Gabriel didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved to be left alone. Leaning his throbbing head back against the chair he reflected that Malcolm was entirely too astute for his own good. It was a trait he’d forgotten the Scotsman had.
All the time he’d been stitching the wound, Malcolm had remained silent, seemingly concentrating on the task at hand, but once the injury was sealed, the look he’d given Gabriel had spoken volumes. It may have been Gabriel’s imagination of course since even without Malcolm’s unspoken censure, the Viscount felt like the biggest cad alive.
What gentleman takes advantage of a chit just out of the schoolroom? Certainly not one with even a scrap of honour. And even worse, Gabriel couldn’t get the picture out of his mind.
Hope Shackleford, face flushed, lips swollen and rosy from his kisses, her hair almost entirely free and cascading over her shoulders.
It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and even with the pain of his wound and the inevitable headache that went with it, he was rock hard at the mere thought.
Gabriel didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that Malcolm had not asked the question directly. That said, he was under no illusion that the Scotsman would fail to pass on today’s events to the Duke and the inevitable demand eventually be voiced.
How the bloody hell was he going to answer? Restless, he ran his hand through his hair, wincing as he fingers accidentally probed the wound. He felt hot and wondered if he might be running a slight fever. Malcolm had made sure that both fires were built up enough to last the night and he’d left some bread and cheese in the kitchen for Gabriel’s supper.
The valet had however removed the remaining bottle of brandy after callously pouring a good third of it into his stitches. The injury smarted even now, and Gabriel suspected he smelled like a damn brewery.
He groaned out loud. Fiend seize it, what the bloody hell was he going to do? He was in no position to take a wife. To his surprise, the thought of marrying Hope Shackleford did not come with the aversion he might have expected. Marriage was something he’d never really given much thought to, and he avoided thetonmarriage mart like the plague, finding the whole circus distasteful in the extreme.
Naturally he knew he would be expected to get leg shackled eventually, if only to produce an heir, but in the meantime, even in the wilds of Hampshire, there had never been a shortage of convenient females willing to warm his bed at night should he feel the need. It wasn’t as if the Northwood coffers were empty, so given that he was only a year over thirty, he’d believed he had plenty of time.
Which would have been quite true if he’d not been possessed of such murderous relatives.
But then, even if Nicholas demanded Gabriel make an honest woman of his sister-in-law, he was unlikely to do so as long as there was the possibility she might end up the world’s swiftest widow, or even, as the Reverend so succinctly termed it, put to bed with a shovel alongside her husband. At the very least Gabriel guessed the Duke would bide his time.
The truth was that at this point in time, Gabriel Atwood, Viscount Northwood was not a very good catch.
Sighing, Gabriel dragged himself to his feet, intending to avail himself of the bread and cheese. It was almost dark outside and for tonight at least he believed himself safe from Nick’s wrath. Picking up a candle, he stopped and closed his eyes, feeling a sudden wave of dizziness. When he opened them again, he thought he was hallucinating. Three white faces stood staring at him in panic.
‘What the deu…?’ he began, only to be interrupted hysterically.
‘It was all dark.’
‘We didn’t see it.’
‘He fell in.’
'He can’t swim.'
‘She can’t hold him up for much longer.’
‘He’s going to drown.’
‘Then he’ll haunt the pool and we won’t be able to go swimming there anymore.’
‘Stop,’ thundered Gabriel feeling as though his head was about to explode. He regarded the three sobbing children in front of him and belatedly recognised them as Shacklefords.
‘Please, you need to help,’ whispered the tallest.
Gabriel snapped out of his stupor and ignoring the protesting throb in his head, strode quickly over to a lantern placed near the porch, lighting it with the candle he was holding. Once the flame had taken, he turned back to the terrified children. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered the two who looked to be the youngest. Then he turned to the taller girl. ‘Can you take me there?’ he asked. She nodded without speaking and darted outside into the gloom.
‘Wait,’ he shouted in exasperation as he followed her out. ‘It’ll do no deuced good if you fall in there too. Take my hand.’ For a second, he thought she simply going to run, then she stopped and held out her hand. Grasping it tightly, Gabriel took a deep breath and told her to lead on.
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford immediately dispatched one of those listening to the vicarage to see if the children had returned home. He told himself there was no sense in sending out a search party if the culprits were sitting in his kitchen. Unfortunately, the man returned all too soon with the bad news. Not only had the children failed to return, but now Agnes was having a fit of the vapours. ‘Thunder an’ turf,’ he muttered, at a sudden loss as to what to do next.
‘We need to send word to the Duke,’ insisted Percy.
‘By the time he gets there, if they’re in some kind of deuced scrape, it’ll be far too late.’ Augustus Shackleford felt an unaccustomed stab of dread. ‘We’ll have to go Percy,’ he decided to the small man who was busy wringing his hands.
