Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
The blacksmith’s yard rang with the harsh music of hammer on metal, the hiss of quenched iron punctuating the low murmur of voices in the street beyond.
Gabriel stood a few yards off, arms folded as he watched the men refit the wheel to the carriage.
The smell of soot and smoke mingled with damp air, heavy with the promise of snow.
He was thinking of little beyond the journey ahead and the hour when he could finally take his wife home.
“Lord Blackburn.”
The voice was low and cool, weighted with disapproval. Gabriel turned to see the Reverend Mullins approaching, his long black coat flapping about his bulky frame, his expression drawn tight as though he found his parishioners to be the greatest of trials.
“Reverend,” Gabriel said curtly. “I take it from your tone that you are displeased about something?”
“Indeed, my lord. I am most displeased.” Mullins stopped a few paces away. “Imagine my surprise to learn that you have taken a bride without the benefit of my blessing—or the Church’s sanction.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “We were married by Common License at Lincoln Cathedral yesterday morning. The Church, I assure you, was present enough.”
“Ah yes,” Mullins said, his lip curling faintly. “But not this church. Not the parish over which I have care. A pity. Had I known of your intentions, I might have counseled you otherwise.”
“Indeed? And why is that?”
The Reverend’s pale eyes gleamed. “Because the woman you have wed, my lord, is of a family steeped in sin. The Ashcombe women are known servants of darkness. Their very existence has long been an affront to God’s will.
To bind yourself to such corruption is to imperil not only your soul, but the moral standing of every man and woman who depends upon the continued prosperity of Ravenswood. ”
The words struck with the precision of a blade. Gabriel’s temper, held in check by sheer force of will, slipped its leash.
“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 is my estate that 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 left the 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.