The Forgiven Duke (A Forgotten Castles Novel) (18 page)

“Last I saw her she was on a ship . . . a ship sailing to Iceland.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “That is the last place on earth I would have thought to look.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I have no idea why her parents went there, but she discovered that they did.”

“Well, see that you dress warmly, St. Easton. It sounds like a ghastly place.”

BACK ON A SHIP.

God help him.

Gabriel felt for the ginger root in his pocket that he had paid one of his jailers a silver button to attain for him days before they had boarded the
San Cristobel
, a twenty-gunned galleon of clean lines and hearty hull. Didacus, the tall Spaniard who had been following Alexandria, and his stubby companion,
El Gato
, stood to one side watching the loading of the ship, watching him most especially.

Gabriel swung a dark look on them, his hair, having grown longer since captivity, swinging in his eyes. He shook it away. How he would like a sword to thrust through their wicked chests, but he had to play their game to its bitter end. He had the king’s permission to lead the excursion to find Alexandria, but that didn’t mean he had any power. No, they still treated him like a prisoner. At least he’d convinced them not to tie his hands. Why, he’d asked in his most condescending tone, the purr of the panther in his eyes, would he attempt to escape when they had the same goal in mind? A man in love would do anything for his beloved, wouldn’t he? It wasn’t far from the truth.

But he mustn’t turn into a sniveling invalid because of the blasted seasickness. If he lost any more weight . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking of.
God, I know I’ve already asked for so much, but I really could use a miracle here.

Sometimes he thought he was going mad, not really knowing if God was hearing him or if he was just talking to the wind. God’s way of answering his prayers thus far seemed to be not helping at all. He supposed Jesus’ disciples must have felt that way when they saw their rabbi murdered on the cross. They must have doubted everything they had done for the past three years with this man who they thought was God. How could something turn out good, perfect even, when it looked like everything was failing so miserably?

As if to validate his thoughts, an unknown sailor shoved him hard from behind and sent him sprawling on the deck. He looked up from the weathered boards to see laughter erupting from the faces around him. He turned over and sprang to his feet, wary of a trap forming in the glittering eyes of the seamen circling him.

One man pulled forth a wicked-looking cutlass and sprang toward him. Did they mean to kill him? What was happening now?

Gabriel swung to the right, just dodging the blade. He turned with a neat twist, got behind the man, and pulled his sword arm back so hard and fast that he felt the pop and then watched with both pleasure and dread at what was to come as the weapon fell. The man slumped to the deck in agony. Gabriel turned, looking back and forth at the crowd, his heart slamming in his chest, ready for the next one.

A sudden movement from one side brought Didacus to the center of the crowd. He was shouting at the men, his eyes burning with rage. They fell back while he grasped Gabriel, and Gabriel let him, gambling on the fact that Didacus was protecting him from a mob beating. Didacus hauled Gabriel to the foremast and directed him to be tied to it.

As they set sail, the punishment for injuring one of the sailors sank through Gabriel’s frantic mind. A big man, dark with hair all over his body, came forward. Gabriel swallowed as the man stripped off his shirt, grinned a slow, evil grin at him, and took up a long, leather whip.

The wind pushing against the sails, they floated out toward the open sea, and Gabriel gazed up at the clear blue sky and tensed his body as the first of his twenty-five lashes began across his back.

Fresh pain—tearing, ripping flesh pain—flashed in bright, agonizing lights of white behind Gabriel’s closed eyelids. His throat worked and his whole body cried out to God—a silent, writhing, pain-cry song. He was drowning. This beating would end him, he knew it. He clenched his teeth and cried out in a loud voice, “God, where are You?”

Sing.

Sing? It made no sense and made him so angry he bucked against the ropes.
Sing? That’s the best You have for me?
He shouted it from every part of his being.

Yes, sing.

Another hiss of the lash, agony spreading through his whole being, and he complied. He sang the first song that sprang to his mind.

Be Thou, O God, exalted high;
And, as Thy glory fills the sky,
So let it be on earth display’d,
Till Thou art here, as there, obey’d.

To take me they their net prepar’d,
And had almost my soul ensnar’d;
But fell themselves, by just decree,
Into the pit they made for me.

He laughed at the words and bellowed them as loud as he could, the sting of the whip pushed to the back corners of his mind.

O God, my heart is fix’d, ’tis bent,
Its thankful tribute to present;
And, with my heart, my voice I’ll raise,
To Thee, my God, in songs of praise.

Awake, my glory; harp and lute,
No longer let your strings be mute;
And I, my tuneful part to take,
Will with the early dawn awake.

Colors burst around him . . . so vivid, so bright that he wondered that they couldn’t see them. Like light shields they held his spirit—a resonate, humming being that wept and shouted praise—in a sacred place that felt little pain.

Thy praises, Lord, I will resound
To all the list’ning nations ’round;
Thy mercy highest Heav’n transcends;
Thy truth beyond the clouds extends.

Be Thou, O God, exalted high;
And, as Thy glory fill the sky,
So let it be on earth display’d,
Till Thou are here, as there, obey’d.

Gabriel clung to consciousness, singing the words of the old hymn over and over as the whip lashed bloody lines of murder into his bare back. He couldn’t hear the words and he didn’t know if anyone else could hear him, but as he sang he basked in color, all the colors of the rainbow.

He closed his eyes and felt his cries of agony seeming from a faraway place, interposing the song in waves of red, like the blood dripping down his back. Yet he sang. To stay alive. He sang and survived with the colors.

Chapter Nineteen

A
lexandria! Alexandria!”

She jerked awake to the early morning light, the rushing waters of the nearby waterfall where she had stopped to rest and think about what she had done gushing like music in the background. It was John. And he sounded panicked.

She stood and mounted her horse, heading back toward the road. There was no sense in running from him. She had to face what she’d said. They had to decide what to do next.

With the dawning light she could just see him come around a bend in the road. She took a deep breath, watching him gallop up to her. “Thank God.” He reined in and stopped. He was hatless and his blond hair was wind tousled. His face was tight with a pained reserve that made her heart ache. He reached over and grasped her arm. “Don’t ever frighten me like that again. I’ve been looking for you for hours. I thought I’d lost you to some horrible misfortune!”

“I followed the road. There was nothing to fear. I found a pleasant spot of soft grass with a waterfall nearby and fell asleep to the sounds of it.”

John rubbed his face with a hand and took a great breath. “Alex, it’s too cold for you to be sleeping in the open. We can talk about what happened later. Let’s get you to some shelter and a warm fire.”

She had to agree that she was cold and damp from sleeping on the ground. And thirsty. She was sure both she and her pretty mare were hungry and thirsty enough for some concern. That he still cared so much after what she had done to him made her feel like a wretch. He was probably cold and hungry too. “Yes, let’s find an inn.”

They continued west as the sun dawned pink on the horizon, the dark forms of the mountains surrounding them in the background. The road led through the small village of Selfoss that looked to be waking up for the day. The main road had a few businesses, one with a sign with a picture of a ram on it. It was the only place that looked like it might be an inn.

Alex dismounted, unable to look John directly in the eye, and followed him to the door. It was locked and the place looked dark, but he banged on it anyway. The owner, hair askew and still sleepy-eyed, opened the door.

“Good day, sir. We are traveling through and are looking for some food and a place to rest for a few hours. Do you have such for sale here?”

“Yes, come in.” He backed away and waved them inside and then showed them to the common room with assurance that breakfast would soon be ready.

Alex sat across from John, seeing his tired eyes and the tight lines on either side of his mouth. His coat was rumpled and he didn’t look his usual dapper self. She wanted to say she was sorry, but that felt too small in the face of what she’d said, all that she had done. And anyway, what good would it do? He didn’t want her apology. He wanted her for a wife and she knew, after pondering it the night through, that she couldn’t give him that.

“Ah, here we are now.” The innkeeper, introducing himself as simply Hans, came back scant moments later with two large bowls of steaming porridge and a pitcher of milk. “And whom might I have the pleasure of serving this fine day?”

Alex hurried to introduce them before John said they were married. “This is Lord John Lemon from Dublin, a dear friend of mine, and I am Lady Alexandria Featherstone.”

“Featherstone!” The man reared back from pouring a mug of milk, sloshing spills onto the table. “Oh, dear.”

“Is something amiss?”

“You haven’t heard? You’re the lady from England, aren’t you? Looking for your parents?”

“Why yes, yes I am.”

“The prince regent of England is looking for you! Soldiers everywhere.” Hans woke up in an instant, eyes wide and swinging back and forth between them.

“Sir, what exactly are you saying?” John’s blond brows lowered over his eyes and his voice turned low and serious.

“The king’s soldiers are in Reykjavik as we speak, my lord. They have the town under siege, searching for the lady here.” He leaned in, fear lighting his eyes and clutching the milk pitcher to his chest. “There have been all manner of threats if the townspeople don’t produce you. Of course, no one knows where you are, so how is anyone to obey?”

“They aren’t . . . hurting people, are they?” Alex leaned forward and gripped the man’s arm.

“Surely not.” John scoffed at the idea, shaking his head. “Trying to frighten them, most likely.”

But the innkeeper turned white. “The townsfolk there have been threatened for sure. People aren’t leaving their houses. I found out from Gunterson, the man who brings the mail. They let him leave to spread the word in the neighboring towns.”

Alex swallowed hard thinking of the Magnussons and the Johanssons. They had been so kind and helpful to her. She thought of her parents and the fact that she was at a dead end and didn’t know where to go from here. She’d promised the duke that if she came to a dead end, she would come to him in London. And she couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him again, to see if the feelings she was fighting were real or imaginary, to see if he was the same man of his letters. “We have to go back. I have to turn myself over to them.”

“You would do that?” John’s voice lowered into a harsh whisper as he leaned toward her. “Alex, the prince regent will put you under the duke’s authority unless we are wed. Is that what you want?”

“I–I already told you.” Alex looked up at the innkeeper. “Please, if we could just have two rooms, to rest up a bit and for our horses to be taken care of and rested, I will pay you well and then be on my way to Reykjavik and turn myself over to the king’s soldiers. I give you my word. I do not want anyone to suffer on my behalf.”

The man hesitated, looking from one to the other, and then nodded. “I believe you are the fine lady I have heard that you are. I will prepare the rooms and see that your horses are taken care of. Be gone by morning.” He backed away with an odd stare and left them.

As hungry as Alex had been, she had little appetite now. John sat stiffly beside her making her feel even more wretched. She had used him. She had given him false hope and broken his heart. But what could she say? She reached over and put her hand on top of his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling helpless. She held his pained gaze for a long moment.

John stood and bowed toward her. “As am I.” He turned his back on her and left the room. She watched his tall, handsome form walk away with a lump of tears in her throat, not knowing where he was going or if she would even see him again.

God, forgive me. I truly have made a mess of everything.

HOURS LATER, A KNOCK ON
her door woke her from a sound sleep. She sat up and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, having been too distraught to braid it before dropping off into a deep sleep. It was dark outside her window. She must have slept for hours. Hurrying to the door, she opened it to find John, one hand against the door frame, swaying and glassy eyed.

“John, what are you doing? Are you all right?”

He shook his head in an exaggerated gesture. “Not aright a’tall.” He stumbled toward her and jabbed a finger into her chest. His slurred speech came out in clipped staccato. “Why won’t you marry me?” The last word was a near shout.

“Shhhh.” Alex grasped his hand, pulled him into the room, and shut the door behind him. “You’ve been drinking!”

“Maybe . . . maybe I have.” He swayed toward her and then straightened. He held out a cup toward her. “I brought you something.”

“I don’t want that. What is it?” Alexandria took the cup and smelled it. It didn’t smell like any liquor she knew of. She took a little sip, thinking it tasted like bitter tea. “Ugh. What is this?”

“That’s tea for you, love. I’ve been drinking ale, of course.”

“I’m not your love and I don’t want it.” Alex shoved the cup toward his chest.