Reckless Read online

  She gasped as he lifted her effortlessly down from the sidesaddle. He did not set her on her feet, but continued to hold her in front of him, the toes of her half boots an inch off the ground. It was the first time he had ever touched her, the first time she had been so close to him, Phoebe was shocked at her own reaction. She was breathless.

  He smelled good, she realized with surprise. His scent was indescribable, all leather and wool, and all male. She knew suddenly that she would never forget it.

  For some reason the strength in his hands unnerved her. She was conscious of just how small and light she was compared to him. It was not her imagination; he was larger than she remembered.

  Eight years ago Phoebe had admired her sister’s would-be rescuer with a young girl’s innocent, idealistic admiration.

  Tonight she was startled to discover that she might very well find herself attracted to him in the way a woman is attracted to a man. She had never before felt this way about any man, not even Neil. Never had there been this immediate, shattering sense of awareness.

  Perhaps it was only her imagination at work, she assured herself. Too much moonlight and tension. Her family was forever warning her to subdue her imaginative mind.

  Gabriel set her on her feet. Confused by the dizzying effect he was having on her senses, Phoebe forgot to steady herself firmly on her right leg before putting weight on her left one. She stumbled and clutched at Gabriel’s arm to catch her balance.

  Gabriel’s brows rose. “Do I make you nervous, my lady?”

  “No, of course not.” Phoebe released his arm and quickly shook out the skirts of her riding habit. She started determinedly toward the broken gate. There was no way to conceal the slight limp that marred her walk. She had grown accustomed to it long ago, but others were forever noticing it.

  “Did you twist your ankle when I set you down?” There was genuine concern in Gabriel’s voice now. “My apologies, madam. Here, let me assist you.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my ankle,” Phoebe said impatiently. “My left leg is somewhat weak, that is all. The effects of an old carriage accident.”

  “I see,” Gabriel said. He sounded thoughtful.

  Phoebe wondered if the obvious weakness in her left leg bothered him. It had certainly put off other men in the past. Few men invited a woman with a limp to join them in a waltz. Normally she was not bothered by such reactions. She was used to them. But she discovered that it hurt to think that Gabriel might be one of those males who could not tolerate imperfections in a woman.

  “If I seem a trifle nervous,” Phoebe said gruffly, “it is because I do not know you all that well, sir.”

  “I’m not so certain about that,” Gabriel said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “You are about to steal your third manuscript from me. It would seem you know me very well, indeed.”

  “I am not stealing from you, my lord.” Phoebe reached up to the brim of her small hat and lowered the second layer of the dark veil. One layer might not be enough to conceal her features inside the cottage. “I consider us rivals, not enemies.”

  “There is little difference when it comes to this sort of thing. Be warned, madam. You may have pushed your luck too far with this night’s work.”

  Phoebe knocked quickly. “Do not fret, Wylde. I am certain there will be other opportunities for you to win in this game.”

  “No doubt.” Gabriel’s eyes were on Phoebe’s heavily veiled face as footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. “I shall certainly make it a point in the future to provide you with more of a challenge than I have thus far.”

  “I have been quite satisfied with the challenge to date,” Phoebe said as the door was unlatched inside. Sparring with Wylde was akin to dragging a chunk of raw meat in front of a tiger. A dangerous business, to say the least. But she must keep him intrigued, she reminded herself. If he lost interest, he might simply vanish into the night. Once again she could only regret the current shortage of knights-errant. Selection was limited.

  “If you are satisfied with the challenge thus far,” Gabriel said, “it is only because you have been winning. That is about to change.”

  Chapter 2

  The door of Nash’s cottage opened and a stout, middle-aged housekeeper in a dingy cap and apron peered out.

  “Who be you?” the woman demanded in a suspicious tone.

  “Kindly tell your master that the person to whom he recently sold a medieval manuscript has arrived to collect it,” Phoebe said. She glanced into the hall behind the woman. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls. Each shelf was crammed full with leather-bound volumes. More books were stacked in piles on the floor.

  “So he’s sold off another one, eh?” The housekeeper nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Well, now, that’s a blessing. He’s behind on me wages again. Owes me a packet, he does. I’m goin’ to see to it he pays me afore he settles up with the tradesmen this time. Weren’t nothin’ left by the time he got around to me last quarter.”

  “Nash sold an item from his collection to pay his bills last quarter?” Gabriel asked as he strode into the tiny hail behind Phoebe. His heavy coat swirled around the tops of his beautifully polished Hessians.

  “Egan finally talked him into it. You’d have thought Mr, Nash was gettin’ a tooth pulled.” The housekeeper sighed as she closed the door. “The master cannot bear to part with any of them old books of his. They’re all he cares about.”

  “Who is Egan?” Phoebe asked.

  “The master’s son. Comes by to see to things once in a while, thank the lord, or else nothin’ at all would get done around here.” The housekeeper led the way down the hall. “Don’t know what we’d have done if Egan hadn’t convinced Mr. Nash to sell off one or two of them dirty old books. Starve to death, more’n likely.”

  Phoebe glanced covertly at Gabriel, who was examining the shabby, book-filled hall. He had removed his hat. She studied him with the new, heightened awareness that he had ignited in her. In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight his hair was still as black as midnight, just as she remembered. There was a faint trace of silver at the temples. But then, he was thirty-four now, she reminded herself. And the silver was oddly attractive.

  Eight years ago she had thought him rather old. Now he seemed exactly the right age. Her gloved fingers tightened around a fold of her purple riding habit. She lifted the small train to clear a pile of books. The rising sense of anticipation inside her had nothing to do with collecting the manuscript or convincing Gabriel to help her in her quest to discover Neil’s murderer.

  It had everything to do with Gabriel himself.

  Dear heaven, this was getting dangerous indeed, Phoebe thought. This sort of emotional complication was the last thing she needed at the moment. She must keep a clear head and remember that Gabriel had no reason to feel any affection for any members of her family.

  Gabriel’s face was half averted as he read the spines of some of the books stuffed higgledy-piggledy into the nearest case. Phoebe gazed at the hard line of his jaw and the arrogant angle of his cheekbones. For some reason she was startled to see that he still had the face of a raptor.

  Her stomach fluttered nervously. She had not expected that the passage of the past eight years would soften those fierce features. It was unsettling, however, to see that they had become harsher and more unyielding than ever.

  As if he could read her mind, Gabriel suddenly turned his head. He looked straight at her, pinning her with predatory green eyes. For a nerve-racking moment Phoebe had the impression he could see beneath her heavy veil. She had forgotten about his eyes.

  As a young girl on the brink of womanhood, she had not understood the impact of that intense green gaze. Of course, she had only had a few brief glimpses of it. Those occasions had occurred when Gabriel had come to her father’s town house along with all the other young bloods of the ton to pay court to her lovely sister, Meredith.

  The only man in the crowd who had interested Phoebe had been Gabriel
. She had been curious about him from the start because she had avidly read the books and poems he had given to her sister. Gabriel had wooed Meredith with Arthurian legends rather than flowers. Meredith had not been interested in the ancient tales of chivalry, but Phoebe had devoured them.

  Every time Gabriel had come to call, Phoebe had made it a point to observe as much as possible from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. In her naïveté, she had thought the glances he had given Meredith were deliciously romantic.

  Now she realized that romantic was far too soft and frivolous a word to describe Gabriel’s glittering gaze. No wonder her sister had found him terrifying. For all her razor sharp intelligence, Meredith had been a gentle, timid creature in those days.

  For the first time since she had begun the reckless quest to lure Gabriel into helping her, Phoebe felt momentarily overwhelmed by the challenge. He was right. He was not a man with whom an intelligent woman played games. Perhaps her scheme was not going to work, after all. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was still safely concealed behind her veil.

  “Is something wrong?” Gabriel asked softly. His eyes skimmed over her bright purple habit. He looked amused.

  “No. Nothing.” Phoebe lifted her chin as she turned away from him to follow the housekeeper. What did it signify if the purple shade of her habit was a trifle livid in tone? She was well aware that her taste was not appreciated by many. Her mother and sister were always lecturing her about her love of what they termed inflamed colors.

  The housekeeper showed them into a small room that was even more crowded than the hall. Bookcases took up all the available wall space. Each was filled to overflowing. Volumes were stacked waist high on the floor, forming meandering paths. Heavy trunks, lids open to reveal more books and papers, were stationed on either side of the hearth.

  A portly man dressed in overly snug breeches and a faded maroon coat sat at a desk piled high with books. He was hunched over an aging volume. Candlelight illuminated his bald head and thick gray whiskers. He spoke without looking up from the page in front of him.

  “What is it, Mrs. Stiles? I told ye I was not to be bothered until I have finished translating this text.”

  “The lady has come for her manuscript, sir.” Mrs. Stiles did not seem perturbed by her master’s gruff manner. “Brought a friend with her, she has. Shall I make tea?”

  “What’s this? There’s two of ’em?” Nash threw down his pen and surged to his feet. He turned toward the door and glowered at his visitors through a pair of silver-framed spectacles.

  “Good evening, Mr. Nash,” Phoebe said politely as she stepped forward.

  Nash’s scowling gaze was drawn briefly to Phoebe’s left leg. He refrained from commenting on her limp, however. His already florid face turned a darker shade of red as he looked at Gabriel. “Here, now. I’m only sellin’ the one manuscript tonight. How come there’s two of ye?”

  “Do not concern yourself, Mr. Nash,” Phoebe said soothingly. “This gentleman is with me merely because I did not like the thought of coming out alone at this hour.”

  “Why not?” Nash glared ferociously at Gabriel. “No harm will come to ye in this neighborhood. Nothin’ ever happens around this part of Sussex.”

  “Yes, well, I am not as familiar with the local situation as you are,” Phoebe murmured. “I am from London, if you will recall.”

  “About the tea,” Mrs. Stiles began firmly.

  “Never mind the damn tea,” Nash growled. “They won’t be stayin’ long enough for it. Take yerself off, Mrs. Stiles. I’ve got business to attend to.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Stiles disappeared.

  Gabriel’s gaze was speculative as he surveyed the room full of books. “My compliments on your extensive library, Nash.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Nash’s gaze followed Gabriel’s. Pride gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Rather pleased with it, if I do say so.”

  “You would not, by any chance, be in possession of a particular copy of Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, would you?”

  “What copy?” Nash asked suspiciously.

  “A 1634 edition. Rather poor condition. Bound in red Moroccan leather. There is an inscription on the flyleaf that begins ‘To my son.’”

  Nash frowned. “No. Mine is an earlier edition. Excellent condition.”

  “I see.” Gabriel looked at him. “Then we had best be getting on with our business.”

  “Certainly.” Nash opened a desk drawer. “I expect ye’ll be wantin’ to see the thing afore you take it away, won’t ye?”

  “If you don’t mind.” Phoebe cast a swift glance at Gabriel.

  He had picked up a fat book from a nearby table, but he put it down at once when he saw Nash lifting a wooden box out of the desk drawer.

  Nash lifted the lid off the box and reverently removed the volume inside. The gold on the edges of the vellum sparkled in the candlelight. Gabriel’s eyes gleamed a very brilliant shade of green.

  Phoebe almost smiled in spite of her new fears. She knew exactly how he felt. A familiar rush of excitement shot through her as Nash placed the manuscript on the desk and carefully opened the thick leather covers to reveal the first page.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Phoebe whispered. All of her immediate concerns about the wisdom of asking Gabriel’s assistance in her quest faded as she looked at the magnificent manuscript.

  She moved closer to get a better view of the four miniatures placed together on the top half of the page. An intricate ivy-leaf border surrounded the ancient illustrations. Even from this distance the illuminations glowed like rare jewels.

  “It’s a beauty, right enough,” Nash said with a collector’s pride. “Got it from a bookseller in London a year ago. He bought it from some Frenchman who fled to England on account of the Revolution. Makes me bilious to think of all the fine book collections that must have been broken up or destroyed on the Continent during the past few years.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel said quietly. “War is not good for books or anything else.” He walked over to the desk and stood gazing intently down at the illuminated manuscript. “Bloody hell. It is quite remarkably beautiful.”

  “Wonderful.” Phoebe studied the glittering miniatures. “Absolutely fantastic.” She glanced at Nash. “May I examine it more closely?”

  Nash hesitated and then shrugged with obvious reluctance. “Ye paid fer it. It’s yers. Do what ye like.”

  “Thank you.” Phoebe was aware of Gabriel hovering over her shoulder as she reached into her skirt pocket for a clean lace handkerchief. The intense, controlled eagerness in him amused her because it was so similar to her own emotions in that moment.

  She and Gabriel were as one in this particular passion, she reflected. Only another book collector could appreciate a moment such as this.

  She used the handkerchief to turn the vellum pages. The Knight and the Sorcerer was a richly decorated manuscript. It had obviously been commissioned by a wealthy medieval French aristocrat who had appreciated the illuminator’s art as well as the story the scribe had set down.

  Phoebe paused to study some of the old French, noting the exquisite script. When she got to the final page, she concentrated intently for a moment to translate the colophon.

  “Here ends the tale of The Knight and the Sorcerer;” Phoebe read aloud. “I, Philip of Blois, have told only the truth. This book has been created for my lady and belongs to her. If anyone takes this book from this place, he shall be cursed. He shall be set upon by thieves and murderers. He shall hang. He shall be condemned to the fires of hell.”

  “I’d say that covers everything,” Gabriel said. “Nothing like a good old-fashioned book curse to make one think twice about engaging in a bit of book theft.”

  “One can hardly blame the scribes for trying everything possible to keep these gorgeous works of art from being stolen.” Phoebe carefully closed the volume. She glanced up at Mr. Nash and smiled. “I am well satisfied with my purchase, sir.”

  “’Tis
only a romance of the Round Table,” Nash muttered. “A foolish story written down for some spoiled court lady. Not as important as the copy of the Historia Scholastica that I picked up at the same time, of course. Still, ‘tis a pretty thing, ain’t it?”

  “It is quite outrageously beautiful.” Phoebe carefully replaced the manuscript in its box. “I will take excellent care of it, Mr. Nash.”

  “Well, ye’d best take it and be gone.” Nash tore his gaze away from the box containing the manuscript. “I’ve got work to do tonight.”

  “I understand.” Phoebe picked up the heavy container.

  “I’ll take that for you.” Gabriel deftly removed the manuscript box from Phoebe’s hands. “Somewhat awkward for you to manage, don’t you think?”

  “I can manage it very well, thank you.”

  “Nevertheless, I’ll be happy to carry it for you.” Gabriel smiled enigmatically. “You have engaged my services as an escort tonight, if you will recall. It is my privilege to be of service to you. Shall we go?”

  “Yes, yes, take yerselves off,” Nash grumbled. He sat down at his desk and picked up his pen. “Mrs. Stiles will see you to the door.”

  Unable to think of any alternative, Phoebe was obliged to walk past Gabriel and out into the crowded hall. She did not like the taunting look in his eyes.

  Surely he would not actually attempt to take the manuscript from her by force, she assured herself. She refused to believe for one minute that her gallant knight had turned into a genuine villain. He was teasing her, she thought.

  Mrs. Stiles was waiting at the front door. She eyed the box in Gabriel’s hand. “Well, that’ll be one less book to dust. ’Course, the master will probably go out and buy ten more to replace it. I’ll be lucky to get my wages this quarter.”

  “The best of luck to you, Mrs. Stiles,” Gabriel said. He took Phoebe’s arm and guided her out into the night.

  “Once I am mounted, I can handle the manuscript,” Phoebe said quickly.

  “You do not trust me to keep it safe for you?”

  “It is not a matter of trust.” She refused to allow him to make her any more anxious than she already was. “I know you are a gentleman, after all.”