Sweet Madness: A Veiled Seduction Novel Page 10

  She kept her eyes on his as fresh tears spilled hot onto her cheeks. “No. You see, I refused to get caught up in his cycle again, so I lingered in London a few days. A sort of protest. But I didn’t want to give up on Michael. I so desperately wanted him to get help. I made a plan to confront him and force his hand, and then I set off for the country once again.” She looked down at her lap and forced the words out. “But I was too late.”

  She heard Gabriel’s swift intake of breath, knew he understood the secret she’d been carrying for so long.

  “Michael’s death was no accident, was it?” he whispered.

  She looked up at him. Let him see the truth in her eyes.

  “My God,” Gabriel said. “My cousin killed himself.”

  Chapter Seven

  Suicide.

  Gabriel knew he still sat solidly on the ottoman, yet it seemed as if the floor were falling away beneath him. He grabbed on to the sides of the stool for support, the leather cool and slick beneath his sweating palms.

  Christ. Why would his cousin purposefully take his own life? Michael had everything: wealth, title, talent, a broad set of friends and acquaintances. Gabriel’s eyes strayed to Penelope’s tear-streaked face. A perfect wife . . .

  Only madness could have driven Michael to such an extreme.

  Gabriel’s chest squeezed as he accepted the truth. The pain was swift and slicing. He hadn’t realized until this moment what Penelope’s coming here had given him—a tiny sprout of hope that he wasn’t mad, that he could be cured. The idea that she might truly be able to help him recover himself had rooted inside him without his even knowing it. But now that burgeoning sprig of optimism shriveled as if it had been watered with blood—his blood, poisoned by the madness within.

  He closed his eyes as fear turned his insides cold. Would his madness eventually drive him to such a desperate place that he might do the same as Michael had done?

  Everything in Gabriel vehemently shouted no, but his fun-loving cousin was the last person he would expect to do such a thing.

  And God knew his rational mind absented itself during his episodes, to the point where he had no memory of them even. It took but a moment to take a life, as he well knew. What was to keep him from the same fate?

  “We were told Michael’s death was an accident,” he croaked, part of him still refusing to believe. “Are you certain—”

  “He left a note,” she said quietly. “But even if he hadn’t, by the way I found him—” Pen’s eyes closed, squeezed tight against whatever she was seeing in her mind’s eye. Gabriel could practically see her force the thoughts away as her face smoothed into a blank mask. When she opened her eyes again, all emotion was gone from them. “There is no doubt.”

  She’d found her husband dead by his own hand. God. Gabriel shook his head, unable to grasp the horror of it all.

  “When I arrived in Leeds, Michael wasn’t at the house. I was told he’d gone out onto the estate alone, early that morning. The staff didn’t seem concerned. Apparently he often did that, particularly when he was in one of his creative flurries. So I unpacked my things and sorted a few household issues, but as supper approached and he still hadn’t returned, I decided to go looking for him.

  “His valet insisted on accompanying me, but I refused, thank God. I’d worked myself up, you see, to confront him about his illness, and I wanted to do that in private.

  “By the time I found him at his hunting box, it was near nightfall. I remember my stomach was in knots, both relieved to have found his horse tied outside and anxious about the confrontation to come. I stood on the stoop for what seemed like hours, marshaling my courage, but when I walked inside—” She shook her head stiffly. “Well, it was evident he’d been dead for some time—likely all day.”

  Gabriel’s stomach rolled—not because of the details she’d shared, but because of the knowledge that Pen had come upon such a scene alone. As a soldier, he’d seen death come in many horrifying forms, and he knew firsthand what damage a gunshot could do. It was awful to see under any circumstances. But at least war was some justification for ugly death. How much worse must it have been for Pen to witness, knowing that Michael had chosen to inflict it upon himself when he had everything to live for? And Penelope had been carrying this around with her since that day?

  “I don’t know how long it took me to come to my senses,” she said, “but I do remember the coldness that slid over me. How my body seemed to move of its own accord. I cleaned things up as best I could. I arranged certain items to make it seem as if he’d had an accident whilst cleaning his hunting rifle. I couldn’t”—Pen swallowed then, and he knew she was not as calm as she wanted him to believe she was—“couldn’t let Michael’s memory, or your family, be shamed. Only after I finished did I return to the house for help.”

  Gabriel could sit there no longer. He shot to his feet and walked a few feet away, settling into an agitated pace—grateful she couldn’t follow. What hell she had been through because of her husband’s madness. And she’d covered it up out of loyalty and love.

  So many things made sense now. No wonder she’d cut him out of her life after Michael’s death. Though he was dark where Michael was fair, the resemblance between them was well noted. And even if his very countenance didn’t remind her of her dead husband, her memories would have. Any that had him in them also had Michael, if not present then implied. Gabriel was surprised she’d ever been able to be in the same room with him again.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked warily.

  Gabriel shook his head, unable—or unwilling—to voice the turmoil within. So many feelings, so many fears, so many questions. Why on earth was she here now? Why was she trying to help him? After what had happened with Michael, why would she invite this madness into her life again?

  “I know this must upset you—”

  He nearly snorted. That was like saying Waterloo had been a skirmish.

  “—but I am here to help. Won’t you come back over here and sit? We can talk it through.”

  He stopped pacing and turned back to her. God, she was beautiful. She’d wiped her tears away, but her green eyes shone bright in their aftermath. Strong, resilient Pen—offering to comfort him after all she’d been through.

  He would not put her through any more of it. The fact that Michael had been mad upped the likelihood that he would eventually descend into madness, too. Penelope had witnessed more than her fair share of that. “No, Pen. I think you’ve had enough.”

  She pressed her lips together, but did not press him further. “All right,” she said, and he could hear grateful exhaustion in her voice. “Later, then,” she acquiesced, misunderstanding his meaning.

  “No.”

  She blinked up at him, her lips turning down into a frown.

  “I am humbled that you came here,” he said, the scratching in his throat making his voice hoarse. “I realize now what it must have cost you.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he didn’t allow it.

  “And I believe in you, Pen. Believe in what you are doing. I find it commendable—inspiring even—that you’ve chosen to treat battle fatigue in otherwise healthy soldiers. But I am not whole, Pen. And I can’t allow you to stay around me any longer.”

  Her chin firmed, even as hurt flickered over her lovely face. But he could not relent, for her sake.

  “Once your leg is healed, I want you to leave Vickering Place for good.”

  * * *

  Sleep refused to rescue Gabriel from his thoughts. Not that any person of normal hearing would be able to rest, what with Carter’s god-awful snores reverberating through the darkened parlor. Although he’d heard the attendant grumble that he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink while locked in with a madman, Carter now slumped in an armchair situated very near the closed bedroom door, drool dangling from one side of his mouth.

  Gabriel looked at the door for the thousandth time since Pen had retired. Pale moonlight now glinted off of the brass knob. W
as she sleeping peacefully just beyond? Gabriel thought it highly unlikely. And not simply because he doubted the wood’s ability to muffle the buzz of Carter’s sawing.

  Gabriel shifted uncomfortably on his makeshift bed. Penelope had argued fiercely at his dictate, but he’d held firm, and finally she’d given up. Not given in. He recognized the difference. Not once had she agreed to leave. No, she might have been exhausted when she’d bid him good night, her green eyes swimming with frustration, but he had no doubt she was lying in his bed, plotting her argument for tomorrow.

  He shut his eyes again, willing his mind to quiet so that he could rest. He’d need his strength to withstand her.

  A pained cry brought him bolting upright. His heart pounded in his ears as he blinked, disoriented. He listened for a long moment, but all he heard was Carter’s arrhythmic snoring. His body relaxed. He must have nodded off and dreamt the noise. God knew he’d relived the pain and misery of the battlefields many a night.

  Gabriel lay back once more, the air chill against his skin. And then the cry came again—definitely from the bedroom. Pen.

  He was to the door in seconds, his hand turning the knob. He glanced down in alarm as it made an awful squeaking, but Carter didn’t stir. Gabriel wasn’t surprised. The man slept like the dead or he’d have woken himself up ten times over. Still, he slipped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him. The last thing he wanted was to have to put up with the ill-tempered lout should he rouse.

  “Pen?” Gabriel whispered into the dark room.

  She cried out again, startling him. He rushed over to the four-poster and jerked the curtain aside, eyes scanning her as well as they could in the blackness. Pen tossed her head back and forth on the pillow, wincing in pain, though she didn’t appear to be awake.

  Her calf must be spasming. Sometimes healing muscle did that, particularly at night, when it was most relaxed. He dragged one side of the drapes wide, then ran his palms down her leg until he found her calf. His hands dove under the coverlet, his fingers seeking the knotting muscle as he began to rub.

  And yet . . . her calf didn’t bunch beneath his touch as it had this afternoon. Why had she cried out, then?

  A tiny whimper reached his ear, but it wasn’t pain he heard in it—it was fear. He knew it. Recognized it from his own experiences. She was having a nightmare.

  He let go of her leg and returned to the head of the bed. His vision had adjusted to the darkness just enough to see that she slept still, even as tears leaked from the sides of her closed eyes.

  Gabriel wiped his fingers gently across her forehead. Her skin was cool to the touch, clammy even. Empathy filled his heart. He knew the horror of dreams all too well.

  “Shhh, Pen.” He gently caressed her face, past her cheekbone to her jaw. When he reached her chin, he stopped, moving his hand back to her brow to start the soothing trek again.

  She instinctively pressed into his touch in her sleep, as if seeking comfort.

  Well, he might no longer be fit for much, but that was the one thing he could offer her—at least for tonight. Gabriel bent and slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. He lifted Pen and cradled her on his lap as he settled himself on the bed. She burrowed into the warmth of his chest, as if seeking shelter—shelter he was only too glad to give, as he was certain her bad dreams could be laid at his feet.

  If he hadn’t pressed her about Michael, she’d probably be sleeping like a babe.

  But he couldn’t take today back. Wasn’t even certain he would if he could. Knowledge was power, as they said. He wasn’t certain what he would do with the truth that his madness very well could be inherited and therefore possibly not within his control. But what he could do, tonight, was stay with Penelope so that she wasn’t alone in her nightmares, even if she never knew he was here.

  As he held her close, he gave in to the temptation to stroke her hair. He loved the texture of her riotous curls. They weren’t exactly soft, but they slid nicely over his skin. And after his fingers threaded through them, they bounced back into place, stubborn and resilient. Like Pen herself.

  God, she felt right in his arms. He couldn’t deny that thought any more than he could stanch the longing that welled up in him.

  Her chest hitched and she nestled closer, one of her arms slipping up to weave itself around his neck. As her chin tucked into the notch of his collarbone, her warm breath brushed rhythmically against his skin, sending jolts of heat through him.

  Gabriel stiffened all over. God, even in her sleep, Pen could make him harder than the walnut headboard at his back.

  He shouldn’t be here. It was both heaven and hell to have her in his arms. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, either. So he closed his eyes and just held her, as he’d imagined doing so many nights before. The darkness surrounding them only opened his senses further. His skin tingled where her sleep-warmed body molded itself into his. Her sugary citrus scent mixed with the fresh smell of rainwater that had dried in her hair, making him wish he could breathe her in for eternity.

  Gabriel shifted and opened his eyes. He decided to stare up at the canopy—he couldn’t look at Pen or he’d never be able to resist the temptation of dropping his lips to hers and tasting her sweetness.

  Rein it in, man, he scolded himself. He was just here to comfort her, to reassure her while she slept. Nothing more. He lay there and tried desperately to think of anything but what it might be like to have her, but it didn’t work. His heart beat harder and his breath came faster with each passing moment.

  Then he noticed that Pen’s breathing matched his own. He had but a moment to ponder that when she cried out, “No!”

  She came awake with a sob. It seemed to catch in her throat, becoming a hiccupping breath instead.

  He reflexively tightened his arms around her and she shrieked.

  “Shh, Pen. It is I.”

  “Gabriel?” she said, blinking against the darkness—whereas his eyes had long adjusted. Her expression was both stricken and disoriented as she tipped her face up to his.

  “Yes,” he murmured, stroking her hair once more.

  It took a few seconds for his answer to sink in, but then she whispered, “Oh, thank God!”

  Gabriel’s heart tripped as Pen wriggled in his lap. The arm that had been tucked between them snaked up to join her other around his neck as she pulled herself face-to-face with him. He groaned as her hip brushed against his hardness, but she didn’t seem to notice as she moved to her knees between his legs and framed his head between her hands.

  His breath caught and he was unable to move, unable to tear his gaze from hers as her eyes roamed over his features—almost . . . hungrily?

  “Thank God,” she murmured again, and even in the darkness, he would have sworn that her gaze dropped to his mouth.

  And he knew he wouldn’t be able to take another breath without kissing her. Without knowing once and for all the bliss he’d craved for so long.

  He leaned forward at the same moment she did, and a strange heat flared between them, spiraling up thei—

  A god-awful snore rent the air, barely muffled by the bedroom door. It was followed by a series of painful-sounding snuffs.

  Pen jerked in his arms. Hell, he startled too, crushing her to his chest protectively as his heart pounded a frantic beat.

  Penelope stiffened a scant second before she pushed herself away from him. Her eyes wide now, she scrambled off of his lap, sliding to the floor in a fluid move.

  “Oh! Ow, ow, ow,” she whispered harshly as she landed on her sore calf.

  Gabriel slid to the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor as Pen hopped away from him on one leg, like a hare that had escaped a hunter’s trap with its life but without the use of one of its lucky back feet.

  Damn it all. What kind of bounder was he? He had no place—no place at all—even contemplating what he’d almost just done. But good Christ, the way she’d looked at him. The way she’d murmured her thanksgiving that he
was there, almost as if she were grateful to find him in her bed . . . He’d been unable to think at all.

  Pen shot him a wary glance over her shoulder as she reached the vanity. She snatched a robe from atop it and donned it around her serviceable night rail. When she finally turned back to face him with a wobbly, one-footed pivot, she crossed her arms over her chest as if to add another barrier between her person and his inappropriate advances.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “You cried out,” he explained as he raked a hand through his hair, still trying to get the burning need that had yet to leave his blood under control. “More than once,” he added defensively. “I came in to make certain you were all right.”

  She didn’t say anything to that. Nor did she question how his checking on her had turned into crawling into her bed and cradling her while she slept—and had almost led to a disastrous mistake, as that near kiss surely would have been for both of them.

  Instead she took in a breath and nodded.

  He stood slowly, not wishing to make her any more nervous than she was. “You shouldn’t be stressing your calf like that,” he said as he advanced carefully. “Won’t you let me help you back into your bed?”

  She shifted on her feet instinctively and winced at the pain.

  “Come, Pen. I promise I won’t bite,” he coaxed as he reached her. He smiled when she allowed him to slip a supportive arm around her shoulders. “Though apparently I will attempt to steal kisses from you while you are sleep drugged and vulnerable,” he teased as he helped her cross to the bed once more.

  She huffed a laugh and relaxed against him, for which he was immensely grateful.

  They didn’t speak as he helped her back into the center of the bed and propped pillows behind her back. When she was comfortable, he stepped back and stood there, feeling both awkward and tense.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Again.”

  He shook his head. “Was it a nightmare?”