“Yes.” Satisfaction rang inside Victoria’s voice. “Mr. Michel killed him.”

“If ye take one, ye take ‘em both.” Mira’s sapphire blue eyes were unnaturally canny. “Cain’t turn yer

nose up at Mr. Michel’s scars.”

Victoria bit back a nervous laugh.

Hysteria.

Immediately she pictured Julien, his beautiful auburn hair gleaming in the glare of the overhead hallway

light while his blood turned thick and black on the steps.

All desire to laugh died. “I assure you, Miss Mira, I do not turn my nose up at Mr. Michel’s scars.”

Mira grunted. “Best you sit down, then, an’ wait till Mr. Gabriel takes care o’ things.”

A protest rose up in Victoria’s throat.
Gabriel might not be able to tak e care of “things” this time.

She swallowed it.

“I am so sorry that Jules died.” Victoria swallowed a hiccup. “I liked him.”

Mira’s lined face softened. “Aye, we all liked Mr. Jules. Sit yerself down afore ye fall down, Ms.

Victoria. Ye don’t look like th’ bubbly type. I’ll git ye a drop o’ gin.”

Victoria sat down and numbly waited.

The waiting was no better in the candlelit saloon than it had been inside Gabriel’s suite ablaze with

electric light.

Three lives had ended this night. How many had died in the past because of the Earl of Granville and his

son?

She tried to tell herself they had been insane.

There had been no insanity in the violet eyes of the man who had deliberately pitted two angels against

one another.

Burning pain sliced through Victoria’s right cheek. She jerked her head back, heartbeat slamming against

her ribs.

Sapphire blue eyes peered down at Victoria. Mira held a red-stained washcloth. “ ‘Old still. Mr. Gabriel

wouldn’ like it none if we didn’ take care o’ ‘is woman.”

“My name is Victoria,” Victoria said quietly. “Victoria Childers.”

The maid with the wrinkled face and ageless eyes did not recognize the name Childers. And why should

she?

Childers was a common name.

It was only when a “Mr.” or a “Sir” or an “Honorable” or a “Lord” preceded a name that it took on

significance.

My name is Gabriel,
reverberated inside her ears.

Gabriel had never pretended to be anything other than what he was. And Michael denied his claim to the

world he had been born into.

“Don’t need no last name in the ‘Ouse o’ Gabriel.” Mira dipped the washcloth into the water; steam rose

from the gray metal basin. “Don’t most o’ us ‘ave one.”

Mira was an unusual name for a woman born on the streets. Had she named herself?

“The cut ain’t deep on yer cheek, won’t be needin’ no stitches.” A stream of water cascaded into the

metal pan. Mira held out the washcloth. “ ‘Ere ye be, Miss. Victoria, wash yer ‘ands now while I dab a

little o’ somethin’ on yer cheek so it don’t fester.”

Dipping her fingers into the tall glass filled with clear liquor, Mira dabbed gin onto her cheek.

Biting back a gasp, Victoria concentrated on removing the blood from her fingers instead of the pain that

sliced through skin and bone.

The gin hurt far, far worse than had the wound.

“Ye drinks yer gin there, now.” The washcloth was plucked from between Victoria’s fingers. Crimson

dyed the water inside the gray metal pan. “I gots t’ ‘eat water fer Mr. Michel an’ the doc.”

The candles flickered and flamed while Victoria waited alone, the glass of gin sitting untouched before

her. A lifetime passed before Andy returned; a tall, thin man wearing a black wool coat, a tall black bowler

hat and carrying a black leather bag trailed after him.

The
docteur.

The man with the black leather bag disappeared inside the door leading up to Gabriel’s suite; Andy sidled

close to Victoria, young-old eyes peering up into her face. He pointed to the glass of gin. “Ye drinkin’ this?”

“No.” Victoria numbly pushed it toward him. If gin increased the pain of external wounds, she didn’t

want to know what it did to internal wounds.

Two lifetimes passed before the guards appeared: they carried Michael on a satinwood door. Without a

word they climbed up the plush red carpeted stairs that edged the far wall into a blaze of electric light. The

doctor followed them.

Andy sat across from Victoria, sipping the gin. “They wouldn’t be takin’ ‘im up, if he wus dead,” he said

kindly. But to cheer up whom?

Three lifetimes passed before Gabriel appeared.

Victoria stood up, heart in .

Gabriel didn’t meet her gaze. He followed Michael and the doctor upstairs.

Victoria sat back down, feet primly together. A lady by birth if not by nature.

The men in their crimson silk sashes and short black coats silently descended the guest stairs, carrying

with them the satinwood door. They disappeared through the entrance to
Gabriel’s suite.

A cold blast of air sent the candle flames dancing.

Victoria glanced up. She didn’t need an introduction to know the name of the woman who followed

behind a boy that was only marginally taller than Andy.

Peter had fetched Mademoiselle Aimes.

Andy slipped out of his chair and skipped toward them. Immediately he raced up the stairs, the woman

and the taller boy in hot pursuit.

Tears burned Victoria’s eyes, the outsider without a family. Without thinking, she reached over and

plucked up the finger-smeared glass that Andy had vacated. There was a swallow of gin left inside it.

Victoria swallowed the clear liquor.

Tears flooded her eyes; for long seconds she couldn’t breathe. Immediately a soft glow infused the

saloon.

Neither the soft glow nor the burning ball of liquor stopped the loneliness. Nor did they stop the thoughts

that flitted around and around inside her head.

She wondered what the older woman who had purchased a younger man’s expertise did.

She wondered if Michael lived.

She wondered if Yves had broken the bond that linked two angels.

Faces a mask in the flickering light and shadow, two men in crimson silk sashes and short black cloaks

stepped through the doorway leading to Gabriel’s suite. They carried the satinwood door between them;

auburn hair trailed over the edge.

Julien, who had approved of Gabriel’s house and who had been posted to protect Victoria but who had

died himself.

Gaston and another man—a waiter, judging by his crimson sash and short black coat—carried a

man-sized bundle between them.

Victoria did not have to ask what was inside it.

Immediately following Gaston came two more waiters; they, too, carried a man-sized bundle between

them.

Men and women raced up and down the guest stairs, Gabriel’s private stairs, traffic gradually slowing,

finally stopping altogether while Victoria sat and watched, as she had sat and watched other people live

their lives these past eighteen years.

Hours passed. Victoria knew that because the guttering candles spat and sputtered.

She reviewed her life.

Out of the memories of her father’s cold judgment came her mother’s voice.

A mother who had loved her two children. A mother who had read them fairy tales.

A mother who had withered and died without the love she needed.

I k now it, said the angel, because. . . I k now my own flower well.

Victoria slowly stood up and climbed the plush red-carpeted stairs, silk and satin rustling, skirt tail

dragging.

The room to which Michael had been moved was unmistakable: pails of crimson-stained water and a pile

of bloody sheets sat outside the door. The number seven gleamed gold against the white enameled door.

Victoria had visited the room just hours earlier.

Could she have stopped Julien’s death if she had told him and Gaston what she had briefly glimpsed

inside the transparent mirror?

She would never know.

Quietly Victoria turned the gilded doorknob.

The acrid smell of carbolic acid burned her nostrils.

A dark-haired man and a woman with pale brown hair were reflected inside the transparent mirror on

the opposite wall. He lay supine underneath a yellow silk spread, she sat beside the bed in a green-velvet

armchair, hatless, hair twisted in an elegant chignon, her peacock blue gown a blatant cry of Madame René

’s artistry.

Victoria judged the woman to be in her middle thirties, thirty-five or thirty-six to Victoria’s thirty-four

years.

Pale blue eyes abruptly met shock-dulled blue eyes.

Mademoiselle Aimes unblinkingly studied the standing woman who wore a corded golden brown silk

dress embellished with wine-colored velvet and green, yellow and red figured lampas, also of Madame

René’s artistry.

“She said I had passable legs, but that my s were too small and my waist too thick.”

Victoria blinked. Michael’s woman spoke like a lady: voice low, husky, cultured. English as Victoria was

English.

“Madame René said that my s were passable, but that my hips and my derriere are too scrawny,”

Victoria quietly returned. “She said padding would alleviate the problem.”

The pale blue eyes in the mirror alertly watched Victoria. “But Gabriel did not find you lacking.”

“No, Gabriel did not find me lacking.” Victoria rapidly blinked away the gritty exhaustion that blurred her

vision. “Is”—what did she call the man on the bed, Michel or Michael? He was the Earl of Granville. Did

she address him as Mr. or Lord?—“is he going to be all right?”

Victoria blinked again at the blinding beauty that became the woman’s unassuming face. “Yes. Thank

you. The doctor gave him a sleeping draught. In the morning I will take him home. Thank you for saving his

life.”

“How do you know?...” Victoria involuntarily glanced at Michael’s sleeping face. The scars ridging his

right cheek were smooth in repose, as they had been when in Gabriel’s study, unconscious instead of

sleeping.

“Gabriel told me,” Anne Aimes said calmly.

Gabriel had talked to Miss Aimes, but he had not talked to Victoria.

She would
not
be hurt.

“I couldn’t let him die,” Victoria said truthfully.

Relief nickered inside the woman’s pale blue eyes. “Michael and Gabriel are very special.”

“Yes.”

There was no question inside Victoria’s mind at all that they were indeed two very special men.

“My name is Anne,” the woman proffered.

Michael slept undisturbed.

“My name is Victoria.”

Was Gabriel sleeping?

Or was he hurting because of a past that he could not change?

The pale blue eyes accessed Victoria. “Gabriel purchased your ity.”

Heat burned Victoria’s cheeks at the unexpected confrontation. She squared her shoulders, prepared for

condemnation. “Yes.”

“I purchased Michael to take my ity.”

Victoria stared. Surely she could not have heard Anne Aimes correctly.

Taking a deep breath, Victoria carefully asked, “Did he?”

“All three.” Anne’s gaze did not waver. “So you see, we none of us can judge the other. We are all of us

here because we need physical intimacy.”

The echo of
all three
was replaced by
we are all of us here because we need physical intimacy.

“Yes.” The second man—Yves—had chosen her because of her need for physical intimacy. “Where did

you meet... Michael?”

“Here.” Soft husky laughter permeated the bedroom. “Well, not here. I rendezvoused with Michael at

Gabriel’s previous house. I always wondered what the bedrooms were like there.”

Anne Aimes had surprised Victoria again. “You didn’t know?”

“No.” Annie sounded slightly disappointed. “Michael took me to his town house.”

Black hair flashed inside the mirror where Victoria’s face should be, was instantly gone. Truly her

imagination.

Or was it?

Would she ever again feel comfortable in front of a mirror?

“The mirrors aren’t. .. mirrors,” Victoria said. And immediately bit her lip.

Anne curiously studied the full-length gilded mirror. “Really.”

“They’re called transparent mirrors. As long as the light is brighter on one side, a person can look

through the mirror and . . . watch.”

The lingering image of black hair was suddenly replaced by an image of an older woman with a younger

man. Equal in their passion.

Anne’s eyes widened. “Have you .. . watched?”

Victoria would not lie. “Once.” And then, defensively, “I do not find physical intimacy repellent.”

“Neither do I, Victoria.” There was no censure in Anne’s eyes. “Michael and I are getting married. He

would be ... hurt, if Gabriel did not attend.”

Anne Aimes . . . and Michael.

Did Gabriel know they were getting married?

How much did Anne know of the night’s events?

How much did she know about Gabriel?

“I can’t promise what Gabriel will do or not do,” Victoria said truthfully.

She could not guarantee that Gabriel still wanted her. All she could do was hope.

Anne abruptly stood up. The oak nightstand was her goal.

Victoria joined her. She towered over Anne by three inches.

Silver and gold shone in Anne’s hair. She held up the silver tin of condoms. “There is a better

prophylactic than condoms.” 

Victoria remembered the corrosive sublimate tablets Dolly had pressed upon her. Surely Anne Aimes did

not—

“It is called a diaphragm,” Anne said, no knowledge inside her eyes of a prophylactic that killed. “It is a

rubber cap that fits over a woman’s cervix.” Pale pink tinted her cheeks; her gaze did not falter. “

Diaphragms are more enjoyable for both a man and a woman, as it allows for maximum stimulation, but

they are available by prescription only. I can give you the name of a gynecologist, if you like.”

Victoria imagined what Gabriel would feel like without rubber sheathing his manhood. Wet flesh sliding

into wet flesh.

The heat coloring Anne’s cheeks leaped into her own. “Thank you. I would like that.”

Victoria remembered the tin of mints Julien had urged her to take from the nightstand. It had not been

replaced.

Impulsively she opened the top drawer, wanting to share the wonders of the House of Gabriel with this

woman who had possessed the courage to pursue her passion rather than be victimized by it.

Anne stared down at the row of artificial phalluses for long seconds.

“They are called
godemichés”
Victoria said evenly.

Lightly Anne touched the smallest. . . “And Goldilocks said this one is too small ...” Anne touched a

second
godemiché,
“And this one is too big. ..” Anne did not touch the third
godemiché,
“And this one is

just right.”

Victoria raised startled eyes to Anne’s.

Laughter danced inside the pale blue eyes.

A giggle rose up inside Victoria’s chest; it was stalled by the memory of Gabriel’s face. His eyes had

been dull gray instead of glittering silver. “I have to go.”

Compassion shouldn’t hurt; it ripped Victoria apart, seeing it in Anne’s eyes. “We all need to be loved,

Victoria.”

We all need physical intimacy . . .We all need to be loved.

It was little wonder Gabriel liked Anne Aimes. Victoria liked her, too.

She swallowed. “I don’t know where he is.”

There was no need for Anne to say Gabriel’s name; he was foremost in both of their minds.

“He’s in the adjoining room.”

Victoria wanted to hug Anne; hugging had not been a part of her curriculum. Gabriel was the only adult

she had ever expressed affection to. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly.

For not judging Victoria. For not judging Gabriel.

For loving an angel.

Gabriel lay on top of a blue silk spread, left arm thrown over his face.

There was dried blood on his shirtsleeve; it crusted the front of his shirt, brown instead of crimson.

Victoria leaned against the oak door, heart inside .

Gabriel was not asleep; tension corded his every muscle.

“You didn’t lock the door,” she said. And turned the lock, a quiet click of finality.

Gabriel didn’t remove his arm, his voice was muffled. “You know what I am, Victoria.”

Tension danced in the air.

Gabriel was wounded.

Gabriel was dangerous.

She pushed away from the door and reached for the tiny eyelet hooks fastening her dress. “I know what

you are, Gabriel, and I will never forget.”

The tiny report of metal hooks unsnapping charged the air, each release a miniature gunshot.

One second she stared at a bloodstained sleeve; the next she stared into dull gray eyes. “I’m not an

angel.”

Cool air gushed inside the widening vent of corded silk. “I think, Gabriel, that angels aren’t who we think

they are.”

A muscle beside the left corner of his mouth pulsed in time to her heartbeat.

“I think angels must know hunger, or they couldn’t be an angel.” Victoria shrugged out of her dress.

Padded silk slid over the satin corset, briefly caught on the ruffled bustle, slithered over silk petticoats. “I

think angels must know desire, or they could not know love.”

The heavy silk dress puddled around her feet, a far cry from the worn wool gown she had previously

shed for him.
She
was a far cry from the Victoria Childers who had previously undressed for him.

Victoria was a woman now, and she would not deny her needs.

Gabriel’s nostrils flared, recognizing the transformation.

Victoria reached for the laces tying the dimity bustle.

Gabriel’s face hardened. “Ask me, Victoria.”

The ruffled, apronlike bustle dropped to the floor, a muted swish.

Victoria reached for the laces of a petticoat. “Ask you what, Gabriel?”

“Ask me if I desire Michael.”

A white silk petticoat frothed over the golden brown dress. She reached for the lace of the second

petticoat. “Do you?”

Unforgiving electric light danced on Gabriel’s hair; darkness danced inside his eyes, still no silver. “What

if I said I did?”

White silk puddled atop more white silk.

Gabriel instinctively followed the fall of the petticoat, stared at the silk drawers that clung to her hips.

Immediately his head snapped up, gaze snagging hers. “I don’t know.”

The cry of an angel.

The pain in Gabriel’s voice crushed Victoria’s heart. She ed the two small ivory buttons

fastening the band of her drawers, gaze holding his. “Michael kissed you.”

Gabriel audibly in air.

“Did you desire him then, Gabriel?” Victoria pursued.

The drawers slipped over her hips, down her thighs, dropped onto a mound of silk.

Gabriel’s body was rigid with hurt. Hurt that
she
had inflicted,
but she didn’t want to hurt him.
“Why

don’t you tell me, Victoria,” he said rawly.

The pile of silk was perilously high; the pale blue carpeting dangerously thick. Victoria carefully crossed

the divide that separated them, bare thighs rubbing, silk stockings swishing, no longer a but a woman

who knew well the pain and the pleasure of loving an angel. “I can tell you, Gabriel, that I am just as guilty

of Julien’s death as you are.”

Gabriel mutely stared up at her. His pain fisted inside her stomach.

She had told Julien she would not tell Gabriel that he had allowed her out of the room; Victoria didn’t

think Julien would mind that she rescinded on her promise.

“I told Julien I wanted to visit a guest room in the hope that I would find something there to give you

pleasure. I saw a man with dark hair in the mirror, or I thought I saw a man. But he was gone so quickly I

thought it was my imagination. Gaston let me back into your suite. I didn’t tell either Julien or Gaston what I

saw. If I had, Julien might still be alive.”

Denial flashed inside his eyes, a hint of silver. “He would have investigated the corridor. He would have

died there.”

Surrounded by mirrors that were not mirrors instead of the wooden confines of a stair landing.

“Perhaps,” Victoria agreed. “But I will never know, will I? I will never know if my silence killed him.”

Her pain shone inside his eyes. “Don’t.”

“But I have to, Gabriel.” Victoria reached down to unfasten his blood-encrusted shirt, to free him from

the past. “I have to touch you.”

Hard hands cuffed her wrists. “If you touch me, Victoria, I will take you.”

Victoria did not flinch from the strength of Gabriel’s hold. She would have bruises come the morrow. “

That is the idea, sir.”

He wanted her to reject him; he wanted her to hold him.

His two disparate needs were ripping him apart.

She would not let him hurt anymore.

“You know what I am,” Gabriel said starkly.

“You are Gabriel,” Victoria steadily returned.

A man who made it possible for others to survive.

Puzzled frustration shone in his eyes, still more gray than silver. “You’ve never held my past against me.

”

Ten fingers pulsed against Victoria’s skin; she counted them one by one, five around her left wrist, five

around her right wrist. . .

“I’m selfish, Gabriel.”

The truth popped out of Victoria’s mouth unbidden.

It wasn’t the response Gabriel expected.

“You said you wouldn’t change the past; neither would I. I met Anne Aimes. She said that she paid

Michael to take her ity. I wish I had possessed the money and the courage to come to your house and

proposition you.”

He wanted to believe her; he was afraid to believe her.

“Anne prefers violet eyes.”

The eyes of a man who had been born with the name of an angel.

“I prefer silver ones.” The eyes of a man who had wanted to be an angel. She locked her knees to

prevent them from buckling, asking the question that must be asked. “Whose do your prefer? Pale blue

eyes or darker blue eyes?”

Gabriel did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Yours, Victoria.”

Locked, her knees still almost collapsed with relief.

“I’m hungry,
Victoire,”
Gabriel said deliberately. “Can you feed me?”

Two words simultaneously registered with Victoria. Her French name
Victoire,
and
hungry.

Her pupils dilated with sudden recall.

How to seduce a man .. .

When he’s hungry, feed him.

But she hadn’t brought up any food.

She looked down into Gabriel’s eyes and realized it wasn’t food he desired.

“I only have . ..
ananas,
I’m afraid.”

Pineapples. A French term for a woman’s s.

Gabriel released her wrists and sat up, mattress shifting, springs squeaking, knees bumping her thighs,

wool-trousered legs spreading, gripping her. “Feed me.”

Hands shaking with sudden need, Victoria reached into the plunging black satin corset and lifted her

. Her was hard.

Leaning over, she offered it to Gabriel, her , her , her passion rather than her virtue.

Dark lashes shielding his eyes, Gabriel nuzzled her, cheeks slightly prickly, hair softer than silk.

Every time Victoria ed, she created another memory for him, he had said. Victoria would always

remember the texture and the scent and the taste of the man who had named himself after an angel.

A tongue her, tasted her, texture wet and scratchy.

Victoria shuddered at the near-painful sensation that stabbed through her womb. She could not help

herself—she cupped the back of his head with her left hand, her heavy in her right hand, his hair

clinging to her fingers. And hoped that Gabriel would not pull away.

He did not.

Hands grasping the tops of Victoria’s thighs, Gabriel pulled her closer and took her into his mouth

and led her as if he fed on her flesh instead of her desire.

It took Victoria long seconds to realize that his fingers worked against her thighs to unfasten the garter

clasps on her corset even as his mouth and tongue and teeth worked against her .

No sooner did Victoria’s stockings slip down her thighs than Gabriel tackled her corset, fingers tugging,

mouth tugging. A familiar pressure tugged at her womb.

Victoria’s corset slipped over her shoulders ...

Gabriel freed her with a slight slurping sound. His cheeks were flushed, his mouth wet. The gaze

looking up at hers was silver with need. “Tell me about angels, Victoria.”

When he hurts, offer him hope.

But she didn’t know about angels, she only knew about Gabriel. She didn’t know the words to give him

hope.

The story her mother had read to Victoria the child reverberated inside her ears. And suddenly she did

know the words to give Gabriel hope.

I k now it because... I k now my own flower well.

“Whenever a good child dies,” Victoria the woman stepped back and slid the corset over her arms; her

stockings pooled around her ankles, “an angel comes down from heaven and takes the child into his arms.”

Gabriel reached for the top button on his bloodstained shirt, a man, not a child. His silver gaze clung to

her every word.

Wanting to hope. Wanting to be loved.

“The angel spreads out great white wings,” Victoria dropped the corset, a soft swish of satin impacting

wool carpet, “and flies the child over all the places he loved during his life.”

With a quick jerk, mattress squeaking, Gabriel pulled his shirt over his head. Dark blond hair curled

around a dark pap.

Gabriel’s s were hard, as Victoria’s s were hard.

She reached out and lightly touched him.

Gabriel flinched, but did not jerk away.

Victoria straightened, breath coming more quickly. She drew upon all the discipline it had required

teaching other women’s children, hoping it would be enough to get her through the coming minutes, hours,

lifetime . ..

“The angel explains to the child as he flies him about that he gathers up flowers to take to heaven so that

they may bloom more brightly in heaven than they do on earth.”

Gabriel stood up and unfastened his trouser buttons.

He did not wear drawers.

Victoria lips that suddenly felt thicker, fuller. “ ‘The Almighty,’ he says,” Victoria said, “ ‘presses

the flowers to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives a voice, and is able

to join the song of the chorus of bliss .. .’ ”

Dark blond hair filled the widening vent.

Victoria jerked her head up. Only to stare at the top of Gabriel’s bowed head as he jerked his trousers

down.

“ ‘These words were spoken by the angel, as he carried the child up to heaven ..."

Straightening, Gabriel kicked off his trousers.

He was with no stockings snagged at his ankles or slippers hiding his feet.

He had beautiful feet.

Between one heartbeat and another he dropped down onto his knees before Victoria, moist breath

scorching her stomach. He tugged her left foot up.

Victoria floundered, falling, hands grabbing a head, hair silky soft, no purchase there; hands grabbing

shoulders, instead, muscles tensed beneath smooth skin . . .

Gabriel’s skin pulsed beneath her fingertips. He reared his head back. His breath kissed her lips. “

Tell me more, Victoria.”

Tell him how a child’s fairy tale could help a man who had never been told fairy tales as a child.

Victoria stared into Gabriel’s eyes and tasted Gabriel’s breath. Leaning over him. Caught by his need

and her position.

She told him more. “The angel and the child passed over well-known spots,”—Gabriel pulled off her left

slipper, her left stocking, fingertips indescribably , smoothing over her ankle, the top of her foot.. .

Victoria caught her breath—“places where the child had often played, and through gardens full of beautiful

flowers.”

Gabriel released Victoria’s left foot, tugged at her right, momentarily pitching her off balance.

Victoria’s fingers dug into the knotted muscles that were his shoulders. “The angel asked the child,”—

she tried to regulate her breathing, failed—“which flowers shall we take with us to heaven to be

transplanted there?”

Gabriel straightened; perforce Victoria straightened.

The room tilted; in one motion Gabriel swept her up into his arms and set her onto her knees in the center

of the bed, mattress rolling, springs creaking.

Gabriel reached for the silver tin of condoms on the oak nightstand, long eyelashes gouging dark shadows

into his cheeks. “Which flower did the child choose?”

Expecting the obvious: only the most beautiful flowers were worthy of heaven.

“There was a”—Gabriel rolled up a sheath onto his manhood, brown rubber devouring the purple head of

his crown . .. the bulging blue veins—“a slender, beautiful rosebush, but someone had broken the stem so

that”—the sheath disappeared into the thick blond hair curling around the base of his —“that the

half-opened rosebuds were faded and withered.”

Had there been roses in Calais? she fleetingly wondered.

Gabriel lifted his left knee onto the bed, mattress dipping—he grabbed Victoria to hold her flailing body

upright; she simultaneously grabbed him—right knee joining so that he knelt in front of her.

to chest. Stomach to stomach. Groin to groin.

Gabriel did not move, caught in his need to be touched and his need to be free.

The d prodded her oris.

She carefully gripped his waist. There were bunched muscles there, too.

Pain darkened the silver of his eyes.

Gabriel did not pull away. He cupped Victoria’s face, hands hard, eyes intent, breath scorching her lips. “

Put me inside you, Victoria.”

Put him inside her ... while she . . . ?

She moistened her lips, tasting his breath. “Shall I... finish the story first?”

“No.” His breath her upper lips, his her nether lips. “When I’m inside you, then I want

you to finish it. I need to feel you, Victoria. I need to feel you holding me inside and out. I need you to make

me believe ...”

That a thirteen-year-old boy born in a gutter could be an angel.

Gabriel filled her hand with hot, rubber-sheathed flesh; he overflowed her hand with hot, rubber-sheathed

flesh.

Gabriel did not fit into the tight space between her thighs.

Hot breath filled Victoria’s lungs; hard flesh seesawed between her nether lips, sliding with each breath,

each adjustment of the mattress.

Equally hard hands slid down her face, her neck, her shoulders, her arms ... he firmly grasped her hips. “

Lift your right knee and put your foot on the bed, leg splayed.”

“What then?” she breathed.

This was awkward; this was reality.

This was a man and a woman sharing comfort as well as pleasure.

“Then you put me inside you,” he murmured, as if in pain, words hot and moist, “and lower your knee so

that you squeeze my and there is no place that we don’t touch.”

Inside. Outside.

Victoria raised her knee, leg splayed, and rested her foot flat onto giving silk. d rubber notched her

portal.

“Take me, Victoria.” Flyaway hair haloed Gabriel’s head. “Take me into your body and make me feel

like an angel.”

Victoria took Gabriel into her body, fingers guiding his flesh, slipping on her flesh, s prodding his

chest, wiry hair prickling her s, elastic portal suddenly opening and swallowing him, the bulbous

crown, the thick stalk ...

Victoria gasped. Gabriel’s eyes closed, as if he, too, could not bear the pressure.

Hardly daring to breathe, she lowered her leg. Air locked inside her chest. Gabriel filled her completely,

, lungs .. .

His eyelashes snapped open. “Tell me about the rosebush.”

Rosebush?...

Victoria desperately grasped Gabriel’s shoulders, thoughts circling, floundering—where had she left off

in the story? “The child—the child wanted to take the hurt rosebush so that it would— it would bloom

above in heaven.”

With each word Victoria could feel Gabriel vibrate inside her and slide between the lips of her

.

“When the angel took the rosebush, he kissed the child’s eyes open to keep him awake, because he was

sleepy.” Hot, moist lips kissed Victoria’s left eyelid. Tears pooled in her eyes, leaked from her . “And

then the angel gathered some beautiful flowers and some plain buttercups and heartsease.”

Gabriel kissed Victoria’s right eyelid, eyelashes fluttering, his lips petal-smooth. The kiss rocketed down

to her .

“The child said”—Victoria squeezed her thighs together; Gabriel’s breath plummeted through her—“the

child said, ‘We have enough flowers,’ but the angel only nodded; he did not fly upward to heaven. Gabriel

—”

Pleasure robbed her breath.

The agony in Gabriel’s eyes gave it back.

“It was dark and still in the big town.” She sank her nails into his shoulders, forcibly concentrating on the

story and not the agonizing pleasure that was Gabriel. “The angel hovered over a small, narrow street. But

the child could only see ... a heap of straw ... some broken plates ... pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and ...

other rubbish.”

The French gutter Gabriel had been raised in suddenly reflected inside his eyes.
Straw . . . Offal.. .

Brok en glass . . . Rags ... Rubbish.

Victoria found the strength to continue the story of an angel instead of bursting like a helium-filled

balloon. “The angel pointed to a broken flowerpot... ‘and to a lump of dirt which had fallen out of it.’ The

flower had been thrown out into the rubbish.”

Like Gabriel had been forced to live in rubbish.

Con. Fumier.

Gabriel’s chest rose and fell, s rubbing her s, the wiry hair matting his chest prickling her

s.

Victoria ached for Gabriel; Victoria ached from Gabriel.

“The angel said, ‘We will take this with us.’ ” and tightened, voice and strained

past bearing. “But the child . . . couldn’t understand why.”

Did Gabriel understand? Victoria fleetingly wondered.

“The angel... he said that... a ... a sick boy with crutches had lived there in a cellar ... a boy who .. . who

was poor ... and who could not... could not go out to ... see the flowers.”

Gabriel bleakly stared into his past, anchored to the present by Victoria’s body and her words.

“In the summer”—Victoria’s nails gouged crescent moons into his flesh—he did not flinch, flesh turned

into marble while hers cried out her need—“beams of sun would lie on the floor for ... for a half an hour

and he would ... he would sit in the sunshine ... and he would say he had been outside.”

Gabriel’s childhood dreams shone on his face. How often had he pretended that he had what passing

children had—shoes, clothes that hid elbows and knees ...

How much longer could Victoria concentrate on a story she had not heard in twenty-three years instead

of the thick flesh that nudged her womb and slid on her oris every time she breathed, every time she

spok e?. . .

“One day a ... a neighbor’s son brought him some ... some field flowers. One of them ... had a ... a root.

He planted the flower, and it grew.”

It had survived, as Gabriel had survived.

Flyaway hair haloed the head of the man who still did not recognize his worth.

Victoria’s body greedily clutched Gabriel as she fought to continue an angel’s story. “Every year the

flower—” she breathed more deeply—“bloomed. It was the boy’s ... own flower garden. He gave it water.

.. and made certain it got... all the sunbeams. He dreamed about... his flower. He turned to the flower... for

comfort . . . even when he ... even when he died. But when the ... the boy died ... no one was there ... to

take care of his flower. And it was ... tossed out.”

Into the rubbish.

“And that is why, the angel said”—Victoria could feel her body swelling—“they were taking the flower

to ... to heaven ... because it gave more
real
joy, the angel said, than the most... the most beautiful flower

in a ... queen’s garden.”

Victoria had seen many gardens—flowers planted to blossom in fashionable patterns. They had none of

them imparted any joy.

“ ‘But how do you know all this?’ asked the child,” Victoria said, voice stronger. “ ‘I know it,’ said the

angel, ‘because I myself was the . . . boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.’ ”

Gabriel suddenly focused on Victoria instead of his past. “And who am I, Victoria? The boy who died or

the angel who’s carrying him?”

Victoria fought for control, won. “The angel, Gabriel.” Gabriel’s face spasmed, marble splintering into

flesh. “Why?” “Your house is your garden, Gabriel. You take broken people and give them new lives.”

Victoria remembered the older woman and the younger man, sharing their passion; she remembered Julien,

defending the House of Gabriel. “Take joy in your garden.”

A harsh, strangled sound escaped Gabriel’s throat—he threw his head back, eyes closed, dark lashes

spiked. Victoria did not mistake the clear liquid crawling down his cheeks for sweat—they were the tears

of an angel.

Gabriel silently ed, fingers digging into her hips, hands dragging her forward until Victoria’s face

pressed into his throat and her arms had nowhere to go but around his shoulders. She held him. Sharing his

tears. And then she shared his .

Chapter
26

The white enamel-painted door swung open. Gabriel froze, right hand raised to grasp the brass knocker.

Anemic sunlight turned brown eyes into amber. There was no emotion in their reflective depths.

Gabriel would recognize those eyes anywhere: they were the eyes of cold and hunger.

The echoing clip-clop of four hooves trodding a cobbled street rang out behind him.

“Monsieur Gabriel.” The butler stepped back; silver threaded his thick chestnut-brown hair. He inclined

his head. “Mademoiselle Childers.”

Gabriel instinctively sought the small of Victoria’s back; his leather gloves and her clothing blocked her

flesh but not the healing comfort of touch. He fought the urge to turn around and hail the departing cab;

instead, he urged Victoria forward into the small foyer of the brick town house.

Three figures were reflected inside mirror-shiny oak paneling: the chestnut-haired butler, black coat

ending in twin tails; a man— taller than the butler—who wore a double-ed gray wool coat and black

bowler hat; and a woman who was the same height as the butler, hair hidden by a black Windsor hat, body

shielded by a dark blue cloak.

Victoria reached up and pushed back the black half veil on her Windsor hat.

Even in the oak paneling her skin glowed.

Gabriel’s guts twisted.

He had brought that glow to Victoria, a man who demanded her love but who wouldn’t promise to return

it. And now he saw the past through her eyes.

The small parlor had not changed in the seven months since he had last seen it. The variegated blue

blooms of a hyacinth plant and a small, silver tray shone in the polished surface of a small oak side table. A

mirror-shiny oak floor stretched out beyond the foyer. Flanked by wrought iron balustrades, a marble

staircase marched upward.

“They are expecting you,
monsieur, madame.”
The butler extended a white-gloved hand. “If I may have

your cane, sir ...”

Gabriel’s left hand involuntarily clenched the handle of his silver-headed cane. He did not know what to

expect... from the people who waited.

Victoria caught his gaze. Her blue eyes were clear and calm.

It was his choice, they said.

He could continue living in the darkness of the past or he could step into the brightness of a future.

Gabriel gave the silver-handled cane that was no cane to the butler.

Reaching for Victoria, he held her thick, blue wool cloak while she slipped out of first one sleeve and

then the next. Efficiently the butler took the cloak, gloved fingers deftly avoiding Gabriel.

Gabriel peeled off his black leather gloves; Victoria reached up, copper silk bodice straining across her

s—she had sensitive s, beautiful s, s that even now he hungered to feed off of—

and slid out the hat pin securing her hat. Her copper-tinted brown hair was secured in a French twist; he

would free it when they got home. Her gown molded her waist; he would remove it in the privacy of his

suite.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t wait.

Perhaps he would introduce her to the pleasure to be had while straddling his hips inside a moving

carriage, the bump and grind of the wheels carrying them both to .

Taking off his bowler hat, Gabriel dropped his black leather gloves inside the satin-lined felt. The butler

silently accepted the hat, fingers skirting Gabriel’s.

Gabriel did not wait for the butler’s assistance in helping him out of his reefer coat; nor did the butler

expect him to.

He held out his left hand for Victoria.

The more she touched him, the more he craved her touch.

Peeling off her gloves, Victoria them into the reticule looped over her wrist. Heat shot through his

: the pleasure of flesh embracing flesh.

Antoine did not need to show Gabriel the way. The sharp click of Victoria’s heels rang out; they were

accompanied by the softer pad of his own leather boots.

“Monsieur Gabriel.”

Gabriel paused, left foot on a marble step. Victoria paused at his side. “Yes?”

“Je suis heureux que vous soyez venus.”

I am happy that you came.

It was not a butler who spoke, it was the man who had waited upon tables and clients inside Gabriel’s old

house; he had eagerly jumped at the opportunity to become a butler seven months earlier.

His hand convulsively tightened around Victoria’s fingers.
“Suis ainsi je,
Antoine.”

Gabriel lied.

He did not know if he was glad or not.

Echoing steps spiraled upward, the past approaching, the future at his side.

An oak floor ran the length of the upstairs hallway. Gabriel silently traversed the distance ...

remembering ... trying not to remember ...

The door at the end of the hallway was open, revealing a glimpse of pale blue silk-covered walls . . .

more oak floor . .. the sweet pungency of roses.

I
k now my flower well. ..

Taking a deep breath, Gabriel released Victoria’s hand and sought the heat in the small of her back. She

stepped over the threshold, Gabriel following.

Violet eyes locked with silver eyes.

Inside Michael’s gaze Gabriel saw the eyes of the thirteen-year-old boy who had taught him to read and

to play the gentleman in exchange for lessons on how to fight, to steal, and to kill.

But Gabriel had never wanted Michael to kill.

And now he had killed for Gabriel.

The voice of the second man—Yves—rang inside his ears.
You love Gabriel, Michael.

I have always loved him.

But Michael had thought his name was Gabriel; now he knew differently.

Michael had thought he was invulnerable; he now knew that was false, too.

Gabriel waited; dimly he was aware of a low, feminine voice— Anne. It stopped midsentence.

“Miss Aimes?” an unfamiliar masculine voice demanded.

Gabriel did not look at the stranger: he knew what the man’s profession was, if not who the man himself

actually was.

“Is this the man and woman whom you are waiting for?” The stranger sounded slightly garrulous.

The minister had been kept waiting by an angel.

Michael’s violet eyes reflected the irony.

Suddenly Anne stood before Victoria. Elegant in a sky blue silk gown.

She was three inches shorter than Victoria.

A spinster and a governess.

Two women who had never known love but who now glowed from the love of a man.

Victoria solemnly pulled out a rectangular silk-wrapped box from her reticule. “I brought you and

Michael a wedding gift.”

Anne’s pale blue eyes reflected Gabriel’s surprise. Hurt slashed through him, that Victoria had felt it

necessary to keep her gift a secret.

Flushing with pleasure, Anne accepted the silk-wrapped box. “There was no need. You and Gabriel are

all that we wished for.”

A darker flush reddened Victoria’s cheeks. “It is nothing, really. Just something that you admired.”

Anne stilled.
“A godemiché.”

“Just the right size,” Victoria returned evenly.

Laughter.

It boiled up inside Gabriel’s chest until it ripped out of his throat.

And with the laughter came the need for Victoria.

Hands blindly reaching, Gabriel pulled her back against his chest. Victoria stiffened in surprise, spine

rigid, buttocks fitting into the niche of his groin. He wrapped his arms around the woman who had brought

him the gift of touch and who now gave him the gift of laughter. Instantly Victoria melted, her bones

becoming his bones, her flesh becoming his flesh.

Violet eyes caught his gaze.

And Gabriel remembered . . .

II est bien, Gabriel. . . It’s all right, my friend.

The laughter died as quickly as it had stopped.

It
was
all right.

Turning his face into the warm fragrance of her skin, Gabriel whispered the words he could no longer

hold inside,
“Je t’aime, Victoire.
”

THE END

ROBIN SCHONE lives in a Chicago suburb with her music aficionado husband. She loves reading,

swimming, socializing, listening to music (preferably rock and/or classic rock) and is a staunch defender of

human rights in general, and of women’s uality worldwide. Robin is the
USA Today
bestselling author

of
The Lover
as well as “A Lady’s Pleasure” in
Captivated,
and “A Man And A Woman” in

Fascinated,
Kensington Publishing Corporation’s groundbreaking historical romance anthologies.

Her second novel—
The Lady’s Tutor
—is
& Romantic Times
All-Time Favorite Pick, and was hailed by

Judith Stanton, a professor of women’s literature and feminist theory, as “...a new frontier in the romance’

s mapping of female desire.” All four novels are Doubleday Book Club Selections. Robin loves hearing

from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 72725, Roselle, IL 60172 (please include a SASE for reply). Or

visit her website at www.robinschone.com