“You presume much, Reverend,” he said, his voice low and cutting. “You presume to pass judgment upon my wife—my countess—and upon me. That is arrogance enough to make even heaven blush.”
“I speak the truth,” Mullins returned, his tone hardening. “The people here will never respect a man who has taken a witch to wife. You will find no peace, no loyalty—only contempt. You have yoked yourself to wickedness, and she will drag you down with her.”
Gabriel took a step forward. “You would do well to remember, sir, that it ismy estatethat keeps this parish from ruin. The roof over your church, the salary that keeps you in your pulpit, the coin that fills your collection box—they all come from my coffers. So while you may owe your allegiance to God, you owe your position to my forbearance. I would caution you not to test the limits of it.”
For an instant, the Reverend’s mask slipped, revealing something cold and venomous beneath the piety. “Threats ill become a man already cursed.”
Gabriel’s hand clenched at his side. “And hypocrisy ill becomes a man of God. Good day, Reverend.”
Mullins’s mouth thinned, but he inclined his head with mock civility. “I pray you find repentance before it is too late.”
He turned sharply and strode away, his black coat flaring behind him like the wings of a carrion bird. Gabriel watched him go, fury simmering hot beneath his composure.
He remained there for several minutes after the man disappeared, the chill air doing little to cool his temper. He had expected whispers, of course, but not open insult. Not from a man who owed his very livelihood to Ravenswood.
When at last he could trust himself to speak without shouting, he sent a footman to inform Eliza that he would walk for a short while before they departed. He needed solitude—space enough to master the anger that threatened to undo him.
Eliza leftthe dressmaker’s shop a short while later, after having selected several new gowns at Gabriel’s urging. The morning had passed in a flurry of measurements and fittings. It had been sometime since she’d had a new dress and her vanity was such that she was grateful for her husband’s insistence that she should have gowns befitting her new station. The thought should have pleased her. Instead, she felt a wariness, as if something terrible were about to happen.
As she stepped into the street, she caught the sound of raised voices near the blacksmith’s yard. The deep, measured tone was Gabriel’s. The other—cold, sharp, unmistakably disdainful—belonged to Reverend Mullins. She lingered in the shadow of a doorway, her heart twisting as she listened.
“…will never hold respect in this parish so long as she is your wife…”
The words struck like stones. She did not wait to hear more. Turning away, she moved quickly up the street, her eyes burning. Of course the Reverend disapproved. Many did. He’d always been quite vocal in his disdain for them. But hearing the condemnation so plainly—knowing Gabriel had to bear it because of her—was more than she could stand.
By the time she reached the inn, tears blurred her vision. She told herself she would not cry, that she had known such trials would come. Yet the thought of him suffering for her sake made her chest ache.
She was crossing the narrow alley beside the building when a sound behind her—a scuff of boots on cobblestone—made her pause. Before she could turn, a hand seized her arm. Another clamped over her mouth. She was wrenched backward, dragged into the shadowed passage between the inn and the church.
Panic surged through her. She fought to twist free, but the grip was iron.
“Be still,” a low voice hissed near her ear.
Her eyes widened as she recognized it. The familiarity was like ice in her veins.
“You!” she gasped when the hand shifted enough to let her speak.
“Indeed,” the abductor said, the words almost pleasant. “I see no reason to continue hiding my identity… not when you will not live to tell a single soul.”
“You’re entirely mad! Gabriel will never stand for this!”
The man smiled. “No, indeed he will not. That’s rather the point. You’ll both pay the price… for taking what is rightfully mine.”
Eliza started to scream, but then he seized her throat, squeezing just tightly enough that the world tilted, darkness crowding the edges of her vision. The last thing she saw before the shadow swallowed her was the cold glint in her captor’s eyes.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
By the time Gabriel returned to the inn, his temper had cooled, but unease had taken its place. The common room was quiet save for the clatter of crockery and the low murmur of conversation. He had expected to find Eliza there, perhaps taking tea or reading by the window. But she was nowhere in sight.
He checked the parlor first, then the dining room. Both stood empty. When he asked the innkeeper’s wife if Lady Blackburn had returned, she shook her head in mild surprise. “No, my lord. She hasn’t been seen since she left earlier today with you.”
What had been a frisson of unease bloomed into a cascade of worry.
Gabriel thanked her curtly and left before she could press him further. He strode into the street, his pulse hammering. It was not like Eliza to wander without word. She was cautious to a fault. If she had not returned, something was wrong.
The dressmaker’s shop lay at the far end of the square, its window draped with silks and ribbons. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, startling the seamstress where she bent over her work.
