Phoebe slanted him a wary glance. "As you have been ignoring my letters for the past two months, I'm surprised to hear that. I had gained the impression that I was not a subject of any great interest to you."
"You know damn well I'm interested now. Tell me, do you intend to continue going after every obscure medieval book that I happen to want?"
"Probably. As you have noted, we appear to share similar tastes in such matters."
"This could get very expensive for both of us. Once the word is out that there are two rival bidders for every old volume that comes to light, the prices will go very high, very quickly."
"Yes, I imagine they will," Phoebe said with studied carelessness. "But I can afford it. I receive a very generous allowance."
Gabriel sent her a speculative, sidelong glance. "Your husband does not mind your expensive habits?"
"I have no husband, sir. Nor am I eager to acquire one. From my observation, husbands tend to limit a woman's adventures."
"I'll grant that few husbands would countenance the sort of nonsense that you are engaged in tonight," Gabriel muttered. "No man in his right mind would allow a wife to traipse around alone in the country or anywhere else at this hour."
Neil would have allowed her to do so, Phoebe thought wistfully. But her fair-haired Lancelot was dead and she was on a quest to find his killer. She put the memories aside and tried to suppress the little wave of guilt she always felt when she thought of Neil Baxter.
If it had not been for her, Neil would never have gone off to the South Seas to seek his fortune. And if he had not gone off to the South Seas, he would not have been murdered by a pirate.
"I am not alone, sir," Phoebe reminded Gabriel. She tried desperately to keep her tone light. "I have a knight-errant to accompany me. I feel quite safe."
"Are you referring to me, by any chance?"
"Of course."
"Then you should know that knights-errant are accustomed to being well rewarded for their tasks," Gabriel said. "In medieval days the lady bestowed her favors upon her champion. Tell me, madam, do you intend to repay me for this night's work in a similar fashion?"
Phoebe's eyes widened behind her veil. She was shocked in spite of herself. Surely he had not meant to imply that she should reward him with favors of an intimate nature. Even if he had become a recluse and no longer felt obliged to honor the polite rules of Society, she could not bring herself to believe that Gabriel's basic nature had changed that much.
The noble knight who had set out to rescue her sister from an arranged marriage all those years ago was at heart a gallant gentleman. Indeed, in her sixteen-year-old eyes he had been worthy of sitting at the Round Table itself. Surely he would not make blatantly unchivalrous advances to a lady.
Would he?
She must have misunderstood him. Perhaps he was teasing her.
"Remind me to give you a bit of ribbon or some such frippery as a gift for your efforts tonight, my lord," Phoebe said. She could not tell if she sounded suitably sophisticated or not. She was nearly twenty-five years old, but that did not mean she had had a great deal of experience with ill-mannered gentlemen. As the youngest daughter of the Earl of Clar-ington, Phoebe had always been well protected. Too much so at times, as far as she was concerned.
"I do not think a bit of ribbon will be sufficient payment," Gabriel mused.
Phoebe lost her patience. "Well, it is all you are likely to get, so do stop provoking me, my lord." She was relieved at the sight of a lamp-lit window ahead. "That must be Mr. Nash's cottage."
She studied the small, ramshackle house revealed in the moonlight. Even at night it was possible to see that the cottage needed attention. There was a general air of neglect about the place. A broken gate barred the overgrown garden path. The glow from within the house revealed a small, fractured window-pane. The roof needed patching.
"Nash does not appear to be doing particularly well in the manuscript trade." Gabriel drew his stallion to a halt and swung lithely to the ground.
"I do not believe he sells a great number of manuscripts. I got the impression from his letters that he has a large library but that he is loath to part with any items from it." Phoebe halted her mare. "He is selling The Knight and the Sorcerer to me only because he is in dire need of funds to purchase a volume he considers more important than a frivolous medieval romance."
"Now, what could be more important than a frivolous romance?" There was a faint curve to Gabriel's mouth as he raised his hands and clasped Phoebe around the waist.
She gasped as he lifted her effortlessly down from the sidesaddle. He did not set her on her feet, but continued to hold her in front of him, the toes of her half boots an inch off the ground. It was the first time he had ever touched her, the first time she had been so close to him. Phoebe was shocked at her own reaction. She was breathless.
He smelled good, she realized with surprise. His scent was indescribable, all leather and wool, and all male. She knew suddenly that she would never forget it.
For some reason the strength in his hands unnerved her. She was conscious of just how small and light she was compared to him. It was not her imagination; he was larger than she remembered.
Eight years ago Phoebe had admired her sister's would-be rescuer with a young girl's innocent, idealistic admiration.
Tonight she was startled to discover that she might very well find herself attracted to him in the way a woman is attracted to a man. She had never before felt this way about any man, not even Neil. Never had there been this immediate, shattering sense of awareness.
Perhaps it was only her imagination at work, she assured herself. Too much moonlight and tension. Her family was forever warning her to subdue her imaginative mind.
Gabriel set her on her feet. Confused by the dizzying effect he was having on her senses, Phoebe forgot to steady herself firmly on her right leg before putting weight on her left one. She stumbled and clutched at Gabriel's arm to catch her balance.
Gabriel's brows rose. "Do I make you nervous, my lady?"
"No, of course not." Phoebe released his arm and quickly shook out the skirts of her riding habit. She started determinedly toward the broken gate. There was no way to conceal the slight limp that marred her walk. She had grown accustomed to it long ago, but others were forever noticing it.
"Did you twist your ankle when I set you down?" There was genuine concern in Gabriel's voice now. "My apologies, madam. Here, let me assist you."
"There is nothing wrong with my ankle," Phoebe said impatiently. "My left leg is somewhat weak, that is all. The effects of an old carriage accident."
"I see," Gabriel said. He sounded thoughtful.
Phoebe wondered if the obvious weakness in her left leg bothered him. It had certainly put off other men in the past. Few men invited a woman with a limp to join them in a waltz. Normally she was not bothered by such reactions. She was used to them. But she discovered that it hurt to think that Gabriel might be one of those males who could not tolerate imperfections in a woman.
"If I seem a trifle nervous," Phoebe said gruffly, "it is because I do not know you all that well, sir."
"I'm not so certain about that," Gabriel said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "You are about to steal your third manuscript from me. It would seem you know me very well, indeed."
"I am not stealing from you, my lord." Phoebe reached up to the brim of her small hat and lowered the second layer of the dark veil. One layer might not be enough to conceal her features inside the cottage. "I consider us rivals, not enemies."
"There is little difference when it comes to this sort of thing. Be warned, madam. You may have pushed your luck too far with this night's work."
Phoebe knocked quickly. "Do not fret, Wylde. I am certain there will be other opportunities for you to win in this game."
"No doubt." Gabriel's eyes were on Phoebe's heavily veiled face as footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. "I shall certainly make it a point in the future to provide you with more of a challenge than I have thus far."
"I have been quite satisfied with the challenge to date," Phoebe said as the door was unlatched inside. Sparring with Wylde was akin to dragging a chunk of raw meat in front of a tiger. A dangerous business, to say the least. But she must keep him intrigued, she reminded herself. If he lost interest, he might simply vanish into the night. Once again she could only regret the current shortage of knights-errant. Selection was limited.
"If you are satisfied with the challenge thus far," Gabriel said, "it is only because you have been winning. That is about to change."
The door of Nash's cottage opened and a stout, middle-aged housekeeper in a dingy cap and apron peered out.
"Who be you?" the woman demanded in a suspicious tone.
"Kindly tell your master that the person to whom he recently sold a medieval manuscript has arrived to collect it," Phoebe said. She glanced into the hall behind the woman. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls. Each shelf was crammed full with leather-bound volumes. More books were stacked in piles on the floor.
"So he's sold off another one, eh?" The housekeeper nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Well, now, that's a blessing. He's behind on me wages again. Owes me a packet, he does. I'm going' to see to it he pays me afore he settles up with the tradesmen this time. Weren't nothing' left by the time he got around to me last quarter."
"Nash sold an item from his collection to pay his bills last quarter?" Gabriel asked as he strode into the tiny hall behind Phoebe. His heavy coat swirled around the tops of his beautifully polished Hessians.
"Egan finally talked him into it. You'd have thought Mr. Nash was getting' a tooth pulled." The housekeeper sighed as she closed the door. "The master cannot bear to part with any of them old books of his. They're all he cares about."
"Who is Egan?" Phoebe asked.
"The master's son. Comes by to see to things once in a while, thank the lord, or else nothin' at all would get done around here." The housekeeper led the way down the hall. "Don't know what we'd have done if Egan hadn't convinced Mr. Nash to sell off one or two of them dirty old books. Starve to death, more'n likely."
Phoebe glanced covertly at Gabriel, who was examining the shabby, book-filled hall. He had removed his hat. She studied him with the new, heightened awareness that he had ignited in her. In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight his hair was still as black as midnight, just as she remembered. There was a faint trace of silver at the temples. But then, he was thirty-four now, she reminded herself. And the silver was oddly attractive.
Eight years ago she had thought him rather old. Now he seemed exactly the right age. Her gloved fingers tightened around a fold of her purple riding habit. She lifted the small train to clear a pile of books. The rising sense of anticipation inside her had nothing to do with collecting the manuscript or convincing Gabriel to help her in her quest to discover Neil's murderer.
It had everything to do with Gabriel himself.
Dear heaven, this was getting dangerous indeed, Phoebe thought. This sort of emotional complication was the last thing she needed at the moment. She must keep a clear head and remember that Gabriel had no reason to feel any affection for any members of her family.
Gabriel's face was half averted as he read the spines of some of the books stuffed higgledy-piggledy into the nearest case. Phoebe gazed at the hard line of his jaw and the arrogant angle of his cheekbones. For some reason she was startled to see that he still had the face of a raptor.
Her stomach fluttered nervously. She had not expected that the passage of the past eight years would soften those fierce features. It was unsettling, however, to see that they had become harsher and more unyielding than ever.
As if he could read her mind, Gabriel suddenly turned his head. He looked straight at her, pinning her with predatory green eyes. For a nerve-racking moment Phoebe had the impression he could see beneath her heavy veil. She had forgotten about his eyes.
As a young girl on the brink of womanhood, she had not understood the impact of that intense green gaze. Of course, she had only had a few brief glimpses of it. Those occasions had occurred when Gabriel had come to her father's town house along with all the other young bloods of the ton to pay court to her lovely sister, Meredith.
The only man in the crowd who had interested Phoebe had been Gabriel. She had been curious about him from the start because she had avidly read the books and poems he had given to her sister. Gabriel had wooed Meredith with Arthurian legends rather than flowers. Meredith had not been interested in the ancient tales of chivalry, but Phoebe had devoured them.
Every time Gabriel had come to call, Phoebe had made it a point to observe as much as possible from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. In her naiveté, she had thought the glances he had given Meredith were deliciously romantic.
Now she realized that romantic was far too soft and frivolous a word to describe Gabriel's glittering gaze. No wonder her sister had found him terrifying. For all her razor sharp intelligence, Meredith had been a gentle, timid creature in those days.