Captive Of Sin Part 14

Interspersed with more conventional-looking faces, Black Jack's piratical features looked out at the world, sometimes in daughters of the house, more often in sons. Black Trevithicks were usually male. Their faces were everywhere, under cavalier curls or bag wigs. Intelligent, knowing black eyes. Lazy, confident smiles.

Sarah tipped her head to the side, surveying his mother. "She looks sad."

Gideon was surprised Sarah sensed the picture's melancholy. He found himself telling her what he'd never told another person. "My father wasn't an easy man. What little I've learned of their union indicates an infelicitous match. My brother's delivery was difficult, and the doctors advised separate bedrooms. But my father insisted on his rights, so three years and four miscarriages later, I arrived."

"And she slipped away." Sarah returned her attention to the portrait. "How tragic."

"Yes, it was."

Would his childhood have been different if his mother had lived? She'd been a gentle woman with intellectual tastes. He'd always believed he inherited his love of learning from her.

"You don't mind if I wear her clothes?"

He shrugged. "She was unfailingly kind. Everyone who knew her agreed on that. My father viewed her generous nature as a sign of weakness. The villagers, though, loved her and still speak of her fondly. She'd be the first to offer her wardrobe to a lady in distress."

"I would have liked your mother." Sarah's smile was tinged with compa.s.sion.

He tensed. His pride revolted at her pity.

"Come up to the attics," he said sharply, and tried to ignore the way her eyes once more darkened with hurt.

He turned on his heel to stalk out of the gallery and along the dim corridor that ran through the back of the house. She scurried to keep pace with his long stride. Without speaking, they climbed a series of ever-narrowing stairways lit by dirty mullioned windows.

Outside the last door, Gideon lifted two candlesticks from a niche. He lit the candles and pa.s.sed one to Sarah, who waited slightly breathless at his side. He stifled a pang of guilt. It wasn't long since she'd endured a savage beating, and yesterday she'd nearly fallen off a cliff. He should have more consideration than to rush her through the house at top speed.

Still, his tone was brusque. "Here. It's dark up there."

"Thank you."

Silently, she followed him up the final precipitous staircase. He entered the attics ahead of her and halted abruptly as a thousand memories overwhelmed him.

The smell was exactly the same. Dust. Old dry wood. Fusty air. Painfully reminding him of boyhood misery.

"Heavens, you could fit a village up here." Sarah stepped closer but thank G.o.d, didn't touch him. Still her vibrant presence stirred his blood to turbulence.

Against his will, he looked at her. Flickering candlelight transformed her into a creature of dark mystery. Turned her great hazel eyes into bottomless pools. Gilded a cheekbone as she tilted her head with open curiosity to survey the cavernous area.

"It's where I studied when I was a boy." He raised his candle to illuminate a corner under the sloping roof. "n.o.body's touched it since I was last here. Look."

Sarah moved closer to the untidy pile of books stacked near the ragged blanket he'd used in winter. In January, the attics had been as cold as an ice cave in h.e.l.l. "You wanted to get away from your father."

He cast her a sharp glance. "He hated having a bookish son. But no number of beatings changed me. I was stubborn."

"You were strong. You are strong."

He could have argued but didn't. "Luckily, most of the year I was away at school."

"Do you know where your mother's belongings are?"

He pointed to some trunks against the wall. "They haven't been shifted either. My father's and brother's things are downstairs. It's such a big house, I hardly need the room."

"It's a house meant for children," she said quietly. "Lots of them."

He tensed, wondering if she meant to pursue the subject of marriage again but she said no more. Relief trickled through his veins.

"Let's hope the mice haven't got to everything." He strode across to unlatch the first trunk. Anything to break the web of intimacy slowly spinning between them.

"I can't smell mice. Your cats must be ferocious hunters."

"Under my father's and brother's careless regime, they had to be to keep their bellies full." He flung back the heavy lid with a bang. Immediately faded scents crammed his senses. Lavender to keep the clothes fresh. A faint echo of rose fragrance that must have belonged to his mother.

Sarah stepped softly to his side. "I feel like she's here."

"So do I." His voice was flat with control. He placed his candle on the trunk behind. Sarah must see how his hands shook. She couldn't miss the way the flame wavered in the airless room.

Reluctantly, he began to sift through the trunk's contents. Bonnets. Hats. Scarves. Handkerchiefs. Stockings. Shoes. Soft kidskin gloves that had shaped themselves to his mother's hands. Hands he'd never touched.

Finally, at the bottom, he found neatly folded clothing. His gloved hand brushed heavy silk, and he carefully lifted what proved to be an evening cloak. As the shining blue fabric unfurled, a gust of rose perfume drifted into the still room.

He'd never touched his mother's things before. It had seemed somehow wrong to pry into her private possessions. Although he'd always known which trunks were hers.

Carefully, he laid the cloak aside. Behind him he was vaguely aware of Sarah's footfall as she explored the attic. Then suddenly light bloomed around him.

"This might help." She set the lantern down near him.

"It's the one I used to read by."

"I found it with your books." She knelt, her shoulder inches from his.

He desperately wanted to tell her to move away. She was close enough for little eddies of scent to tease him, her peppery carnation fragrance mingling with the evocative rose. She was close enough for him to hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing.

Did his proximity disturb her as hers disturbed him? Sweet G.o.d, this became more impossible with every second. Briefly he shut his eyes and prayed for strength. When he opened them again, Sarah pored over the items he'd discarded on the floor.

"Everything is so delicate," she said softly. "Like it was made by angels. Look." She held up a filmy shawl of lace fragile as a spider's web.

He reached out to touch the fabric, then jerked back. All his life, his mother's gentle ghost had haunted him. Touching her clothing made her tragedy poignantly immediate.

He struggled to inject a prosaic element into his voice. "Not exactly suitable for late winter."

He had to get this over with quickly, before he made an utter fool of himself. He drew out a satin ball gown. Its rich peach color gleamed in the candlelight.

"Nor is that." Sarah's voice sounded huskier than usual. As if she'd just got out of bed, G.o.d help him. His hands curled in the slippery material.

"These must have come from her London season." Still, he strove to sound casual, unconcerned. The last thing he needed was Sarah to discover her interest in him was reciprocated. "My father never socialized. Or not with people he'd introduce to his wife. She'd have little call for a dress like this at Penrhyn."

All the gowns were too elaborate for Sarah to wear around the house. Gideon repacked the trunk, his hands lingering on the fine materials. He knew it was only imagination, but a hint of warmth from that pretty laughing girl, the toast of London, still remained. He shut the lid and turned to the next trunk.

As with the other one, accessories lay on top. He quickly riffled through them. He pa.s.sed Sarah a st.u.r.dy pair of half boots. "See if those fit."

The first gown he pulled out was a sprigged muslin day dress. He stood and turned around, then wished to G.o.d he'd stayed put.

Sarah sat on the trunk they'd already checked, sliding on the shoe. Her skirts hiked to reveal two trim ankles. Petticoats frothed, white and alluring, around her shapely calves. Her thick braid tumbled over one shoulder to dangle between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. As she leaned forward, her bodice gaped to reveal the pale skin of her cleavage.

His mouth went dry as sand. His heart slammed hard against his ribs. Hunger to tumble this girl on the dusty floor made him giddy. The urge to escape rose to choke him.

He must have made a noise because she turned startled eyes in his direction. "Gideon?"

Just his name. A low question. Just as he'd started calling her Sarah, somewhere she'd started calling him Gideon. He whipped around and dropped to his knees before the open trunk. His breath rattled loud in his ears as he fought to rein in the agonizing conflict inside him.

He couldn't touch her. No matter how much he wanted to. He knew what would happen. He'd frighten and disgust her.

He fumbled in the trunk, roughly pushing aside the first gown. Without looking, he grabbed something and shoved it in Sarah's direction.

"What about this?" he bit out, still not glancing at her.

"I think..." She paused, and he felt her take the garment from his hands. "I think if I'm not to shock the servants, I might need something a little more substantial."

He sucked in a deep breath and blinked to clear the haze from his eyes. Carefully he turned. She stood watching him with a complex mixture of hunger and trepidation. The boot had toppled over and lay on the floor near the trunk. She clutched a filmy chemise in front of her.

G.o.d give him strength. He refused to picture that sheer sc.r.a.p of cream silk clinging to Sarah's lissome body. He straight-out refused.

Gideon gritted his teeth until his jaw ached and tried to quash the bawdy images filling his mind. His face itched as hot color rose in an unstoppable tide. He was acting like a d.a.m.ned fool.

Her voice had been light, amused. Perhaps she hadn't noticed his turmoil. Then he looked into her eyes and read secret knowledge in the hazel depths. She sensed he responded to her as a man responded to a woman. It frightened her-fear lurked in her gaze too-but not enough to send her fleeing back downstairs.

"Your pardon." His voice sounded rusty. "I meant to give you this."

Clumsily, he handed her the muslin. She ventured closer to drop the chemise back into the trunk, then she studied the dress.

"What do you think?" She held it up for his consideration.

Good Lord, she couldn't torment him deliberately, could she? She looked so utterly innocent and unconcerned. Which, now his brain returned to something approximating working order, struck him as cursed suspicious.

"It doesn't matter what I think," he said in a clipped tone. "Will it fit you?"

"It looks like it might. The shoes didn't. Your mother had much daintier feet than I." She lifted her skirt a few inches and circled her bare foot in demonstration.

The witch! She tortured him for her own amus.e.m.e.nt. If he could bear to touch her, he'd b.l.o.o.d.y well strangle her.

If he could bear to touch her, he wouldn't strangle her. He'd ravish her within an inch of her life.

It suddenly struck him, as it should have struck him long before, that being up here alone with Sarah was a very bad idea indeed. He'd thought to find her a couple of things to wear and escape with no consequences. That now seemed an absurdly optimistic plan.

h.e.l.l, he had to get out of here. Now.

The attics had appeared so s.p.a.cious when he first set foot in them. Now they felt oppressive, crowded, closing in on him.

When all the time he knew what closed in on him was insatiable desire.

He stumbled to his feet with clumsy haste. Tension formed a painful line across his shoulders. "Everything you need is in this trunk. I'll get the servants to bring it to your room."

She flinched at his tone, then leaned near to replace the items they'd removed. Near enough for her skirts to brush his legs with a subtle sensual whisper. Sarah's warm, womanly scent momentarily submerged his mother's rose perfume.

In spite of his best intentions, he closed his eyes and inhaled. It was the fragrance of paradise. And he, poor sinner, was locked in perpetual agony outside the gates.

He shouldn't have hesitated. He should have made a run for it while he could. Blast her, he shouldn't have come up here in the first place. Mrs. Pollett could just as easily have shown her the trunks.

When he opened his eyes, she stood before him, her face uplifted, her lips parted, her arms outstretched. Her face was stark with need and vulnerability and a desperate, hard-won courage.

He couldn't mistake what she wanted.

Even that recognition didn't shift him. Every limb was heavy as lead. Denial jammed in his throat and emerged as a groan. He staggered back, but she'd already begun her forward momentum.

He twisted awkwardly to evade her but she grabbed his arms. Her fingers curled into his flesh in inescapable talons. Blind horror held him paralyzed.

"Gideon, please," she said in a broken voice that made his gut cramp with guilt and sinful longing.

Her slim, tender body slammed into his. Her slender arms, surprisingly strong, wrapped around his neck. Her heady scent rocked his brain, scattering rational thought.

Shaking, he clutched her waist, crazy with the need to push her off him. But his will failed at the final moment.

She tensed as she stretched up. The damp, seeking heat of her mouth pressed against his.

He stood motionless under her clumsy, pa.s.sionate a.s.sault. Fiery pleasure streaked through him like summer lightning. Automatically his hands tightened around her waist, and he tugged her closer.

For one blazing second, he lost himself in the sizzling kiss. Darkness. Pleasure. Sweetness. Heat.

His blood pumped, his skin burned. His mouth moved in cautious answer to her furious, unpracticed ardor. He couldn't mistake her inexperience, or her pa.s.sion. He guessed she had no idea what she invited when she launched herself at him.

If he'd been a normal man.

Although right now, he d.a.m.n well felt like a normal man. He felt like a man overcome with l.u.s.t. A man who kissed the woman he wanted more than his life.

Clamoring questions exploded in his mind. Had a miracle occurred? Had incendiary desire at last vanquished the ghosts of Rangapindhi?

His starved senses filled with the glory of her. The clinging pressure of her grip around his neck. Her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s crushed to his chest. The carnation scent. The taste of her mouth. Fresh like the sea. Hot like fire.

The warmth was delicious. Astonishing.

He moved his lips in a more purposeful response. A shudder of excitement rippled through her, and she pressed closer. He surrendered to overwhelming pleasure.

It was too late.

Savage, rending wraiths clawed to the surface. The firm youthful flesh under his palms turned cold and slimy. The lush mouth pressed against his stretched into a rictus grin. The sweet scents of flowers and the sea drowned in stinking decay.

Frantically, he fought the suffocating blackness. Don't let this happen now. Dear G.o.d, not now. Not when he had her in his arms at last.

His muscles spasmed into pain. The nightmare images stole awareness. He wrenched his mouth from hers. He shook like a rabid dog. "Let me go," he choked out.