Redeeming Gabriel (25 page)

Her eyes filled and her soft mouth trembled. “Of course you’d say that.” She pulled away from his hands and strode into the house.

He stared at the door of the screen porch.
Oh, God, where are You now?

On an overcast afternoon two days later, Camilla stood with her family in the church cemetery, watching Pastor Lewis crumble a handful of dirt into each of the four graves before the men plied their shovels. General Forney and his staff had insisted on attending the service, lending military dignity and a sense of protection. But it was a false security. In fact, there was nothing real about this scene.

Back home in his bedroom, Jamie still lay at death’s door with Portia attending him. His body, weakened from the bout with yellow fever, had yet to shake off the damage to his lungs, and he tossed and turned with feverish mutterings. Camilla and Lady had taken turns nursing him, but she’d found herself unable to sleep even when she was in her room alone at night. Horrible images of Gabriel Laniere heaving Jamie into the boat beside her kept circling her mind until she wanted to claw them out. One more minute under the water and the pastor would have been burying Jamie as well.

As the last shovelful of dirt fell, she backed out of the family circle and walked over to lean against a broad, mossy oak tree. She closed her eyes. Her legs felt like pudding.

“I’ll take you home if you want, Camilla.”

She looked up at Gabriel’s dark, somber face. Since the accident, he’d left her alone for the most part, though she often felt his concerned gaze. She wanted to shriek at him.

Instead she took a deep breath. “I’ve thought a lot about that night, Gabriel. I can’t figure out what Virgil was doing out there by the river. Did you send him to watch?”

“If I wanted a spy I wouldn’t pick someone with the mental capacity of a five-year-old. I told you I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“He said he saw you go in.” Camilla’s voice rose in spite of her determination to maintain control. “And you told me yourself you were going to destroy it.”

“I’d planned to, but I decided it would be more worthwhile to steal it.”

“I don’t believe you,” Camilla ground out. “You’ve lied to me from the beginning. Harry told me he was the one who kept you out of trouble in medical school, not the other way around, and that it was
his
research Dr. Kinch was interested in.”

Gabriel’s lips thinned. “And of course you’d believe him.”

“He didn’t want to tell me, but I made him. I could tell something was weighing on his mind last night.” Camilla gave a short laugh. “He’s afraid you’ll talk me into doing something I shouldn’t.”

“God forbid Camilla Beaumont should do anything ill-advised.” Gabriel took a step toward her.

There was a crunching sound nearby. Gabriel whirled, and Camilla sidestepped to see around the tree.

“There you are, Camilla!” Fanny Chambliss stood there, huffing as if out of breath. “Mother sent me to look for you.”

Camilla glanced at Gabriel. “What is it?”

Fanny patted her bosom. “We decided we should get up a set of tableaux—in memory of the men who died. I know they’d not want us to pine away.”

“Go ahead, if you want to.” Camilla lifted a shoulder.

“Oh, but we—Mother and I—think you should participate, as well. After all, you can’t be that busy.”

“Fanny, I don’t think—”

“Reverend Leland, tell her what a grand idea it is! People will be so overcome by sympathy for Camilla that—Oh my, we’re bound to raise lots of money for the war effort.”

Gabriel frowned.

“Besides,” Fanny continued hastily, “if you take part, General Forney will lend his support. Wouldn’t it be grand to have soldiers in a scene or two?”

Camilla closed her eyes, unutterably exhausted. She just wanted Fanny to leave her alone. “Oh, all right,” she muttered, turning away.

Fanny caught her arm. “But perhaps you should try some tincture of rose water to put some color in your cheeks. You’re looking a mite peaked.”

Camilla stood before the pier-glass mirror in the foyer, vigorously rubbing her cheeks. She wished she had some of Delia Matthews’s rouge so the hectic color now blooming would stay put all night. She wore her favorite mint-colored dress, but she still felt as if she were slogging through an anxious fog.

Behind her she heard footsteps bounding down the stairs and a whistle that sounded like Jamie’s. She turned with a catch of her heart.

It was Schuyler, jerking at his cravat. “Hullo, Milla, let me at the mirror, would you?” He elbowed Camilla aside and craned his neck, examining a nick on his Adam’s apple.

“You look very handsome.” He’d grown older somehow in the week since Jamie’s accident, his gaunt, coltish features seeming to have hardened and sharpened toward manhood. He’d just celebrated his fifteenth birthday.

“Thanks.” His grin in the mirror turned sly. “You look slick yourself. Don’t you wish old Harry could go to the party with you?”

She frowned. “Harry can’t show his face outside the house, and if you tell anybody he’s here—”

“It’s common knowledge we’ve taken in a stray convalescent—with the general’s blessing.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, Lady’s made sure nobody knows he’s a relative.” He grimaced. “Who’d contradict her?”

“I hope you’re right. Come here.” Camilla turned her brother and tugged his cravat straight. “Maybe you should check on the carriage.”

“All right. Hope the Chamblisses have oysters.” He jerked open the front door.

Camilla had told Harry she’d say goodbye before she left. It seemed ridiculous to attend any sort of celebration while Jamie was so sick, but Lady had insisted she needed to get out of the house, that she herself would attend Jamie.

She found Gabriel in the kitchen, sitting in a chair tipped back on two legs, feet propped on the end of Harry’s cot. He was warbling on a harmonica as Harry finished off a supper of peas and corn bread.

Gabriel turned to see what had caused Harry’s sudden grin. His lids drooped as he surveyed her full hooped skirts, low neckline and neatly coiffed hair. “Well,” he drawled, “if it isn’t Princess Camilla herself, come down to commingle with the peasants.”

Camilla smiled at Harry. “Call Portia if you need anything while I’m gone. How’re you feeling?”

“Much better, sweetheart, now that my appetite’s back.” Harry rubbed his still-lean middle.

Gabriel’s chair hit the floor as he surged to his feet. “He’ll be out of here in no time. See you later, old man—have to go dance with the flowers of the Confederacy.” He whacked Harry on the shoulder, then took a step toward Camilla. He looked as solid and ungiving as a stone wall. And beautiful in the way of a dark angel.

She sidestepped. Gabriel followed, blocking the doorway. Planting her fists on her hips, Camilla leaned to see around him. “Harry, I’ll look in on you when I get home tonight.”

“I’ll be looking forward—”

Gabriel turned Camilla and propelled her out on the dark screen porch. He pressed her against the wall, flattening her hoops, framing her face with his hands. She felt his breath on her mouth, smelled the clean scent of his linen, heard the singing of the mosquitoes beyond the screen.

“I can’t watch you do that,” Gabriel muttered. “Every day he stays, it gets more dangerous—”

“More dangerous than having a spy living in my house? At least Harry came in wearing a uniform.” She grabbed his wrists. “You don’t want anybody stepping in on your territory.”

“Maybe.” His voice came closer. “You said you’d marry me, Camilla.”

“You know that was just a—”

He cut off her words, his mouth fierce against hers. Within seconds she was angrily kissing him back. They broke apart, panting, and Gabriel set his forehead against hers. “See?”

Sweetness still speared through her. “I don’t see anything. All I know is we both have responsibilities that don’t include…well, what just happened.”

“What’s wrong with what just happened? Why not take whatever pleasure comes in the middle of this nightmare?”

“If that’s what you want—pleasure for the moment—then go find Delia Matthews.”

“I don’t want Delia.”

“Why, Gabriel?” She closed her eyed. “Why do you want me? Sometimes I think you don’t even like me—and I know you don’t like my family or anything they stand for! Please explain it to me.”

“I can’t explain it. You’re the last person I ever thought—” Gabriel’s voice splintered. “There’s something—I don’t know, shining about you that draws me, and—all
I
know is, I love you and I want you.”

The raw emotion in his voice nearly undid her. “Here’s what I want, just in case you care. I want a godly husband who’ll love me and give me children and stay with me the rest of our lives.”

“You know there aren’t any guarantees in wartime.”

“I don’t have to have guarantees, but I do want commitment.”

“And you think Harry Martin is going to give you that?”

“He already has. We’ve been betrothed since we were children.”

“I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to marry one man when you’re in love with someone else.”

“Oh! You conceited, self-absorbed—”

“I know, I know. That didn’t come out like I meant it.” He took a breath, his hold gentling. “I told you I love you, Camilla. I mean it. And I did what you asked. I gave my life to God.”

“You’re just saying that to make me—make me believe you’re different.”

“You know better than that. I’d never lie to you.”

There was something frightening in his tone. Something like truth. But she was afraid to trust it. She’d trusted too much already. “Let me go.”

He released her and stepped back. “What do I have to do to prove it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just too much…” Camilla blinked away tears of confusion and rushed into the kitchen. “Schuyler, let’s go!”

She heard the outside screen door slam hard. Gabriel was gone.

Chapter Twenty

A
t a discreet scratch on the door, Lady looked up from her journal. “Come.” She hastily wiped her pen and put the book away.

Portia entered the room. Her dark brown eyes met Lady’s with mutual trust and respect. “Ma’am.”

“Are the children off to the party?”

“Yes. Heard some mighty loud fussin’ out on the screen porch right before Camilla and Schuyler left.”

“Indeed?”

Portia grinned a little. “I expect Reverend Leland got his ears boxed.”

“Keep an eye on them, Portia. I don’t want things getting out of hand.”

“You know I will. But here’s what I come to tell you.” Tension sharpened Portia’s voice. “Willie’s been watching Mr. Zeke. He and Beckham Chambliss and that no-account Diron Laniere have pulled the fish boat out of the river, pumped the water out of it and started working on it again. They talking about moving it out of Mobile.”

Lady closed her eyes briefly. “That machine already killed four men and nearly took my grandson. I cannot understand Ezekiel’s fascination…” She drew a deep breath. “Does the general know?”

“I think he’s looking the other way. Seems that boat’s just as important to him as catching the spy.” Portia tipped her beautiful, regal head. “Something else. Don’t it strike you a mite odd the Rebs are so easy about Mr. Harry being here?”

Lady frowned. “The general is a kind man. He appreciates family loyalty.”

“But he ain’t stupid. And he’s visited Mr. Harry himself a time or two. Late at night.”

“What are you saying? You think Forney’s trying to force Harry to turn coat?”

Portia folded her lips together. “This might be a chicken don’t need no turning.”

Lady returned her old friend’s grim look. It had never occurred to her to distrust Harry, though she of all people knew how deceiving appearances could be. “I’ve got to talk to him.”

“I thought you would.”

“Watch him, Portia. I’ll be down later.”

Gabriel expelled a cloud of cigar smoke. From the darkness of the terrace outside the Chamblisses’ grand ballroom he watched the company inside laughing and chattering as they enjoyed an array of expensive hors d’oeuvres. Earlier, he’d applauded the stultifyingly insipid tableaux celebrating the beauty and patriotism of the South’s young women, the gallantry of its young men. As soon as it was over, he’d stepped outside for a smoke.

Somehow he had to find out what had caused the torpedo boat to sink and what had happened to it since the night of the accident—and not just for Camilla’s sake. If they were that determined to get the thing running, they were desperate. Farragut would want to know.

The closest source of information at this point was Camilla’s father. Uncle Diron had disappeared sometime during the past two weeks since. Gabriel had ridden down to the river shack and found it deserted. Ajax had greeted him with undisguised hero worship and insisted on following him back to town. Feeling sorry for the abandoned hound, Gabriel had lifted him onto the saddle and carried him, dangling like a carcass, all the way home.

He supposed he shouldn’t call the Beaumont mansion
home.
Truth was, he’d begun to enjoy verbally fencing with the old lady, sharing a smoke with Ezekiel after dinner, playing billiards with Schuyler. He’d even managed a time or two to coax a gleam of amusement into Portia’s disapproving dark eyes by filching her angel biscuits between meals.

Through the window now, he watched Camilla flirting her eyes at that second lieutenant who always seemed to be around lately. The hardest thing about staying in the Beaumont house was hearing Camilla’s voice every day, watching her nurse Harry and her brother back to health, sensing her anger with him.

Harry calling her
sweetheart
tonight had taken him beyond objectivity where she was concerned. Or maybe he’d been past it for a long time. Stupid to blurt out his love for her, his conversion experience, in that awkward way. He could only dream about coming back after the war to see if he still had a chance. Maybe he could even offer that commitment she wanted so badly.

He studied the glowing tip of his cigar, smiling.

Marriage for Gabriel Laniere. Maybe humility was a good thing.