipped it over and rolled it to the edge of the roof. Then he turned it back on its end and was able to climb on top and reach the eaves of the roof. He could reach the edge and hang from there, but he didn't know if he had the strength to pull himself up from that position. Better to jump and gain some momentum.

With that hope, he squatted a little in a bouncing movement . . . one . . . two . . . three. With a great breath and gritted teeth he sprang up, grasped the edge of the roof, and pulled himself halfway up, arms straightening, head and torso above the roofline but his legs still dangling below it. Without much of a pause he swung his knees up, bracing them on the lowest beam of the roof. One hand clung to the side and with his stomach pressed against the peat, he used the other hand to feel for the next support beam. Finding it, he lifted his foot, stretching the two-feet distance between each beam, and pulled himself up another notch. In this way he inched up the roof until he was even with the window.

He had landed with a thud and knew someone, especially the person in the attic room, might have heard him. On the other side of that window a pistol might be waiting for him. But no one came from the shop's door below, so perhaps he had only alerted the person inside the attic.

He peered around the corner as far as he could see, the white flag fluttering from a windowless pane. How to get inside, through panes of wood and gla.s.s, he did not know.

"Alexandria," he hissed in a whisper.

Nothing.

G.o.d, what now?

The wind kicked up a little. The flag fluttered closer and closer to his hand. If only he could reach it!

He stretched as far as he dared toward the fluttering cloth. The wind blew cold against his face. Just a little more, please. Just a little farther.

He stretched, his legs quivering with the effort to keep himself anch.o.r.ed to the roof while his arm stretched into thin air.

Got it.

His fingers curled around the edge, his body eased back a little. He pulled on the cloth. It wouldn't budge any further. It was tied to something . . . solid.

A sudden jerk on the strip of cloth nearly pulled him from the roof. He peered around to see a face appear in the window. She came as close as the gla.s.s would allow, her gaze following the length of cloth to Gabriel's arm. Her light eyes widened. Even in the dark, he would know those light blue eyes anywhere. He'd found her.

"Alexandria," he whispered. "It's me, Gabriel. Don't speak. Be very quiet. I mean to rescue you but I'm going to need your help. Hold your arm out the window and signal that you can hear me."

An arm came out of the window and waved.

"Good. Now see if there is any rope in that room. I need a long length of rope."

A few moments and then her arm came out of the hole with a rope, but it didn't look very long. It would have to do.

"All right. You need to hold on to one end and toss the other end to me. Don't let go in case I don't catch it."

He watched, hoping against all hope that she wasn't whispering to him and wondering why he wasn't answering. She took the rope back inside and then one end came sailing above the cloth into his hand. He let go of the cloth and caught it.

"Good. I've got it. Now, I need you to quietly break enough panes in that window to get you out of it while I attach this rope to the rooftop."

Hoping she would obey he hurried up to the top beam on the roof, shoved aside the thick peat, and secured the rope on the end toward the front of the building. He tied the smallest knot he could without risking it coming apart when the weight of both of them was on it. Peering down he saw pieces of gla.s.s coming off in chunks and landing on the ground below them. He hoped she had the strength to break the pieces of wood that made up the panes, but one way or another, he would get her out.

Thinking to give them something to step on to help them climb down, he made several big knots in the rope at three-foot intervals and then tossed it over the edge. It dangled a good six feet from the ground but there was nothing he could do about it. They had to try. He took a deep breath, then lowered himself to the first knot, swaying on the thin line. With a tight grip on the rope, he lowered himself to the window.

Her face came into a view, making his breath catch in his throat. The moonlight glimmered on her skin, her long dark hair unbound and falling in dark waves around her glowing face. Like a beautiful prize that his heart had been yearning for and had suddenly found, she smiled at him, her eyes full of warmth and joy. Her red lips said, "You came."

Gabriel leaned close, keeping his voice low and husky. "At last we meet . . . face-to-face . . . with nothing to separate us ever again."

"I want to believe you." He thought she said, her eyes turning uncertain and yet filled with hungry longing as they roved over his face. "Yes, at last."

He reached out and wrenched the remaining wood from the half of the window she had cleared of gla.s.s. "Come to me."

In a flurry of skirts she swung her leg out of the window and then squeezed her head and body through, straddling the windowsill with one leg still in the room. Waves of endearment, the only word he could think of for this overwhelming feeling of love, flooded him as she bit her lower lip and reached for the rope. "Put your feet on top of mine."

She did exactly as he directed. With one hand clinging to the rope he reached around her waist and hauled her body out of the window and into his. He felt her make a little noise as their faces came within inches apart. Strength flowed through every muscle and sinew, taut and quivering as he lowered them to the next knot and then the next one.

A sudden head appeared above them, leaning down. John Lemon, his face enraged and spewing something from quick-moving lips. He started to come out of the window after them.

"Hang on tight, my lady."

He let go of her, reached around to the back of his pants, and pulled forth the loaded pistol.

Without pause . . . without thinking what he was doing or anything to come . . . he c.o.c.ked the firearm, feeling the click within his palm, and raised his hand in the dim light of the moon. With a speed that he didn't know he had, he pointed the black barrel at the young blond man leaning toward them, reaching for the rope to stop them. With a neat twist of his wrist, Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Then the Duke of St. Easton did his job as guardian.

He aimed and fired.

GABRIEL SIGHED, THE HEAVINESS IN his heart so deep he wished to sink down on the gra.s.s from the place where he stood, hidden behind a tree. It was the next day. One day after the shooting. Gabriel had overseen the plans that would take them all to London and their audience with the prince regent and then concentrated on the details of the funeral. Now, he watched John's funeral from a distance, watched Alexandria dab at the tears flowing from her eyes and Montague putting his arm around her to brace her up.

What had he done?

Had it truly been necessary? The rumblings around him told him many of the townspeople didn't think so. John hadn't even been armed. Why hadn't he waited to see what John would do before firing? All Gabriel knew is he acted on instinct, protective, gut-wrenching instinct.

Would she ever forgive him?

He couldn't bear the thought of seeing her, seeing what look would be in her eyes toward him. Scorn? Hatred? Blame?

He couldn't bear the thought of trying to have a conversation with her either, asking her to forgive him and then needing the blasted speaking book to know how she felt. What would she think of him then? Her feelings toward him might change when she discovered his "affliction." He might never have a chance to win her love.

G.o.d, I just can't do it.

He could avoid her on the ship voyage home, but what of when she moved into his house as his ward? Seeing her every day, how would he manage then?

He didn't know, but he had to find a way to buy some time. Heal, look his best, get strong again, feel . . . normal again, in control and capable, not so weak and thin and ravished.

Lord, I will ask her forgiveness for John. And I will tell her I can no longer hear, someday, I promise. Just give me a little more time.

Or heal me and take this awful thing away.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

London, England-1819 The wind whipped tangles through Alex's hair as she stood on the deck of the HMS Destiny and awaited her destiny. They had sailed for weeks from Reykjavik, finally coming to the Queen's Channel and wide mouth of the River Thames. The river narrowed, the water still a cold and choppy gray, as they sailed up into the center of life in England, pa.s.sing little towns and villages along the way to one of the largest cities in the world. February had pa.s.sed and most of March too, and the cold drear of London's skies held the pale, promising glow of the sun shining through the clouds. Spring was in the air.

But what did that mean for her?

She'd never felt so alone-so lost and alone.

She watched the sprawling city pa.s.s by in all of its glorious and squalid infamy. Where did the duke live in this vast humanity? Somewhere rich and fashionable she supposed. What would be expected of her there?

Where was he?

Tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyes as they rounded a curve and pa.s.sed under the famous London Bridge. So much had happened since John's death. The memory of Gabriel's face the last time she saw him, so thin and stark and shaken, rose in her mind's eye. She had been too stunned to say anything or even look him in the eye.

What had he done?

What had they done?

She couldn't believe John was so suddenly, so completely . . . gone.

Gabriel's voice had been a low, terse, hollow sound. "I am placing you in the protection of Lieutenant Ardsley, my lady. You will stay here under guard with Ana at the inn until we are ready to sail."

He bowed then and left her, so gaunt and ravished, covered in streaks of black gunpowder, looking nothing like the man at the masquerade, and yet the inner man, the one she knew, was still strong, still everything she'd ever thought him to be. Just looking at him made her heart twist in a strange and frightening mix of ecstasy and agony. Why didn't he take her in his arms and comfort her? Why was he leaving her? Why did devastation follow them like the hounds of h.e.l.l, their hot breath of destruction constant on their necks?

She had reached out and softly inquired at his retreating back. "What of John's body? Can't we arrange a funeral before we go?"

He hadn't answered, just walked away from her like he didn't care. And she hadn't seen him since, not once since he'd left her at the inn, though signs of him directing every move they made was evident and all around her.

Alex closed her eyes and allowed the day after John's death to heighten into flashing memories that played across her mind.

Montague had come. Dear Montague. Would he really forgive them?

They were preparing to sail, packing up her meager belongings, when she'd come to John's bag. She had shaken out the contents onto the bed. Clothing, a shaving kit, a thin book of poetry, and little bottles and bags of herbs and strange liquids-bold reminders of his treachery.

She sniffed one bottle and quickly pulled it away, grimacing. This is what had sent her into a swoon when John pressed the cloth to her mouth and nose. The memory should have made her angry, but it didn't. With tears pooling in her eyes, she dropped the bottle, picked up his coat, and buried her face in the rough wool, bursting into sobs. Was he really gone forever?

Ana must have heard. She rushed into the room and pulled her into her arms. "Here now, Lady Alex. Shhh, shhh, it'll be all right."

"I know what he did was wrong, but he didn't deserve to die for it!" She backed away from Ana's comforting arms. "I caused a man's death, Ana. I wanted to find my parents at any cost . . . but I didn't realize. I didn't know it could come to this." She looked at Ana with shattered eyes. "It's all my fault."

"No. Those two men had something to do with it," Ana admonished in a harsh tone. "Don't you be taking the blame for everything."

It was well known that while everyone agreed Gabriel was within his rights to do whatever necessary to rescue and protect Alex, they all thought he had overreacted, especially after it was discovered that John had been unarmed. Of course, they didn't question a duke too closely when he had the regent's permission to do whatever it took to get Alex back to London and under their protection. But dark looks and plenty of grumbling followed wherever Alex went, making her feel more wretched than ever.

"Alexandria? What has happened?"

She had turned at the deep, familiar voice and saw Montague, healed and looking as good as new after his injury. The sight of his dear face wrung a wailing cry from her throat. She turned away, unable to see the look on his face when he was told, but she heard his booted feet come across the wooden planks of the room and felt his hands grasp her shoulders and spin her around.

"What is it, Alexandria? Tell me." His gray brows shot up and blue eyes implored her.

"He's dead," she whispered, blinking great pools of tears from her eyes.

"Who?" He shook her ever so gently.

How could she say it? John was his nephew. And Montague . . . like a father to her. He was more fatherly than her father had ever been. How could she give him reason to hate her? But she had to. She had to be the one to tell him.

With a great, shaking inhale, she shook her head slowly and let the weight of her head fall back, exposing her throat. "John," she whispered. "John is dead. Oh, Montague! I am so very sorry."

His grip on her shoulders tightened. "John's dead? What happened?"

"The duke. He came to get me. John had, well, he had locked me in an attic room at the blacksmith shop. He was forcing me to marry him. I'd-" She buried her face in her hands. "I had told him I couldn't marry him. That I didn't love him and he, he panicked, I suppose. When Gabriel found me, he helped me escape from the window, but John must have heard us. He was coming after us and the duke . . . he shot him. Oh, Montague, it happened so suddenly! I still can't believe it. It's my fault. I should have never agreed to marry John in the first place and none of this would have happened."

Montague stared at her for a long, grim moment. "Have they buried him?"

"Not yet. I heard they will tomorrow, just before we sail for London."

Montague gave her a quick hug. "I need to see the duke. I will talk to you later, Alexandria. Get some rest."