Page 10 of Notorious

Even when he’d been at war with his brother Assad, Gabriel had not felt such hot, unadulterated rage. He’d often heard the saying “to see red” but hadn’t believed it until now. Not only was he seeing red, he was feeling it. He was swelteringly, brain-cracklingly hot.

The suppressed emotions of the past months boiled over, the memories of untold slights and jabs he’d silently endured from Visel without capitulating to his desires to either plant the man a facer or meet him at dawn.

“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” He forced the words through his clenched jaws. “Well?” he demanded, and then realized he was gripping Visel’s neck far too tightly and loosened his hold.

The earl’s mouth was moving, but Gabriel could not hear the words. He leaned closer.

“I thought it was your mad sister stretched out on that bench and I was going to—” The words were hardly a croak, but they acted like fuel on an already raging fire.

Gabriel banged the man’s head against the thickly leaded panes, setting the rectangles of glass chattering like hundreds of teeth.

“You bloody bounder,” he snarled.

Visel’s mouth stretched into a leer, his eyes bulging, his nostrils flaring—and he laughed; the bastard laughed.

Gabriel was vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Marlington? Please! Gabriel, you must stop.”

He glanced from the hand to its owner. Miss Clare was not her usual neat-as-a-pin self. Her hair had come down in several places and silky brown spirals framed her usually supercilious face. Her gray eyes were round and her pale cheeks had bloodred slashes of color that made her appear lively and quite pretty.

Gabriel shook off the bizarre observation.

“Are you all right?” he asked, only slightly loosening his grip on Visel, who was trying to break free, snorting and snuffling like a pig hunting truffles.

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Please, he didn’t hurt me. You must let him go before you kill him.”

Gabriel looked from her to his captive, who stared at him with fury-filled eyes. Why did this man hate him so very much? He shook his head at the pointless thought and shoved Visel away while releasing his grasp on his neck.

The earl staggered to one side and then plopped down on the flagstone floor like a piece of rotting fruit falling from a tree. His attractive face was an ugly, splotchy red, his lips almost purple, and his bulging, bloodshot eyes made him resemble a bloated rockfish pulled up from a great depth. The scent of stale alcohol filled the air.

Gabriel felt, rather than saw, Miss Clare sway beside him, and he turned just in time to slide an arm around her. Some part of his brain made the unexpected—and unwanted—observation that she felt soft and womanly beneath her ugly, prim gown.

“Steady on, Miss Clare,” he said to the top of her head, holding her shaking body against his.

She muttered something into his shoulder.

He turned slightly and slid his other arm around her waist; he told himself it was only to hold her upright “What was that?”

“You might have killed him.”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “Hardly. Please, hold on to me if you fear you might faint, Miss Clare.”

She turned until she faced him, gazing up at him through huge pupils, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, I was foolish. I—I shouldn’t have been here.”

Gabriel agreed, but there seemed no point in saying so. “Where is my sister? She told me she was coming back here.”

“I don’t know.” She sounded much better, much calmer, and much more herself. Gabriel watched in fascination as her cool, competent expression put itself together right before his eyes.

“Can you stand unassisted?”

“Yes, I—” She stopped, cocking her head. “What was that?

It took Gabriel a moment to understand what she meant. It was like the susurration of waves on a beach. But some primitive part of his brain must have known even before he spun around: It was the sound of people whispering. Lots of people.

He shoved Miss Clare behind him and stepped between her and the small crowd that had assembled in the doorway, but he knew it was too little, too late: Everyone would have seen them with their arms around each other. At least a dozen heads bobbed in the entrance, men and women, their eyes darting from Visel to Miss Clare to Gabriel.

Nobody spoke.