Authors: Annette Blair
A vicar’s trappings, a scoundrel’s soul, and no one seemed to know, save her.
He no longer fit the image of the young man she had carried in her heart. His features, familiar despite the firmness of his jaw, had been lined and bronzed by time and parish responsibilities to a mature and patrician air. His leonine mane, still an overlong tumble of sooty waves, thick and lush, bore strokes of gray at the temples. No phantasm here, but the bane of her existence in the flesh, more daunting, more vitally masculine. More a threat to her sanity than ever.
As if he could read her, Gabriel shifted his stance, on guard, watchful, yet before her eyes, a hard-won humility replaced his arrogance.
He did not do humble well, and his attempt jarred her.
He’d always been proud, even when they were children—he, the indigent son of a vicar who squandered parish funds; she, the daughter of a duke. But now, their roles had been reversed, and the duke’s daughter stood, impoverished, disowned, before the boy who’d adored her, then hated her, with all his heart, face to face for the first time in five years. “Gabriel,” she said, wishing her voice did not tremble and her body did not remember.
For his part, Gabe foolishly wondered if the sum and substance of all his dreams, good and bad, could hear the sound of his cold stone heart knocking against his ribs, bruising him to his core. “Lace,” he said, her name emerging raw and raspy.
Mortified at his self-betrayal, he cleared his throat to try again, but a shadow fell between them, cutting the anguish of the moment.
Gabe focused on the newcomer. Yves “Ivy” St. Cyr stood there beaming, his little red dog at his heels. Ivy, whose puppet wagon they’d once chased giggling down High Street. The happy vagabond grasped Gabe’s hand and pumped it, making him feel the dolt for failing to extend it. “Ivy,” Gabe said, relieved his voice worked again.
The puppet master beamed. “I see you found the surprise I brought you.”
Found it? He could not take his eyes from it.
“Yes, Gabriel,” Lacey said. “I have come home.”
As was her habit and his curse, she answered his unspoken thought. Whether her words eased or deepened his anxiety, he could not decide, but he hoped fervently that his shock and yearning were not as plainly writ on his brow for her to read.
“She’s staying with me for now,” Ivy said. “Helping with my puppet shows until she finds a place here in Arundel to live. There’
s
plent
y
of room in my wagon.”
Gabe worked to comprehend Ivy’s words and form a coherent response, while the horrible gladness burgeoning inside him begged release to the point it constricted his chest and stole his breath. He found concentration necessary to fill his lungs.
“You’ll stay at Rectory Cottage,” he said. “Both of you. More room than in that gypsy wagon.” Gabe raised a hand while Ivy prepared a token protest.
Gabe shook his head. “No argument, now.” He had always suspected that Ivy enjoyed making people as well as puppets dance, though with the best of intentions. He’d probably kept Lace as up to date on his life and failings as Ivy kept him apprised of Lacey’s unholy exile. So of course the puppeteer offered no argument to having a roof over his head and a hearth to warm himself. But Ivy did grin and wink at Lacey. “Took pity on my old bones, he did.”
And there, Gabe thought, did they not know each other almost too well?
As Lace had once commanded, Gabe bowed before her. “My lady.” Instantly, Gabe saw that his insolent use of a title was a hurtful reminder of her status before her fall from grace, and for that reason, it pierced him as well. “I apologize,” he said. “That was . . . unforgivable.”
“Yes, it was.”
She tried, and failed, to mask her distress.
Gabe watched, his heart racing as she turned to their friend. “Ivy,” she said, “I can’t stay. I’ll sleep in the wagon while I look for—No, I’ll take the morning coach back to Sussex. Staying won’t do.”
Panic rushed him. Handing Ivy the lamb, Gabe placed the flat of his hand against Lacey’s back to stop her retreat, turn her, and propel her toward the vicarage before she objected further.
Her familiar heat warmed his palm and spiraled like smoke from a chimney to surround his icy heart, causing a painful, thumping nudge in the center of his chest.
He retrieved his hand and fisted it in self-preservation as he looked about him for an answer to his dilemma.
The vicarage kitchen, friendly, welcoming, pleased him absurdly, seeing it as he was through Lacey’s eyes. But she stepped from his reach. “I won’t stay. I won’t.”
He could not let her go. Not again. Just thinking about the possibility wounded him. Like a knife had sliced him open, the thought of losing her again near left him bleeding.
To save himself, he turned and bent on his haunches to stoke the fire in the grate, chase the damp, and warm the undersized lamb.
Ivy’s pup, a German Dachshund, placed her front paws against his thigh seeking attention, its tail beating an amiable tattoo, yet Gabe could concentrate on nothing save Lacey.
Lace home, here, in his house, where he’d pictured her a hundred times. A thousand.
His Lacey. As beautiful as ever. More beautiful. His.
No, not his. Never again his. That was past.
He was a proper vicar now, staid, unemotional, his passion a vice overcome. Long-buried. Dead. Except that it was not, he had just tonight discovered.
Gabe turned to the sound of a throat being cleared, almost surprised to find Ivy standing there, exhausted, a sleepy lamb in his arms.
“It’s late; I’ll prepare your rooms,” Gabe said, rising from the hearth. “MacKenzie’s asleep.”
The lamb bleated and Gabe reached to stroke the downy-soft head against Ivy’s arm.
“She’s hungry, the wee thing,” Lace said.
“I was planning to fix a bottle.” Gabe felt stupid, overlarge, oafish beside Lace, and remembered a time that hadn’t mattered.
“Did she lose her mother?” Lace asked.
Gabe relieved Ivy of his burden, feeling more comfortable with the lamb in his arms like a shield, he thought fleetingly, but against what? “She’s a twin,” he said, “and a runt to boot. Her mother rejected her.” He stroked the fragile neck and the mite closed its eyes in ecstasy.
Obviously pierced by the memory of a mother’s rejection, Lacey nevertheless watched, transfixed, as if he
,
and only h
e
, could soothe her as well.
Hope flared in him. He saw . . . yearning . . . in her blue-green eyes. The kind that had once made him lower her to the grass and—
The fire snapped, shooting sparks into the air, breaking the taut thread of tension between them.
They both stepped back, set free by the sound.
Lace looked anywhere but at him. “I’ll fix her a bottle.”
“I’ll get you a bottle.” They spoke together, stopped together.
He gave a half-nod and set the lamb on its wobbly legs. Then he proceeded to take everything from the scullery that Lace would need to feed the mite.
Not sure what more he could say without exposing old wounds, Gabe nodded and headed out to get their bags. The click, click, click of puppy paws on the slate floor behind him assured him that Ivy and his dog followed.
Once Gabriel quit the room, Lacey nearly swooned from the effort she’d expended pretending indifference while jolted out of mind.
She glanced about her at the kitchen that had been a haven for half her life. Twenty years ago, Gabriel’s mother had taught her to make jam tarts and sew her first stitch by this very hearth.
Here, tonight, she came face to face with the stormy, soul-deep longing that led to her downfall—memories she could not classify; she had not come to terms with them after five years. In her mind, they were not wicked, though not quite righteous, either. Nevertheless, she’d brought upon her family the ultimate disgrace.
After the birth, and death, of her fatherless child, Ivy had taken her from here, where she grew up, to the Peacehaven Home for Downtrodden Women, in Newhaven on the Sussex Coast. There, she’d tried to hide. But she’d been brought back to life with a vengeance and with love, first by Jade, and then her girls—women really, who had suffered at the hands of their men. Eventually, Jade’s Marcus, too, had helped bring her back.
At Peacehaven, she’d regained her self-respect, grown strong, confident, assertive. She’d discovered, and finally accepted, that she must face her past before she could hope for a future.
This morning she’d set boldly forth, carrying heart-flags of purpose and determination, eager to brave the world she’d left behind . . . and ended trembling in a vicarage kitchen, fragile as the lamb butting her leg.
Despite herself, Lacey smiled at its antics. “What makes you think I have what you need? Do I look like your mama? Oh.” Lace placed a hand on her aching chest. The self-inflicted wound, unexpected and sharp, the more so in this place where she had brought a fatherless, stillborn babe into the world.
Determined to calm herself before Gabriel returned, she poured milk into a pan to warm as she rinsed a lambing bottle and nipple. She reminded herself that her purpose in returning stood at hand—her little cousin, Gabriel’s stepdaughter, asleep upstairs, the child she would save . . . as soon as she saved herself.
So near, yet so far. So possible, yet not. Only Gabriel stood between her and success, between joy and despair.
Some thing
s
neve
r
changed.
Lacey sat on the floor near the hearth and coaxed the lamb into her lap by tugging gently as it followed its grip on the nipple.
She was home. To face her ghosts. An entire village of them, specters who’d condemned her and turned their backs on her, called her wanton, and rightly so—Gabriel at their head, she sometimes suspected.
While his flock considered him a saint, they’d called her a sinner. About the latter, they were correct. About the former—Gabriel himself—however, they were mistaken. He was human, all too human. Flawed. No one knew that better than she.
Oddly enough, she believed she’d forgiven him a long time ago. ’Twas herself she could not seem to pardon.
Gabriel returned to the kitchen after bringing Ivy and their bags upstairs, and Lacey tried to appear composed as she sat before the fire, the greedy newborn in her lap suckling lustily.
Gabriel stopped beside her, hands behind his back, a paradox of a scoundrel, bigger than life, deadly handsome, stirring her just by looking at her.
As if he realized it, he stepped away, fixing his gaze on the old oak table with its slab of a top and legs big as tree trunks. Then he sat, confused for a moment as to what to do with his beefy hands, which he placed finally on his thighs.
“Where’s Ivy?” she asked, her dratted voice a wobbling croak.
“Fell asleep while I was showing him his room, the pup beside him. I took off his shoes and threw a blanket over them. Is he getting old, our Ivy?”
“The pup’s name is Tweenie; she’s his shadow. And he’s not as old as he is stubborn. He insisted on driving through, all the way from Newhaven. I’m sorry we arrived so late; we made a late start. Your friend Marcus Fitzalan, a knave of your club, I’ve been told, married my friend Jade today, and we stayed to celebrate. I’m glad we didn’t awaken you.”
“Marc, married? Imagine that.” To her dismay, he rose and dropped down beside her to stroke the drowsing lamb’s lanolin-soft wool.
Too close. Oh, God, he was too close. “The Duke of Ainsley and the Marquess of Andover also send their best. They said you were a holy scoundrel in school.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, the mite roused at Gabriel’s attention and suckled again as if it hadn’t eaten in a week, until it was pulling loudly on air bubbles.
Lacey tried to wrest the empty bottle from the lamb’s grip, and as she did, Gabriel’s big brown hand stroked too far and grazed her breast.
The two of them froze at the contact, gazes locked, a primitive, unnamed energy rising hot and thick between them—an intangible yet undeniable force, savage.
Lacey’s heart raced, her nipples budded, her womanhood flowered. To keep from crying out at her body’s betrayal, she bit her lip and tasted blood.
No wonder Jade’s eagerness for Marcus, Abigail’s for Marc’s brother, Garrett. Love had surrounded her, not just lust. Not like this hot rush between her and Gabriel.
Gabe’s breath left him. He struggled for air. A burning desire flared in him, molten and heavy. He’d controlled passion for years, the more so with his wife, Clara’s, staunch approval after their sorry wedding night. But a minute in Lacey’s company and passion, long-dead, reared up wild and alive.
Trapped. By weakness.
Strength lay in denying passion—a hard-won lesson for him. But around Lacey, lust overcame determination, and strength became a wisp of smoke where once had burned a zealot’s fire.
Lacey. Lace. Home. His Lace.
No, and again, no.
She used to make him call he
r
Lad
y
Lacey when he wanted to call her Lace, like the rest of her friends did, except for the day he’d come home a new-minted parson, when he’d finally called her . . . his.