of
ancient legends to respond to a woman whose bold manner bespoke a courage that was both rare and
dangerous in females. A troubadour could have created a very interesting legend based on the Veiled
Lady.
Whatever the reason for his compelling desire for her, it was clear that the only way to obtain the lady
was to pretend to become involved in her mad scheme. It was bound to be an interesting task, to say the
least.
After all, he already knew who owned the manuscript of The Lady in the Tower she sought. The trick
would be to keep her from discovering that fact while he lured her into his bed.
Gabriel paused beside a row of bookcases that contained some of the most interesting items in his
collection. He opened the glass doors, reached inside, and removed a volume bound in thickly padded
leather.
He carried the surprisingly heavy book over to the desk. There he put it down carefully and undid the
tiny lock that secured the thick covers around the gilded vellum pages. He opened the book carefully and
turned to the last page.
For a moment he stood gazing thoughtfully down at the colophon, which was in Old French:
Here ends the tale of The Lady in the Tower. I, William of Anjou, have written only the truth. A curse on
he who would steal this book. May he drown beneath the waves. May he be consumed by flames. May
he spend an eternal night in hell.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Gabriel Closed The Lady in the Tower very carefully and put it back in the case. The game he intended
to play with his Veiled Lady was not without its risks.
He wondered how she could have ever thought herself in love with Neil Baxter.
She must still care a great deal for the bastard, Gabriel reflected with a frown. That was unfortunate.
Baxter had not been worthy of such a spirited female.
But Baxter had had a way with women, as Gabriel knew to his cost.
He decided his initial goal would be to make the Veiled Lady forget her previous lover. Gabriel looked
forward to the challenge.
He let himself out of the small tower room and went down the narrow spiral staircase. His booted heels
rang on the old stone.
He was aware of a chill in the empty rooms of the third floor as he walked down the hall. It was almost
impossible to keep Devil's Mist properly heated. When the castle had been built, the comfort of its
occupants had not been a high priority. There was no getting around the fact that Gabriel had a
monstrosity of a house on his hands. Refurbishing it would take years.
He consoled himself with the knowledge that at least there was plenty of room for his books. There was
also room to house his father's magnificent library, which Gabriel was in the process of rebuilding. And
the castle certainly provided a suitable setting for his growing assortment of medieval armor.
Nevertheless, the devil alone knew why he had succumbed to the whim that had made him buy the
crumbling pile of stone here on the Sussex coast. The place was huge and he had no one to share it with
except the members of his staff.
Not that being alone was anything new to Gabriel. He had spent most of his life alone. His father had
been a brilliant scholar who, after the death of Gabriel's mother, had devoted himself to the treasures in
his library. He had been kind enough in his fashion, but there was little doubt but that he had preferred his
books to the task of rearing a motherless son.
Left to his own devices and the care of servants, Gabriel had learned early to create his own private
world. He had done so from the age of five, populating it with a cast of characters from the Arthurian
legends. When he had devoured all the tales he could find that dealt with the glories of ancient
knighthood, he had begun writing his own.
He had not kept any of his childish scribblings. They had been disposed of along with most of the rest of
his worldly possessions when he had left England. But two years ago,