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

of being touched by women.”

“Then what are you afraid of, mademoiselle, that we share the same fear?”

“I am afraid of being touched by a man,” Victoria said forcefully.

The light rimming his pupils shone brighter than the chandelier above them, a stark, dangerous circle of

pure silver.

“I am afraid that I will like being touched by a man,” she continued determinedly.

Victoria’s heart drummed inside her ears, admitting the truth she had hidden for so long. A truth the

letters had forced her to recognize.

“I am afraid that I am a whore in fact as well as in deed.”

Chapter

4

Victoria’s voice reverberated between them. The silver-eyed, silver-haired man seemed riveted by her

words: afraid of being touched. . . afraid that I will lik e being touched. . . afraid that I am a whore

in fact as well as in deed.

Or perhaps Victoria was riveted by the fact that she had uttered such words.

The shame that should arise from her confession did not come.

Victoria tilted her chin, daring him to judge her, he who had sold his body. As she had sold her body.

“The letters inside my reticule made me realize what I am. I was wet with desire. Because I did want

you—a stranger—to touch me.”

Pain ripped through her chest.

“It is not the selling of one’s body that makes one a whore, is it?” she said lightly; her voice was not

light. “It is the enjoyment one derives from the sexual touch. I wanted your touch; therefore, I am a whore.

“I did not think that I would be affected in such a way this night.” Victoria blinked back sudden tears. “

But I am. Does that warrant my death?”

Seconds spanned a lifetime. Only Gabriel’s eyes were alive. Silver beacons shining with need.

To touch ... to be touched. To hold ... to be held.

A log collapsed, reality intruding.

He did not want to touch or be touched by her. And he most certainly did not want her to hold him.

“I can’t let you go, mademoiselle.”

Regret touched his voice, his face. And then it was gone.

His need. His regret.

The longing to touch. To hold.

Once again the man who stood before her was a living, breathing statue, beauty unmarred by emotion.

“Gabriel was God’s messenger,” Victoria said impulsively.

“Yes. Michael was his chosen,” he returned, silver irises eating the black of his pupils.

Victoria braced herself. “What are you going to do with me?”

“I will try to save you.”

But she could yet die.

“I hardly think the woman who gave me the—the contraceptive tablets constitutes a dire threat,”

Victoria said bracingly. “She merely hoped to rob me. I will not now gain enough money for her to trouble

herself over.”

Nor would Victoria gain enough money to escape.

Hunger. Cold.

The man who had written the letters.

“No, she will not trouble you again,” he agreed evenly.

Victoria sighed with relief. “There you are—”

“She will not trouble you again, mademoiselle, because she is dead. Or soon will be.”

Dolly had promised to accompany Victoria to the House of Gabriel; Victoria had waited until Big Ben

had announced the quarter hour to twelve.

She had not shown up.

Nausea closed Victoria’s throat.

“How do you know that?” she managed.

The silver-eyed man pivoted; between one blink and the next he faced Victoria and held out the white

silk cloth that had earlier concealed his pistol.

“I know because of this, mademoiselle.”

Victoria instinctively reached out; the white cloth dropped into her hand. She blankly examined the

square of silk, a napkin, surely—

“Turn it over.”

Black ink stained the opposite side of the white silk cloth. Slowly the black blots took form.

They were letters. Bold, black, masculine letters.

A note was scrawled across the silk.

Victoria read the short missive. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each time she lingered over the last sentence:

You have set the stage, mon ange, now I bring you a woman. A leading actress, if you will. Laissez

le jeu commencer.

Let the play begin.. . .

With a calmness she was far from feeling, she carefully folded the napkin and held it out.

Gabriel did not accept it.

Victoria’s hand clumsily dropped to her side; the silk crumpled between her fisting fingers. “My... The

woman who gave me the tablets did not write this.”

Even if Dolly could write—and in such a bold, masculine script— she would not be able to quote from

Shakespeare.

“No, she did not.”

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

Victoria had identified the quote in the note, by both author and play. Surely he did not think ... ?

“I am a governess,” she exhorted defensively.

“Yes.”

His response was not promising.

“My position requires a certain knowledge of Mr. Shakespeare’s works.”

He silently watched her flounder.

“I do not. . .” Know the man who wrote the note. Victoria licked her lips. “What does it mean, you

have ‘set the stage’? Who did you set the stage for?”

“A man, mademoiselle.”

“The man who wrote this note.”

“Yes.”

“And you think that this man, that—that it is because of him that I am here.”

“Yes.”

“That’s absurd. How could he possibly know—”

Her breath snagged inside her throat.

Six months earlier the husband of her employer had accused Victoria of flirting with him.

Victoria had not.

Her employer had not been interested in the truth. She had dismissed Victoria without so much as a

reference.

Three months later the letters had started coming, morning missives slipped underneath the door of her

rented room. Letters claiming that someone was watching her. That someone was waiting for her.

Letters that described in detail the pleasures she would soon