Chapter 25
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The storm had risen to a fury by the time Gabriel reached the edge of the woods.
The wind lashed at him, tearing the breath from his lungs and driving the sleet like shards of glass against his face.
He could scarcely see it was so thick. The horse beneath him snorted and tossed its head, reluctant to press on through the drifts that had begun to gather across the path.
But he would not turn back. Not now.
The red rose he had found upon the road still burned in his memory, as vivid as a wound.
And when one of the grooms had said that Dabney had been seen near the Ashcombe cottage, a sick dread had settled in Gabriel’s chest. He had ridden as though the devil himself pursued him.
It had taken valuable time but at least it had sent him what he prayed was the right direction.
If he did not find Eliza within… he could not bear to think of it.
When at last the cottage came into view, crouched low beneath its thatched roof, half-buried in snow, he felt his heart seize. The door hung open, banging against the wall with each gust of wind.
“God help us,” he whispered, and swung down from the saddle.
Inside, the air felt colder than the storm itself.
He shuffled to the mantle in the dark and struck flint to tinder from the box perched there.
The narrow circle of light shown through the darkness, revealing overturned chairs—and the body of Reverend Mullins sprawled on the floor, his face a ghastly shade of blue.
But Gabriel scarcely registered the sight. His gaze had already found Eliza.
She sat bound to a chair in the center of the room, her head lolling against her shoulder, her hair damp and tangled, her gown soaked through as though she had been dragged from an icy river. Her lips were nearly as white as the snow outside.
“Eliza!”
He was across the room in an instant, dropping to his knees beside her. Her skin was cold beneath his fingers—too cold. He tore at the knots binding her wrists until the rope gave way and fell to the floor.
Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake.
“Sweet heaven…” He lifted her into his arms, the dead weight of her body hitting him with terrifying force. “No, no, no. This will not be. I will not allow it!”
There was no time to think. The Reverend’s corpse could rot where it lay for all Gabriel cared. The only thing that mattered now was the fragile woman he carried.
He shouldered through the door to the small bedchamber at the back of the cottage.
The air there was scarcely warmer, the hearth long cold, but it was a smaller space that would take less time to warm.
He set her gently upon the bed and looked about for anything that might burn.
There was an old table pushed against the wall, its legs wobbling with age.
With one swift motion, he overturned it and began breaking it apart, the crash of splintering wood echoing through the room.
He piled the pieces in the hearth, struck flint to steel, and coaxed a flame into being. When the fire finally caught, it flared bright and hot, filling the narrow room with the first faint stirrings of warmth.
He turned back to her.
Her gown clung to her skin, heavy and sodden.
He did not hesitate. There was no time. Using a knife that he kept tucked into his boot, he cut the laces for the sake of expedience, then stripped away the drenched layers.
Working quickly, his fingers shook as he fought with the stubborn fastenings.
Beneath the gown, her shift was equally wet, clinging to her chilled flesh.
He peeled the fabric away and wrapped her instead in the wool blanket he had dragged from the bed, carrying her closer to the fire. He rubbed her arms, her hands, her feet—anywhere he could reach—trying to drive the cold from her skin.
“Come back to me,” he urged softly. “You hear me, Eliza? You must come back.”
For a moment, there was nothing. Then, faintly, she stirred. Her lashes flickered, her lips parting to form broken words.
“The spell,” she murmured. “Grandmama… I never had it…”
Gabriel’s throat tightened. “Eliza, it’s me. You’re safe now.”
Her brow furrowed, her head moving weakly against his shoulder. “I killed him,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. But I did.”
He stilled. “Killed who?”
“The Reverend.” Her eyes opened then, glazed and unfocused, their color dulled by exhaustion. “He… he stopped breathing. I said the words… and he…”
Gabriel looked toward the doorway, where the faint glow from the other room cast long shadows across the floor. The Reverend lay just beyond, still as stone. He felt the chill of it then—the eerie quiet that filled the cottage, the sense that something terrible had indeed taken place.
But she was trembling in his arms, fragile and terrified, and he would not allow her to bear that fear alone.
“No,” he said firmly, drawing her closer. “No, my darling. You didn’t kill him. You couldn’t have. You were bound when I found you.”
She shook her head weakly. “I said the words…”
“Then he died of fright or folly,” Gabriel said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “The man was a zealot, not a god. His heart failed him, that’s all.”
He pressed his lips to her temple, his breath warm against her chilled skin. “You are not to think on it now. Do you understand me? He’s gone, and you’re alive. That is what matters.”
Her breathing hitched, a broken sob catching in her throat. He held her until it passed, until the trembling began to ease and color slowly returned to her cheeks.
Outside, the storm raged on, hammering at the walls, but within the small chamber the fire crackled louder, brighter, casting its golden light over them both.
Gabriel looked down at her face, pale but no longer deathly, her lips parted as she drew a steadier breath. Relief nearly undid him.
He brushed a damp lock of hair from her forehead and whispered, “You’re safe now, Eliza. I swear it.”
But even as he said it, his gaze lifted toward the darkened doorway beyond the hearth—toward the corpse that lay cooling on the floor.
Safe, yes. For the moment.
Yet the curse that had haunted them both was far from done.