Captive Of Sin Part 11

"No."

Just "no"? What was she to make of that? What did he think of her? She stifled the needy, desperate questions that struggled to the surface. She'd already embarra.s.sed him-and herself-sufficiently. Frantically, she cast around for some neutral topic. "When I came out, I was looking for the path to the beach."

His mouth lengthened with disapproval. "It's steep and not easy for a lady. That's how I remember it nine years ago. I suspect it's in worse repair now. You'd be better staying in the grounds."

Lady Charis Weston would have stepped aside, let him return to his work as he clearly wished. Sarah Watson was a more demanding creature and desperate for a few more minutes of his company. "Can't we at least try?"

Sudden amus.e.m.e.nt flashed across his face, banishing the sternness, making him look years younger. "You're a stubborn sc.r.a.p of a thing, aren't you?"

Even more astonishingly, his black eyes swept her body, subjecting her to a thorough, masculine inspection. Instant agonizing tension extended between them. Heat crawled over her skin, and her heart bucked and plunged in her chest. Her nipples puckered with painful swiftness, and something warmed and melted in the pit of her stomach.

The powerful, unfamiliar sensations frightened Charis. It was as if the body she'd known for twenty years suddenly belonged to a stranger. With every ragged breath, the hard points of her nipples rubbed against her shift. The friction was maddening, unstoppable, infuriating.

She lifted a shaking hand to her breast to ease the ache, then realized what she did. Her face became hotter. He couldn't miss her discomfort. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her like the whale had swallowed Jonah.

She lowered her head to hide her mortifying reaction, to break that scorching connection with his eyes. "Not exactly a sc.r.a.p," she muttered, turning away to rip at the leaves of a camellia.

"No, perhaps not." He released a harsh laugh, bitter and without amus.e.m.e.nt. She didn't have the courage to check his expression. "Let's show you our fine beach."

She sucked in a shuddering breath while delight and self-consciousness vied within her. Now that she wasn't looking at him, she gained some small control over herself.

"I'd like that," she said almost inaudibly.

Feeling like the greatest fool in Creation, she scattered the shreds of greenery on the ground and nerved herself to glance at him under her lashes. She'd expected to see anger or contempt or disgust, but his expression was, as so often, inscrutable. Was there a chance he hadn't noticed how fl.u.s.tered she was?

At least he was still here. More, he planned to escort her to the beach. Breathlessly, she waited for him to take her arm, but he merely gestured her toward the overgrown path and fell into step behind her.

He went ahead once they had to fight their way through a ma.s.s of untidy rhododendrons. Like everything else at Penrhyn, the garden reeked of neglect. Charis knew it was insane but she felt that the house cried out to her to save it, to make it a home.

Stupid fancy. She was only a temporary visitor to this beautiful place. She'd leave soon, to be quickly forgotten by Penrhyn and its owner.

The bleak knowledge set like concrete in her belly.

Her host was as unkempt as the manor. She studied his tall figure as he forged a path for her. He wore breeches and shirtsleeves, and his boots were old and scuffed. Still, he was utterly splendid. Her pulse, which had started to steady, kicked into a gallop again. She pictured him standing on the prow of a ship. A gold ring glinting in one ear. A cutla.s.s at his waist. A knife clenched between his teeth.

He stopped to lift a p.r.i.c.kly bramble high over her head. "What are you smiling about?"

She hadn't realized she was smiling. "Were any of your ancestors pirates?"

"Black Jack Trevithick was one of Bess's Sea Hawks." As she pa.s.sed him, he flashed her a grin that was devilment personified. Her unruly heart somersaulted. Heaven help her. "His portrait's in the long gallery. At least it was. Black Jack looks like me, so my father may have retired it. My father and brother took after my grandmother's family, the St. Ledgers. But I'm all Black Trevithick."

"Is that because of your hair color?"

"Partly. Also black temper, black nature, black sheep, black heart."

She couldn't restrain a startled laugh as she pushed her way through the shrubbery ahead of him. "Goodness. I find myself quite terrified to be in your presence."

Of course it wasn't true. Gideon Trevithick's company was as intoxicating as champagne. He unsettled her more than anybody she'd ever met. He confused and troubled her. But she could hardly countenance that once she left, she'd never hear his voice again.

Although of course it wasn't just his conversation that made her head swim with excitement. He was handsome. More than handsome. He was beautiful, like some being sent down from heaven to illuminate dull earth. And strong and virile and manly. No woman with blood in her veins could fail to respond to his attractions.

Perhaps when he knew who she really was, he'd consider courting her. She saw no evidence of huge riches at Penrhyn. Could he overcome his disinterest in her person if he knew he married the greatest heiress in England? The Earl of Marley's t.i.tle had lapsed along with the entail upon her father's death. Every penny, every acre, of the ma.s.sive Weston inheritance devolved upon the earl's one direct descendant, his daughter.

Dear Lord, was she so lacking in pride, she'd trade gold to gain the man she wanted even if he didn't want her? Her belly clenched in sick shame. She needed to leash her foolish imagination before it brought her to grief.

They emerged from the bushes onto the cliff edge. Below, the sea spread like shining blue silk. Gideon paused behind her. She was so attuned to him, she felt his every breath. An unwelcome premonition brushed across her skin and made her shiver. This preternatural awareness seemed more significant than mere physical reaction.

"This is such a beautiful place," she said softly.

With an unwillingness she immediately recognized, he moved closer. A light wind played with his thick hair. Lucky breeze to take liberties with him that she couldn't. She closed her fists at her sides to stop herself smoothing the disheveled locks. It disturbed and frightened her, this continual, frustrated need for physical contact. It left her jumpy and awkward.

She watched him draw in a deep breath of crystalline air. The tension seeped from his broad shoulders as if the view fed his soul.

"I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. The sea. The wind. How...clean it all feels." His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but she had the strangest impression he saw something else entirely. Something that haunted him. "When I was in Rangapindhi, I remembered this view. It made me want to live."

She must have made some sound of protest or surprise because he stiffened and turned his head, fastening those glittering eyes upon her.

"Why wouldn't you want to live?" she echoed, shocked.

He frowned. "Do you truly not know? My story has been in all the papers. Quite the sensation of the season." He spoke with a biting sarcasm she didn't understand.

"My brothers kept me prisoner. I'd never heard your name until we met." She curled her arms around herself, although the chill she felt was more spiritual than physical. "Those men in Portsmouth called you the Hero of Rangapindhi. Were you a soldier?"

"No." He bit the word out like a bullet fired from a gun. His unspoken pain was a vivid, twisting, tangible ent.i.ty.

Charis tightened her arms to stop herself reaching out. A stinging mixture of compa.s.sion and desire lodged in her throat. She forced her question past the constriction although she was sure he'd dismiss her curiosity. "Did you hate India so much?"

His regard was unwavering, and his voice deepened with emotion. "No, I loved it."

It was the same answer he'd given her when she asked whether he hated Penrhyn. Gideon Trevithick seemed to have an ambiguous relationship with love. Again, she wondered at the despair that shadowed him, closer to the surface today than she'd ever seen it.

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "I wish I was the man you think I am." His voice was so sad, it made her want to cry. "But I'm not worth an ounce of your regard."

She sensed the acrid shame beneath his words. He was dauntingly complex, and he drew her more powerfully than anyone else ever had. After a long silence, she dared to ask, "Will you tell me why?"

"No. I don't want you to share my nightmares." His smile festered with bitterness. He lifted his gloved hand. For one breathless moment, she imagined he meant to touch her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut as she waited to feel the brush of his fingers.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes slowly to catch poignant sorrow on his face. His hand fell to his side. "But believe me when I say I'm no hero."

She swallowed, and her voice shook as she spoke. "You're a hero to me."

The regret drained from his expression, leaving comprehension and a pity that stabbed her like a knife. "Miss Watson..."

Intent on silencing him, she made a gesture of denial. She didn't want comforting plat.i.tudes. The pity in his eyes indicated he divined her unseemly hunger for him. How could he not? The feeling was too overwhelming to hide, and he was a perceptive man.

She blushed with mortification, and spoke quickly, before he could. "Aren't...aren't we going to the beach?"

He straightened, his mouth firming. But he didn't argue with her abrupt change of subject, for which she was grateful. "The path is just here."

He walked past, and she realized the ground dipped away sharply. A few steps after him, and she saw a thin track snaking down the cliff.

Charis looked down, and her stomach lurched. Far below, rows of jagged rocks awaited. Resolutely, she lifted her head and stared at Gideon's straight back in his loose white shirt. As he began to descend, he was utterly at ease in this rough, dangerous terrain. Not hard to imagine a gangly, intense, dark-eyed boy seeking refuge from a troubled home life among these cliffs.

Charis stepped carefully after him, not surprised at his silence. Now he'd guessed how besotted she was, he must wonder what he could say. Humiliation added its sour tang to the poisonous brew of unhappiness and longing stewing inside her.

At first the going was easy, the slope gradual. The path was in surprisingly good repair. But soon the track narrowed, became steeper. She placed a hand on the rock face as the descent grew more precipitous.

For one fatal second too long, her eyes dwelt on the tall man ahead. Every sc.r.a.p of information she gleaned about him only fed her curiosity to know more.

The path dipped. Her foot slid on a loose stone. She clutched wildly at the rock wall, but her fingers slid uselessly across the cold, smooth surface.

"Gideon!" she screamed.

Dear G.o.d, she didn't want to die. She wanted to live and make Gideon love her.

The thought, bright and burning like lightning, seared her mind as she tumbled helplessly toward the edge.

Seven.

Sarah!" Gideon whirled and lashed out to grab her before she plummeted to her death.

His hands closed like manacles around her slender wrists. There wasn't time to think or feel. There wasn't time to recoil from the shock of physical contact. He pivoted and slammed her back hard into the wall.

She screamed again, with pain this time, as her head banged against the rock. Then she closed her eyes and sagged, trembling and gasping from his hold.

He slumped over her, silently protecting her with his body from the drop behind him. His gut churned, and terror tasted rusty on his tongue. His chest heaved as he fought for breath, and his shoulders ached with the strain of s.n.a.t.c.hing her to safety. He didn't relax his punishing grip although he shifted to press her hands flat into the rock on either side of her.

h.e.l.l, he'd come so close to losing her.

He leaned his forehead on the rock above her head, waiting for the wildly careening world to slow and stop. Dizzying relief thundered through him. Cold sweat chilled his skin as his mind replayed over and over the few seconds when Sarah slid uncontrollably.

They remained unmoving, her facing him, his hands clutching hers, mere inches separating their bodies.

Gradually, Gideon's suffocating fear ebbed. Reality returned, his mind started to function. He heard the crash of the waves on the rocks below. He felt the cool breeze on his damp skin. He felt the path's unevenness under his booted feet.

Sarah lifted her chin with a curiously jerky movement and stared unblinking at him as if he provided her one sure compa.s.s point. Her pupils were dilated, and her face was haggard with shock and pain. Her lips parted as she drew a ragged breath.

With a spurt of guilt, he realized his unyielding grip must hurt her sprained wrist. Logic indicated she was safe. Even so, it was only with the utmost difficulty that he forced himself to release her left hand.

Biting her lip to smother a sob, she gingerly bent her arm against her chest. The fingers of her other hand twisted to twine convulsively around his.

"Sarah, dear G.o.d..." His choked whisper ruffled the soft hair on the top of her head. "Are you all right?"

She gave an unsteady nod. "Yes."

His heart still raced, and he shook like a dog in a thunderstorm. "What about your wrist?"

"I jolted it, but I don't think there's any damage." Wincing, she stretched her arm and carefully moved it. Her earlier bruises had faded to yellow, so the impression of Gideon's fingers was red and stark on her pale skin.

He cursed himself for a blundering brute. He hadn't had time to be gentle. All that mattered was keeping her alive. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

Suddenly he was aware how close they stood. He only needed to shift a fraction, and her body would brush his.

What the devil was wrong with him, standing over her like this? He knew better. He had to stop touching Sarah now. Now.

Familiar, unstoppable nausea rose. Blackness filled his head. With a roughness he couldn't help, he wrenched his gloved hand away from her. Blindly, he turned to press his back to the rock wall beside her. His gloved hands splayed against the stone as he struggled to mask his reaction. She was too close, but he couldn't bear to have her out of reach just yet.

For a long, taut moment, the only sounds were the mournful cries of the gulls, the pounding waves, and his hoa.r.s.e panting.

Eventually, she shifted toward him. He didn't look at her, but he felt her study him. He was guiltily aware that he must frighten and confuse her. Explanations, apologies gushed up, but he furiously bit them back. His pride revolted at putting his humiliating state into words.

When she didn't immediately speak, he steeled himself to look into her ashen face. In a gesture that poignantly reminded him of the lost waif in Winchester, she cradled her wrist upon her breast.

Her voice emerged almost normally. "You saved my life again. How can I ever repay you?"

Oh, d.a.m.nation. This was the last thing he needed. She stared at him as if he was St. George, and he'd just rescued her from the dragon. The unfettered admiration and grat.i.tude in her hazel eyes sliced at his conscience. If he'd planned to discourage her interest, what had just happened beggared good intentions.

"You can repay me by being more careful in future," he said harshly. And hated himself as he watched the radiance dim from her eyes. In truth, he wasn't angry at her as much as at the whole b.l.o.o.d.y impossible situation. He had no right to bask in a beautiful woman's approbation, even if he had just saved her life.

Her cheeks, which had been pale as paper, flushed with color. Her response was muted. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Yet again, my foolishness put you at risk."

His tone softened. "No harm done."

Which, d.a.m.n it, wasn't true. With every second he spent in her company, the insidious bond between them tightened like drawn silk cords. His recent efforts to avoid Sarah had achieved precisely nothing. He was as irrevocably connected to her as he'd ever been.

She straightened and winced at the movement. This morning's tidy plait had loosened into a ma.s.s of bright flying tendrils around her face. He fought the urge to smooth that wild halo.

For one intense moment, she met his eyes, then her thick lashes fluttered to her cheeks. White teeth worried at her plump lower lip, and her breath audibly caught.

Just like that, in a blazing instant, s.e.xual need kicked into fierce life. He hardened. His heart broke into a savage rhythm. Every drop of moisture dried from his mouth.

His sickness at touching her pa.s.sed in a bright flash. What possessed him instead was worse. Because he couldn't do one d.a.m.ned thing to relieve his hunger.

The startling rush of desire left him reeling, light-headed. He'd accepted his lack of interest in women since Rangapindhi as a blessing. The only blessing. He'd a.s.sumed his indifference was permanent. What was the point of wanting what he could no longer have? Better not to want.

Dear Lord, let her not look down. Let her not see how aroused he was. He tried to edge away, but the narrow path gave him little room.

How the h.e.l.l was he going to survive three weeks of this?

He couldn't touch her. Every dictate of ethics and morality and chivalry insisted he couldn't touch her.