Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

instead of bursting like a helium-filled

balloon. “The angel pointed to a broken flowerpot... ‘and to a lump of dirt which had fallen out of it.’ The

flower had been thrown out into the rubbish.”

Like Gabriel had been forced to live in rubbish.

Con. Fumier.

Gabriel’s chest rose and fell, nipples rubbing her nipples, the wiry hair matting his chest prickling her

breasts.

Victoria ached for Gabriel; Victoria ached from Gabriel.

“The angel said, ‘We will take this with us.’ ” Her throat and vagina tightened, voice and sex strained

past bearing. “But the child . . . couldn’t understand why.”

Did Gabriel understand? Victoria fleetingly wondered.

“The angel... he said that... a ... a sick boy with crutches had lived there in a cellar ... a boy who .. . who

was poor ... and who could not... could not go out to ... see the flowers.”

Gabriel bleakly stared into his past, anchored to the present by Victoria’s body and her words.

“In the summer”—Victoria’s nails gouged crescent moons into his flesh—he did not flinch, flesh turned

into marble while hers cried out her need—“beams of sun would lie on the floor for ... for a half an hour

and he would ... he would sit in the sunshine ... and he would say he had been outside.”

Gabriel’s childhood dreams shone on his face. How often had he pretended that he had what passing

children had—shoes, clothes that hid elbows and knees ...

How much longer could Victoria concentrate on a story she had not heard in twenty-three years instead

of the thick flesh that nudged her womb and slid on her clitoris every time she breathed, every time she

spok e?. . .

“One day a ... a neighbor’s son brought him some ... some field flowers. One of them ... had a ... a root.

He planted the flower, and it grew.”

It had survived, as Gabriel had survived.

Flyaway hair haloed the head of the man who still did not recognize his worth.

Victoria’s body greedily clutched Gabriel as she fought to continue an angel’s story. “Every year the

flower—” she breathed more deeply—“bloomed. It was the boy’s ... own flower garden. He gave it water.

.. and made certain it got... all the sunbeams. He dreamed about... his flower. He turned to the flower... for

comfort . . . even when he ... even when he died. But when the ... the boy died ... no one was there ... to

take care of his flower. And it was ... tossed out.”

Into the rubbish.

“And that is why, the angel said”—Victoria could feel her body swelling—“they were taking the flower

to ... to heaven ... because it gave more real joy, the angel said, than the most... the most beautiful flower

in a ... queen’s garden.”

Victoria had seen many gardens—flowers planted to blossom in fashionable patterns. They had none of

them imparted any joy.

“ ‘But how do you know all this?’ asked the child,” Victoria said, voice stronger. “ ‘I know it,’ said the

angel, ‘because I myself was the . . . boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.’ ”

Gabriel suddenly focused on Victoria instead of his past. “And who am I, Victoria? The boy who died or

the angel who’s carrying him?”

Victoria fought for control, won. “The angel, Gabriel.” Gabriel’s face spasmed, marble splintering into

flesh. “Why?” “Your house is your garden, Gabriel. You take broken people and give them new lives.”

Victoria remembered the older woman and the younger man, sharing their passion; she remembered Julien,

defending the House of Gabriel. “Take joy in your garden.”

A harsh, strangled sound escaped Gabriel’s throat—he threw his head back, eyes closed, dark lashes

spiked. Victoria did not mistake the clear liquid crawling down his cheeks for sweat—they were the tears

of an angel.

Gabriel silently climaxed, fingers digging into her hips, hands dragging her forward until Victoria’s face

pressed into his throat and her arms had nowhere to go but around his shoulders. She held him. Sharing his

tears. And then she shared his orgasm.

Chapter

26

The white enamel-painted door swung open. Gabriel froze, right hand raised to grasp the brass knocker.

Anemic sunlight turned brown eyes into amber. There was no emotion in their reflective depths.

Gabriel would recognize those eyes anywhere: they were the eyes of cold and hunger.

The echoing clip-clop of four hooves trodding a cobbled street rang out behind him.

“Monsieur Gabriel.” The butler stepped back; silver threaded his thick chestnut-brown hair. He inclined

his head. “Mademoiselle Childers.”

Gabriel instinctively sought the small of Victoria’s back; his leather gloves and her clothing blocked her

flesh but not the healing comfort of touch. He fought the urge to turn around and hail the departing cab;

instead, he urged Victoria forward into the small foyer of the brick town house.

Three figures were reflected inside mirror-shiny oak paneling: the chestnut-haired butler, black coat

ending in twin tails; a man— taller than the butler—who wore a double-breasted gray wool coat and black

bowler hat; and a woman who was the same height as the butler, hair hidden by a black Windsor hat, body

shielded by a dark blue cloak.

Victoria reached up and pushed back the black half veil on her Windsor hat.

Even in the oak paneling her skin glowed.

Gabriel’s guts twisted.

He had brought that glow to Victoria, a man who demanded her love but who wouldn’t promise to return

it. And now he saw the past through her eyes.

The small