The Music Box (33 page)

Clearly, Gaby was fighting back tears. “Why didn’t anyone mention this guardianship to me? Given that it was my life being decided, didn’t I have any right to know what was being planned?”

“Yes, you did,” Bryce concurred. “But in Hermione’s defense, I must tell you that she dreaded mentioning to you the possibility of her death. She detested the thought of causing you worry or pain. That was the only reason for her silence—and mine. As for my concern for you, yes, it started out of duty. At least that’s what I tried to believe. But I was deluding myself. And after what happened tonight, I think you know that.”

A prolonged silence, as Bryce’s words found their mark and sank in.

“You do know that, don’t you, Gaby?” he pressed, his thumbs once again caressing her cheeks.

Slowly Gaby nodded, her distress receding beneath a more significant, profound truth. “Yes,” she replied softly. “I know that.”

Relief washed through Bryce in huge, restorative waves. “Until morning, then?” he murmured.

“Until morning.” A whisper of a smile touched her lips. “You have much to contemplate, barrister.”

“Indeed I do.” Bryce threaded his fingers through Gaby’s hair, savoring its silken texture against his skin. “In an area that’s totally unfamiliar to me, one that offers no texts for reference or statutes for guidance.”

“You’ll find your answers,” she assured him, that age-old wisdom shining in her eyes. “They’re hovering inside you, waiting to be savored, like the strains of a symphony. I told you, Bryce. You’re capable of far more than you realize. I know it. It’s time you did, too.”

With a rough sound, Bryce drew Gaby against him, lowering his head to seal their mouths in a brief, heated kiss. “Sweet dreams, Wonderland,” he said huskily. “I’ll be right outside your door.”

The sweet dreams were not forthcoming.

Initially it was wakefulness that precluded their occurrence.

Later it was the sleepwalking.

For over an hour after Bryce left her chamber, Gaby tossed and turned on the pillows, unable to shut her eyes, too overcome by the miraculous events that had just taken place in this very room—physical
and
emotional events that would forever change her life.

Bryce had all but said he loved her, his defenses crumbling in a rush, his thoughts and responses caught up in a turmoil whose cause she only partially understood. Something had happened inside him—a perceptible transition—the end result of which had been the unlocking of a wealth of emotion he’d never before acknowledged, much less allowed himself to feel. And his reception at Nevon Manor was only part of that transition’s cause—its culmination, Gaby suspected. Something else had incited it—an event in London, perhaps, that had caused Bryce’s confusion, the internal battle he was now fighting. And unknowingly, Gaby had intensified that battle, beckoning him into a situation that had toppled his reserves, pushed him over the edge.

Thank God.

Rolling onto her back, Gaby stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding with excitement, her thoughts leaping from one memory to another.

Her lips still tingled from Bryce’s kisses, her breasts throbbed from the erotic tugs of his mouth. Dear Lord, the way she’d felt, the way she
still
felt—was this the miracle of passion? The weak, hot, shivering sensation that had poured through her body like liquid flame, the unfamiliar but relentless need Bryce’s caresses had kindled inside her, the yearning for more that had scarcely begun yet clamored to be heard, intensified in seconds, and prevailed even now—was this the magical exhilaration reserved only for lovers?

If so, not even the most magnificent symphony could compare.

Smiling, Gaby curled up on her side, cradling the pillow in her arms. She and Bryce were each poised on an exquisite threshold: she was about to venture farther into the realm of intimacy, and Bryce was about to start believing in romantic love—if he hadn’t already.

Thank goodness morning was but a few hours away.

It was on that happy thought that Gaby drifted off, her mind saturated with images of the joy yet to come.

The ticking of the clock on the mantel signaled the passing of night—two o’clock slowly becoming three.

Bryce … Bryce … Pictures of the man she loved floated through Gaby’s dreams, then abruptly altered, shattered, and were swallowed up by a wild, deadly inferno. Fire exploded inside her head, all around her, orange flames leaping everywhere, devouring her thoughts, her body.

Mama … Papa … She struggled out of her warm cocoon, scrambled to her feet, groping about until her small hand found the music box, pressed it against her. Desperately she battled the heat, fought her way across the room. Distant voices rumbling, then raised, sharp with pain and fear, were muffled by crackling flames, swallowed up by death. With every ounce of her strength, she shoved against the door, using her nightgown to turn the hot handle, coughing as the smoke invaded her throat.

Suddenly she was outside, the sickening smell of wood mingling with something sweeter, a musky fragrance assailing her nostrils as she pushed toward the grass.
Mama! Papa!
She had to reach them. Something slammed against her, halted her progress. A towering wall that refused to relent, would not let her pass.
No. No. I have to get by. I must reach them.
She beat her fist against the wall, managing only to awaken it, cause it to battle back.

“Gaby!” Bryce’s voice came to her from a great distance, commanding her to respond. “Gaby!”

Why did he sound so urgent?

Oh, God, was he trapped as well?

“Bryce …” She struggled weakly, trying to escape the wall and locate Bryce at the same time. “I can’t … the fire … the wall—”

“Gaby, wake up.” Hard hands gripped her shoulders, shook her out of the nightmare.

The wall was Bryce.

Utterly disoriented, she responded, opening her eyes warily, awaiting the cloud of smoke that would inevitably assault them.

She saw only Bryce’s handsome, worried face.

“Bryce?”

The grim lines about his mouth relaxed as she uttered his name, and he drew her to him, wrapped a protective arm around her as he eased her through the doorway and back into her room.

“The sleepwalking …” She was still dazed, but not so dazed that she didn’t realize what had just occurred. “Oh, not again.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here.” Bryce guided her to the armchair by the window, then lowered himself onto the cushioned seat, tugged her into his lap. “You’re awake now.” He cradled her against him, stroking her back in slow, soothing motions.

Gaby began shivering, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as she burrowed into Bryce’s warmth, her music box still clutched in her hands. “They won’t go away. Those horrible memories, like scenes torn from a book.”

“Tell me about them.” Bryce’s breath ruffled the top of her hair. “Talk to me, Gaby, while the memory is still fresh. Tell me what you’re remembering.”

“You already know.”

“About the fire, yes. You’re trying to get to your parents. Describe it to me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to seal out the pain but succeeded only in resurrecting the very images, smells, and sounds she was desperate to forget. “I awaken,” she managed in a high, thin voice. “The room is hot. I hear voices—loud, frightened voices that are swallowed up by nothingness. Flames erupt around me. They’re everywhere. I grab my music box, shove my way across the shed. The door handle is hot. I use my nightgown to wrench it open. I tumble outside. Everything is enveloped in an eerie orange light. It smells peculiar—smoky and sweet all at once. I look around, see the wall of fire devouring the servants’ quarters. I run with all my might, but I can’t get to Mama and Papa, no matter how hard I try. My music box falls to the ground, but I don’t care. I just keep pushing at the wall, but it won’t let me through. I see the ground rushing at me, all brown and barren, and then … I see nothing at all.”

Bryce frowned, continuing to stroke Gaby’s back. “The voices you hear in your dream, are they coming from outside?”

“No. Inside—but not in the shed where I am. The men are trapped, though. Both of them. Neither one wants to die.”

“ ‘Men’? ‘Both of them’?” Bryce’s hand stilled. “You’re sure there are two voices, both of them belonging to men?”

Gaby’s trembling intensified. “Yes.”

With a hard swallow, Bryce continued, “They must be nearby for you to know that, as well as to perceive their fear.”

“I think so … yes. In the coal room maybe. Or the woodshed.” Gaby fought her growing panic. “I think the men were talking when I fell asleep. It’s hard to recall. But when I awaken in my dream, the crackling of the flames is the sound that dominates all others. The voices are in the background, broken and indistinct. Then abruptly they’re silent.”

“Do you recognize them?”

“I’m not sure.” Valiantly, she struggled to remember, the attempt heightening her sense of dread. “But I must have known them if they lived at Whitshire.” She twisted around, gazed up at Bryce. “Could that mean something?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Bryce fell silent, looking strained and pensive.

“Bryce, please.” Gaby jerked to an upright position, her desire to master her own destiny overshadowing her fear. “Don’t protect me the way you did with the guardianship. I won’t have it. This is my life we’re discussing. What is it you’re pondering? I need to know.”

He nodded, making no further attempts to conceal his suspicions. “I’m wondering if it’s possible you endured an even greater trauma than we all realized. I’m wondering if you actually listened as two men you knew died.”

“H
IS GRACE HAS ARRIVED
, my lady,” Chaunce announced from the drawing room doorway.

“Thank you, Chaunce,” Hermione replied absently, her worried gaze fixed on Bryce. “Please show him in.”

She and Chaunce exchanged concerned glances before the butler nodded, disappearing into the hallway.

“Bryce, what is it?” Hermione ventured, watching her nephew stare broodingly into his coffee—as he had been doing since Ruth served it ten minutes ago. “You’ve scarcely spoken a word since breakfast, and even then you were obviously keeping up a cheery front for the children. I realize how distressed you are by Mr. Delmore’s death; at first I attributed your somber mood to that and to lack of sleep. But I’m beginning to suspect it’s something more.” She leaned forward anxiously. “Is it Gaby? Was there another sleepwalking episode last night? And if so, why didn’t you mention it to me?”

Bryce lifted his head—a colossal effort given how much it ached from fatigue and tension. How odd that he should feel so distraught in some ways and so utterly at peace in others. Tired? Yes, he was tired. He’d spent the hours preceding dawn perched in the armchair in Gaby’s chambers—the only way he could be sure she would get a few hours of unbroken rest. Following their discussion, she’d been far too upset to go back to sleep—a reality that was totally unacceptable given that, after more than a week of these tormented nights, she was on the verge of physical and emotional collapse. So he’d stayed with her, vowing not to leave, murmuring quiet, soothing words until finally exhaustion won out and her eyelids closed.

He’d spent the duration of the night watching her, worrying about her, simultaneously delving inside himself as he pondered the host of issues plaguing his mind, assailing his heart.

The ultimate resolution had come along with the first rays of dawn.

“Bryce?” Hermione’s voice broke into his thoughts—and Bryce could hear the panic lacing her tone. “You’re frightening me. What is it?”

“Yes, there was another sleepwalking episode last night,” he replied, shoving aside his cup. “A bad one. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it immediately. I have a great deal on my mind this morning.”

“Tell me what—”

“Good morning. Here I am, as promised.” Thane strolled into the room, halting at once as he sensed the crackling tension around him, realized he’d interrupted something. “Forgive me,” he apologized, looking from Bryce to Hermione. “Chaunce suggested I come straight in. If you’d like, I can wait—”

“No.” Bryce rose, rubbing his jaw and gesturing for his brother to enter. “Come in. Close the door behind you. Hermione and I are discussing something that concerns you, too.”

“Very well.” Thane complied, shutting the door and leaning back against it. “Has something more happened?”

“Not with regard to Delmore, no. With regard to Gaby.” Bryce began pacing about the room. “She had a bad sleepwalking episode last night. When she tried to leave the room, I stopped her, awakened her. But instead of simply settling her back in, hoping she’d nod off, and praying the whole episode wouldn’t repeat itself an hour later, I insisted we talk immediately, while the memories were still fresh. We did. And what Gaby said disturbed me greatly.” Bryce paused, then relayed the entire conversation to Hermione and Thane. “In my opinion,” he concluded, “there’s every possibility that Gaby heard those two men die—their cries for help, their pain, Lord knows what else.”

“Dear God,” Hermione whispered.

“Thane, how many people died in that fire?” Bryce asked his brother.

“Dozens.” Thane had gone pale listening to Bryce’s theory. “The fire destroyed the entire service wing—all the structures from what was then the coach house to Whitshire’s rear entrance—all but the stables.” He swallowed. “Worst of all were the losses in the servants’ quarters. Nearly the whole staff was asleep. They hadn’t even time to react, much less escape.”

“Where was the storage shed located with respect to the servants’ quarters?”

Thane dismissed that notion with a shake of his head. “Not adjacent to it. The only room that abutted the storage shed was the coal room. On the other side of the shed were the servants’ entrance and dining hall. Their quarters followed that.”

“So the voices Gaby heard couldn’t have been coming from the staff’s quarters.” Bryce raked a hand through his hair. “Could there have been people in the coal room?”

“I suppose so. The voices could also have been coming from the staff’s dining hall. But if you’re asking if it’s possible that Gabrielle overheard lives being lost, the answer is yes. I was away at Oxford at the time, but I came home as soon as I got word of what happened. It was a tragedy—one in which dozens of people died a horrible death. And for a five-year-old to be subjected to that …” Thane paused. “It’s no wonder she can’t forget.”