“What now?” Annie said, her voice devoid of hope.
Cold rushed over Temperance’s skin, as if the freezing river had sucked her in all over again. “I’ll beg. When the Reverend comes on Saturday, I’ll beg, and hope to God there’s a shred of kindness in him somewhere. I’m afraid that’s the only chance we have left.”
39. Sophia.
True to his word, the Reverend strolled into the Blossom that evening at nine o’clock, amid lancing daylight and a raucous crowd.
The moment Sophia saw him, the parlor smeared, melting to a hazy wash of violet, as if someone had thrown a bucketful of water across a still-wet painting. In the center of all that color, Gray stood out in crisp lines, immaculate in his dove-gray cutaway coat.
A trail of silence rippled in his wake. Miners craned their necks, openly curious at finding a clergyman in a house of ill repute.
Ignoring them, he arrowed toward her. “Hello, kitten.”
Time slowed. On stage, red chiffon flew skyward as Annie strutted through her Flame Dance. Men laughed. The piano sang under Palmer’s capable fingers.
And Sophia momentarily forgot why she hated Gray so desperately. He smelled clean and he’d combed his hair back in the way that looked best. His eyes disarmed her, too. Azure softness flickered as he gazed down—some shifting new depth he’d never let her see before.
Warmth permeated her blood. He’s dangerous, and this is how he gets you.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
Sophia glanced down at her already-forgotten glass. “Um. Vodka?”
“Oh? I seem to remember your curious inability to reach intoxication.”
She shrugged. “Not for lack of trying.”
A smile played around his mouth, striking a bolt of memory. She recalled those lips against hers, firm and soft by turns, demanding then gentle, turning her—
Holy hell. Shearing the memory into pieces, she focused on the Professor. Through the cigar-smoke haze, his fingers flitted like pale, exotic birds. What song was that? It sounded—
A metallic clink; her hand dipped beneath a sudden weight. Looking down, she found a fist-sized gold nugget nested in her drink. “What’s this?”
Gray smiled, all confidence. “Have supper with me.”
Her chest hitched. “Funny. That doesn’t sound any more inviting than it did the first time.”
“No? Just grace my table, and I’ll double this.”
She peered at the nugget. Two thousand dollars, probably. We certainly need it. “Supper? That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“You won’t kiss me?”
“Only if you’d like me to.”
She made a face. “Eww. I’ll gladly go the rest of my life without an encore of that abysmal performance.”
He inclined his head, as if to say, now, now. You’re fooling no one.
Still, retreating into coldness felt like stepping from the mud-mired street onto the sturdy wooden sidewalk. She tossed back the vodka, keeping the gargantuan nugget in place with two fingers.
Searing liquid raced down her throat. It tasted like money.
“Two hours,” she said. “That’s all you get.”
***
Upstairs, Sophia stuffed the Colts into her thigh holsters and donned the slinkiest, most unacceptable dress she could find. After all, if she had to cross town alongside the Reverend, the least she could do was destroy his reputation while she was at it.
Out in the hallway, she considered knocking on Madam Hyacinth’s door, but those strange glances over breakfast resurfaced, and hesitation set in. Besides, she didn’t need anybody’s judgment. Not Temperance’s, not Annie’s.
What she did need was two thousand dollars, even if she ended up paying it back to Gray when all was said and done.
She turned away from Temperance’s door and went downstairs.
***
In the parlor, Sophia took the Reverend’s arm without glancing back. If Annie was watching, she didn’t care to know.
Out on the boardwalk, an incoming miner almost stumbled into them. “Sorry, Reverend. Didn’t see you there.”
Gray eyed him coolly. “Max.”
Max stopped and leered, clearly two sheets to the wind. He chucked a grubby fist against the Reverend’s spotless coat. “Found yourself a little somethin’, eh? You sly dog. Who knew?”
Gray dusted himself off. “Who knew precisely what?”
“That you liked buyin’ it sometimes, too.”
The Reverend pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Max. You’re a Christian. Must I explain that I’m visiting this house in hopes of liberating this lovely woman? My foremost interest lies in winning her soul, not her body. And you needn’t speak about the lady as if she isn’t here. Miss Sophia has a name.”
Max swayed. “Oh. Bringin’ ‘er into the fold, then? That makes sense, don’t it?”
“I dare say it does.”
“Guess everyone calls you a saint for a reason.” Max grinned, his smile dotted with empty gaps. “Including me, Rev…can I call you Rev? Never doubted you for a second, Rev.”
“Splendid,” Gray said, in a tone that suggested the opposite. Turning away, he sailed down the boardwalk.
Bound by the arm, Sophia went along. The Reverend’s cane clicked as he matched his stride to hers.
Heads turned. Stares followed their every step. But as the blocks passed, Gray gave no indication of being bothered by her dress—no, he strode through nighttime’s daylight as if he had every right to escort a fairy across town.
As if she made him proud.
Her nerves jittered, coiling into a mess of tangled contradictions. Awareness burned—the solid press of his muscled arm reached far beneath her skin, to the place where desire stirred.
But she hated him. No matter the cost, that remained true.
Find something awful about him. It should be easy enough. “You lied, back there.”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“Yeah, sure. Trying to liberate me? Really?”
He turned a corner, threading along a narrow sidewalk as the stacked-log chapel came into view. “A statement of fact. I have every intention of convincing you to marry me, at which point you’ll leave the demimonde forever.”
Unease gripped her. “Okay. Winning my soul for God, then. That was a lie.”
“I never said for God, kitten. I’m an atheist, as you know. I intend to win your soul for myself.”
Her disquiet grew, tangled up with something uncomfortably similar to exhilaration. She exhaled as they passed into the church’s damp shadow, trying to calm her pulse.
Gray held the church’s front door for her. Inside, scattered worshipers startled in their pews as he escorted her up the aisle. She barely noticed their stares; his words still echoed, too loud to allow room for anything else.
When he pulled the rectory door open, she hesitated. Last time, she’d nearly lost herself.
But she’d made a bargain. Setting her jaw, she stepped inside.
Just as before, the room swelled around her, ornate and masculine, full of leather and wood and the seductive bouquet of expensive taste.
Closing the door, Gray leaned his cane against the wall, then crossed to the washbasin. “You’ll allow me to refresh myself?”
“Allow you?”
“If you’ll recall, the last time I attempted, you threatened me with point-blank gunfire.”
“Which you deserved. But go ahead. I’m not armed.”
“Ah, kitten. Your dress conceals very little.” His gaze roamed downward, appreciative, stopping at the outline of her thigh holsters. “Which of us is lying now?”
Inexplicably, she flushed. “You. Again. You just told Max you weren’t interested in my body, and here you are, staring at me like I’m something to eat.”
Smiling, he turned away. First his cutaway coat came off, then the satin waistcoat. He draped both across an armchair. Rolling up crisp white shirtsleeves, he
tossed water through his glistening yellow hair.
Sophia watched from her refuge by the door, overcome by déjà vu. She’d witnessed this routine before, and now—as then—her attention strayed to the ripple of muscle in his back, visible even through the linen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were looking for excuses to undress in front of me.”
He stalked back, his shirtfront spotted with transparent circles where water dripped from his jaw. “Oh, I assure you, I am. Shall I continue?”
She gulped down the rising butterfly in her throat. “No. You can lose the smirk, though.”
His grin only widened. She retreated, backed against the door by his virtuous face and apple cheeks. His eyes roved over her like two blue searchlights.
“Allow me to clarify something.” With one hand splayed against the wall, he reached for her face.
Her heart rocketed against her ribs the moment his touch feathered against her cheek. Everything in her rebelled, torn in too many directions to make sense of.
“I said my foremost intention lies in winning your soul. Now, that doesn’t preclude me from also desiring your touch. I do, kitten. More than you know. But what I truly dream of at night, when I lie awake and paint pictures of you in my mind, is a union in which we might belong to each other in equal measures. I only wish to possess your heart, the same way you possess mine.”
Thought scattered into senseless fragments, incinerated by the caress of silken fingertips against her throat. In that moment, all she truly knew was that Adrian had never said anything so boldly intimate before. Nobody had.
She fought to regain control of her breath. “Either that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said, or it’s deeply psychotic.”
“You haven’t determined which?” Continuing his gentle exploration, he traced her collarbone.
Some distant part of her wailed in protest. But he’s evil.
In her heart, she remembered—this was all a lie, meant to lure her away from the Blossom. He’d even found the perfect weapon: beautiful, secret words, things Adrian had never given her. Like a bloodhound, he’d scented her vulnerabilities, and now he would murmur glimmering blessings in her ear until her defenses crumbled to dust.
But…her power rested in identifying his tricks, didn’t it? Armed with awareness, what harm could come from listening to his honeyed lies for an evening?
Two hours, that was all. She could hate him again at midnight.
“Why me?” She peered up, invoking the last of her resistance against the hypnotic lull of his touch. “What is it about me?”
“Sophia,” he crooned.
For a brief and ridiculous moment, she considered telling him her true name—but bit her lip until the urge passed.
His fingers sifted through her hair, sending a frisson of electricity down her spine. “Someone cast you aside, once. Like me, you bear the telltale scars. Yet you refuse to break. Here you stand, defiant and proud. And so I see you for what you are.”
She drew a flimsy breath. “What am I?”
“Strong. Worthy.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “You ought to be somebody’s everything.”
The final shred of defiance collapsed. It died with a great whoosh, like the big top coming down after the show, and her eyes strayed to his cherubic mouth. If he kissed her now, she wouldn’t fight. The possibility both terrified and thrilled her.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Not yet. As I said, only if you’d like me to.”
“What does that mean?”
He pushed away from the wall. “It means, kitten, that you must kiss me first.”
In the absence of his touch, some measure of sanity returned, enough that she managed a weak reply. “Don’t hold your breath. Actually, on second thought…do.”
He chuckled. “Come. Dine with me.”
***
Sophia drained her brandy in one molten go. She sat on the tufted leather sofa, as far from Gray as possible.
“I’ve never met anyone with your unusual immunity to alcohol.” Leaning back, he draped an arm over the settee. “I must admit, I’m fascinated by the possible applications.”
“Applications? What applications?”
“You might find a few betting men who’d wager on outdrinking you. Only they’d find themselves under the table and you’d find yourself a wealthy woman.”
She nursed a second drink, then a third, welcoming the way the brandy blurred her mind at the edges. That softness was all she could manage—just enough to unstring the tight knot of guilt coiling around her innards. “Only you would think of that.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never once considered it.”
“Maybe. But that’d be cheating.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Or an honest wager, with an equally honest outcome. Why not ensure victory before you enter the field?”
“Is that all you ever think about? Winning? Manipulating people?”
He cocked his head, considering. “Oftentimes, yes.”
“And that fulfills you?”
“Sophia. As I’ve said before, I’ve never lied to you. I never shall. Not even in your presence.”
“Great. An honest con man. Just what I’ve always dreamed of.”
He sipped at his brandy, undaunted. “Understand, though, that I’m compelled to meet your questions with candor. As such, you must never ask me anything you don’t truly wish to know.”
“Actually, I’m dying to find out just how awful you really are.”
“Very well.” Amid the smoky shadows, his eyes bored into her, sparking with their own light. “What you term manipulation, I think of as success by way of superior strategy. Whenever I find something I desire, I relish bending the world into surrendering. That exhilarates me as nothing else does.”
She set down her liquor, nestling against the couch arm. Something about his words kindled an ache in her chest. “There’re more important things in life than strategy and conquest.”
“Such as?”
Through her dress, she fiddled with one of the Colts. She couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “Love.”
His face changed—became younger, somehow. “I’m afraid I can’t attest to such things. Nobody has ever loved me, kitten.”
She frowned. “What? Surely your mother—”
“No, not even her.”
“But your father, the lord, didn’t he…”
Shock leapt into his face, drying up the rest of her words. Too late, she remembered she wasn’t supposed to know about Lord William Gray.
He leaned in, spearing her with blue intensity. “You found Irene’s diary.”
It wasn’t a question.
Remorse ignited in her veins. She’d just given away their secret, their only real advantage. Had that been his aim? To woo her into misstepping?
“When?” he said.
Mentally berating herself, she took up the brandy glass like a crystal barricade. She wanted to lie. But the Reverend, like the Corporal, probably knew how to read deception. “Before the tithe.”
Strangely, he smiled, showing no trace of anger. “I’d begun to think Irene had burned it. I truly had.”
“Why do you want it so badly?”
“I might ask you the same. Why part with ten thousand dollars when you could have handed me a mere book, instead?”
She deflected with a subject change. “Lord William Gray was your father?”
“I’m afraid so. Such a cold and unforgiving brute as the world has rarely seen.”
That gave her pause. “We know Irene stole your inheritance. But that doesn’t give you the right to the Blossom. Even if the court feels differently…it’s ours. We won’t give it up. Not for anything.”
He sat back, flashing a quizzical look. “Ah, kitten. As ever, you misunderstand me entirely.”
Before he could say more, the door swung open.
Henry strode in, bearing a silver tray with a roasted goose and a mound of buttery mashed potat
oes. He stopped, his witless face darkening. “Boss?”
The Reverend gestured toward the low table. “Set it there.”
“What’s this tart doing here?”
Angelic features sharpened to disapproval. “I requested supper, not an inquisition.”
“Yeah. But you didn’t never say supper was for her.”
Rising from the couch, the Reverend stalked toward Henry. “Do I pay you to question me? No. Quite the opposite. And I won’t have you insult her.”
When Henry didn’t quail, Gray loomed. Tension thickened the air. Sophia settled back to watch, delighted—at least someone had the mettle to resist Gray’s influence. Still, her money was on the Reverend. Though shorter by a good three inches, his posture conveyed an iron confidence Henry’s lacked.
“Fine,” Henry muttered. He tossed the tray down and stormed out.
“Trouble in paradise?” Abandoning her manners, she plucked at the goose with her fingers. Succulent and juicy, the meat nearly slid from the bone.
Gray circled back, expression uneasy. “He’s grown increasingly rebellious since he parted company with his finger.”
“Mmm. How tragic.” A flood of flavor exploded on her tongue and she resisted the urge to groan. Though the Professor cooked decently enough, this equated to culinary art. She stuffed another fingerful of meat into her mouth. “This is delicious.”
Gray’s eyes followed her hands. Instead of scolding her, as she expected, he sat and joined, pulling the buttery meat apart with surprising gusto. Together, they devoured the tender fowl, their fingers glistening with oil. When nothing but bones remained, they dug spoons into the serving dish. The potatoes vanished, too.
All the while, the Reverend lapsed into easy conversation, as if he were nothing more than a stranger making her acquaintance. He didn’t mention the attempt to rob Henry, but instead asked about her life, about the circus. She refused to bring up the journal again, preferring to leave her glaring mistake behind.
Once sated, she leaned back. Between the food and the brandy, a dreamy sense of unreality stole over her, as if she’d stepped into an alternate world—one where this man wasn’t her enemy.
The Wildflowers at the Edge of the World Page 22
