Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Well?” Gabriel asked. The thirty-four-year-old Duke of Anderton stood near the hearth with one broad shoulder resting against the mantel.
John released a slow breath. “She is alive.”
“I had already deduced that,” Gabriel replied. His dark grey eyes drifted down to the gauze wrapped around his hand. Blood still stained portions of the bandage despite John’s efforts.
“You are welcome,” John teased.
Gabriel scowled. John smiled faintly. The fire crackled softly inside the guest chamber at Anderton Manor. Shadows danced across the walls as the flames cast a warm glow over the unconscious woman lying upon the bed.
Dr. John Hunt sat beside the bed examining the young woman once more.
His experienced hands checked her pulse before gently lifting one eyelid.
He frowned thoughtfully. Gabriel watched him in silence.
He trusted very few people in the world.
In truth, there was only one man he trusted completely, the man that Benedict told him to trust. He took that recommendation to heart, and John quickly became a close friend.
“Her pulse is steady. Her breathing is normal. The bump on her head appears relatively minor.” He glanced toward Gabriel. “Frankly, I cannot tell much more until she wakes.”
“Then wake her,” Gabriel said.
John blinked. “That is not how medicine works.”
“It ought to,” Gabriel groaned.
“Fortunately, I attended medical school rather than the Duke of Anderton School of Shouting at Problems.”
Gabriel folded his arms. John ignored the glare entirely. He had become remarkably immune to Gabriel’s intimidating presence.
“She should have regained consciousness by now,” John continued. “Her head injury appears minor enough. There are no obvious signs of severe trauma.” His expression became thoughtful. “It is peculiar.”
Gabriel looked toward the bed. The woman appeared small beneath the blankets.
Even unconscious, she looked exhausted. Mud-stained portions of her gown.
One sleeve was torn. The sight reignited his anger.
If he had arrived a minute later, matters might have ended very differently.
The thought darkened his mood instantly.
A knock sounded at the door.
Without waiting for permission, Mrs. Jacobs entered carrying fresh wood for the fireplace. The housekeeper was a sturdy woman in her sixties who had spent most of her life managing Anderton Manor. She glanced briefly at the sleeping woman before adding more logs to the fire.
“There,” she said. “The poor thing will not freeze.”
Gabriel nodded. Mrs. Jacobs looked pleased. That alone was unusual. Most people looked terrified when he nodded.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs,” John said.
“Of course, Doctor Hunt.” The housekeeper cast another curious glance toward the bed before leaving.
The door closed. Silence returned. John slowly rose from his chair. Then he looked at Gabriel with entirely too much amusement.
Gabriel immediately disliked that expression. “What?”
John folded his arms. “Nothing.”
“John.”
The physician sighed dramatically. “I merely find this situation interesting.”
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “In what way?”
John gestured toward the unconscious woman. “In the way that you’re housing a stranger.”
Gabriel shrugged. “What choice did I have in the matter. She is injured.”
“A home where almost nobody is permitted,” John observed.
Gabriel remained silent. John’s smile widened. “You ordered your servants to prepare the guest room.”
“Naturally,” Gabriel huffed and began pacing the room.
What does he want of me? I did what anyone would.
“And then you summoned me.” John moved from the bed and walked toward Gabriel, but Gabriel did not look him in the eyes.
“You are my physician,” Gabriel said.
“I am also your friend,” John replied.
“Unfortunately,” Gabriel groaned.
John laughed. The sound echoed through the room. “I believe,” John said, “that you are paying this lady an unusual amount of attention.”
Gabriel stared at him. Then he stared harder. John remained entirely unbothered. Finally, Gabriel snorted. “Do not be ridiculous.”
“I am rarely ridiculous.” John smiled again.
The man smiles far too often. Benedict had smiled constantly, too.
The unexpected thought struck Gabriel hard. His amusement vanished. The room suddenly felt quieter. He looked back toward the fire.
One year. It has been one year. One year since Benedict died. One year since I had buried the last member of my immediate family.
The grief never fully disappeared. It simply learned how to hide.
“I helped her because I did not want another dead body on my hands,” Gabriel said quietly.
John’s expression softened. Gabriel continued staring into the flames. “I have buried enough people.”
The words came out rougher than intended.
“My parents. My brother.” Silence followed.
John knew better than anyone what those losses had cost him. The physician had stood beside him through his brother’s funeral. He had witnessed moments when grief threatened to consume him.
“You could not have saved them,” John said gently.
Gabriel hated hearing that. Not because it was false, but because it was true.
He had spent years solving problems. Building estates.
Managing tenants. Commanding hundreds of people.
Yet when death arrived, he had been powerless.
Powerless to save his mother from his own father. Powerless to save Benedict.
His hand tightened around the edge of the mantel. The wound beneath the bandages throbbed.
Good. Pain is easier than grief.
John studied him carefully. “You blame yourself less than you did.”
Gabriel gave a short laugh. “What a glowing recommendation.”
For a few moments, neither man spoke. The fire crackled softly. Wind rattled the windows. The woman remained motionless. Gabriel found himself looking at her again.
Who is she? Why had she been traveling alone? What kind of family allowed a young woman to wander isolated roads without a chaperone?
The questions multiplied. He disliked unanswered questions almost as much as he disliked helplessness.
John noticed the direction of his gaze. “There you are again.”
Gabriel sighed. “There I am where?”
“Looking at her,” John said as he arched a brow and leaned against the wall. Gabriel gave him an annoyed look, which usually frightened most away, but not John. John was stronger than that.
“I am merely wondering who she is,” Gabriel admitted. The woman suddenly shifted slightly beneath the blankets. Both men froze. The movement had been small. Very small. Yet unmistakable. Gabriel straightened immediately. John moved toward the bedside.
The woman’s fingers twitched. A faint crease appeared between her brows. For the first time, genuine anticipation filled the room. John leaned forward.
“Well,” he said quietly, “It appears our mystery guest may finally decide to join us.”
Gabriel stared at the unconscious woman. For reasons he could not explain, his pulse quickened. And for the first time since bringing her to Anderton Manor, he found himself eager to hear her speak.
She shifted once more beneath the blankets before becoming still again. John watched her for another moment before straightening from the bedside. “We should let the unknown lady rest,” he said quietly. “Staring at her will not make her wake any faster.”
Gabriel grunted in response. He knew John was correct, which only made the advice more irritating.
Without another word, Gabriel turned and strode from the room.
John followed him through the silent corridor.
The manor was unusually quiet for such a large house.
Since Benedict’s death and the arrival of the children, Anderton Manor had become something neither entirely lively nor entirely lonely.
It occupied an uncomfortable space somewhere in between.
They entered Gabriel’s study a few minutes later.
The room was lined with dark bookshelves and heavy furniture that matched its owner’s severe disposition.
A fire burned low in the hearth. Gabriel crossed directly to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy.
He handed one to John before taking a long swallow from his own.
John settled into a leather chair. “Now then,” he said, studying Gabriel over the rim of his glass. “How do you intend to deal with this situation?”
Gabriel remained standing. “What situation?”
John stared at him. “The unconscious woman sleeping upstairs in your guest room.”
Gabriel shrugged. “She wakes. We discover who she is. The matter resolves itself.”
John gave him a look of disbelief. “That is not a plan.”
Gabriel frowned. “It is perfectly adequate.”
“No,” John replied. “It is waiting for a plan to appear.”
Gabriel resisted the urge to throw something at him. He had known John long enough to recognize when he was being deliberately provoking.
“The woman is clearly not a commoner,” John continued. He leaned forward slightly. “Her gown alone was worth more than most laborers earn in a year. Someone is undoubtedly searching for her already.”
Gabriel took another drink. “Perhaps.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “Perhaps?”
“You seem unusually agitated about this,” Gabriel said. He took a stiff drink of the brandy and poured another.
John laughed softly. “One of us must be sensible.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “I saved a woman from a criminal, which is sensible.”
“Yes. She is safe for the moment.” John said. “My concern is that some furious father, husband, brother, or guardian may arrive at your front door demanding explanations and possibly be convinced that you have ruined her reputation.”
The possibility had occurred to Gabriel.
He simply did not care very much. Whoever the woman belonged to could wait until she woke.
He was not about to make any brash decisions merely to avoid uncomfortable conversations.
The idea offended his sense of honor, even if John insisted upon being dramatic about it.
“You need to act quickly once you know her identity. I can stand by you as a witness that no harm came to a woman while under your care,” John assured.
“I dislike being rushed. You know that about me already, yet you pester me,” Gabriel groaned.
“You dislike being told what to do,” John said. “This is different.”
“That as well.” Gabriel moved to his desk and sat down. He opened a drawer and pulled out a ledger.
John sighed heavily. Before Gabriel could respond, the sound of crying echoed faintly through the ceiling above them. Both men fell silent. The sound came again. A small child’s sob. Then another.
Gabriel closed his eyes.
David.
The helpless feeling that followed was immediate and unwelcome.
John looked toward the ceiling. “Bad dreams?” he asked quietly.
“Most likely. The nurse will handle David,” Gabriel replied, staring down into his glass as David’s crying continued somewhere above them.
John watched him for a moment. Gabriel could face armed men without hesitation. He could manage vast estates and negotiate with politicians, bankers, and noblemen. Yet a crying six-year-old boy reduced him to complete uncertainty.
“Have you found a governess yet?” John asked, leaning back in his chair.
“No,” Gabriel answered at once, his jaw clenching. He knew that he needed to find one, but he could not find anyone he trusted enough to live inside his walls.
John nodded slowly. “You cannot delay forever. The boy is of age now for instruction, not just nurses.”
“I can delay a while longer,” Gabriel said flatly. He released a long breath as the crying continued upstairs. “I do not trust strangers,” he admitted, setting his glass aside. “Not in this house. Not around David or Valerie.”
John studied him carefully. “Because of what happened?”
Gabriel’s expression hardened at once. His thoughts drifted to the scar on David’s back, left years ago by David’s own mother, who had struck the child. David had been very young, but young children remembered fear far too well.
“Yes,” Gabriel said quietly.
“I know,” John replied with a small nod.
The crying grew louder overhead. Gabriel rubbed a hand across his face as exhaustion settled heavily upon his shoulders. One year ago, he had been a duke with responsibilities. Now, he was attempting to become a father as well, and nobody had ever taught him how.
Benedict should be here.
The thought struck him unexpectedly. Benedict would know what to do. Benedict always knew. He had possessed endless patience with people, especially children. Gabriel possessed almost none.
“Since you are here,” Gabriel said abruptly, straightening from the mantel, “you should check the scar on David’s back.”
John stared at him for several moments before sighing. “Gabriel.”
“What?” Gabriel asked, frowning.
“The scar healed long ago,” John replied. “Why do you insist on asking?”
Gabriel remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the fire. Every time David cried, he wondered whether something had been missed. Every time the boy flinched unexpectedly, guilt gnawed at him.
I had promised Benedict I would protect the children, and I constantly fear I am failing.
John seemed to understand anyway. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and stopped beside his friend.
“It is not the physical scar that remains in David,” he said gently.
Gabriel looked away. The words landed harder than any criticism because they were true. David’s wounds had never truly been on his skin. They lived elsewhere now, in memories, fears, and nightmares.
The crying continued above them. John rested a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You cannot heal every hurt.”
Gabriel let out a bitter laugh. “I should like to find someone who can heal and fix this.”
“I know,” John said softly. “You are a man of solutions.”
For several moments, neither man spoke. Then another sob echoed through the house. Gabriel straightened. Duty overrode everything else. His grief, his exhaustion, his uncertainty, all of it.
“I should go to him,” he declared, already moving toward the door.
John smiled faintly behind him. “That sounds remarkably like something a father would say.”
Gabriel paused and glanced back with a frown. “I am not his father.”
“No,” John agreed, picking up his brandy once more. A knowing smile touched his lips. “But I suspect David would disagree.”