Chapter 3
Edinburgh, Scotland, September 1807—eight-years ago
The paper crinkled in the twenty-three-year-old Gabriel’s hand as he reread the article in the English newssheet.
…Miss Mary Wright’s performance of Ophelia in the small country theatrical was unparalleled to that of even the brightest actresses of London. A true thespian. Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen; this young woman will soon grace the stage of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and will outshine all before her…
Gabe set the paper aside and took a swig of his ale. The hard, wooden chair on which he sat creaked as he shifted his position, though the sound was overpowered by the boisterous, drunken laughter of the other men in the dirty pub. Gabe was journeying back to his mother’s clan, though what tied him to those people anymore, he couldn’t say. His mother had died of fever two years past, along with his mother’s sister and elderly great aunt.
He’d felt compelled to return to Lord Winning’s—now his cousin Fredrick’s—estate in Cumberland, but his reception had been ill, indeed. The arrogant man of five and thirty was just as he remembered him to be. Frederick had lifted his lofty nose in the air and superciliously declared Gabe unworthy of setting foot in his presence.
Being kicked out of his cousin’s country seat with threats never to return did not surprise him. It was what he had done after he had been kicked out on his arse that had surprised him, even days later. He had gone to the Wright crofter’s cottage.
It had not changed in the four years since he had left England, though it had decidedly fewer occupants. Mary’s mother had died from the same fever that had claimed Gabe’s mother, Mr. Wright was out working the land, and Mary was nowhere to be found. He’d remained for a short while, as he’d wished to see Mary, but after two hours of awkwardly hovering outside the cottage, he’d had a change of heart.
He did not know precisely how or why it had happened, but somehow, he had lost her friendship. He’d sent her the odd letter over the past years, but either she had not received them, or she had deliberately not responded. Gabe suspected the latter.
He glanced down at the paper currently resting on the table next to his hand. He had known of Mary’s ambition to become an actress, but he had hoped it was a passing fancy. His hand fisted on the table, his knuckles whitening. He knew she would be a wonderful actress, butby God, those women were treated as tarts at best. It sickened him to think of Mary being pursued by young fools just looking to lift a girl’s skirts. Mary did not deserve such treatment.
A churning heat began to fester in his gut. The feeling smacked of jealousy, but he assured himself it wasn’t so. It had been so long since he had seen Mary—
“Oi!” His thoughts were cut off by a deep grunt at his elbow.
Gabe turned his head to look right up into the glittering eyes of a furious giant.
“Ye fook me wife?” the giant growled, the low timbre of his slurred voice vibrating through his chest.
Gabe took one last gulp of the sour brew in his mug and gently returned it to the coarse surface of the table. “Can’t say as I ‘ave.”
Their voices had garnered the attention of the other patrons, each curious face aimed in their direction, clearly eager to witness a good brawl.
“I ken ye ‘ave!” The large man poked Gabe on his shoulder.
“Ye’re wrong, big man.” Gabe rose from his seat to stand nose to chest with the giant. “I donnae wish te fight ye.”
The giant’s lip curled back, revealing blackened teeth and foul breath. Then, without further preamble, the man’s large fist swung at his jaw.
Gabe ducked swiftly out of the way, his opponent’s fist swinging uselessly over his head. With deceptive speed, Gabe jabbed his opponent under his ribs with extended fingers, then punched the man’s face with a well-placed fist. The great giant fell chest-down and winded to the repulsive wood-planked floor of the pub. Without giving the man an opportunity to rise, Gabe pressed one knee between the man’s shoulder blades and pulled his arms backward. The beast roared.
Gabe brought his head closer to the man’s ears, but far enough away to not contract the lice the man likely had. “When a man says ‘e doesnae wish te fight ye…donnae fight ‘im.” He pushed his knee deeper between the man’s shoulders, eliciting a grunt from between his bared teeth. “And I didnae tup yer wife.”
With an extra jab of his knee, Gabe rose. At least forty pairs of eyes stared back at him, and not all of them were benign. He quickly drew some coins out of his coat pocket and placed them on the table. He snatched up his paper—and inside it, the article written about Mary—nodded to the gaping men and hastily made his retreat. Best to make himself scarce before someone else decided to challenge him.
Gabe passed through the neighbouring innyard and into the stables. The fresh scent of hay and manure filled his senses as he strode calmly toward his mount Hunter’s stall. Gabe pulled the door open and entered, patting Hunter’s neck, before turning to the wall, and reaching for where his saddle was hanging.
“You have fine form,” a male voice rumbled behind him.
“A Thiarna Dia!” Gabe called to the deity in Gaelic as he swung around in surprise, fists at the ready.
The tall, lean man no older than Gabe himself rested one shoulder against the door of Hunter’s stall, a confident grin on his lips. He wore all black, nearly blending into the shadows, his suit of clothes of the highest quality.A toff, Gabe sneered the word in his mind.
“Goddamnit, man! Donnae surprise a soul like tha’, ye ken?” He lowered his fists, but remained alert. The man’s easy manner told Gabe that he wouldn’t attack, but he would be prepared nonetheless. “Who are ye?”
The man in black pushed away from the stall door and sauntered another two steps toward Gabe and his mount, Hunter shifting nervously at the stranger’s advance.
“Noted,” the grinning man drawled. “My name is Richards and I have a proposition for you.”
Gabe shook his head. “I’ve nae interest in any schemes.”
