“I—”
Talia’s angry retort was interrupted as Gabriel moved to take her arm.
“Can you distract the guards?” he asked of Sophia.
The older woman smiled. “Actually, I think I can do better than that.” She tugged the torch from the wall bracket and stepped through the door. “This way.”
With little choice, Talia allowed Gabriel to tug her from the room and down the low passageway.
No one spoke as they turned off the main pathway into a narrow tunnel that was filled with cobwebs and goodness knew what nasty creatures. Talia instinctively pressed closer to Gabriel, for the moment more afraid of the small furry rats scurrying around her feet than the one walking at her side.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Sophia led them out of the tunnel into an abandoned garden that was situated behind the kitchens. Pausing long enough to make certain there were no guards near, Sophia led them through the overgrown pathway, pushing open an ivy-covered gate and scurrying toward the nearby woods.
Shifting the bundle in her arms, Talia lifted her skirts to keep pace as they wove their way through the thick trees, only coming to a halt when they were well out of sight of the palace.
Sophia turned, shoving the torch into Gabriel’s hand. “I will leave you here.”
“You will say nothing of our conversation to anyo
ne,” Gabriel commanded, sharing a glance with the older woman that spoke of mutual understanding and hidden meanings.
“I have no more desire than you to share our secrets.” With a glance toward the stewing Talia, Sophia leaned forward to place a lingering kiss on Gabriel’s cheek. “Bon voyage, my lord.”
With a last smug smile toward Talia, the aggravating witch slid smoothly into the shadows and disappeared. At the same moment Gabriel hurried Talia in the opposite direction, ignoring her protests as her skirts were shredded to tatters from the underbrush.
He continued the punishing pace for the next two hours, battling a path for them with sheer brute force. Talia might have been impressed with his prowess if she had not been plagued by the memory of Sophia.
Had the two of them just risen from the narrow cot when she’d entered the cellar, or had she intruded before they could become intimate?
And why did either option make her desire to blacken his eye?
She had known when they’d wed that Gabriel was bound to have dozens of mistresses. Fidelity was considered a puritanical concept among society, and nothing could be more bourgeoisie than to display affection for one’s own wife or husband.
Besides, Gabriel had made it clear when he’d visited her with that damnable marriage contract that, while he was capable of demanding her loyalty, he had no desire to promise his own.
Of course he was bound to fill his bed with one beautiful woman after another.
Unfortunately, logic did not ease her simmering anger, and when he at last paused to offer her a rest, she was in no humor for his stern disapproval.
“You look like a ragamuffin,” he growled, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to scrub at the dirt marring her cheek.
“Perhaps you would have preferred to be running through the woods with the lovely Sophia? She would never dare look like a ragamuffin,” she snapped.
He scowled, but his fingers were gentle as he moved the handkerchief to a spot near her lips.
“I would prefer that you discontinue your habit of rushing headlong into danger.”
“Habit?” She glared into the predatory beauty of his face, unable to believe even Gabriel could hold her to blame for being kidnapped. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
The silver eyes shimmered in the stray shaft of moonlight, the light breeze weaving through the thick trees to stir his golden hair. Perhaps it was their untamed surroundings or the danger of their situation, but the icily aloof Earl of Ashcombe had suddenly been replaced by a menacing stranger.
“Obviously I have or I would never have let you out of my sight after our wedding. A mistake I intend to correct from this moment on.”
She shivered at the husky threat. Not with fear, but with a wholly feminine reaction to his blatant claim of ownership.
Angered by her ridiculous response, she narrowed her gaze. “I should have left you to rot with your pretty French tart.”
The tension quivering in the air remained, but something that might have been satisfaction flared through his eyes.