It would have been a good deal faster to walk home, but Phoebe was wearing only a pair of satin dancing slippers that would have been cut to ribbons in minutes on the pavement. And, too, there was always the problem of footpads. The streets were not safe, Gabriel reminded himself.
And neither were the ballrooms.
Of the two, Gabriel decided, he would have preferred to take his chances on the streets.
Baxter was supposed to be dead.
Gabriel eyed Phoebe's unreadable expression. "What did he say to you?"
"He did not say very much," Phoebe said slowly. She was staring out the window. "To be perfectly frank, I had difficulty taking in what he did say. It was such a shock to see him there. I could not believe it."
"Phoebe, tell me exactly what he said to you."
She turned her head and met his eyes. "He said he was not a pirate."
Gabriel glanced down at his hand and saw that he had clenched it into a fist around his walking stick. He forced himself to relax his fingers. "He would deny it, of course."
"Yes, I suppose so. What pirate would admit to his villainy?"
"What else did he say to you?"
Phoebe caught her lower lip between her teeth. Gabriel was coming to know that expression well. It meant she was thinking. He groaned inwardly. Phoebe was always at her most dangerous when she was thinking. The lady was far too intelligent for her own good and she had an imagination which rivaled his own.
"He said," Phoebe murmured, "that you were the scourge of lawful shipping in the islands, not him."
Gabriel had known this was coming, but the foreknowledge did nothing to lessen his fury. "Damn the man. Damn him to bloody hell. He is a liar as well as a murderer. You did not believe him, of course."
"No, of course not." Phoebe's gaze slid away from his. She went back to studying the dark, crowded streets.
Gabriel's stomach clenched. It was not like Phoebe to avoid his gaze. He reached out and caught hold of her gloved hand. "Phoebe, look at me."
She glanced at him through her lashes, her eyes clearly troubled. "Yes, my lord?"
"You did not believe him, did you?" Even as he said the words, Gabriel knew they sounded more like a command than a question.
"No, my lord." She looked down at her hand, which had been swallowed up in his. "Gabriel, you're hurting me."
He realized he was crushing her fingers. He released her hand reluctantly. He must stay calm and in control. He could not allow emotion to cloud his judgment and influence his actions. There was far too much at stake. He forced himself to lean back in the seat and assume what he hoped was a bored expression.
"Forgive me, my dear. Baxter's return from the dead has been unsettling for both of us. The man always was something of an inconvenience."
"Gabriel, I must ask you a question."
"Yes?"
"Is there any possibility, any chance at all, that you were perhaps wrong about Neil's occupation out there in the islands?"
Goddamn the man. In the space of one waltz he had accomplished a great deal. But then, Baxter had always had a way with women.
"No," Gabriel said, willing her to believe him. "Baxter was a damned pirate. There is no question about it."
"I was rather hoping there had been some sort of terrible misunderstanding."
"If you had seen the bodies of the dead men Baxter left behind when he had finished with his work, you would not suggest there had been a misunderstanding."
Phoebe looked stricken. "Dead men?"
"I regret that you are forcing me to be unpleasantly blunt about this. If you do not wish to hear any more of the details, you must accept what I have told you. Baxter was a cutthroat. Did you think such men went about their business in a gallant fashion?"
"Well, no, of course not, but—"
"There is nothing in the least romantic about piracy. It is a bloody business."
"I realize that."
But he could see the doubt in her eyes. Obviously she could not envision her precious Neil Baxter as a monster. "Phoebe, pay close attention to me, because I do not want to have to repeat this. You are to stay away from Baxter. Do you understand?"
"I hear you, my lord."
"You are to have nothing to do with him."
"You make yourself very plain, sir."
"The man is a consummate liar. And he hates me. It is perfectly possible he will try to use you in some fashion to avenge himself on me. You heard what he said about playing Lancelot to my Arthur."
Phoebe's eyes flashed with anger. "I am not Guinevere, my lord. I would not betray you with another man, regardless of the circumstances." Her expression softened. "You can trust me, Gabriel."
"I have always found that it is better not to put such delicate things as trust to the test, You are not to go anywhere near Baxter. You will not dance with him again. You will not speak to him. You will not acknowledge his presence in any fashion. Is that clear?"
Phoebe veiled her eyes with her lashes. "My family once tried to give me similar orders regarding you, Gabriel."
He raised his brows. "And you did not obey them. I am very well aware of that fact. But you will obey me in this. You are my wife."
"I may be your wife, but I wish to be treated as an equal. Anyone can tell you I do not respond well to commands."
"You will respond to my commands, Phoebe. Or there will be bloody hell to pay."
He'd handled her badly.
Gabriel examined the conversation he'd had with Phoebe over and over again after he dismissed his valet. He poured himself a glass of brandy and began to pace back and forth across his bedchamber.
The bald truth was that he could not think of any other way that he might have dealt with the matter. He had seen the uncertainty in her eyes. Baxter had put doubts into her mind.
Gabriel knew he had to keep Phoebe away from Neil Baxter at all costs. The only way to do that was to forbid her to have anything to do with the man she had once thought was her own true Lancelot.
Unfortunately, Phoebe did not take orders well.
Gabriel's groin throbbed with a sudden, fierce need to possess her. He was consumed with a desperate urge to sink himself into her softness. When she gave herself to him in bed, he felt completely certain of her. During that hot, wet time when he was deep inside her, he knew she was his.
Gabriel stopped pacing and put down the brandy glass. He went to the connecting door and opened it.
Phoebe's room was shrouded in darkness. He took a step toward the canopied bed and frowned when he realized she was moving restlessly on the pillows. She was asleep, but she was making tiny little sounds of protest. He could sense the fear in her and knew at once that she was in the grip of another nightmare.
"Phoebe, wake up." Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her gently. "Open your eyes, sweet. You are dreaming again."
Phoebe's lashes fluttered. She came awake with a gasp and levered herself up on her elbows. For an instant her eyes were wild in the shadows. Then she focused slowly on him. "Gabriel?"
"You're safe, Phoebe. I'm here. You were having another nightmare."
"Yes." She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. "It was the same one I had at Devil's Mist after I swam out of the cavern. I was in a dark place and two men were reaching out for me. Each said he could save me. But I knew one of them was lying. I had to choose."
Gabriel pulled her into his arms. "It was only a dream, Phoebe."
"I know."
"I'll help you forget it, just as I did last time." He eased her back down onto the pillows. Then he stood up.
She did not protest when he unfastened his dressing gown and dropped it carelessly on the floor. Her eyes were solemn and watchful as she took in the sight of his heavily aroused body. But she did not resist when he pulled back the covers and slid in beside her.
"Come here, my sweet." Gabriel reached for her, anxious to rekindle the desire that always flared so easily between them. He ne
eded to know that she would respond to him tonight as she always had in the past.
A deep sense of relief shot through Gabriel as Phoebe's arms went slowly around him. He touched the soft swell of her breast, willing himself to take his time with her, wanting her to become as aroused as he was.
It was hopeless. The frantic urge to possess her overwhelmed all Gabriel's intentions. His willpower collapsed under the storm of driving need that was exploding inside him. He had to know that she was still his.
"Phoebe, I cannot wait."
"Yes. I know. It's all right."
He was on fire. The blood was roaring in his veins as Gabriel parted Phoebe's legs and lowered himself between her silken thighs. He used his hand to fit himself to her and then, with a husky, wordless exclamation, he surged into her.
Phoebe sucked in her breath, her body instinctively tightening around him. Gabriel looked down into her face and saw that her eyes were closed. He wanted her to look at him, but he could not find the words to ask her to do so. Nor was there any time to search for them. All that mattered now was slaking this overpowering need that raged within him.
He began to move quickly, driving again and again into Phoebe's snug warmth. She took him into her, wrapping him close, making him a part of herself. He reached down to find the small, sensitive bud of delicate female flesh.
"Gabriel!"
Her soft cry put him over the brink. Every muscle in his body tightened in the penultimate moment. He arched his back and gritted his teeth and then he was pouring himself endlessly into her.
She accepted all that he gave her, holding him close as he shuddered above her. He felt her tiny convulsions ripple through her and then he was lost.
Gabriel lay awake for a long while afterward. He gazed into the shadows and put his mind to the task of figuring out how best to protect Phoebe from Baxter.
Phoebe arrived at her parents' town house promptly at eleven o'clock the following morning. She knew her father's habits well. She was certain she would find him hard at work on his latest mathematical device.
He was exactly where she thought he would be. When she was ushered into the study, she found him fussing over a large mechanical contraption composed of wheels, gears, and weights.
"Good morning, Papa." Phoebe untied her bonnet strings. "How is your mechanical calculation machine coming along?"
"Very nicely indeed." Clarington glanced at her over his shoulder. "I have hit upon a way of using punched cards to supply the instructions for the various calculations."
"Punched cards?"
"Very similar to the ones used by the Jacquard looms to establish weaving pattern."
"I see." Phoebe walked over and gave him a quick hug. "That is all very interesting, Papa. But you know I was never much good with sums and calculations."
"Probably just as well." Clarington snorted. "Got enough of that sort of talent in the family as it is. I wonder if Wylde would find this engine useful in his shipping business."
"I would not be surprised. Papa, I must talk to you." Phoebe sat down. "I have come to ask you a very important question."
Clarington looked wary. "I say, now, if this is a question about married life and your duties as a wife and that sort of thing, you will have to talk to your Mama. Not my field, if you see what I mean."
Phoebe waved that aside impatiently. "I am adjusting tolerably well to married life. That is not what I wished to discuss with you."
Clarington relaxed. "Well, then, what was it you wanted to ask me?"
Phoebe leaned forward determinedly. "Papa, did Neil Baxter leave England three years ago because you paid him to go? Did you buy him off because you did not want him making an offer for me?"
Clarington's bushy brows bunched together in irritation. "I say, who the devil told you that?"
"Wylde told me that."
"I see." Clarington sighed. "I suppose he had a good reason."
"That is not the point. Papa, I demand to know the truth."
"Why?" Clarington asked, his gaze turning shrewd. "Because Baxter is back in England?"
"Partly. And partly because I felt very guilty for a long time after I learned of his death. I told myself that if he had not gone off to make his fortune so that he would be able to ask for my hand, he would not have been killed."
Clarington gazed at her in astonishment. "Good God. What rubbish. I had no notion you were harboring such thoughts."
"Well, I was."
"Utter nonsense. My only regret is that the bloody bastard didn't have the decency to stay dead," Clarington muttered. "But that's Baxter for you. Went out of his way to be difficult."
"Papa, I must know if it's true that you gave him money to stay away from me."
Clarington shifted uncomfortably and tinkered with a mechanical wheel. "Sorry, my dear, but it's true." He glowered at her. "Not that it matters now. You're safely married to Wylde, and that's that, eh?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Phoebe demanded.
"About bribing Baxter to get out of the country? Because I didn't want you to know."
"Why not?" Phoebe asked tightly.
"Because I thought you'd be hurt," Clarington snapped. "Not very pleasant for a romantical young female to learn that a man has only been toying with her affections in order to blackmail her father. You've always been the sentimental type, Phoebe. You saw Baxter as a young Sir Galahad or some such nonsense."
"Lancelot," Phoebe said softly. "I always thought of him as Lancelot."
Clarington scowled. "Beg pardon?"
"Never mind." Phoebe sat rigidly in the chair, her shoulders very straight. "You should have told me the truth, Papa."
"Didn't want to upset you."
"Well, it would not have been very pleasant to learn the truth, I'll grant you that," Phoebe said, "but at least I would not have spent the past year feeling guilty."
"Now, see here. How was I to know you'd been feeling guilty? You never mentioned the fact to me."
Phoebe tapped her gloved fingers on the edge of the chair. She frowned, thinking of what Neil had said the previous evening. "Did you pay him off directly?"
"Good God, no." Clarington looked offended. "A gentleman doesn't dirty his hands with that sort of thing. I had my solicitor handle it."
"Neil says he does not know who paid his passage to the South Seas. He was told a mysterious benefactor arranged matters."
Clarington's scowl darkened. "Nonsense. The man knows full well who paid his passage, and a good bit more besides. We made a deal. I agreed to give the bounder enough to set himself up very nicely on condition he got out of England."
Phoebe sighed. "It's rather difficult to know exactly what to believe."
Clarington was affronted. "Are you saying I'm not telling you the truth?"
"No, Papa, of course not." Phoebe smiled placat-ingly. "I do not think you are lying. But I cannot help but wonder if different people in this little play may have interpreted matters in somewhat different ways."
"Damnation, Phoebe, there was nothing to misinterpret. When my solicitor offered Baxter a small fortune to leave the country, the man grabbed it with both hands. That was all there was to it."
"Perhaps." Phoebe hesitated uncertainly. "Perhaps not. I wish I knew what to believe."
Clarington's thick brows twitched. "You will believe your papa. And your husband, by God. That's whom you will believe."
Phoebe smiled sadly. "Do you know what the problem is, Papa? The problem is that everyone spends entirely too much time and effort trying to protect me. I am left with bits and pieces of the truth, not the whole truth."
"Been my experience you don't always deal well with the whole truth."
"Papa, how can you say that?"
"It's true enough, Phoebe. You've always seen things in a different light, if you know what I mean."
"No, Papa, I do not know what you mean."
"You ain't always realistic, my dear, and that's a fact. Ever since you were a little girl, you've been diffe
rent. You were never like the rest of us. I never really understood what you were about, if you must know the truth. You were always looking for adventure, always getting into scrapes."
"Papa, that's not true."
"As God is my witness, it is true." Clarington's eyes were grim. "Never knew quite what to do with you. Always terrified you'd get involved in a major catastrophe one day, no matter how I tried to protect you from your own reckless nature. You cannot blame a father for wanting to protect his daughter."
"I don't blame you, Papa. But sometimes I felt smothered by the rest of you. You were all so very clever."
"Clever, hah. That's a joke. The rest of us could hardly keep up with you." Clarington glowered at her. "I'll tell you something, Phoebe. As fond of you as I am, I'm damned glad that you're Wylde's responsibility now. It's his turn to try to pull in the reins, and he's welcome to the task. It's a relief to be able to stop worrying about you."
Phoebe looked down at her reticule in her lap. For some reason tears burned in her eyes. She blinked them away. "I'm sorry I've been such a problem for you all these years, Papa."
Clarington groaned. He went over to her and tugged her to her feet. "It was worth it, Phoebe." He hugged her with gruff affection. "Your Mama likes to say that you kept us all from turning into complete bores and maybe she's right. Life around you has always been interesting, I'll grant you that."
"Thank you, Papa. It's always nice to know one has a useful function." Phoebe dashed the tears from her eyes and smiled.
"Here, now, my girl, you're not going to cry or anything, are you? I ain't much good with crying females."
"No, Papa. I won't cry."
"Good." Clarington was clearly relieved. "Lord knows it hasn't always been easy and I may have made a few mistakes along the way. But I swear I only did what I thought I had to in order to keep you from coming to grief."
"I understand, Papa."
"Excellent," Clarington said. He patted her shoulder. "Excellent. Well, then. That's that, eh? No offense, my dear, but I'm rather glad you're Wylde's problem now."
"And he is definitely my problem." Phoebe retied her bonnet strings. "I must be off, Papa. Thank you for telling me what you know of the truth about the situation with Neil."