“Well, here we are,” Gabriel said, looking dubiously around. “It’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
He dismounted, then reached up his hands to quickly help Livia off Daisy. “Go inside,” he told her, and began to tie the horses’ reins to one of the posts. Primus stamped his hooves, as if protesting the inadequacy of this rackety shelter, and Gabriel soothed him, stroking the proud arch of that glossy neck until he quieted.
As if in a dream—or was it a nightmare?—Livia stood hesitating at the entrance to the lean-to. Through her memory floated a brief image of the old woodsman’s cottage all covered in vines, the green canopy that was the roof, the pretty doe and the great stag. She blinked, and focused: she could see, now, in the dimness before her that there was nothing inside; on the earthen floor were only stray lengths of hay, randomly scattered about. While its roof may have, at one time, been reasonably well built, rain dripped through here and there, creating a patchwork of soggy little puddles.
This was, she thought dismally, the sort of place she’d soon be living in. If she was lucky. She stepped inside, sniffed at the mingled scents of sodden dirt and old hay, and, ineffectually repressing a sob, pulled off her gloves and wiped at the wetness on her face, an exercise in futility if ever there were one.
She didn’t wish she were dead, but neither was she sure about going on living. Maybe Gabriel could take the two horses and leave her here.
To gently molder into oblivion.
Ducking in order to pass underneath the low-hung entrance, Gabriel came in, big and solid and familiar. He took off his hat, hung it on a rusted nail protruding from one of the boards, then shook his head like a dog, sending raindrops scattering from his hair. Then he looked closely at her.
“My dear girl, are you still crying?”
It was the first time he had called her that without a tone of condescension. Instead she heard concern—genuine concern—and mutely, wonderingly, she nodded.
He went on: “This rain is a nuisance, but the way the wind is blowing, the storm will pass within the hour. We’ll be back on the road quite soon, I promise you.”
An hour.
Livia knew this was meant to be good news, but it also signaled the very last time she would be alone with Gabriel. Another sob escaped her, and she leaned against the wall, grateful that it—unlike the roof—was sturdily built.
“You’re dreadfully uncomfortable, my dear, but as quickly as I can I’ll get you back to Upper Camden Place.” From a pocket he produced a white linen handkerchief, embroidered in black with his initials. “It’s only a little damp,” he assured her, then stepped closer and gently dried her cheeks as best he could.
It was his tenderness that undid her.
All the rules, all the dictums she had so painstakingly learned seemed now to dissolve in the rain drumming overhead.
What remained was urgent instinct.
She gripped his greatcoat with shaking hands. “I’m c-c-cold,” she said, with perfect truth. “Hold me.”
For a moment Gabriel looked startled, even uncertain. “You’re cold. Of course.” He slid the handkerchief back into his pocket and stepped close to her. He hesitated, then undid the buttons of his greatcoat, spreading its panels. “You’ll be warmer this way,” he explained, and put his arms around her, slowly, carefully, as awkward as a schoolboy.
Livia could feel the tension in him, knew he was trying to remain chivalrous and somehow proper even as their bodies met. She was shivering uncontrollably now. “Tighter,” she said.
“What?”
“Hold me tighter.”
“Ah. Yes.” Gabriel obeyed, but with that same tentativeness.
“No. Like this.” Fiercely Livia thrust herself against him, slid her arms around his torso, feeling the taut muscles there, and clung to him as if she would never let go.
Here, she thought, was home.
Home and heaven, both at once.
Everything she had ever wanted was here. In him. Him.
“Livia,” he said, low. “Livia, I—”
“Don’t talk.”
Everything had come to this, to this tiny ramshackle shelter, where around them were only swaying trees and whirling wind, rain and mud, primeval. At this moment, they were the only two people in the world and she was in his arms, safe, secure, getting warmer and warmer . . .
Her teeth had stopped chattering, she realized.
But how much time had gone by?
Was it her imagination, or had the storm abated a little?
Livia lifted her head. She looked up; Gabriel was watching her gravely. Nothing mattered but this: she pulled his head down and pressed her mouth against his. It was her turn to be awkward and uncertain. She did it like a child might kiss a maiden aunt. Her lips were compressed and blindly she shoved her face toward his, clumsily, amateurishly, but determined.