beautifully fierce sculpture of
torment, she mused morbidly. What a wrecked pair of souls we
are.
Gabriella murmured, “Is this the time of year
she died?”
“Was murdered,” he snapped frostily. Then,
“Yes, three weeks from now.”
Ah, she thought, exactly the time he planned
to have Stratton at his mercy.
Sitting up, she swung her legs to the side of
the bed, one foot on the floor whilst idly fingering the robe belt.
Half turned toward him, Gabriella whispered, “May I asked something
of you?”
He tensed and slowly turned to regard her,
his face and body like stone. Raith raised an inky brow over his
cold eyes. “Now is not the time to confuse our relationship. As you
say, we are tools for each other. I want nothing more from you. You
should expect nothing more from me. I have made it clear that
whatever wealth Stratton drained from your mother, will be
yours.”
She did not know whether to laugh at him for
assuming she wanted monetary compensation from him, or feel pity
for them both—because they were so cynical as to expect the worse
from people, even each other.
What she did was hold his gaze, “I was only
going to request, that should I die, or disappear, should
everything go wrong, will you have my mother buried on decent
ground…with a marker?”
Raith swallowed. Gabriella saw the movement,
her eyes scanning up and over that visage.
He stared at her intently for long moments,
before finally nodding.
“Thank you.” She shrugged. Her smile turned a
bit wry, watching the tension uncoil a bit in him.
“Should I embolden myself enough to enquire
if you have a similar request of me? Any last words, for your
father, or brothers.” God, she did not know what was wrong with her
tonight. She was pushing it and knew it, and she had seldom spoken
to him of anything beyond their mutual obsession with Stratton and
justice for their dead.
“You know nothing of my family.” His nostrils
flared.
“I know little, true. I know the Duke of
Eastland arrived in town days ago after two years of morning.” She
heard his snort but added, “And the Earl of Stoneleigh, Jules, is
more popular in society than men twice his age. His fortune and
looks apparently inspire awe amid his peers. I know—the Viscount,
Captain Blaise LeClair has retired from the Navy—due to being
wounded. Some rag reports that he is blind and in seclusion—-“
“Save your provocations for Stratton,” Raith
uttered icily. “As I say, you know nothing.”
Provocation? Yes, she was pushing him,
although had no sane reason why, save she discovered even females
had their (dangerous) moods. “I assumed your icy character formed
when you lost your Suzette. But now, I gather it was already—“
“Don’t speak of her!” Raith took a step
towards her. His face a picture of chilly anger. “Do not probe that
hell, Gabriella. You will regret it.”
“Is she of any more import than my mother?”
Tara snarled, her body shaking suddenly, feeding off his own
darkness. “At least Suzette died more quickly than the drawn out
agony—“
He was across the room in seconds, his hands
gripping her arms. Glaring down, Raith shook her twice with
violence. “She was my wife, God damn you! Barely eighteen years
old. He tortured her and then slaughtered her like an animal! She
was my wife.” He rasped like burning coals, “And she died with the
horror and terror burned forever into her eyes!”
Gabriella tried to grasp his arms, her voice
less forceful from the hell in his eyes, “Raith, I—“
He shoved her back so suddenly and brutal,
that she landed on the bed.
The door crashed against the frame at his
exit.
Laying there, panting, trembling, Gabriella
finally rolled and buried her face in the coverlet, her fingers
digging into it tightly. God. Oh God. What is suddenly wrong with
me? I knew that. I knew what he saw from the papers. What is wrong
with me that I throw that torment in his face? We are here, so
close to finishing it, and
torment, she mused morbidly. What a wrecked pair of souls we
are.
Gabriella murmured, “Is this the time of year
she died?”
“Was murdered,” he snapped frostily. Then,
“Yes, three weeks from now.”
Ah, she thought, exactly the time he planned
to have Stratton at his mercy.
Sitting up, she swung her legs to the side of
the bed, one foot on the floor whilst idly fingering the robe belt.
Half turned toward him, Gabriella whispered, “May I asked something
of you?”
He tensed and slowly turned to regard her,
his face and body like stone. Raith raised an inky brow over his
cold eyes. “Now is not the time to confuse our relationship. As you
say, we are tools for each other. I want nothing more from you. You
should expect nothing more from me. I have made it clear that
whatever wealth Stratton drained from your mother, will be
yours.”
She did not know whether to laugh at him for
assuming she wanted monetary compensation from him, or feel pity
for them both—because they were so cynical as to expect the worse
from people, even each other.
What she did was hold his gaze, “I was only
going to request, that should I die, or disappear, should
everything go wrong, will you have my mother buried on decent
ground…with a marker?”
Raith swallowed. Gabriella saw the movement,
her eyes scanning up and over that visage.
He stared at her intently for long moments,
before finally nodding.
“Thank you.” She shrugged. Her smile turned a
bit wry, watching the tension uncoil a bit in him.
“Should I embolden myself enough to enquire
if you have a similar request of me? Any last words, for your
father, or brothers.” God, she did not know what was wrong with her
tonight. She was pushing it and knew it, and she had seldom spoken
to him of anything beyond their mutual obsession with Stratton and
justice for their dead.
“You know nothing of my family.” His nostrils
flared.
“I know little, true. I know the Duke of
Eastland arrived in town days ago after two years of morning.” She
heard his snort but added, “And the Earl of Stoneleigh, Jules, is
more popular in society than men twice his age. His fortune and
looks apparently inspire awe amid his peers. I know—the Viscount,
Captain Blaise LeClair has retired from the Navy—due to being
wounded. Some rag reports that he is blind and in seclusion—-“
“Save your provocations for Stratton,” Raith
uttered icily. “As I say, you know nothing.”
Provocation? Yes, she was pushing him,
although had no sane reason why, save she discovered even females
had their (dangerous) moods. “I assumed your icy character formed
when you lost your Suzette. But now, I gather it was already—“
“Don’t speak of her!” Raith took a step
towards her. His face a picture of chilly anger. “Do not probe that
hell, Gabriella. You will regret it.”
“Is she of any more import than my mother?”
Tara snarled, her body shaking suddenly, feeding off his own
darkness. “At least Suzette died more quickly than the drawn out
agony—“
He was across the room in seconds, his hands
gripping her arms. Glaring down, Raith shook her twice with
violence. “She was my wife, God damn you! Barely eighteen years
old. He tortured her and then slaughtered her like an animal! She
was my wife.” He rasped like burning coals, “And she died with the
horror and terror burned forever into her eyes!”
Gabriella tried to grasp his arms, her voice
less forceful from the hell in his eyes, “Raith, I—“
He shoved her back so suddenly and brutal,
that she landed on the bed.
The door crashed against the frame at his
exit.
Laying there, panting, trembling, Gabriella
finally rolled and buried her face in the coverlet, her fingers
digging into it tightly. God. Oh God. What is suddenly wrong with
me? I knew that. I knew what he saw from the papers. What is wrong
with me that I throw that torment in his face? We are here, so
close to finishing it, and
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