Finding Gabriel (27 page)

He traced the length of her spine – up, up, up – all the way to the base of her neck. His fingers coiled around the thin shaft as his mouth moved perfectly in sync with her own. She reciprocated the age-old dance as if she’d been born to kiss him. He ached to lead her into pure ecstasy, to forever eclipse the horrors of her past with zealous pleasure. He yearned to free her, to remove those chains and show her the beauty of touch.

The feeling of absolute security, true happiness, and belonging, was undeniable. Their hearts burned with overwhelming affection. It was a relief unlike any other and difficult to ignore. Inhaling a shaky breath, he drew out of their kiss and traced crescent circles upon Ariah’s damp skin. Her cheekbones were rosy, those lips darkened to a deep and sensuous red. Defeated and at her mercy, he leaned toward her until their foreheads joined together in a hesitant touch. Wisps of breath fanned against his disfigurement, caressing him like a lover’s kiss. Heartbeat to heartbeat, they stood in mute silence for several weightless moments.

Faint rustling echoed from the back chambers. Ariah jumped slightly and turned toward the sound. Then she cleared her throat, wiped away her tears, and stepped backward.

Gabriel devoured the immaculate sight that stood before him. How very beautiful she looked, her porcelain skin glowing beneath the moonlight, her lips bruised with kisses, that sapphire gaze alive with emotion.

But Ariah’s true beauty lay within; it was her fierce spirit, determination, and kind heart that he’d fallen deeply, irrevocably in love with.

It was nights like these when Geoffrey Lucier thought of her most. He’d spent countless hours in the slaughterhouse breaking his back and spirit, only to return to an even lonelier and more tiring existence. As always, dried blood splattered the ragged material of his shirt, staining it an unforgiving red. The stench of death clung to his nostrils while shrill, bloodcurdling screams echoed in his mind. Slaughtering cattle was a rather taxing and gruesome affair. It was a new industry, commissioned by the great Napoleon in an attempt to revolutionize France.

And it was fucking dirty.

He cradled either side of his head and fought to drive the sounds away. How he craved a gentle touch and warm smile. A crackling hearth … a welcoming pair of arms to return home to …

Geoffrey shoved the tangled forelock from his gaze and swallowed a mouthful of whiskey.
Non.
He needed no one but himself. The past eight years had confirmed that inevitable truth. His mind spun as the liquid tracked down his throat in a soothing, slow burn. At the apex of his mouth, a smoldering cigar balanced between his lips. Pale smoke rings ascended from the blazing tip in tight coils and engulfed his face in dense clouds. Slamming the glass onto the table, he sank onto the stool and observed his surroundings.

God’s teeth, Café Rouge Écarlate was a fucking madhouse. Surging with annoyance, he’d left his room at the inn, searching for comfort and a proper tumble or two.

But no peace was to be found. Not on this night. A tumble or two, perhaps – but certainly no peace.

Located in the second arrondissement of Paris, Café Rouge Écarlate was a true melting pot. By day, it was a charming and quaint restaurant located on the up-and-coming Rue de la Paix. The street had been named Rue Napoléon until 1814, when it was rapidly changed by the restored monarchy. For countless decades, Café Rouge Écarlate snubbed no one and welcomed all; it attracted the highest nobles, the lowliest beggars, and those sorry wretches who were squandered somewhere between the two worlds. Indeed, within the café’s walls, it was not so uncommon for a pauper to rub shoulders with a prince.

Cigar smoke filled Geoffrey’s lungs and obscured the room in collective white clouds. From the far corner, a passionate game of commerce occupied the sole card table. Rowdy jeers, smoldering cigars, and fistfuls of sous were traded among peasants by the dozens. The reckless wages overlapped in a wild and manic flurry, each one battling to be received. In spite of himself, prickles of fear gathered along the back of Geoffrey’s neck. Oblivion hung in the air like a bad omen – and the war’s toll was nothing but an afterthought. From every direction, seductive barmaids paraded about as they served drinks to their loyal patrons. Geoffrey settled onto the rickety stool and exhaled a tired sigh. Alas, they beamed with the charms of good whores.

It’d been a number of days since he’d reaped the pleasures of a decent whore. The age-old question rose into his hazy thoughts: Should he spend his measly earnings on another stiff drink, a tumble, or lodgings?

Mind already decided, Geoffrey swiped away the beads of alcohol from his mouth. Then he drained the remaining whiskey in a single swallow and ordered fourths. As he waited, he stared into the emptied glass, barely recognizing his own reflection.

Christ’s teeth. His coat was matted, each thread covered in blood, dirt, and Lord only knew what else. The auburn waves of his hair were unkempt and weighed down with grease and muck. Week-old stubble covered his neck and chin in an ever-growing shadow. Drops of whiskey clung to the hairs and vanished into his wrinkled, blood-splattered collar. But hardest to stomach were his eyes; rid of any gleam, they were cold, insipid, and void of life.

What would sweet, orphaned Ariah think of him now? He laughed aloud at the thought.

Ah, little, wide-eyed Ari.

The barkeep slapped down a fresh glass; wasting no time, Geoffrey tossed a handful of sous in his direction and threw back the drink. Alas, he’d become every bit of the monster she’d once imagined him to be. And all the while, Ariah Boury had risen from the bowels of Paris, abandoning him to a life of cold solitude. He grimaced – regarding her memory with equal parts resentment and admiration.

Memories of that night resurfaced in broken bits and pieces. What he could recall was fragmented – though he remembered enough. Driven by desperation, he’d spirited away the only part of Ariah that he could. He’d stolen her youth – just as his mother had stolen his. Indeed, his foster parents had always beaten the story into his brain.

How his mother had abandoned him in the hospice window when he was little more than an infant. How she’d been a common whore – uneducated, unloved, and nothing better than gutter trash. Between the switch to his backside and those callous words, Geoffrey had abandoned all hope of bettering himself long, long ago …

Then she’d appeared. She’d only been twelve years old at the time – a sweet, blonde angel with impossible forget-me-not eyes. She’d reminded Geoffrey of one of those expensive, fancy dolls that are often displayed in shop windows.

But it was her story that’d left him particularly interested; unlike most of the children, she hadn’t come from a hospice’s cold walls nor emerged from Paris’s bowels.

Partial to pretty females, their stand-in parents had been gentler with Ariah – at first. But the abuse started soon enough, and from their shared torment, a delicate friendship had blossomed. Geoffrey took it upon himself to shelter Ariah from cruelty; without a doubt, the weight of the world would’ve crushed her spirit. And so, when a plate broke or something went missing at Ariah’s fair hands, Geoffrey gladly took the punishment in her stead. “I’m going to fetch the thickest branch in sight,” his foster mother would spit, “then I’ll thrash you till you can neither sit nor stand.” Eventually the beatings had taken their toll – and survival instincts had consumed Geoffrey and Ariah. They could either fight or flee.

They’d chosen to flee.

Now, nearly a decade later, Geoffrey was fighting a losing battle. Christ, he’d searched for her. He’d searched high and low, looking for any trace of the only person who’d mattered to him. Perhaps she was long dead.

Non.
He and Ariah were not so different. They were both survivors.

Unable to look upon his reflection a moment longer, Geoffrey bowed his head in disgust and smoothed a hand over his weathered features.

He would find his little Ari. Even if he had to tear the entire world apart.

•

A day had passed since Ariah’s confession.

Now a silent calm washed over the home, and all grew quiet and still. Within this moment, the world belonged to Gabriel and Ariah.

She smoothed down her skirts and paced inside the drawing room.
Am I allowing him to get too close to my heart too quickly?
With mild panic, her chest burned as she reflected on what he’d disclosed about Jacques.

Mon Dieu.
They’d known each other. And for the first time, she’d permitted herself to face the truth: Jacques hadn’t returned with the soldiers, and was most likely dead. Her heart ached for his passing, though bittersweet closure accompanied the sorrow.

She watched as Gabriel examined one of her paintings. Since his confession, their interactions had grown somewhat strained – though, with each passing moment, they were quickly finding their way back to each other. She understood the reasons for his deception – and was almost grateful for it.

His eyes ran across the canvas with genuine appreciation. A warm knot gathered inside her breast at his blatant approval. His back was straighter than an arrow, both legs meticulously parallel to one another. Tonight he wore the navy greatcoat. Provocatively draped over his back, the tail of his coat accented the tender curve to perfection. Ariah stared at him beneath her lashes, completely infatuated. Drenched in varying shades of black, his tall form camouflaged him within the dim surroundings. His breeches were deliciously snug as they framed his legs’ lean muscles. Ariah’s heart gave an uneven pitter-patter; he resembled a true commander … a man bred for the heat of battle. Her mind drifted and she recalled the feel of those strong arms encasing her body. The memory of his lips slammed against her consciousness … the mind-numbing sensation of his palm sliding up and down her spine …

He was inspiring. A flesh-and-blood enigma.

She shuffled closer, careful not to break his concentration. Her bare feet whispered against the planks and drew Gabriel’s gaze. He lowered the canvas and turned to her, that faint, crooked grin plastered to his lips. And when the disfigured side of his face seeped into vision, the illusion was not shattered. Indeed, he remained every bit as regal, commanding, and proud. His eyes scanned her body from head to toe in lazy perusal, and her skin prickled, ignited by the flagrant passion in his stare. Then she blushed, cleared her throat, and modestly crossed both arms.

Her gaze traveled to the easel and blank canvas. When had she last sketched or painted? When had she felt that thrilling jolt of inspiration flow through her veins? She rested her hand on Gabriel’s forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. Locking onto her eyes, he lowered the painting to the ground.

“Gabriel … won’t you pose for me?”

He cocked a dark brow as a grin molded his lips. “Pose for you?”

“Yes,” Ariah exclaimed, infused with excitement. She clasped both hands together with the giddiness of a schoolgirl. “Oh, let me sketch you! I haven’t so much as drawn a piece of fruit in ages – but please?”

His grin faded. Running a hand over his disfigured features, he swallowed and looked away. A tense silence expanded between them. Ariah nervously shuffled her feet. Realizing the cause for his despair, she cradled his chin and turned his face toward her own. “You’ve no reason to be ashamed. I think you are beautiful, Gabriel. Truly I do.”

In a fluid movement, he tugged her against the heat of his body. A faint gasp fled Ariah’s lips as his hands skimmed the material of her dress and he stared into the depths of her eyes. He shook his head and then gazed into the nearby flames. The embers crackled and popped as they fought for breaths.

“You are my light.”

“I thought you weren’t a romantic,” she said, unable to suppress her smile.

“Sometimes we must give people the chance to surprise us,” he replied, repeating her words from weeks ago. No mockery was in his voice; only sincerity and naked desire.

Gabriel trailed his palm over the curve of her hip … up her waist and the slope of her neck. Fingertips tangled in her curls. Ariah’s entire body fell limp at the tender ministrations. Inhaling a shaky sigh, she leaned against his muscled chest to better support her weight. Her pulse jumped to life as his fingertips glided past the hollow of her ear. Lines of fire ignited everywhere he touched. Then he brought his lips against the fine cartilage and blew. Acute desire pooled between her thighs as his breaths gently brushed against her eardrum. She allowed her eyes to drift shut, closing out everything but the sensation of Gabriel’s deft touch. His lips whisked over her lids in a featherlight caress.

Kiss me again,
her heart screamed.
Teach me not to be afraid
.

Her eyes fluttered open. With an artist’s fervor, she drank in the angular lines of his face, the uniqueness of the two halves, the sensual curve of his lip.

His brow perched into a taut bow. “You are drawing me with your mind,” he murmured, the heat of his breath fanning across her cheeks.

“The mind is where every great masterpiece begins.”

A rumble of laughter shook his broad chest. “I see. Now where do you want me, madame?”

Ariah felt her cheeks warm at the words. An undeniable challenge laced them together … a not-so-hidden innuendo that melted her insides. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and scanned the room, then crossed both arms over her chest and turned her attention back to Gabriel. His stare was intense – heated – and she fought to ignore the prickles of fear and excitement that gathered across her nape.

“Well, where do you reckon you’d feel most at ease?”

Gabriel folded both hands behind his back and scaled the room with leisurely strides. Ariah’s breath caught inside as she examined his sheer size and virility. He was indeed one of the tallest men she’d ever laid eyes on. Over the last few days, he had presented himself with an intoxicating confidence … a magnetic pull that inspired equal parts fear and desire. He strolled the length of the room as if he owned it, then rounded the corner and returned to stand before her. Each of his paces was determined and sure, brimming with authoritative power. She envisioned him marching along the battlefield, an entire regiment at his command.

She felt inspired. She felt alive. She ached with the need to create something unforgettable. Her muse sparked to life and blazed into a fierce inferno. Memorizing every bit of Gabriel de Laurent, she propped her hip against the table. The elegant, determined stride of his walk. His crooked, alluring grin. The gruff, husky melody of his quips. Eyes that would forever haunt her dreams and arouse her fantasies. Alas, he was a piece of art. And she yearned to commit this moment to eternal memory – to capture this feeling, the essence of who he was, and never let it fade into darkness again.

These inspirational feelings entwined with ones of desire, shaking Ariah to the core. The rush of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. She inhaled deeply as Gabriel completed another round, then stepped toward him.

His strong hands folded around the rocking chair, urging it in front of the hearth. He dropped into the seat and crossed one leg over the other. The breeches hugged each thigh to perfection, encasing them within a lover’s decadent touch. Eyes beaming with amusement and hunger, Gabriel tilted his head and returned her stare. The forelock slid over his mangled features, shielding them beneath a dense curtain of jet-black. Ariah swallowed, shuffled forward, and swept the wayward strands from his face. Passion darkened his eyes while he traced each of her movements. Then that enchanting gaze lowered to the swell of her breasts and held there.