Finding Gabriel (32 page)

“What? Enough for me? Gabriel, you are
everything
.” She lightly scoffed and shook her head. “Have you forgotten? I am also broken. And yet when I’m in your arms, I feel complete and unafraid.”

It was all the encouragement he needed. He slowly parted her velvet folds and slid inside her body. Then, in a fluid motion, they were united as one.

Now, tomorrow, and always.

She clung to his back, holding onto him like a lifeline, and Gabriel knew he would cease to exist apart from her. He maneuvered in and out of her slick walls, allowing her to grow accustomed to the sensation. Then he increased his speed and pressure with a hoarse grunt of effort. With each thrust, her body gripped onto his own in an unyielding clasp, forcing them back as one. Gabriel curled his face against her neck and held her tight. Their heartbeats slammed together, connecting their spirits in a profound and inseparable way.

Gabriel felt jolts of pleasure overcome every pore, every nerve, every fiber of her being. She shivered and quaked beneath him. Joining in her release, he sheathed himself deep inside her body and threw his head back with a wild roar. Climax conquered him in a sweet, sweeping rush. Pulse racing, he held her soundly against his chest and abandoned himself to the perfect feeling of oneness.

As the stars shifted and twinkled overheard, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, hearts and bodies still entwined.

And yet when I’m in your arms, I feel complete and unafraid.

Truer words were never spoken.

Luminous shades of orange and red set the horizon ablaze while the sun made its sluggish descent. Despite the late hour, a vibrant energy permeated the air. Paris’s walkways buzzed with excitement, overlapping chatter, and hurried movement. Geoffrey paced through the congested boulevard and wiped the sweat from his brow. When he lowered his hand, dirt, perspiration, and blood saturated his callused knuckles. Indeed, he’d spent the entire day slaughtering cattle, and his unsavory appearance showed it well.

Clashing odors assaulted him as he advanced through the bustling shops: fresh-cut blooms, cigar smoke, and exotic perfumes from distant lands he’d never hope to see. Dazed and lightheaded, he adjusted his satchel and observed the surrounding commotion. The atmosphere was a melting pot of curses and sporadic cheers. Immersed in heated conversations, men, women, and children passed newspapers back and forth. An image of Napoleon Bonaparte perched on a magnificent white horse graced his vision. God’s teeth, what the hell had happened? Frustration streamed through Geoffrey’s veins as he fought to decipher the letters. Damn it all. It was no use. He eased the satchel’s grip and lowered it to the cracked cobblestones. Then he observed the manic hustle and bustle, struggling to make sense of the excitement.

A pair of gendarmes caught Geoffrey’s eye. Their navy, scarlet, and yellow uniforms stuck out like a sore thumb. He crossed the wide boulevard, and a hackney cab nearly ran him into the pavement. Cursing the driver, Geoffrey staggered over to the gendarmes and hastily yelled out, “Messieurs – what’s all the excitement ’bout? Christ’s teeth, what’s happened here?”

Smiling grimly, one of the gendarmes adjusted his curved hat and turned to Geoffrey. Unmasked disdain glimmered in his narrowed eyes as he took in Geoffrey’s bloodied, moth-eaten coat. “Couldn’t read the morning’s headlines, I reckon?” The gendarme gave a bark of laughter and slid a telling glance at his companion. Pulsating with hostility – angry with the world at large – Geoffrey fought to stand a little straighter and refused to incline his chin. “The emperor has escaped Elba,” the gendarme finally muttered, throwing Geoffrey a pointed glare. “He’s marching on Paris now.”

•

The news of Napoleon’s escape spread through Paris like a wildfire. Louis XVII had demanded that it was every soldier’s duty to shoot the false emperor on sight – and he ordered his commanders to bring Napoleon to the Tuileries Palace in an iron cage.

But things hadn’t gone according to plan.

Near the village of Laffrey, the government troops held Napoleon and his band of followers at musket point. Graceful and decisive, the emperor approached the king’s army and allowed his words to float through the narrow passageway: “If there stands a soldier among you who would kill his emperor, let him do so. Step forward and make your mark.” He surged in front of his Grande Armée, planting his body within easy firing range. Sweeping open his greatcoat, he welcomed the shots. It was a majestic gesture and a testament to his unwavering self-faith. Then his voice escalated to a resounding shout, as clear and as powerful as Notre Dame’s eternal bells. “Soldiers, I am your loyal emperor! Know me, stand at my side! I have come to restore us to victory. We have bled enough! Let the people unite beneath my wing once more.
Vive la France!
”

The troops ignored their general’s order to shoot; instead, the six thousand men broke into tears, tore away their royalist cockades, and echoed the emperor’s cry in a unified voice:
“Vive l’empereur! Vive l’empereur! Vive l’empereur!”
Many of the soldiers withdrew their old tricolor cockades, which had been hidden inside their caps ever since Napoleon’s exile. Weeping, Louis XVII’s army encircled their hero in a protective ring. They reached out to touch their leader as if he were the second coming of Christ. The general bent the knee, bowed his head, and offered his sword to Napoleon. He mutely resigned to his fate – prepared for his sure execution. Instead, the emperor pulled the general onto his feet and embraced him.

A week later, Paris’s cloistered walkways buzzed with movement: the resounding clap of hooves, creaking carriage wheels, and excited chatter consummated in a cacophonous drone. It appeared Napoleon wouldn’t be returning to the Tuileries Palace in an iron cage after all; instead, he was marching on Paris with an army a hundred thousand strong. Tails tucked between their legs, Louis XVII and his men had fled the palace in a panic. Now commotion flooded the streets, mixed cries echoed from the rooftops, and everyone awaited the emperor’s homecoming.

Everyone except Colonel de Laurent. For Gabriel, the war was nothing greater than a distant memory. All that existed now was Ariah, Emmaline, and Miriam.

Ignoring the surrounding excitement, Gabriel relaxed at the end of a small rowboat as it crept down the River Seine. Gabriella stirred in sleep, her tiny body draped across his lap. For the first time, Gabriel wore no bandage in public. The disfigurement drew stares and whispered gossip aplenty – and Gabriel paid little heed.

His raven hair danced freely in the wind’s breath and skimmed the expanse of his shoulders. Condensation curled the dark tips and sparkled like teardrops, dampening the forelock to his brow. His cotton dress shirt fluttered in the breeze, whipping with the audacity of a high-flying flag. A sense of relief filled his mind and body. He reveled beneath the sun’s warm caress … inhaled the crisp, cool air, welcoming it inside his lungs.

He’d never felt more content or free.

Emmaline sat at the head of the rowboat, fishing pole in hand and a wide smile stretched across her lips. Gabriel had planned this outing several days ago. He’d woken Emmaline a few minutes before dawn broke, packed a basket of food, left Ariah and Miriam a note, and paid a fisherman a generous amount of francs for the use of his rowboat.

Gabriel had spent the last several hours demonstrating how to angle the pole just right. Clever and determined, Emmaline had caught on quickly, absorbing every word. And after reeling in her first catch, his heart had warmed at the eagerness in her eyes.

“I did it! I really, truly did it, monsieur!” she’d exclaimed, simultaneously displaying her fish. That bright blue gaze, so much like her mother’s, widened to impossible limits. Gabriel’s heart stirred as he thought of Ariah.

His Ariah.

A rather sorry-looking salmon dangled from the line. It wriggled in midair as Emmaline proudly examined her prize and held it against the afternoon light.

“Ah, yes. Very good,
chérie
. You are quite the little student. And he’s a real beauty.” Gabriel steadied the salmon with two fingers. “Here – allow me.” Not wanting Emmaline to harm herself, he swiftly dislodged the curved hook. Emmaline winced. Registering the dismay in her eyes, he grinned and tossed the salmon back into the river. It slid beneath the glassy surface and darted off to freedom.

His thoughts darkened while the boat passed beneath a stone bridge. The sun was momentarily blotted out, and a responding chill whirled through his veins. This is where Ariah had found him – lying beside the Seine River, lost in despair, far more dead than alive. It was where he’d attempted to end his life – and, ironically, it was where he was reborn.

Gabriel sighed and gazed at the gilded horizon. Shafts of light reflected across the polished surface and set the water aglow. Numerous barges and boats passed by as they made their daily rounds, each one brimming with hay, corn, wood, wine, and various other commodities.

The afternoon would soon melt into the evening – and Gabriel missed Ariah with an alarming ache. He stirred the puppy awake with a gentle pat. She woke with a yawn and stretched her tiny legs. The rowboat erratically teetered as Gabriel climbed to his feet, brushed off his linen shirt, and approached Emmaline. The puppy clung to his heels at every step, wide-eyed and utterly trusting.

Gabriel knelt beside Emmaline, placed a hand on her back, and gazed at the Seine’s sparkling water. His reflection stared up at him – half-deformed and twisted. And yet contentment settled in his entire being.

“Any luck,
chérie
?” he asked, removing his hand from her back.

Shaking her head, Emmaline lowered the fishing pole and turned toward his voice. An unyielding smile was plastered to her lips. She lunged forward in an unexpected movement and threw her arms around his neck. Despite her tiny form, Gabriel nearly had the wind knocked from his lungs, so affected he was by the gesture. Emmaline giggled and nuzzled against his chest for several moments. Then she stepped back and awarded his chin a massive kiss.

Fighting back emotion, Gabriel cleared his throat and collected the wooden oar. “I suppose it’s about time we head back, eh?”

Emmaline nodded. Then she plopped onto her bottom and reeled the puppy into her arms. Her eyelids grew heavy and gradually drew shut. “Thank you, monsieur,” she whispered. “This has been the greatest day ever. I shall never, ever forget it!”

Gabriel felt a smile curve his lips and warmth spread through his body. “Neither shall I.” The oar sliced through the surface in repetitive strokes, driving the rowboat toward its destination. Indeed, Gabriel de Laurent was eager to return
home
.

•

Gabriel slowed his steps as the house came into sight. A premonition bloomed inside his gut. Every one of his soldier’s instincts stood at full attention. A sense of foreboding saturated the atmosphere. The air felt ominous and heavy with tension. Even the wind held its breath.

Emmaline, however, remained oblivious to the thickening mood. Brimming with youthful impatience, she tugged on his hand and urged him to keep up pace. When he remained rooted to the spot, she peered at him with inquisitive eyes.

“What is it? Somethin’ the matter, Monsieur Gabriel?”

“
Non
, not at all. Why don’t you go on ahead,
ma chérie
? I shall be right behind you.”

Emmaline nodded and released his hand. Hiking up her skirts, she raced down the remainder of the walkway, the puppy at her heels.

Gabriel ran his fingers through his hair while the feeling of unease mounted. Then the wooden door swung open – revealing Ariah’s chalk-white expression. Her eyes were vacant and glassy, rid of their customary light.

Alas, she appeared to have seen a ghost.

Ariah locked onto his gaze, unblinking and unmoving. Time stood still. A thousand unspoken words transpired between them … words as concrete as they very air they breathed. She looked as beautiful as a porcelain statue – cold, unreadable, and timeless.

The puppy released a loud yip, sufficiently yanking Ariah from her inward haze. She offered Gabriel a dejected smile before returning to the drawing room.

Then his heart plummeted as Emmaline’s voice, so energetic and bursting with enthusiasm, graced his ears: “Papa! Oh, Papa, how I missed you!”

Her husband had returned home. Ariah should have been positively ecstatic at the revelation. Instead, she felt as though her heart and future had been torn asunder.

Streams of guilt coiled around her gut and blackened her insides. The complexity of her emotions jarred her. She was beyond happy to see Jacques alive and well, of course – yet a sense of doom fogged her thoughts and caused her heart to ache. A little more than a month ago, she would have crumpled into a heap of tears at the very sight of him. He’d once represented everything she’d come to value most: dependability, security, and ritual.

But everything had changed since that time. And this reunion could only lead to an inevitable goodbye.

Ariah paced the drawing room as her heart banged against her ribs. Despair closed around her heart like a steel fist. She felt entombed – unable to breathe and with nowhere to turn.

Jacques reclined in the rocking chair, a walking stick positioned across his lap. When she’d seen him minutes before, the first thing she’d noticed was his severe limp. Firelight danced across those windswept features and reflected in his haunted stare. In both spirit and form, he appeared quite darker. Indeed, the entire weight of the war seemed to have fallen on his shoulders.

Thick, straight hair still skimmed his collar, his eyes remained a pristine emerald … yet everything else was foreign to Ariah. When he’d embraced her, an unsettling coldness had accompanied his touch. It was as if he’d struggled to keep her at a distance. Then he’d sighed and gazed at her through thoughtful and intense eyes, a discreet smile tugging at his lips.

Yes,
she inwardly confirmed,
the war has changed him. Drastically. Maybe beyond repair.
 A thousand questions buzzed through her mind, each one more pressing than the last. Where in God’s name had he been all this time? What horrors had he endured? Why hadn’t he written in over four months? And had Gabriel lied about the knowledge of his death? Had the news of her husband’s demise been nothing more than a scheme to separate her from Jacques’s memory?

And what would Jacques say when he saw Gabriel – his former commander? Aside from their brief reunion, which had taken place only minutes before, very few words had transpired between her and Jacques.

She fought to speak, to say something –
anything
– yet her throat strangled all words. She was suffocating beneath a landslide of conflicting emotions.

Ariah apprehensively eyed her sister. Miriam leaned against the mantel in silence, confusion plainly written across her features.

Emmaline knelt beside Jacques, clatteringly happy as she held up the puppy for his appraisal. The severity of his expression softened at the sight. He reached out and trailed one of his hands over the creature’s downy coat.

“May I?” he asked, drawing the puppy from Emmaline’s grasp. She nodded and plopped down beside the rocking chair.

“Handsome little devil,” Jacques praised as he scratched the puppy’s chin. “Tell me. What is his name?”

“
Her
name is Gabriella.” Then she added with another smile, “See, Gabriel found her for me.” Before Jacques was able to question who Gabriel was, she resumed babbling, “Wherever have you been, Papa? I’ve missed you so!”

Ariah nervously stepped forward and toyed with the material of her skirts. Suddenly she felt very naked without her wedding ring. She was surprised that Emmaline had recognized Jacques so quickly – though the miniature was likely responsible for the instant connection.

“Why, he’s been away at the war,
ma petite
. You know that.”

Emmaline pursed her lips. She tilted her heart-shaped face and observed the man who sat before her as if he were a stranger. And in many ways he was.

Jacques stared off, his green eyes withdrawn and burdened with sorrow. Ariah’s heart ached with strains of pity and remorse. “I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he finally said beneath a sigh.

Then –

Ariah’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the front door creak open. Fairly holding her breath, she turned to the sound and locked eyes with Gabriel. He stood beneath the archway in stunned silence for several moments. The left side of his face was purposely out of Jacques’s view. Despite the surrounding illumination, a dark cloud seemed to have descended upon Gabriel. She understood his agony … that sudden, twisted knot of despair. A piece of her ached to sweep up her daughter, race to his side, fade into the sunset, and never again look back. But such musings were the makings of a fairy tale. Nothing more. Cold reality had finally settled in, and there was no escaping.

Just as Ariah was about to speak, Jacques’s stunned voice broke the silence.

“
Mon Dieu.
Colonel de Laurent?” he stammered, sounding very much like a little boy. He stumbled to his feet with a poorly masked groan, planted his walking stick into the planks, and limped forward. The shock was evident in his eyes. He tossed Ariah a questioning glance before regaining composure. Then he balanced on the cane and outstretched a trembling hand. “Monsieur – a surprise and an honor to see you again.”

Gabriel latched on and firmly shook his hand. “The same to you. I’d heard news of the attack shortly before returning to Paris. What a tragedy. I feared I’d lost one of my finest men.” The formal exchange was pleasant enough, but something else lurked beneath their polite words and stale handshake.

Ariah tensed. A distinct strain of darkness flashed across Jacques’s features. But it disappeared as rapidly as it had come. His face settled back into a grin – something that unnerved Ariah even more than that telling flash. Somehow, she sensed that Jacques’s contentment was only a show. And he was inwardly weeping.

Ariah shuffled over to her daughter, who’d risen to her feet since Gabriel’s entrance, and placed a hand atop her shoulder.

“Hardly. Here I stand before you, more or less in one piece.” Jacques reached down and gathered the material of his trousers. Then he gave a steady tug and exposed a wooden leg. Ariah’s heart lurched at the sight. She’d suspected as much – though seeing it for herself tore her breast in two.

“Oh, Jacques,” Miriam interjected. “You p-poor m-man.”

Emmaline jolted forward, her eyes glazed with equal parts confusion and awe. Jacques chuckled and signaled her to come closer. He drummed his fingertips against the leg’s dark surface, that haunted smile fully spread across his lips. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. Go ahead, little one, feel it.”

Ariah held Gabriel’s stare while Emmaline slid her palm across the artificial limb.

“I count myself rather lucky, mademoiselle,” Jacques said to Miriam. “Most men don’t return home at all.” Then he grinned, reverting his attention back to Emmaline. “Listen,
petite
– my new leg talks,” Jacques said as he knocked his fist against the wooden surface. “You hear that?” Golden curls bounced about as Emmaline nodded enthusiastically. “Now you try.”

Emmaline followed suit and grinned at the resounding echo. Jacques forced a smile, pinched her cheek, then struggled to return to his full height. Some of the tension seemed to fade from his features as the trouser leg slid over the wooden limb, hiding his dark secret once more. His eyes rapidly traveled between Gabriel and Ariah – and she feared that he could sense
their
dark secret. He bowed his face in a gesture of respect and addressed Gabriel.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but how did you and Ariah become acquainted?”

Emmaline piped in before Ariah could attempt an answer. Twisting blond curls between her fingers, she passionately declared, “Maman saved him. Someone hurt him and left him alone in the dark, but Maman found him.”

Gabriel turned his head so the left side of his face came into Jacques’s vision. Jacques stiffened at the sight. It was his one telltale of his discomfort, Ariah noticed; he gave no other sign of seeing anything out of the ordinary. Jacques’s chin drooped into a subtle nod of understanding. Ariah felt the breath vacate her lungs as he studied her expression. Then he glanced at Gabriel and searched his marred features for
something
.

Jacques tracked Emmaline with his gaze, absorbing the way in which she clung to Gabriel’s side. Understanding slowly dawned across his features as their eyes merged together. And in the following silence, Ariah knew exactly what he’d been searching for.

•

Ariah and Jacques lounged side by side while a deafening silence consumed them. Jacques had suggested they take a brief walk – something that would allow them much-needed alone time. Unfortunately, he’d managed to venture a meager forty meters before the prosthetic leg had taken its toll. He’d fought to mask the pain – and she’d seen through the ruse with ease. Running an unsteady hand through his hair, he’d forced a weak smile and signaled a nearby bench.

“Shall we?” he’d simply said. Fingertips loosening on his forearm, Ariah had nodded as he sank onto the wooden planks.

Now her nerves wildly spun. She fought to withstand the suffocating weight of her guilt lest it crush her. But as the moments eased by, and seconds crept into minutes, the silence grew thoughtful and almost peaceful.

Ariah seized his hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. He reciprocated her smile. And in that transient moment, he looked like his old self once more. Gentle, caring, and infinitely compassionate. She forced Gabriel from her mind and anchored her attention on the man at her side.

“When I closed my eyes, you were the last thing I saw each night,” Jacques whispered.

“Tell me, Jacques. Unburden yourself.”

Haunted by the memories, his stare turned vacant. He shook his head and inhaled a tense breath. It misted against the morning air and unfurled in tight coils. “Myself and countless other soldiers were on board only a few days before the attack. It happened so fast, Ariah … it resembled a dream. The privateers, the resounding explosions, the cries of fallen men, the splintering of wood, the searing pain … I relive those sounds and images in my nightmares, each and every night.” Tears formed in his eyes as he took a steadying breath. Then he cleared his throat and forced himself to continue. “I was discovered by a fishing boat after several days at sea. I remember lying beneath the sun, waiting patiently for death to claim me.
Dieu,
my throat was so dry, I could scarcely swallow. And when I was finally saved, it wasn’t by God’s hand – just some filthy fisherman dressed in torn rags. He dragged me into his boat and brought me to a remote town where I spent several months under a doctor’s care. I drafted letters several times, Ariah, I swear it. I wanted to tell you everything – but I was scared. Terrified. I delayed leaving, as well. I was afraid to return incomplete. And now … the only thing I fear is losing you again.”

Ariah’s heart trembled. She scooted closer to him and laid her head against his shoulder. “I, too, had drafted several letters to your regiment. But I was too frightened to send them … too frightened to hear the dark words. Instead, I prayed each morning and night for your safe return. You were always in my mind, Jacques.”
But not my heart,
she silently confessed.

She swallowed as he timidly seized her hand. The touch was simple enough yet strangely intimate. He caressed the back of her knuckles in slow, lethargic movements, drawing invisible shapes along her flesh … then he froze. Barely restrained heartache dwelled in his eyes. Ariah’s pulse doubled over. She lifted her chin and took in the sight that had shocked him into silence: her naked wedding finger.

•

Heart pounding against his ribs, Jacques sat on the edge of the mattress and vacantly glared forward. Every muscle ached. His brain throbbed, pulsating with haunted memories and anguish. Bile rose inside his throat as the room seemed to physically spin around him. His body felt numb … detached. Aside from chords of phantom pain surging through his left leg, he felt nothing. Nothing but coldness.

With a muttered curse, he grasped onto the wooden limb and massaged the ache. Then he quickly cursed his stupidity. The pain didn’t cease, of course. Much like the memories of war, it never did. Instead, the pain expanded until he sensed nothing else. Frustration mounted inside his chest. He wrenched his hand away and fisted the coarse bed cover between his fingertips. He needed an outlet for his shifting emotions. He needed to destroy something, to scream, to cry … to do
something
. And so he tugged, pulled, and twisted until a satisfying ripping sound graced his ears. Exhaling a withheld breath, his inner grief abated. Then he sighed and loosened his strangling grasp. Guilt swarmed through him as he eyed the wrecked coverlet.

His heart clenched, knotting into a steel ball. The way Ariah had looked at Gabriel …
Mon Dieu,
it was the way he’d yearned for her to see him all those years.

And she’d removed her wedding band. That ring had never left her finger. Not once in seven years.

The realization wounded him more than anything he’d experienced over the last few months … more so than the attack, the infection – everything.

Ariah had found someone she could love. He’d sensed it the moment Colonel Gabriel de Laurent had entered the home. An unspoken tension – a myriad of secrets – had infected the air. At first, Jacques had pushed the feeling aside, blaming his wounded ego and insecurities. Ariah had always been a gentle creature – surely Colonel de Laurent was far too coarse and haunted. Ariah needed gentleness and patience. A man such as Gabriel couldn’t have provided her with such things.

But the truth had emerged in her eyes.

Jacques groaned as he stumbled to his feet. Gripping the copper bedpost, he fought to gain balance. Manipulated by his trembling hand, the damned post vibrated like rattling bones. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples from the exertion.

What shame! He’d fought in countless battles, and rising to his feet caused him to break a sweat! Tears formed in his eyes as he tramped forward, the wooden leg burdening each step. It grated against the panels like a ball-and-chain. And indeed – he was a prisoner.

Jacques glared at his reflection in the vanity mirror, taking in every line of agony, the deep circles beneath his eyes, his pale complexion …