Velvet

Chapter 28

Two days later another letter arrived from Talleyrand. It was short and terrifying. Fouche had arrested an English agent in Calais. The man had been broken and the Minister of Police believed he was now in possession of vital facts that would endanger the entire English intelligence network in Europe.

Most particularly, he knew the names and types of the boats used to transport agents across the Channel, and he knew most of the safe landing spots they used along the Brittany and Normandy coasts.

Gabrielle read the letter twice. Black spots danced before her eyes and she couldn't think. It was as if her brain were paralyzed. Her hand was numb, she was clutching the letter so tightly, and she forced herself to breathe deeply, to relax her fingers. The letter fluttered to the carpet.

I give you this information, ma fille,to do with as you think best. It is in the way of returning a favor. You will understand what I mean. As always, it is imperative that I am not involved. I trust in your ingenuity to ensure this.

She stared down at the lines at her feet. Ingenuity! Did he know what he was asking… demanding.But she knew that he didn't. Talleyrand had no understanding of the complexities of emotional relationships. He had no time for them. Oh, he loved, he was fond, he was capable of affection. Why else had he sent her this intelligence? But individuals and the whole labyrinthine maze of feelings could never be allowed to come between the man and his purpose.

Gabrielle bent to pick up the letter. The movement made her head spin and her gorge rise into her throat. She straightened rapidly, one hand stroking her throat, praying that the wave of nausea would recede. The sensation never left her except when she was nibbling on some plain and undemanding food, but she dreaded the times when it would sweep over her in an invincible wave and she'd have to run for the commode.

Mercifully, it faded from an acute presence to normal queasiness, and she read the letter for the third time. But now her head was clear and alternative courses of action tumbled and sorted themselves in her brain.

There was only one possible course of action. She had to warn Nathaniel before the Curlewsailed from Lymington. He'd said they would sail at the end of the week. Today was Friday. Did he mean today or Saturday?

No point speculating, or worrying. She had to leave immediately. If she rode, she could be in Hampshire by early evening. It would be hard riding. She touched her belly. Dear God, she couldn't deal with the nausea on horseback, at least not in its acute version. But she'd noticed that fresh air seemed to help, and she had a feeling that panic might well keep a lesser problem at bay.

She couldn't leave the house without a word. She needed to take someone into her confidence-Primmy. She'd listen to what she was told, would ask no questions, and would ensure that no one was alarmed. And a fuller explanation to Simon, just in case something went wrong.

Don't think like that. Guillaume had taught her never to anticipate the worst until she needed to. She didn't need to yet.

She wrote at length to Simon, telling him everything except the source of her information. He could make what guesses he wished. If anything did happen, if she and Nathaniel didn't return, then at least the intelligence would be in the hands of someone who would know what to do with it.

Primmy, as Gabrielle had expected, accepted that Lady Praed was going into the country for a few days. She didn't question the directive that she was to consult Lord and Lady Vanbrugh in the event of any difficulties.

Jake grumbled a bit that he wasn't to go with her, but was easily reconciled when reminded that it would mean forgoing a promised excursion to the lions at the Exchange.

By mid-morning Gabrielle was on the road to Kingston. She had a groom with her who, when she changed horses halfway, would take her own tired mount back to London by easy stages.

They rode into the yard of the Green Man in Basingstoke in the early afternoon. Gabrielle's back was aching, as it did after a long day's hunting, but she ignored it. She was ravenous but stayed only to select a fresh mount. The inn provided a picnic of bread and cheese wrapped in a checkered napkin, and she rode out of the yard ten minutes after entering it, leaving the groom thankfully resting his weary bones before the fire in the taproom and addressing a substantial mutton chop.

Gabrielle now rode harder than she'd ever ridden in her life, pressing the fresh horse to its limit, and delving deep into her own physical resources to find the last vestiges of endurance.

It was six o'clock when she rode up the driveway of Burley Manor. The front of the house was in darkness and her heart sank. If Nathaniel was in residence, there would be some light, in the library at least. The weary horse stumbled on the gravel and came to a halt as she reined him in at the front door. He stood hanging his head, sweat glistening on his neck.

Gabrielle pounded the door knocker, trying to keep the rising panic at bay. Perhaps he was on the estate somewhere and hadn't yet returned. But she knew that was wishful thinking.

A bolt scraped back. "Why, my lady, we wasn't expectin' you." A startled elderly retainer, one of the skeleton staff left to take care of the house, stared at her in the light of the lantern he held high. The hall behind him was in darkness, just a glow of lamplight coming from the open door into the kitchen regions.

"His lordship… where is he?" She offered no explanations, clinging to the doorjamh as her legs threatened to give way.

"He be gone, m'lady, two hours since. Said 'e wouldn't be back for a few months."

"What time is high tide?" The sea was such a factor in the lives of these people of the tidal marshes along the Hampshire coastline that most people knew the tide table as they knew the days of the week.

The man stepped outside and looked up at the sky, where a crescent moon swung low over the river. "Ten o'clock, I believe, m'lady."

The relief was so great that Gabrielle almost sat down on the step. But she knew that once she stopped moving, she wouldn't be able to get up again for hours.

"Take this horse to the stable and saddle me another," she commanded. "Quickly!"

"Aye, m'lady." The old man shuffled off with infuriating slowness, and Gabrielle dug deep for a strength she didn't think she had, but found something.

"Never mind, I'll do it," she said, taking the horse's bridle. "Just follow me and look after this one."

Fifteen minutes later she rode out of the stableyard, one of Nathaniel's hunters moving eagerly beneath her. Her fatigue now enclosed her in a mind-numbing grayness, and she could feel herself swaying, her thighs barely exerting any pressure on the saddle. If the hunter decided he didn't have a master on his back, he could well charge off on frolics of his own and she'd be helpless to prevent him. Fortunately he was a well-mannered animal and cantered easily down the lane, responding to the barest guiding nudge of her thighs or flicks of the reins.

Lymington Quay was quieter than Gabrielle had expected, but her blood sang with relief when she saw the Curlewtied up in her usual spot at the quayside. She was dark with no sign of her crew, but the sound of raucous voices, laughter, and singing came from the Black Swan. Maybe Nathaniel was in the tap room with the Curlew's crew. It would be like him.

High tide was an hour away. She slipped from the hunter's back and leaned against him for a minute, resting her forehead against the saddle, smelling the rich leathet and the pungency of warm horseflesh. Curiously, it seemed to soothe the nausea.

Should she go into the inn and seek out Nathaniel?

But the thought of confronting him in her present weakness in the midst of a crowd of probably inebriated strange men was more than she could manage. She would go aboard the Curlewand wait for him there. It was going to be a grim encounter at best; at least it would be relatively private there, and there'd be no fear of her missing him.

She beckoned a yawning lad standing in the light spilling from one of the inn's windows, and handed the hunter over to him, to be stabled until she collected him later. Then she went aboard the Curlew.

Immediately the combined odors of tar, fish, and the crude oil they used in the lamps swamped her, and she retched feebly over the side until the spasm passed. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a hunk of bread from her picnic. Breaking off a piece, she chewed it slowly and it had the usual soothing effect.

She stumbled down the companionway into the small, well-remembered cabin, the scene of Jake's hideous sickness. The cot beckoned, and with a groan she tumbled onto it, heedless of the rough ticking of the straw mattress beneath her cheek, or the smelly wool of the thin blanket that she dragged over her…

She awoke to a dimly lit, moving, alien world that made no sense. Her sleep had been so heavy that for minutes she couldn't move her limbs although her brain was giving the right orders. Finally she was able to turn her head and open her eyes.

Nathaniel was sitting at the small table in the middle of the cabin, a glass of cognac in his hand, watching her with a face of granite, and everything rushed upon her in a dizzying flood of memory and panic. She tried to sit up and the nausea hit her. With a groan she fell back again.

Nathaniel spoke, every soft word weighted with lethal menace. "You were warned. And by God, Gabrielle, you're going to pay for this. Get up!"

She couldn't get up, not yet, not without throwing up. "You don't understand-"

"Getup!"

Oh, God! She thrust her hand into her pocket and found the last piece of bread.

Nathaniel stood up in one swift, angry movement, sweeping the glass to the floor. It crashed against the metal bolt of the table and broke.

"If I have to put you on your feet, Gabrielle, you are going to wish you'd never been born!"

Gabrielle crammed the bread into her mouth as he advanced on her, and with one desperate, fervent prayer that her stomach would behave, sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot.

"On your feet." Nathaniel stood over her, his face a mask of fury, his eyes deadly.

She swallowed the bread almost whole. Her head was spinning and she was suddenly more frightened than she had ever been in her life. If he was like this now, when he believed she'd merely defied his prohibition, what was he going to do when he learned the truth?

"Listen," she said, her voice thin. "You have to listen to me… why I'm here."

"On your feet," he repeated with the same soft savagery.

Gabrielle stood up slowly as the words tumbled in desperate explanation from her lips. "Fouche… Fouche has broken one of your agents in Calais. He knows all the landing places in Normandy… the boats you use… I came to warn you."

Nathaniel face was bloodless in the dim lamplight, his eyes now dark holes in his ghastly complexion. "So you are working for Fouche," he said in a voice devoid of emotion.

"No!" Gabrielle shook her head vigorously. "No, not Fouche, never Fouche.”

"Then you're working for Talleyrand," he stated in the same flat voice.

"Yes. But-"

"Whore!"He hit her with his open palm, and she fell back on the bed, her hand pressed to her cheek, her eyes stunned.

"Whore," he repeated. "I trusted you. I believed in you. I loved you, God forgive me." He bent and grabbed her arms, pulling her up.

He was submerged in a rage so wild, Gabrielle couldn't recognize him. This was not the Nathaniel Praed she knew-father, lover, husband, friend-a man of humor and great passions, abiding loyalties and deep privacies. This man had moved into a world where ordinary rules didn't apply and where ordinary human sensibilities were suspended.

Somehow she had to bring him back before something dreadful, irrevocable, happened.

"Please, Nathaniel," she cried as his fingers bit deep into her arms and his unseeing eyes blazed with a ruthless rage. "Please.I'm having a baby!" It was a desperate plea, and for a minute she thought he hadn't heard. And then his hands dropped from her arms and Nathaniel reinhabited his eyes.

"You're pregnant?"

She nodded, relief washing through her, turning her legs to jelly. She sat on the cot, conscious of the stinging in her cheek and the deep ache in her arms where his fingers had bruised.

"Please, will you listen to me. I have to tell you everything and maybe you'll understand a little."

Nathaniel stepped back from her. There was still bitter hostility in his eyes, but he was in control of himself. He said nothing. Gabrielle swallowed. She was about to betray her godfather, but this time she must think only of herself-and Nathaniel, and Jake-and the child she carried.

"It begins with a man you knew as le lievre noir.…"

Half an hour later the story was told and the silence in the dim, fusty cabin was weighted with the words and emotions of that half hour.

"You used me," Nathaniel said finally. "You've been using me from the first moment we met. Even your gift of love, the allegiance you swore… everything. It was all part of it."

Gabrielle gazed down at the floor. She had no words of defense. He spoke only the truth. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "You're entitled to see it like that. But there is another way to look at it. I have-had- old loyalties to Talleyrand, to the memory of Guillaume, as well as new ones. I tried to find a way to reconcile them both."

She looked up, meeting his eye, reading the great hurt and bitterness. "Nathaniel, we're both spies. It's a vile business… but necessary. We both know that. I did what I thought best."

He opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly the quiet was shattered by the sound of a musket, followed by another, and then a volley of shots. The fishing boat lurched violently and there was a cry of pain from the deck.

Nathaniel, his pistol in his hand, was already at the companionway.

"Fouche!" Gabrielle murmured. How long had she been asleep? Were they already out of the protection of the Solent? The horrified realization dawned that despite everything, she'd failed in her mission. If she hadn't fallen asleep, they wouldn't have sailed unwarned. And she must have slept for hours, her exhaustion had been so overpowering. Why hadn't Nathaniel woken her? How long had he sat there, feeding his anger, watching her, while they sailed into danger?

She had her own pistol, as usual, in the pocket of her riding habit and leaped for the companionway on Nathaniel's heels. The scene on deck was nightmarish. Dan and his crew lay in a heap by the deck rail, and the deck seemed to swarm with black-clad figures, moonlight glittering off their knives and cutlasses.

The French boat stood off their bow, a boarding net covering the short distance between the two vessels. How had it happened so fast? They must have appeared out of the darkness, that volley of musket shot the first warning. The Curlew's crew must have been overpowered almost without resistance.

Nathaniel sprang forward. His pistol spoke and one of the boarders fell to his knee, clutching his shoulder. Nathaniel had a knife in his hand now, and was in the midst of the group, slashing, kicking with deadly accuracy, whirling from side to side with the grace of a dancer and the savagery of a warrior.

Gabrielle fired her own pistol into the fray, reducing Nathaniel's opponents by one. She grabbed a broken spar from the deck and brought it down on the head of one of the men grappling with Nathaniel. But the two of them were vastly outnumbered and unable to reload their pistols.

Gabrielle struggled in the grip of two men, their faces blackened with cork. She kicked sideways, drove her elbows into the belly of the man holding her from behind, but it was futile. Her arms were wrenched behind her, twisted upward, and she screamed in pain.

Nathaniel with a cry of fury spun from his own deadly combat at the sound, and a man behind him brought the barrel of his musket down on his head with skull-shattering force.

Nathaniel dropped to the deck. The man kicked him in the belly, but he lay unmoving.

"Nathaniel!" Gabrielle surged forward against her captors' hold and screamed again at the agonizing jolt in her arms. She swore at them, calling them every vile name she could think of, heedless of nothing but her terror that Nathaniel, lying so still with a livid swelling on his forehead, was dead.

Someone silenced her with a brutal blow across her mouth, and she tasted blood from a split lip. Then she was being bundled below. They threw Nathaniel down the companionway behind her, and she gave another scream of outrage, struggling with renewed strength. But she could do nothing to save herself from the ropes. They bound her wrists behind her and tied her ankles and dumped her on the floor. She lay watching as they bound Nathaniel in the same way, and she took some comfort in the reflection that if he were dead, they wouldn't bother to bind him.

She listened to them talk as they completed their work. They were going to leave four men aboard the Curlewto bring her with the prisoners into Cherbourg harbor. Their own cutter, the Sainte Elise, would continue to sweep the sea along the French coast for any other vessels on their list.

Gabrielle kept very still and silent even when they kicked at Nathaniel's inert body on their way out of the cabin. Her head was now very clear. If there were only four of them, they'd have a chance to overpower them with the advantage of surprise. How many of Dan's men were alive? They'd be bound too, of course. But if she could just get free…

She was lying on her back against the table. Nathaniel lay some three feet away from her, on his side, his back to her. She could see the ropes around his wrists. They were thick and tight, tighter, she thought, than the ones at her own wrists. She had enough play to move her wrists against each other, although not a hope of sliding a hand free.

Nathaniel groaned and her heart leaped. He was still alive, but when she called his name softly, there was no response.

She turned her head gingerly on the hard floor and her eye caught a glint under the table. It took her a minute to realize what it was. The glass Nathaniel had swept from the table in his anger. The glass that had broken against the steel bolt of the table.

Her heart began to beat fast, the blood pounding in her temples as she thought what this meant. Broken glass, a jagged edge-a cutting edge. If she could reach it…

She stared at the glinting glass, fixing its position in her mind's eye; then she rolled awkwardly onto her side, so her back and her hands were toward the glass. The table legs prevented her reaching the glass with her whole body, but she stretched her joined hands as far as she could, ignoring the renewed pain in her wrenched arms.

She couldn't reach it. Her fingers scrabbled futilely in the dirt and dust under the table and made contact with nothing. Drawing her knees up tight against her chest, she pushed her curled body backward, edging between the table legs. Her fingers searched, encountered something sharp, and she gave a little cry of pain that turned rapidly into a crow of triumph.

Very, very gently her fingers closed around the jagged chunk of glass. She mustn't drop it, but she couldn't hold it too tightly without cutting her hands to ribbons, and she was going to need her hands.

She squirmed out from under the table, stretching her body with a sigh of relief, keeping on her side, holding her arms as far from her body as she could.

Now to reach Nathaniel. But she couldn't roll on her back without injuring herself with the glass. Drawing her knees up again, she levered herself across the cabin until she was lying beside Nathaniel. Now she would have to roll so that her back was against his.

Closing her eyes tightly, she inched over onto her back, raising her hips as far from the ground as she could, arching the small of her back away from her hands. One jerking heave, and she was over, lying back-to-back with Nathaniel.

Now. She ran a finger over the edge of the glass, finding the sharpest, most jagged point. Then she felt for the rope at Nathaniel's wrists. Sweat broke out on her forehead despite the dank chill in the cabin, and a wave of sickness broke over her, but it was anxiety rather than pregnancy this time.

An agonized scream came from on deck, and then another. She took a deep breath, trying not to imagine what was happening. She must concentrate.

Gently at first, she began to saw at the rope at Nathaniel's wrist. But gently took too long. Biting her swollen lip hard, she sawed faster. There was blood on her hands now; she could feel its stickiness, and her nausea increased. Was it Nathaniel's or hers? Impossible to tell.

She stopped, her breath rapid and shallow as she tried to master her terror.

"Keep going, Gabrielle." Nathaniel's voice was calm and steady but so startling in the intense silence of her own private world that she jumped in fear.

"I didn't want you to come to until I was finished," she managed to whisper through dry lips. "I'm afraid I'm hurting you."

"Keep going," he repeated steadily. "I'm holding my wrists as far apart as I can."

"But what if I cut a vein?"

"You won't."

He sounded so confident that she was able to continue despite the blood that now seemed to cover her hands.

"All right," Nathaniel said softly after a long silence when the only sound was the strange rasping of glass on rope. "You're almost there. I can feel it fraying."

"Oh, God," Gabrielle whispered. Her arms were a mass of aching muscle, her wrists cramping with the strain, her fingers so numb, she was afraid she'd drop the glass. She closed her eyes again; it helped her to concentrate, to see nothing but the rope fraying strand by strand beneath the glass.

And then it was done. The rope parted.

"That's my girl," Nathaniel said softly. He sat up. His hands were smothered in blood, but he took no notice, inching his way across to the portmanteau against the bulkhead. Gabrielle was too exhausted to roll over to see what he was doing. He withdrew a knife with a wicked rapier blade and sliced through the rope at his ankles in one stroke.

Then he was kneeling beside Gabrielle. "Hold still." Her wrists were freed and she gave a groan of relief, bringing her hands round, flexing her fingers, massaging her wrists.

"You're bleeding like a stuck pig," she said in horror as he cut the rope at her ankles.

"Bandage them for me," he said matter-of-factly. "There are cravats in the portmanteau."

She found the cravats and wrapped them tightly around his slashed wrists. "There are only four men. Here, put your finger on the knot."

"Only four, you're sure?"

"That's what I heard them say-the other one now-there, that'll do for the moment." She looked up from her handiwork. "They kicked you when you were unconscious."

"I can feel it," he said grimly. He went back to the portmanteau and took out the twin of the knife he still held.

"You've been taught to use one of these." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. And a garrote," she added ashe took out the length of rope weighted at either end. She didn't say she'd never used any weapons outside a training session.

His nod was matter-of-fact as he handed her the knife. "I'd like to reduce the odds on deck. Lie on the floor as if you're still tied and start shouting." He moved into the shadows behind the companionway, the length of rope held lightly between his hands.

Gabrielle curled up, facing the door, her feet tucked under the table so that at first glance her lack of bonds wouldn't be immediately apparent. Then she began to scream, one high-pitched cry after another, shivering the timbers of the deck above her head.

Feet sounded above and the hatchway thudded open, filling the cabin with the gray light of dawn. They must be dreadfully close to the French coast, she thought as she screamed again.

Cursing, a man pounded down the companionway. "Stop that racket, putain."He thundered toward her, hand clenched in a fist.

Nathaniel swung the rope, and the man fell back, clutching his throat. Nathaniel lowered him to the floor.

"Jacques… what's going on down there?" A voice yelled down the companionway.

Nathaniel gave her a nod and stepped back.

Gabrielle's bloodcurdling scream rose again. A figure jumped down the ladder. As his feet touched ground he seemed to realize that something was wrong. He spun around, and the edge of Nathaniel's right hand chopped against the side of his neck and he dropped to the floor.

Nathaniel swung himself onto the ladder, the knife in his hand. Gabrielle was on his heels. The dawn air, cold and salty, hit her in the face, clearing her head, stinging her swollen lip.

The man at the wheel gave a warning shout as he saw them. Nathaniel had crossed the deck in four bounds, and there was a glint of steel as the Frenchman drew his own knife. His partner lunged from behind the mainsail. He didn't see Gabrielle, who stuck out a foot, and he went sprawling on the deck.

Now she was supposed to use the knife. To hell with it. This was a dirty business, but there were limits. She grabbed up a marlin spike from a coil of rope and brought it down across his shoulders as he struggled onto all fours.

"Much better!" She permitted herself a grim smile of satisfaction at the prone figure before she raced to the grappling couple at the wheel, the marlin spike raised like some Viking club.

Nathaniel's opponent had his back to her for an instant and she brought the spike down onto his shoulder. He screamed as the bone cracked, and dropped to his knees.

Nathaniel glanced down at him and then up at Gabrielle. "You got the other one too, I see."

"Yes, but he's not dead. At least I don't think so." She pushed her hair away from her face, bracing herself unconsciously on the slippery deck as the fishing boat heaved and pitched with noguiding hand on the wheel.

She was bruised and bloody, her eyes black-shadowed, sunken in her white face.And Nathaniel didn't think he'd ever loved her more than he did at that moment. He knew he'd never understood her as he nowdid.

Hegrinned tiredly. "You're quite a fighter, aren't you, Gabrielle?"

"I fight forwhat I believe in," she said. "I fight for what I love… in whatever way I must."

Hereyes held his in a passionate plea for his understanding, and in the dawn stillness he nodded in simple but complete acknowledgment. Then he said briskly, "See what you can do forDan and the others. I'm going to put her about and I'll need ahand with the mainsail."

She left him at the wheel and approached the three figures of Dan and his crew, tied to the rail, gags in their mouths. Dan was bleeding from agash in his forehead, one of the others, a youngster of maybe seventeen, slumped unconscious in his bonds, the other had a broken arm, the splintered bone sticking jaggedly through his flesh.

They were unnecessary wounds, the work of Fouche's men, and a red wave of hatred surged over Gabrielle as she cut them loose.

"Bastards!" Dan exploded in soft ferocity. "They've been playing their foul games with young Jamie here for hours." He gently eased the unconscious lad to the deck. Gabrielle remembered the agonized screams and turned her eyes away from the pattern of knife marks on his chest.

"Nathaniel needs help with the sails," she said as calmly as she could. "Are you able to do it?"

"Aye." Dan walked stiffly and painfully toward Nathaniel while Gabrielle went below to see what she could find to bind up the broken arm.

She glanced at the men on the cabin floor and was surprised to find them both breathing. She had thought Nathaniel had killed the one with the garrote. There was livid bruising around his throat, but he was breathing in stertorous gasps.

She went back on deck and did what she could with the broken arm, binding it tightly and fashioning a sling so that at least the pieces of bone wouldn't scrape together and the arm was supported.

The man smiled wanly, but he was clearly incapable of doing anything.

"Gabrielle!"

"Yes?" She went over to the wheel.

"Come here." Nathaniel took her shoulders and drew her in front of him. "Hold the wheel. Do you remember anything I taught you on the river that day? What I told you about keeping the wind abaft the mainsail."

"I think so, but this is so much bigger than the dinghy."

"The principle's the same. Look up at the sail. The edge mustn't flutter. Try to keep the wind on the side of your face-here." Gently he touched her cheek. Then he bent and brushed his lips over the spot, and she knew he was remembering how he'd struck her earlier.

She reached up and grasped his bandaged wrist. “I’llmanage.”

"Yes, I know you will. Come on, Dan, let's get these swine off this boat."

They tied the four unconscious men, lowered the rowboat over the side, and heaved the bodies into it.

"They'll probably get picked up, more's the pity," Nathaniel said, squinting through the morning mist to the rocky cliffs of the French coast. "Let's hope we get the hell out of here before anyone else comes along."

"We'll fly the French colors," Dan said. "That might give us some leeway."

Nathaniel looked across at Gabrielle. Her hands were steady on the wheel, her feet btaced wide apart, her eyes on the mainsail. She was like no other woman. And she had more courage in her little finger than a regiment of marines.

The courage of her convictions too. It still hurt to think that she'd deceived him, that he'd been duped by Talleyrand. But he thought how it had begun. He knew Gabrielle's passion. He understood her need for vengeance for her lover's murder. He would have felt it himself. And he now understood the curious logic that had brought them to this point. Gabtielle was loyal. In fact, her fault, if it was one, lay in too much loyalty. By an accident of birth she had a foot in both camps. A tempestuous and passionate nature would not allow her to abandon either one.

And he loved her. He loved her for that courage and that loyalty as much as he did for her passion and her warmth and her generosity.

And she was carrying his child.

He went over to her. "Let Dan take the wheel now."

She relinquished it with a weary shrug of her shoulders, trying to ease the aching stiffness, the residue of the night's ordeal. "I'll make a sailor yet," she said, smiling.

The smile was such a brave attempt that his heart turned over anew. He reached for her, but suddenly she clutched her throat, murmured, "Oh, no, why now?" and fled to the rail, retching miserably. But she'd eaten almost nothing in the past twenty-four hours and the spasm eased, although the queasiness didn't.

"What is it, love?" Nathaniel drew her against him. "The sea's like glass."

"I seem to have time to feel sick again," she said. "I don't suppose you have a piece of bread on you?"

"Bread? No. Why?"

"It's the only thing that helps. It's the most horrid inconvenience, Nathaniel. Was Helen sick?"

"I don't believe so." He leaned against the rail, and his expression was both somber and confused. "Just how did it happen?"

She gave him another wan smile. "You mean there's more than one way?"

"You know what I mean." He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning in frustration. "How could you-"

"Hey," she interrupted. "It takes two, I'll have you know."

"Yes, I know." He pulled her against him, pushing her hair off her forehead. "But I'm frightened."

"What of?" She smiled, touching his mouth. "I rode without stopping for ten hours. It's been a night of trial by ordeal. And I'm still here, aren't I? Still pregnant? I'm tough, Nathaniel. It may not be a particularly feminine characteristic, but I grew up in a hard school."

"I know that." He caught her chin. "Your poor mouth." Tenderly he kissed her swollen lips.

"And do you understand what… why…" She needed his words although she knew he did understand now.

He laid a finger over her mouth. "It's over, Gabrielle. We both made mistakes. We didn't trust each other enough, and maybe with cause," he added gravely. "Trust comes with knowledge. It's taken us a long time to know each other."

"But you know me now?" She leaned into him.

"As I know myself."

"That's what Ifind frightening," Gabrielle said. "We're so alike. Can one fight with oneself?"

"All the time," he said with a wry smile. "And I suspect we're going to be the living proof."