Broken Wings Read online

  "Gabriel? I think he's magnificent, achingly beautiful, and so very lost. I don't know how to reach him. It breaks my heart."

  Ross patted her hand, somewhat alarmed. Despite her brief marriage, Sarah's experience with men was rather limited, and she was sometimes too tenderhearted for her own good. Regardless of what the man had done for James, there'd been something calculating and cold in his gaze when they'd first met that reminded Ross of the eyes of a mercenary. "I know you're grateful, my girl, as am I. He has been Jamie's guardian angel. You must be careful, though, not to romanticize him. He is, I'm afraid, a very hard, and a very dangerous, young man."

  ***

  Later that night, Sarah tossed and turned, restless in the oppressive heat. The day had been sultry and the night offered little relief. Despite open doors and windows, there was no hint of a breeze and the water lay still as glass. Flinging off her covers, she rose and stepped out onto the balcony. The night was bejeweled, the stars glittering and sparkling overhead, reflected by the flatmirrored surface of the ocean below. She gasped in delight and imagined herself in a magnificent, celestial ballroom. Lost in fancy, she began to sway to a haunting otherworldly melody that hung in the air, enticing, entrancing, and magical. Fairy music, Davey would call it. Her reverie was broken, with a start as she realized the music, faint and delicate, was real.

  Hastily donning a nightgown and a wrapper, she started down the stairs. Ethereal whispers of sound took on substance and immediacy as she descended. It was coming from the music room, where she could see a spill of light from under the door. She wondered who could be playing. Ross was skilled with guitar and lute, but he'd never taken to the keyboard, and Davey was not expected back for another month. Realizing he must have returned early, a smile of welcome lit her face as she pushed open the door. She stopped in astonishment; her mouth rounded into an O of surprise. Gabriel was bent over the keyboard, eyes closed in concentration, his beautiful fingers stroking the keys with delicate artistry as he swayed to the music.

  He was disheveled and barefoot, his shirt and coat open. Long strands of hair clung to his shoulders in the sticky heat. A bottle of brandy perched precariously on the piano's edge. He seemed unaware of her, and she watched the play of muscle along his collarbone and shoulders with fascination, as his clever fingers created magic, weaving it into the still night air. He tossed his head suddenly, and looked straight at her. His face was unguarded, his eyes yearning, and distant, as if he were half there and half in some faraway place, listening to a melody from beyond this world. She was mesmerized, moved in a way she could not have described. Her arrested eyes watched his for several moments before she tore them away.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I heard the music and thought. . . Gabriel, you play beautifully!"

  Ignoring her, he turned his attention back to the keyboard, taking a sip of brandy with one hand as the other continued to caress the ivories, coaxing a haunting melody.

  "Where...how did you learn to play so exquisitely?"

  Continuing to play, he regarded her through hooded eyes. Angry with her for the intrusion, wanting to shock her, to drive her away, he decided to tell her the truth.

  "When I was about fourteen, mignonne, I was sold to a very rich patron, a nobleman, Monsieur Le Comte de Sevigny. I was sent to amuse him, and tend to his needs." He gifted her with a slight, sardonic smile.

  "Do you understand my meaning, mademoiselle?" His voice was smooth and even, and his fingers continued weaving their magic as he spoke. uNon? Let me explain. He taught me how to please him. There are many ways a boy can pleasure a man, with hands and with ... well... suffice to say, I learned them all. I wanted to. It was better there than at Madame Etienne's, and there was only him to please. He presented me as his page, and had me educated as he imagined a page should be. It amused him to see I was given a fine livery, taught proper manners, to read and write, to dance, even to ride. I was given a music master. I had a small modicum of talent, as it happens. I was taught the violin, the keyboard, and the guitar, so that I might divert my master .. . through all his senses. Surprisingly, I still find myself almost grateful for that." His fingers moved across the keyboard in an elegant flourish.

  Sarah gulped, shocked, not sure what to say, but hypnotized as she watched him play. "You weren't there long though, were you? Not long enough to acquire such skill."

  "No," he said with a soft laugh. "Two years. Long enough to learn the fundamentals, sexual, musical, literary, things that Madame had neglected, though it increased my value to her, no doubt." This was followed by a flourish of notes, and a feral grin. "As I grew older, it seems I lost some of my charm," he looked at her with a dead smile, "and I did something that annoyed him terribly."

  "What?" she asked, breathless.

  "I ran away," he said, his voice as cold and distant as his smile. "It was terribly rude and unappreciative of me. He punished me, of course. He caned my hands until they were so swollen I thought I would never play again. He knew how much it meant to me. I think he wanted to break my fingers," he added lightly, "but he was too afraid of what Madame would charge him for that. She had use for my hands, even if he no longer did." He picked up the tempo, a sprightly melody now. "He beat me, of course, whipped my ass until it was bleeding and raw, and then he passed me to his friends before sending me ... home ... where Madame taught me to please ladies as well as gentlemen."

  His voice, throughout the recitation, remained deceptively soft and cool, dripping with practiced seduction, but his eyes were bleak. It chilled her. She gasped, horrified, trying not to imagine that lonely, desperate youth, and trying not to imagine the fate that had been stalking Jamie, if not for this man. The notes continued, plaintive, heartrending, and then trickled to a stop. She had no words for him. Sorry she'd asked. Sorry she'd opened old wounds.

  He glanced up at her as he took a swallow of brandy. "Do I make you uncomfortable, mignonne?" he whispered into the silence.

  "Yes! Very!"

  "Ah, you are shocked, yes? You must learn to be careful what you ask for, chere? He returned to playing, a gentle, pensive tune.

  "You never stopped playing, though," she observed.

  He shrugged. "There were instruments to play at

  Madame's. It afforded some small amusement." "What of...?"

  "I am very tired, Lady Munroe." "Sarah, please."

  He hesitated. "Sarah, I am sorry if I disturbed your slumber. Forgive me if I go seek mine." He rose, hooking the brandy bottle between his ringers, preparing to leave.

  "No," she blurted. "I disturbed you. I apologize. Please don't stop on my account." Moving to the door, she turned to look back. He might have been an angel, cold, remote, unearthly in his beauty.

  When he was certain she was gone, he bent his head over the keyboard again. She could still hear the lovely, lonely notes as they hung in the air, haunting her as she ascended to her room.

  Chapter

  5

  The next morning broke crisp and clear, the cooler winds of autumn nascent on the late summer breeze. Gabriel approached the breakfast room, uncomfortable and angry with himself. He had meant to shock her, punish her for the intrusion, and warn her away. Instead, he'd stripped himself bare in front of her. He knew she must be disgusted. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

  "You look well this morning," she said. Her eyes were warm and welcoming.

  Surprised, he couldn't suppress the slight smile that raised the corner of his mouth.

  Sarah cleared her throat. His smiles, rare as they were, left her feeling lightheaded and short of breath. "I did wish to apologize for interrupting you last evening, Gabriel. I should have knocked, but it was so beautiful I...well, I . .." Flustered, she shook out her paper and raised it in front of her face. After a moment, she inquired politely from behind it, "Would you care for a section?"

  "No, thank you." The room was so quiet that the clock on the sideboard could be heard ticking away, imperious and demanding. "Do yo
u play an instrument, Sarah?"

  Putting down the paper, she rewarded him with a stunning smile. "Yes, I love to play. My mother was part Gypsy, you know. She was a virtuoso on the violin, and my father loved to play, as well. I make no claim to great skill, but I vow I'm not lacking in enthusiasm. Perhaps you'd allow me to join you sometime. Ross is too busy, more often than not, and I so enjoy playing with someone else."

  He nodded, unwilling to play the churl, and made a bit more effort than usual at conversation, awkwardly commenting on the weather and recounting one of his and Jamie's adventures, much to her delight.

  He escaped to the beach as soon as he was able, trying to make sense of the past twentyfour hours. He had revealed himself to her, at least in part, and she had responded unexpectedly. Shocked, yes, but apparently unchastened, she'd greeted him this morning as if nothing had happened. He'd noticed her interest before. Far more subtle than what he was used to, it was real, nonetheless, and very familiar. She was a widow, after all. She'd likely been without a man a good while. Doubtless, she wanted him the way other women had. That explained why she'd chosen to ignore the sordid history he'd shared with her last evening. Relieved at being able to characterize her motives, he determined to keep her at a distance. If he was to make any sort of life for himself, he needed the money Huntington had promised him, and the last thing he needed was any sort of entanglement with the man's sister.

  After breakfast, Sarah went to the stables and saddled her stallion. He fussed and stamped his feet, and blew out his belly. "Oh stop it," she snapped, digging a sharp elbow into his side as he tried to press her up against the wall. Grunting, he surrendered, allowing her to tighten the girth and put on the bridle. She mounted, and let him dance and snort for a few moments. He was a male, after all, and that sort of thing seemed important to him. Once that was out of his system, she loosed the reins and leaned forward, urging him into a full gallop.

  She thought about Gabriel. She'd been astonished by his artistry. He played like an angel, with a passion and melancholy genius that no amount of training could instill. He had shocked her last night. She'd had some sense of his background, of course, but she'd never thought about it too deeply, for the same reasons one refused to pursue most unpleasant thoughts she supposed, because it made her feel uncomfortable.

  Last night, he had made her starkly aware of the evil some men inflict upon the innocent, the evil forced upon him, and the fate that had awaited Jamie. He'd compelled her to acknowledge it, to feel it, and it had made her heart freeze. She imagined how lonely he must feel with all those terrible memories that no one wanted to hear, trapped inside him. Gabriel had talked to her last night, though, and he'd been almost civil to her this morning. She'd been trying to reach him for over three months, ever since they'd brought him and Jamie home in early May, and last night, finally, he'd opened a door. She was determined not to let him close it.

  Whether by fortune, misfortune, or fate, Gabriel's life was destined to intersect with Sarah's again before the night was out. Ross had insisted he attend dinner. Having listened with marked tolerance, as Jamie waxed eloquent about the finer points of gunnery and naval tactics, he'd pled a headache at the first opportunity, and excused himself. Deciding to stop for a moment in the music room, he turned to find himself squarely in the path of the increasingly vexing... and fetching, Lady Munroe.

  "Why do you follow me, madam? Surely you should be at supper with your family."

  Sarah blinked in consternation. He was as curt and cold as ever. It was as if their conversation last evening and this morning had never occurred. "I wanted to apologize again, monsieur. I hope you will continue to make use of the music room. I'll not interrupt you again, I promise."

  "But you are doing so now, Lady Munroe," he said coolly.

  "I. .." She blinked, flustered. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

  "Your apologies aren't necessary," he insisted brusquely. "I pray you disregard the whole affair. If you will pardon me?" He moved to pass her.

  "A moment, monsieur," she pleaded, clasping his forearm. "I've upset you. I don't mean to. I worry that you're not happy here."

  He sprang erect at her touch, his manhood hungry and bold. Christ! Her brother should insist she dress as a woman. Those long shapely legs, encased in tight breeches, could drive a man to distraction. "I'm not happy anywhere, mignonne," he replied bitterly, trying to edge away from her. "What concern is it of yours?"

  "Is there naught we can do, Gabriel, to make you feel more welcome?"

  She was going to ruin everything. He wanted her, even though he was so sated and weary of sex that he usually had to distance himself from his body in order to allow any arousal at all. He wanted her badly, in ways he'd never expected, and he hated her for it. "You can stop following me. You act like a bitch in heat," he grated, suddenly incensed. Seizing her wrist in one hand and her throat with the other, he pinned her body hard against the wall with his own, grinding his hips, his throbbing cock hard against her stomach.

  "Is this what you want, mignonne?" She stood rigid, shocked, gasping for breath. Realizing he held her by the throat, he moved his hand to grasp her jaw, forcing her mouth to his in a brutal, passionless, punishing kiss. "It is what you want. You're no different from the others. I can smell it."

  Leaning into her, he loosened his grip and whispered in her ear, "I'm a whore, dearling, and you're certainly paying me well enough. I'm as skilled at pleasing a woman as I am at pleasing a man. Some say better." He teased her lobe with hot breath and fluttering tongue. "Are you wet for me, mignonne? Shall I show you what pleasure truly means?" Forcing her hand down, he rubbed it against the bulge in his breeches, stifling a groan. "I'm ready for you, chere. Feel me," he crooned. "Shall we go to my room, or yours? Or perhaps right here, with your brothers just a shout away. Does that excite you?"

  He was right, damn him! She did want him. But not like this! God knew she'd thrilled to the feel of his body pressed hard against hers; his sex, potent and probing; his soft whispers and skillful tongue. To her shame and horror, she was wet for him. She hated him at that moment. She jerked her arm as if suddenly released from a relentless force, and pulled her hand away.

  He loosened his grip, steadying her so she wouldn't fall, and let her go. He stepped back, breathing as heavily as she was. She looked at him, her hair disheveled and her mouth bruised from his kiss. Her eyes, full of unshed tears, were angry and unmistakably hurt, and he felt a brief stab of regret.

  "I was only trying to help," she said coldly. Gathering her dignity, and what was left of her wits, she turned to climb the stairs.

  "Then stay the fuck away from me," he rasped to her departing back. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He entered the music room and leaned against the door. Closing it behind him, he slid to the floor. Why couldn't she leave well enough alone? Why did she have to plague him? She would tell her brother now. Huntington would make him leave, and make him pay. It would be best to go now, immediately. But where? There was no past he could bring himself to return to, no future he could possibly imagine.

  Climbing wearily to his feet, he helped himself to the brandy he'd left the night before, and made his way listlessly back to his room. A fire crackled in the hearth, bringing light and warmth to ease the late night chill. Tipping back his head, he took a healthy swig, hoping to warm himself inside. It couldn't numb his pain, though. It didn't even touch it. It remained raw and sore and throbbing, like his cock. He stroked himself, striving for comfort and release, trying to imagine her lying beneath him, warm and soft with welcome, but all he could see were her eyes, hurt and angry, and he felt sick with shame.

  Denied any release from alcohol or sex, he hurled the bottle against the wall, watching it shatter into myriad pieces of crystal, each one catching the glow of the fire, sparking scarlet and crimson with its own internal flame. Fascinated, he rose from the bed. Replacing the sacrificial brandy with a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet, heedless of the crystal crunching under his bare feet,
he crossed the room and picked up a shard, examining it, holding it to the light, admiring its shape and the feel of it between his fingertips.

  He sat crosslegged in front of the fire, grimacing only slightly, a half smile on his face as he pressed the razorthin glass against his wrist until the blood welled ruby red. Carefully he drew a line, and then stopped for a swallow of whiskey, another line, another swallow, continuing until something eased inside him, allowing the whiskey and brandy to do their job, allowing him, finally, to escape into nightmares and a troubled sleep.

  Cold rough hands stroked him awake. "Reveille toi mon ange." An icy, amused whisper. He was running, running as fast as he could, down twisting corridors. Ancient doors yawned open as he hurtled past, hissing voices calling him, arms reaching out to grab him, voices grunting with twisted passion and sick promise as he searchedfrantically for the door that would let him out, but he couldn't find it. There was no escape from the terrible, hungry thing closing in on him. He saw her up ahead, drawing away, preparing to leave. He shouted and she turned to look, her eyes cold, condemning, and he knew he was damned. A frigid vice closed around his ankle, dragging him screaming and kicking, down, down, down...

  CHAPTER

  6

  Gabriel rose late the next morning, bleary and sick, grateful someone had come and cleared away all traces of last night's excess. He was almost relieved when, late in the afternoon, a servant came to tell him his presence was required in Lord Huntington's study. He'd known she would tell her brother. He'd assaulted her, held her by the throat in her own home just steps away from her family. He'd been waiting for it all day. He was about to be exiled from a home where he'd never belonged in the first place.