Chapter 8 #2
She had surprised him by pouring him a glass of wine at dinner, her smile hesitant as though she had been about to ask something but then decided against it.
He had allowed her to fill his glass, but the moment he caught her scent, he had not been able to focus on the drink, or even his meal, and had left early, unable to endure the thoughts that had been haunting him for the past week.
Thoughts of how he had begun to look forward to dinners with his wife.
Even though he never knew what to say to her, too lost in his thoughts of how she looked that evening—against his better judgment—he hoped she would always join him.
She did, for he must have made his point clear. But with each evening, Gabriel started to regret his insistence.
That was exactly why he came to the King’s Hound. It was a place where he didn’t have to be a duke, or a husband, or a brother who had failed to save his sister. He didn’t have to be the man who carried his father’s disappointment or the grief of losing his mother.
He was just another opponent, another man in the crowd, even if people knew who he was.
He shed everything, stripping down to fists and adrenaline.
“The Helm,” his opponent sneered, before letting out a dark laugh.
The nickname irked him, unoriginal yet reputable.
Gabriel recognized Mr. Thomas, a viscount’s son who lived in Averby. Bartley was closer to Averby than Stonehelm, but it was still quite a journey.
“I have wanted to face you for a while now,” Thomas added. “I admit I am more battered up than I would have liked, but—”
Gabriel landed the first punch. He had no patience for idle talk.
Thomas staggered backward, fumbling for the rope that separated the ring from the crowd. He fell against it, using the momentum to propel himself back up and barrel into Gabriel. He was a good opponent, but easy to beat.
This fight won’t last long enough.
Gabriel needed fire. He needed a hard, heavy fight. But for now, he would take what he could.
He swung his fists, letting his mind disconnect from his body.
The frustration Sibyl stirred within him, every moment he could not place his emotions, trying to hold back from saying too much, annoyed that he said too little, annoyed that he was even feeling that way at all—he poured it all into the fight.
His teeth were bared as he let his anger guide his fists and knocked Thomas to the ground. Looming over him, Gabriel planted a hand on the man’s chest while he pummeled him with the other.
The crowd screamed around him, chanting his name in the dank room. Wads of cash were handed back and forth.
It all washed over him, and the power that he felt was unmatched.
He didn’t care for victory; he cared for release. But the fight ended too quickly, and the Helm was declared the winner.
Gabriel considered facing another opponent, but in the end, he ducked beneath the rope, his body feeling the loss of adrenaline.
Thoughts of Sibyl had quieted, and his anger had ebbed slightly, but he still felt much better.
Sighing, he made his way back to the taproom, finding an empty corner in the back where he usually sat.
He looked around at the faces, flexing his bruised, bloody knuckles.
He didn’t have any injuries, having not let Thomas get an inch of him, so that was one less thing to explain when he returned to the manor later.
He waved to a passing barmaid for a drink. To his surprise, she set down two glasses of ale. Before he could say anything, she nodded to the side.
“Nicholas,” he greeted, raising a curious eyebrow at his friend.
Nicholas smiled jovially at him, uncaring of any turmoil on Gabriel’s face. He clapped him on the back. “Rumor has it that the Helm has been storming his way through opponent after opponent. I could not come any sooner to watch you fight, but tonight was quite a treat. Although—”
“Do not ask,” Gabriel growled. “I am not in the mood tonight, Nicholas.”
Nicholas sighed, sinking into the chair opposite him. “You never are, so I will continue anyway. I did call out to you when you entered, but you looked very intent on jumping into the ring, so I thought I would surprise you after the fight. It was a spectacular win, by the way.”
“It was an easy win,” Gabriel muttered. “Too easy.”
“And yet you left the ring.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I got what I needed.”
“And that is?”
Gabriel said nothing, just took a swig of his ale. He looked around the taproom, thinking of the Duke of Rochdale, who had threatened him at his wedding, and laughed grimly.
“What are you laughing about?” Nicholas asked, crossing his ankle over his knee.
“The Duke of Rochdale threatened me at my wedding,” Gabriel snorted. “Yet he does not know what I do in here.”
Nicholas snickered. “The Beast and the Helm. It would be a grand fight. Two dukes. And, if I recall correctly, he also had a very rocky start with a Wickleby sister.” He gave him a knowing look.
Gabriel pretended not to see. He took another swig, nearly draining his glass.
“I am curious, Gabriel,” Nicholas added.
Gabriel rolled his eyes, smiling tightly as he waited for the next question.
“As grand as your victory was, I cannot help but wonder why you are exerting yourself here and not in bed with your wife.”
Gabriel glared at him. “Perhaps I will arrange that fight with you instead of Rochdale.”
“Perhaps try not to evade my curiosity,” Nicholas countered.
“Your curiosity irritates me, and I am here to work out my frustration. Do not add more to it.”
“Even curiouser.” Nicholas’s eyes lit up.
“What frustrates you at home, Gabriel? I do not suppose it is your new wife, or the fact that she is terribly beautiful. If I know you—and I do very well—you are beating yourself up over that attraction. After all, your marriage should not cross such boundaries. Am I correct?”
Gabriel stared down at his drink, his mind once again conjuring an image of Sibyl that evening. She had worn a soft green dress, the color of jadestones, and she had pinned her hair with delicate little flowers. She looked as though she had stepped out of spring itself.
Gabriel hated that his heart raced just thinking about her.
“Oh, I see that I am correct,” Nicholas drawled.
Gabriel shook his head. He was conflicted enough without voicing his feelings or thoughts.
“Please stop, Nicholas,” he sighed. “I will return to the ring if I suffer through one more conflicting emotion.”
“Then speak to me about it.”
“I do not care to.”
“Maybe you—”
“Nicholas, I am serious,” he groaned. “I cannot speak about it, so do not press me.” He shot his friend a warning glare before downing his drink. Then, set his glass down with a hard thud and stood up. “I am done for the night. Join me on the ride back before we part at the Bingham.”
The tavern was where the path forked, one way leading to Averby and the other to Stonehelm.
Nicholas shook his head, sobering up. “I think I am going to stay around for a while. I’m rather enjoying the atmosphere tonight. It is much livelier than the estate, so I shall enjoy it while I can.”
Gabriel wondered if he had shut Nicholas out too much, but his friend always warned him whenever he went too far.
He nodded and put his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “Then enjoy your night.”
“I will. And Gabriel? Do not ignore your wife. Speak with her; you invited her into your life, but you must also involve her in it. You cannot pull her in and then shut her out. It was your choice to propose, even if it was out of guilt. Even if you do not want to be more than a husband on paper, you can at least give her companionship.”
Gabriel hesitated, hating how chided he felt, but he knew Nicholas was right. He needed to try harder. But how would he know what to say when the boundaries were so unclear?
In the end, he nodded again and left the King’s Hound.