Knowing he had no right, he bent down and kissed her cheek, and then he was gone, as silent as the sunrise.
He reached his lair in Crosswick Abbey minutes before the sun climbed above the horizon. Bolting the door behind him, he rested the back of his head against the solid wood, his skin still tingling from the promise of the sun's warmth.
Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what it had been like to walk in the light of day, to welcome the touch of the sun on his face, to bask in its warmth.
With a muttered oath, he pushed away from the door and crossed the floor. Sinking down in the huge, thronelike chair that was the room's only piece of furniture, he stared into the blackness of the hearth.
She was in pain, and she wanted to end her life. There were all kinds of pain, he thought. Sara's wasn't physical; it went much deeper than that, piercing her heart, her soul. Sweet and sensitive, she felt she was a burden to the handful of nuns who ran the Sisters of Eternal Mercy Orphanage.
His heart ached for her. She had been born to wealthy parents, but from the day of her birth, the Duncan family had been plagued by a constant stream of bad luck. Two ships belonging to the fleet owned by her father were lost at sea; a fire destroyed a part of their home. In the following year, Adalaina Duncan gave birth to a stillborn son. Shortly after Sara's third birthday, her father was killed in a carriage accident. Only then did his wife learn that he had gambled away not only their fortune, but the shipping line as well. His creditors, previously kept at bay by his good name and his fervent promises to make good on his many outstanding notes, had foreclosed on the family estate. Sara's mother, stricken by her husband's death and the loss of her home, had abandoned her daughter, never to be seen again.
It was no wonder Sara was bitter, he mused. Perhaps he should have told her that she was the single ray of sunshine in his own miserable existence, that her life had purpose, even if it was only to bring light into one man's world of darkness.
But he couldn't tell her that. Much as he longed to give her comfort, he couldn't give her hope when he had none to give.
He felt the sun rising, felt the faint lethargy that came with the dawn, a lassitude that grew ever stronger until it rendered him powerless. When he'd first been made, centuries ago, he had been unable to withstand the overpowering weakness that had come with daylight. Drained of his strength, he had been forced to seek total darkness during the daylight hours, to sleep the restorative sleep of the undead. But as he got older, and stronger, he found that he was able to take his rest later in the day, to rise earlier at night, though the touch of the sunlight still meant death. He feared the touch of the sun, the agony of a fiery death, as he feared nothing else.
Those early days had been filled with confusion and frustration. The lust for blood had filled him with self-loathing, yet he had been unable to resist the urge to drink, and drink, and drink, until he was sated with it. His hearing, sharpened to a new awareness, was bombarded with noise. The sound of thunder was deafening. Only with long practice did he learn to shut out the thoughts of others, to regain a sense of inner quiet. His eyesight was nothing short of miraculous; his strength was that of twenty men. Like a child with a new toy, he had tested the limits of his powers, his endurance. And in the testing, he had heedlessly brought pain and death to those helpless mortals who had unwittingly crossed his path.
Filled with loneliness, cut off from mankind, he had left Italy and wandered through the world, searching for a safe haven,
a
new place to call home. Gradually, he had learned to control the blood lust. He had learned it wasn't necessary to drain his prey, or take so much that life was lost. He had learned to hypnotize a victim to his side, take only enough to appease his need, and leave, with the victim never realizing what had been done. And still there were times when the urge to feed was overwhelming, when even his considerable willpower wasn't enough to keep him from taking a life.
It was not an easy burden to bear, knowing he must exist on the life's blood of others or perish, knowing he was hated and feared by all mankind.
Some accepted the Dark Gift and reveled in it, as he had. Others went mad.
He slumped down in the chair, shrouded in darkness and in his own bleak thoughts. For centuries he had prowled the earth, inflicting havoc on humanity, exulting in his immortality, content to wander aimlessly, caring for no one, letting no one care for him, until the loneliness became more than he could bear. He had accepted what he was by then, had learned to control the lust for blood, and so he had sought a mate, searched the world from end to end looking for that one woman who would see past the monster he had become to the man he had once been.
He'd had no trouble finding women. He needed no mirror to remind him that he was a virile male in his prime. His hair was long and straight, as black as his soul; his eyes were as gray as the morning mist that rose from the river. His face was pleasant enough, his lips full and sensuous; his nose, while slightly crooked, was not offensive.
He'd had women. Countless women. Beautiful women. Highborn or low, they had come to him gladly, showering him with their affection, until they discovered what he was. Some turned away in disgust, some in horror. One had fallen to her death…
He swore a vile oath at the memory. He had loved Rosalia with all the passion of youth, and she had died because of him. There had been times since then when he had grown heartily sick of the monster he'd become, times when death had beckoned sweetly.
Thirteen years ago had been such a time. He had been on the brink of destroying himself, of walking out into the sunlight to feel the sun on his face before it destroyed him. That had been the night he had seen Sara for the first time, a small, golden-haired girl huddled in the corner of an empty room.
She had been crying softly, as if she were afraid of disturbing the quiet of the night, and the sound, so filled with sorrow, had drawn him out of his own misery. The sound of her tears had led him to an elegant manor house.
She had stopped crying the instant he picked her up, staring at him through bright blue eyes filled with tears. And then she had smiled at him, a sweet, innocent smile filled with trust, and he had vowed to protect her for as long as she lived.
He had searched the rooms, looking for the child's mother, but there was no sign that anyone lived in the house. The furniture was covered; the closets were empty.
He had cursed softly, wondering who would abandon such a precious child.
He had learned later that Sara was the child of Adalaina Duncan, and that the woman had fled her home in the middle of the night. The townspeople had assumed she had taken the child with her.
Late that night, he had taken Sara to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Eternal Mercy.
When he handed her to the nuns, she had stared up at him, her little face looking sad, as if she realized she would never see him again.
He had watched over her ever since…
A long, slow sigh escaped his lips as he stared into the blackened hearth. Sara. What would he do if she tried to take her life while he slept? What would his life be like without her?
Have you come to take me to heaven
? The sound of her voice echoed in his mind, as did his own cryptic reply:
That I could never do
. Truer words had never been spoken, he thought, for he was far beyond the reach of heaven.
And is your name Gabriel
? she had asked, to which he had replied,
If you wish
.
A faint smile curved the corner of his mouth. He had lived many lives and worn many names, but none pleased him more than the one she had given him.
For this lifetime, her lifetime, he would be Gabriel.
With a sigh, Sara closed the book she had been reading. Another happily-ever-after ending, she thought despondently. If only real life, her life, would end like that. If only there were a Prince Charming waiting in her future, eager to carry her off on his prancing white charger; a tall dark handsome man who could look past the wheelchair and see the woman.
She stared at the closed veranda doors, remembering the mysterious man who had come to her in the dark of the night. A faint smile curved her lips. All day, she had thought of him, her imagination creating one fantasy after another.
He was a prince in disguise looking for his own Cinderella.
He was an eccentric nobleman searching for the perfect mate, and she was it.
He was a depraved monster from a childhood dream, and only she could save him…
A small sound of disgust erupted from her throat. No man, whether prince or monster, would ever want a woman bound to a chair. What prince would want a princess who couldn't walk? What monster could be reformed by half a woman?
Tears stung her eyes and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Lately, all she wanted to do was cry, to wallow in self-pity. She was tired of it, ashamed of it, but she couldn't seem to stop. She was almost seventeen years old. She wanted to run through a sunlit meadow, walk along tree-lined paths, swim in the pretty blue lake behind the orphanage. And more than anything, she wanted to dance.
She glanced at the beautiful little ballerina music box beside her bed. Her one dream, ever since she'd been a little girl, had been to be a dancer. It was a hope she had held close to her heart through all the years of her childhood, a hope that had grown fainter each time the doctor had changed the braces on her legs, until, in the end, they had removed the braces altogether. Any hope she had ever had for a normal future had died that day, killed by the cold, implacable realization that she would never walk. She would never be a ballerina. She would spend her whole life in a wheelchair.
She wouldn't cry! She wouldn't!
Sara choked back a sob as the door swung open and Sister Mary Josepha came in to see to her nighttime needs before tucking her into bed.
"Sleep well, child," Sister Mary Josepha said.
After making sure the bell pull was in place in case Sara Jayne needed something during the night, the nun left the room.
Sara lay in her bed, wide awake, as silence fell over the household. She was drawing the covers up to her chin when she saw a shadow move across the gauzy curtains that covered the veranda doors.
"Gabriel?" She peered into the darkness. "Gabriel?" She called his name again, the cry echoing in the lonely corridors of her heart. "If you're there, please come in."
She held her breath, waiting, hoping, and then the doors swung open, revealing a dark figure silhouetted by the moonlight.
"Gabriel."
"Sara." He inclined his head in her direction as he stepped into the room and closed the doors behind him. "You're up late."
"I'm not tired."
"You've been crying," he remarked, his voice tinged with accusation and regret.
She shook her head. "No, I haven't."
She pulled herself into a sitting position, then lit the lamp beside the bed. "Have you been watching me again?"
Gabriel nodded. He had stood in the shadows, watching her read, watching the play of emotions on her face. It had been so easy to divine her thoughts as the story unfolded, to know that she had imagined herself as the heroine, that she yearned for the perfect fairy-tale kind of love and fulfillment that existed only in books.
"I've seen you before, haven't I?" she mused. "Before last night, I mean?" She studied his face, the deep gray eyes, the sharp planes and angles, the strong square jaw. "I remember you."
Gabriel shook his head. She couldn't remember him. It was impossible.
"You're the one who brought me to the orphanage."
"How can you possibly remember that? You were only a child."
"So it was you!" She smiled triumphantly. "How could I ever forget the face of my guardian angel?"
A muscle worked in Gabriel's jaw as guilt and self-loathing rose up within him. He was an angel, all right, he thought bitterly, the angel of death.
"And you've been watching over me ever since? Why?"
Why, indeed? he thought. He couldn't tell her she represented everything he had lost, that her innocence drew him like a light in the darkness, that he had watched her grow from a beautiful child into a beautiful woman, and that his lust had grown with her. No, never that! He shoved his hands into his pockets and curled them into tight fists. She must never know that.
"Why?" He forced a smile. "Curiosity, of course."
"I see," Sara said dryly. "Since you saved my life, you wanted to see how I turned out?"
"You could put it that way."
"And how have I turned out?"
"Beautifully," he murmured.
"Beautiful but useless."
"Sara!" He was at her side in a heartbeat. "Never say that. Never feel that."
"Why not? It's true. I'm no good to anyone."
"You are. You are good for me."
"Really?" she asked skeptically. "How?"
How, he thought. How could he explain what she meant to him?
"You can't think of anything, can you?"
"I have no family," Gabriel said quietly. "No close friends. After I found you, you became my family. Sometimes I pretended that you were my daughter…"
"And you left me gifts, didn't you?" Sara glanced at the ballerina on her bedside table. "You brought me presents on my birthday, and at Christmas."
Gabriel nodded.
"I always wondered why there were no cards with the gifts." She smiled up at him. "I've loved all your presents, especially the music box."
"I'm glad they pleased you,
cara
," he said, rising smoothly to his feet. "And now I must go."
"Oh." She looked away, but not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes.
"Do you wish for me to stay?"
"Yes, please."
With a sigh, he drew a chair up beside her bed and sat down. "Shall I read to you?" he asked, glancing at the book she'd been reading.
"No, I finished it. But you could tell me a story."