The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel) (24 page)

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 glass 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 glass 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 glass. “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 cocked 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 grass 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.

God, 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

T
he 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, passing little towns and villages along the way to one of the largest cities in the world. February had passed 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 pass 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 pricked her eyes as they rounded a curve and passed 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 hell, 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.”

After he left she collapsed onto the bed and became inconsolable for the rest of that day.

The memory caused fresh tears to course down Alex’s cheeks, the wind from being up on the top deck drying them as fast as they fell. She looked down at her hand over her stomach. Would giving John a child be some recompense in a world that had spun completely out of control? But she wasn’t sure yet and had no one to talk to about it. When would she know for certain? And even if she wasn’t pregnant, not knowing if she was still a virgin or not was like a constant bag of bricks on her shoulders.

Lord, I need Your help with this.
All she could do was try to place it in God’s hands, but the guilt and shame wouldn’t go away.

They’d had a brief funeral service and burial the next day. Montague, after hearing the full story from many of the townspeople, the soldiers, and the duke himself, had found her after the ceremony.

He pulled her tight into his arms and held her and rocked her in a small sway, back and forth, while she cried again. He spoke into her ear in a low voice filled with conviction. “You are not to blame for this, Alexandria. John made his choices. And the duke . . . he is devastated as well, questioning his decision and torturing himself. I insisted on accompanying you to London but St. Easton has demanded I do not.”

With one hand on either side of her head, he pulled her back and directed a level stare into her eyes. “If you ever need me, I will be where you first found me—on the road to Whitehaven. Write or come and I will be there. Any day. Any time. Just find me, do you understand?”