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

would thank you for killing me. You will forgive me, sir, if I do not agree with either of you.”

“The man who wrote the letters did not offer you a choice. I do.”

“A choice between what?” Hysteria rang in Victoria’s voice. “The manner by which you dispatch me?”

“I give you the choice of life, mademoiselle.”

First death, now ...

“And what do I have to do in order to obtain this life you offer me?”

“Be my guest.”

“I beg your pardon?”

How many times had Victoria now begged his pardon? she wondered incongruously. Four? Five? More?

“Remain here, in my chambers, until it is safe.” Safety—there was no safety inside his eyes. His room.

His house. “I have men who will guard you.”

“You said earlier that you could not guarantee I would be safe,” Victoria retorted.

“Nor can I.”

The brass bed gleamed.

There was no invitation in his eyes to share it.

She thought of the streets that awaited her. And contrarily chose them.

“I cannot stay here in your private chambers,” she said firmly. Sounding like the thirty-four-year-old

spinster governess that she had once been.

“You came here prepared to do more than sleep in my bed, mademoiselle.”

The memory of his rejection when she had reached out to touch him chafed.

“But you do not want me ... in that manner.”

Her jaws audibly snapped shut. Why had she said that?

Gabriel had said that if he took her, she would die.

“When this is over, I will pay you two thousand pounds,” Gabriel offered.

With two thousand pounds Victoria could live the rest of her life in comfort. Without fear of hunger.

Cold.

A man who waited to snatch her virginity ...

“I have no desire for money that I do not earn.”

Victoria cringed. She sounded self-righteous even in her own ears.

“I will find you a position, then,” the silver-eyed man calmly rejoined.

“As a governess?” she asked. And wondered why she did not feel more eager to resume her

profession.

“Yes.”

“I do not think that family men would be eager to hire a governess who has spent time inside the House

of Gabriel.”

“Mademoiselle, my patrons would far prefer to hire a governess who has been my guest than to have

their sexual idiosyncrasies made public.”

Victoria should not be surprised. So why was she?

“That’s blackmail,” she said uncertainly.

“That’s the price of sin,” he returned implacably.

“You are offering me your protection,” she said slowly, trying to understand, to reason, to not give way

to panic.

“I am offering you my protection.”

She felt a leap of relief. And despised herself for it.

She did not want to be dependent upon a man.

Not for food. Not for shelter.

Not for sexual satisfaction.

“For how long?” Victoria asked shortly.

“For however long it takes.”

For however long it took to hunt a man down, was what he meant.

And k ill him.

“How do you know that I am not this man’s accomplice?”

Horror welled up inside Victoria.

She could not have said what she had just said. But she had.

“How do you know that I do not make this offer so that I may kill you when your screams are less likely

to disturb my clientele?” he returned reasonably.

Victoria kept her gaze trained on his eyes instead of the knife in his hand.

“Are you?” she asked steadily.

“This is a night house, mademoiselle,” he replied matter-of-factly. “If someone heard you scream, they

would think you did so in the throes of passion.”

The men on the street sometimes grunted when they coupled, like pigs rooting for food; the

streetwalkers silently endured.

“Do men ... and women ... often scream in your night house, sir?” she asked.

“The walls are designed to afford privacy,” Gabriel said politely, deliberately misunderstanding her. “You

will not hear them.”

“The men and women who . . . couple ... on the streets—they do not scream in the throes of passion,”

Victoria said more bluntly.

She saw his past reflected inside his gaze: the hunger.

The cold.

The sex.

The will to survive.

No matter the cost.

What would cause a man such as he to beg?

“The men and women on the street couple like they live, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said indifferently. “They

steal a few moments of pleasure here, a purse there.”

A life in between.

The wool padding of Victoria’s dress was wearing thin: her knees ached. The palms of her hands were

damp. She rubbed them on her thighs to dry them.

The wool was coarse, abrasive.

“I cannot give you the name of the prostitute,” she said.

Victoria could no longer call Dolly friend, but she would not be responsible for the death of another

woman.

She, too, had been a victim of circumstance.

“I told you, if she’s not yet dead, she soon will be.” The knife blade glinted in his hand, his fingers long,

elegant. “Her name would be useless.”

Victoria averted her gaze.

His silver eyes were waiting for hers.

He did not ask for her help. So why did she feel compelled to give it?

“The man who wrote the letters ...” Victoria licked her top lip, a rasping flick of her tongue. “He would

have no knowledge of the man who . . . abused you.”

“How do you know that, mademoiselle?”

Victoria was not fooled by the politeness of Gabriel’s tone.

“I know that because he would have no knowledge of you, sir.”

“Many men have knowledge of me, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said cynically.

“If he had knowledge of your house, sir,” Victoria retorted, “he would not prey on his children’s

governess.”

Not prey on his children’s governess rang inside her ears.

There should not be any more blood left inside Victoria’s head