Gabriel's Angel by Nora Roberts Page B

about that. If you can arrange it for today, here, that’s fine.”
    â€œAll right, then. Laura, I’d feel better if you rested until I got back. You didn’t sleep well.”
    She turned back again. No, she hadn’t slept well. The nightmare had come back, and she hadn’t rested until Gabe had come in and finally slipped into bed with her. “I won’t overdo.”
    â€œI don’t think it would tax your strength for you to kiss me good-bye.”
    That made her smile. She turned, her hands still dripping, to lift her lips to his.
    â€œNot even married yet and you’re already kissing me as though we’ve been together twenty years.” He changed the mood simply by nipping her lip. In seconds she was clinging to him, and there was nothing casual about the embrace.
    â€œBetter,” he murmured. “Now go lie down. I’ll be back in less than two hours.”
    â€œBe careful.”
    He closed the door. In moments she heard the sound of the Jeep’s engine chugging to life. Moving into the living room, she watched Gabe drive away.
    Strangely enough, even as the quiet settled over the cabin, she didn’t feel alone. She felt nervous, she admitted with a little laugh. Brides were entitled to nerves. If Gabe had his way—and she’d come to believe that he nearly always did—they would be married that afternoon.
    And her life, Laura realized, would change yet again.
    This time it would be better. She would make it better.
    As the ache in her lower back grew worse, she pressed her hand against it. Blaming the discomfort she’d been feeling all morning on the mattress and a restless night, she walked over to the portrait.
    He’d finished it the day before. She knew, because he’d explained it to her, that the paint would take a few days to set and dry completely, so she didn’t touch it. She sat on the stool Gabe sometimes used and studied her own face.
    So this was how he saw her, she thought. Her skin was pale, with only a faint shadow of color along her cheekbones. It was partly that whiteness, that translucence, that made her appear like the angel he sometimes called her. She looked as though she were caught in a daydream, one of the many she’d indulged in during the hours Gabe had painted. As she had told him—as she had complained—there was too much vulnerability. It was in her eyes, around her mouth. There was something strong and independent about the pose, about the way her head was tilted, but that lost, sad look in her eyes seemed to negate the strength.
    She was reading too much into it, Laura decided as the pain dug, deep and dull, into her back. Rubbing at it, she rose to look around the cabin.
    She would be married here, in a matter of hours. There would be no crowd of well-wishers, no pianist playing romantic songs, no trail of rose petals. Yet, with or without the trimmings, she would be a bride. She might not be able to make it look festive, but at least she could tidy up.
    The pain in her back drove her to lie down. Two hours later she heard the Jeep coming down the lane. For a moment longer she lay there, working to block out the discomfort. Later, she told herself, she would soak the ache away in a hot tub. She walked into the living room just as Gabe ushered an elderly couple into the cabin.
    â€œLaura, this is Mr. and Mrs. Witherby. Mr. Witherby is a justice of the peace.”
    â€œHello. It’s so nice of you to come all this way.”
    â€œPart of the job,” Mr. Witherby said, adjusting his fogging glasses. “’Sides that, your young man here wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
    â€œDon’t you worry about this old man here.” Mrs. Witherby patted her husband’s arm and studied Laura. “He loves to complain.”
    â€œCan I get you something, some coffee?”
    â€œDon’t you fuss. Mr. Bradley’s got a carload of supplies. You just sit