[Samuel Barbara] The Black Angel(Book4You) (18 page)

She sat still and breathed the comfort of the air, closing her eyes to steady herself on the fragrance of times past. Times that were easier than these, sweeter. The mingled scents triggered memories—she and Julian and Gabriel running down a stretch of sparkling white beach, dashing in and out of the turquoise surf, the sky blue and endless above them. They'd been wild then, wild and free, and they'd all believed it would last forever.

The tight knots along her spine began to ease at these memories, and encouraged, she tossed open the mental box that contained her days there—she always imagined memories as being stored in neat trunks with careful labels on them—and let them spill into her mind.

The birds were something she'd never stopped missing. Birds with wildly colorful feathers, and musical and strident cries, birds like flying flowers. And her bedroom on the plantation, with its polished floors and gauzy curtains and the mosquito netting around the bed. An airy place.

Thoughtfully, she took out her paints and brushes, and wet the little cakes. A flash of blue, across the top of the thick paper, a triangle of bird wing, with a tipping of white.

There had been dangers, too, of course. Deadly insects lurking in hidden places, beautiful snakes with fatal teeth, poisonous creatures washing up on the sand. Even the unlikely, fantastic threat of pirates had some basis in reality.

But happiness had reigned for the children. As those gilded memories came back to her, she sketched them out in little patterns of watercolor, amusing herself with shape, soothing her tumult with repetitive motion.

At last she was calm enough to write her thoughts in her journal. It was a rigorous requirement she set—she wrote every day. She did not require herself to record details of daily events necessarily, but an emotional and sensory history.

Tynan played the hero this morning. I can't bear to put the details down just yet
—
perhaps I'll never be brave enough. We met up with Malvern's mother at the dressmaker's and
—
it was horrid. Tynan shielded me, hurried me away, would, I vow it, have slapped her himself. I admired the control he had over his anger, which boiled in his eyes, and I fear that anger would be an awesome thing to witness if he let it go. Perhaps that is why he holds so tightly to it, why one only glimpses a tail of it now and again
.

He is such a puzzle! I find myself watching him from the corner of my eye, drawn over and over and over again to something… something I can't quite grasp.

Perhaps, if I am honest, it is in part his beauty. His hair and his eyes, of course, and that aggressive and graceful arrangement of features. But also the irregularities that take him from merely beautiful to breathtaking. His nose is rather too large, and the bridge is high and a little off center. It gives the whole a much more interesting aspect.

And I like his hands, so long and lean and graceful. He uses them in conversation with a fluency that makes one think of the men of the Continent
—
it is more expansive than an Englishman would indulge
.

But there are many beautiful men. About Tynan, there is more, some internal quality that's most extraordinary. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live in his mind
—I
suspect there is, within him, a grand, wild garden, exuberantly overrun with some extravagant flower—foxglove or those tall pink things that grow on rooftops. It storms there, in his garden, for I've seen the darkness cross his eyes, sudden and fierce
—
and just as quickly spent. He is relentlessly good-humored. Even when he's wounded, he's quick to twist the moment to something wry
.

And that makes him appear to be shallow, but he is not.

He is a puzzle. And he makes me think, all too often, of what sort of landscape is my mind, my soul. I think I have been walled inside a garden of my own making these past five years, protected from without, and fearful within. In my garden, things are carefully arranged, with nothing too untidy, and nothing too bright, and the door safely locked.

I am frightened of what will happen if I fling open that door. I am afraid of the storms that could sweep me away. I am not brave enough anymore.

A
footstep on the stone floor made her hastily close the book and put down her pen. A dark head appeared over the tops of an extravagant orchid, then Gabriel came into view, carrying a single yellow rose. "I suspected I'd find you here," he said, and presented her with the flower. "May I join you?"

Adriana lifted it to her nose and smiled. "Of course. We've had little time together since your return."

He settled across from her and flung out his long legs. His breeches and stockings were immaculate, his hair tamed and combed back to a long, curly queue. As had become his habit, he stroked the tiny strip of beard on his chin and then raised those pale green eyes to her face. "Spenser said you met Malvern's mother this morning."

"Yes."

"And it did not go well."

"No."

"Riana, look at me."

She sighed and raised her head.

He took her hand in his and earnestly leaned forward. "You must not allow her to shame you." His lips quirked. "Especially not her."

Adriana smiled a little. "A case of the pot and kettle, I'm sure."

"Pot and the ashes of the fire, more like." He snorted, then shook his head. "The world is not all England, Riana. You were freed in the Islands—don't allow this world to put you in chains."

She swallowed, an ache in her chest. "But this is the world in which I must live."

"Is it?"

And in this, she was clear. "I loved the islands, Gabriel, but I cannot live there now. I am too aware of the injustice. This world may be flawed, but at least there are laws against men owning other men." She took a breath. "And I cannot leave the family."

"I know." He moved his thumb over her fingernail meditatively, his gaze fixed on something far away. "Julian bore it better than I, the separation. I was homesick every moment we were gone." He gave her a wry smile. "I'm afraid I do not have the heart of an adventurer at all."

In her mind's eye she saw him as he'd been that morning in Hyde Park, horror on his handsome face as blood seeped into Malvern's coat. She thought of his thinness now, and the hints of great trials. "Were you really taken by slavers?"

The faintest ripple of pain crossed his face and he closed his eyes. "I was."

A pain cut through her heart. "Did they hurt you?"

He tightened his hand around hers, raised his eyes. "Not anywhere that won't heal." He touched his heart. "I'm whole, where it matters."

She let go of a choking little laugh. "It certainly puts the matter of a being cut in Society into perspective!"

"Indeed." His grin was quick and wry. "But in truth, I suppose you must attempt to conquer that society. For Julian's sake."

"I tried to see him today, and the guard would not let us in." A heaviness settled low in her chest. "What can we do, Gabriel? Tynan said the spirit was against him last night in the coffeehouse."

"With them it is only the anger of the working man against the nobles. Not so much to worry about." A troubled expression crossed his brow, and his fingers went to that small strip of beard on his chin.

"But?" she prompted.

He took a breath. "But it seems there is some strong feeling about dueling. Even among those who should know better, there's talk of… making an example of Julian."

Stung, she breathed, "Oh, God."

"We won't let him hang, Adriana. That much I promise you. I've an appointment with a barrister in the morning, and have sent some of my friends out to see what they might learn about the source of this hanging mood." He clasped her hand. "You must not worry."

"You must give me something to do, Gabriel. I'll go mad if I have to sit in this house, wondering and worrying."

He seemed to consider a moment, then nodded. "I will think of something. In the meantime the guards can be bribed most days. And I'm sure Julian would welcome your letters—as many as you'd care to write."

From any other man, Adriana would have felt the words a mere balm, a way to soothe the spirits of a child. She trusted Gabriel to keep his word. "Thank you," she said. Then, determined they should not spend all their time enshrouded in gloom, she lifted her head and pasted on a smile. "What are your plans now, Gabriel? Will you take a wife and become a merchant and raise a bunch of fat children?"

"I think not," he said. "No wife or children for me. There are too many other things to claim my attentions—and no promise that any of them will ever provide me with a reliable living."

"Oh?"

"I am writing, Riana." His pale eyes were very serious. "And I am afraid I have married my cause." With a rueful lift of one heavy brow, he said lightly, "To free the slaves in all the world."

Taking her cue from his light tone, she said, "Well, it should certainly keep you busy." But she felt some sorrow that such a tender man would not take a wife. "At least I shall not be forced to share my flowers with some other wench."

He laughed. "Just so." He stood, tugging her hand. "Come, let's find ourselves some dinner. I've supports to gather, revolutions to seed."

Adriana shook her head. "I'll stay here. I must write to Phoebe."

For a moment he did not loose her hand, but gravely gazed down at her. "Are you all right, Riana?"

She smiled. "Yes."

There was doubt on his mouth, but in the end he said only, "Very well," and left her.

Tynan returned to the town house well after dark, eager to share with Adriana the course of the afternoon. He peeked into the dining room and the parlor, but she was nowhere about. Finally, the butler directed him to the conservatory. It was tucked behind the kitchen, reached only by a single, unassuming glass door off the dining room.

In the daytime it was likely a splendid place, Tynan thought, entering the close, scented dimness. Candles burned softly in one corner, and he headed in that direction, calling out her name. "Adriana? Are you here?"

She peered around a large potted palm. "Here."

"Ah, good!" Jauntily, he joined her. "I have good news."

"About Julian?"

He should have thought of that, that her first concern would be her brother. "No, I'm sorry."

"Oh." She gestured for him to join her at the small table. Across its top were scattered small, botanical watercolors, along with her brush and paints and a jug of water. She lifted one to give him room. "What is it, then?" she prompted without much interest.

"May I?" he asked, pointing to one of the paintings.

She lifted a shoulder. "I have no true talent at it, but it… occupies my thoughts."

Tynan frowned at the ennui in her manner, but picked up the drawings, several of them. The paintings were simple in form, strokes suggesting a shape, a flower, a leaf, the details suggested with subtle color graduations. "I disagree with your assessment," he said. "I like these very much."

"Thank you." There was no joy or pride in the words, and restlessly she picked up a brush and poked it in a small cake of green. Dabbing it on the paper, she said, "What is your good news?"

His senses prickled suddenly. "Have you been here all day?"

She raised her head. Nodded vaguely. "I told you it is my favorite place here. I often spend my days here."

"Have you eaten?"

A faint frown pulled her forehead. "I'm not hungry. But if you are, I can call for—"

"No." He waved the offer away. "It was not myself I was thinking of." Abruptly, he knelt in front of her. "I hope you haven't been in here brooding all day."

Her mouth tightened a little, and she picked up the brush, put it back. "Not brooding. Just thinking."

"Come," he said, "let's have the cook make us a platter of cheese and fruit, at least. Some wine, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," she insisted, and with effort met his gaze. She smiled, very falsely, as if to prove she was quite well.

He'd known her only days, and in that time she'd already shown herself to be changeable from one day to the next, one
moment
to the next. He could not say why this particular face disturbed him, called warning to his nerves, but he was a man who valued his instincts. Without thought, he stood and reached for her. "Come here, Adriana."

"What?" she said with annoyance, tugging hard against his grip on her arm. "If this is about your bloody kiss, I would much rather we wait."

There were blue shadows on the fine flesh below her eyes, faint but true, and he shook his head. "No kiss, I swear it."

Still she resisted. "What, then?"

Instead of playing this game with her, Tynan simply bent, picked her up easily, and turned to sit in the chair he'd taken her from. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, trapping her arms against her body, holding her close against his chest as she struggled. He chuckled and put his mouth close to her ear. "Please, lady, wiggle a little more. It's most… enjoyable."

She ceased immediately, and as if the fight was all she had left, her entire body went lax—legs and arms and the rigidness of her neck and shoulders. Her head fell on his shoulder. "Why are you doing this?" she said without interest.

"Comfort," he said simply, settling her more closely against him, and rubbed her arm, her back. "I wanted to do it earlier, but the street didn't seem quite the place." He tilted his head and put his cheek against her hair. "You were wounded, and I could do nothing to stop it."

"I was so humiliated," she whispered.

"Aye." He held her closer, pleased on some low level at the fit of her in his arms. Carefully, he did not allow arousal. He closed his eyes and stroked her back. She leaned against him limply, her head on his shoulder, her hands in her lap, for a long, long time, as if she had no will to act on her own.

And though he had begun in innocence, to comfort her, he was a man and she was a most desirable woman, a woman who had occupied far too many of this thoughts these past few days. He found he could not quite shut out the plumpness of her right buttock nestled against his member. He could not avoid breathing in the scent of her hair, that faint lavender scent that never failed to make him think of her fighting her body so hard on their wedding night. Against his cheek her hair was silky, and a lush breast pressed against his upper arm.