Her Wicked Sin

by Sarah Ballance

  “You need not worry about his return,” she told him. “He will not be back this eve.”

  He looked at her a very long time before responding. Then, gently, quietly, he said, “While I would think that favorable if I am to enjoy your ministrations, I fear what my presence here will do for your reputation.”

  “I am a physician tending a patient. Nothing more.” As if to ascertain her point, she approached and parted his coats. Though she would do well to check his bruises, the thought of undressing the traveler left her nervous and unsure. As it were, she felt through his fine linen shirt, finding nothing obviously out of place but her own curiosity…until Henry’s hand came to rest on her arm.

  “Tell me, Lydia, why you do not speak the truth.”

  Startled, she drew back. “What do you mean?”

  “Forgive me, but there is no husband who lives here.”

  Lydia followed Henry’s assessment to the four corners of the room—each one just as absent of a man’s belongings as the last—with her mistake dawning further with every turn. Perhaps she could have maintained her story had she not been so taken aback by the strange feelings evoked by this man, but she felt certain by the way he studied her he must see the lie on her countenance. But what of it? He was her guest; propriety dictated he accept her story for what it was. But something about this man drew from her the desire to confide.

  She had been alone so very long.

  Genuine compassion shone in his eyes. “If you are worried I will hurt you—”

  “No.” And she trusted him not for his temporary weakness, but for an inner quality she could not name. For what he had awakened in her.

  Fearing not enough for the miscue of her admission, she found her refuge in his steady gaze and braced against words until now unspoken. “My husband is dead.”

  Chapter Two

  Henry stared at the Goodwoman, surprised by her confession. There was a degree of security in leading him to believe her husband could return at any moment. Why would she make herself vulnerable in such a way? Perhaps he had pushed too hard. Certainly his afflictions lessened his threat to her, but the door she opened could never be closed. Guilt hounded him for pressing her. “There was an accident?”

  Hesitation filled her pale blue eyes. Their shocking shade struck him, adding refinement to a face already made beautiful by the loveliest features he’d ever admired on a woman. She wanted not to make her admission, but her pause made it nonetheless.

  She looked to her skirts and shook her head. Strands of light blond hair escaped the bonnet that marked her as a married woman, instilling in him the rather forward desire to tuck it back to neatness. Or rather to remove the cap altogether to see her hair fall at her back like the finest silk, for it could be no less. Though he knew not why she purported the mistruth, his inner being ached for her trust.

  Her quiet lasted but a moment. She squared her shoulders and met his eyes with determination. “He was not a good man. His death was earned.”

  For all of her bravado, she seemed to tremble within the words. Though whatever led her to dismiss her husband’s life in such a way could be no laughing matter, he wanted desperately to bring a smile back to her lips. “I can only hope, then, the crime was not that of falling from a mule to strike burden to your path.”

  He had startled her. He saw it with the widening of her eyes and heard it with her intake of breath. “No,” she said after a pause. “I don’t suppose it was. And a mule! What a thing to say of a fine steed.”

  She surprised him again. “You know horses?”

  “I can see his breeding, yes. And despite your outcries, your Willard is neither brute nor oaf, but a well-mannered sire.”

  Henry assessed her, reveling in every new thing he learned. A woman who faced the morn by donning her marriage bonnet without regard to her falsehood was one in whom he saw strength. Whatever the cause of her husband’s dispatch, she held his respect. It was a rare woman who feared not a stranger in the night, even extending her hand and her home when she might easily have fled. Moreover, she was nuanced enough to recognize the value of horseflesh and held a natural wit he found engaging. He knew not her value as a physician, but if it matched the quality of her bedside manner, he would see fit to languish with ailments until she relegated him to the paddock with his horse.

  She caught him looking at her, though fear was not the most pronounced of her emotions. Dare he hope that quiet glimmer in her eye to be interest? He gathered himself. “Do you suppose I am still in need of examination?”

  She rewarded him with a lovely smile. “Is that the rum talking or are you feeling dire?”

  “Perhaps the rum gives me courage.”

  She tilted her head. Her eyes shone in the firelight that danced over her skin. “You are not accustomed to requesting your needs.”

  Her assessment gave him pause. He had made no case of his wealth on his travels, as the type of information he sought would not come easily to an outsider, let alone one of means. Here he had hoped only to avoid a row from being too forward, and she had looked past his words into the heart of him. A whit of understanding flitted through as he realized how dire the consequence of her own confession.

  “I hoped not to make it known, but you are right. Am I spoiled?”

  “No,” she said in the softest of tones. “You are quite abashed by your need for assistance.”

  Her words were not at all what he expected. “That is a curious conclusion.”

  “And it is a fine trait within you.”

  He took a deep breath, finding it pained him greatly. “I am appreciative to find myself in your graces, but I hope you will keep knowledge of my resources to yourself. Exposure would complicate my cause.”

  “It seems we have something in common, then.” She spoke without hesitation.

  Understanding settled between them. Though the Goodwoman could not possibly know the importance of her privilege, he felt she could be trusted. And now, whether or not she realized it, she had something crucial with which to tether his confidence in her own admission.

  “There,” he said. “As that is now settled, may I ask for your inspection?”

  “Of course. What are your pains?” She seemed to exude a fresh energy, as if the change of subject lifted her. She moved to his side and lay open his outerwear.

  When her fingers pressed at his shirt, he wanted for the touch to be upon his skin. She’d taken her lip between her teeth and appeared deep in concentration as she toured his torso. He hissed only once, and he was so enthralled with her movements the noise startled even him.

  The worry etched on her face nearly melted the last of the cold. “What is the pain?”

  “Just the surface. Took a hoof from that well-mannered clod, no doubt.”

  She winced on his behalf. “May I look further?”

  Oh, he owed Willard one now. Henry might be sore as the dickens, but the price was small for the much anticipated touch of her fingers against his skin.

  She seemed nowhere as flustered as he as she extracted his shirt from his breeches, but the very act of this woman undressing him sent desire coursing astray. Though new to her acquaintance, he found her innately appealing. Never before had he been so taken with a woman, even as he’d entertained a long parade of those pushed to claim access to his fortune through the transaction of marriage.

  None had been like Lydia.

  When her hands fell to his bare abdomen, the air crackled like the fire upon the hearth. Even she seemed startled as she drew breath and froze, save for her eyes seeking his, but she quickly pushed aside her hesitation and worked her soft ministrations against his skin. Her innocence only increased her appeal, though she was no untried girl. She was a widow who had surely known the pleasures of the marital bed.

  His thoughts in cooperation with her touch roused his manhood, and his breeches did little to hide the evidence. For perhaps the first time in his twenty-four years, he cursed his need. He would do nothing willingly to alien
ate himself from the lovely physician’s company, but he could not stop that for which he ached.

  She had dismissed her hesitance, no longer seeking permission to explore him. He sought in her a trace of the desire he cultivated, but she did not meet his eye. Not until she found his flustered groin did she speak. “You are not yet incapacitated, are you now?”

  He blinked his surprise. Oh, how her quick tongue captured him! “Forgive me. You must know how you provoke desire.”

  “I know the reputation of man,” she said. “Desire need not be provoked by much.” She felt her way down his good leg, finding him absent reaction. To the next leg, she began with his foot. “Do you feel this?”

  He thought she added pressure, though it evoked little pain. “I do.”

  She worked to his ankle, then his calf. “How is this?”

  Henry thought she might cure all with her womanly touch, but kept that to himself. “No sharp pain. Just sore.”

  “Perhaps then you were just twisted about. A good rest and you will be on your way, though I should remove your boot.”

  Oh, but if she undressed him further he would be thoroughly undone.

  She took his silence as question. “You do not want to swell within the leather. You might wear it for weeks, or else be forced to cut yourself free.”

  “As you wish, though I cannot promise help.”

  “Verily, I note your occupation.” She followed her bold words with a shy glance to his groin.

  “It is the fortune of a woman,” he said as she worked at the boot, “to keep private those innermost desires.”

  The boot slipped free with a harsh, stabbing pain. She settled his leg in place and said, “You are so certain I entertain them?”

  He clutched mightily the bed boards, still waiting for the hurt to ease. Though he wanted to engage her further, he hardly took in her words over the pain. “Might I trouble you for another taste of your rum?”

  “Of course.” She delivered the drink with haste, then set to work on his other boot. This one freed itself without circumstance.

  The drink’s burn provided his first salvation, her caress the second.

  “It’s only a bit misshapen,” she said.

  For the barest moment, he thought she spoke of his rook. He flushed hot, though crediting the rum and not the silken quality of her voice. He had fallen victim that night to more than his horse.

  “Have you any children?” he asked, hoping the change in subject would distract from the turn of his thoughts.

  “No,” she said without inflection. “One, but he was lost.”

  Lost? What tragedy she had faced, this woman.

  “And you?” she furthered. “Of the age of matrimony, are you not? Why have you not a wife and a home full of babes?”

  “I may tripe convention, but I wish for a woman who is more interested in me than my holdings.”

  “And your father approves of the delay?”

  The words struck a sore note, but he would not weigh her with those frustrations. A man of his age should be ripe to take a wife, but he did not agree with the many paraded before him, each of his father’s choosing. “Of course not, but I refuse to be raffled.”

  “Is this why you wander the woods?”

  She teased again, but oh, how her words gave him pause. Were he to admit his purpose, he would no doubt compromise it, but they had forged a bond of admissions. In the moment, he wanted little more than to remain her confidante.

  “I am looking for someone.” He spoke barely a whisper, but judging by her wide-eyed interest, he captured her attention on full.

  “Did a woman capture your heart after all?”

  “No. I seek a truth.”

  “Oh?”

  “My family suffered a loss that has broken my mother’s heart. It is my wish to free her of some of her burden.”

  Lydia looked a bit cautious now, and he feared he may have appeared aggressive. In hopes of lightening her mood, he asked, “Am I in one piece?”

  She looked to her hands where it rested motionless on his leg and made a faint noise of surprise. She stood. “You shall live through it. Enjoy your rest, Henry.”

  He placed a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

  Lydia looked at his hand then slowly worked her way to meet his gaze. “Yes?”

  “Why do you claim yourself to be married?”

  His words lowered an uncomfortable veil of worry over her face and he immediately regretted it. But he’d gone this far.

  “Why not say your husband is lost and move on?”

  “It is easier this way.”

  “To live in the past? To bear a secret that brings such pain? Surely neighbors ask about him.”

  “They do, and he is away. In this way, no one questions his death. Or his life.”

  “And when he does not return?”

  “I am not the first woman with an absent husband.”

  “But what of their inquiries? Surely after some time you will be expected to remarry.”

  His words gave her pause. After a long moment of staring into the fire, she again looked his way. “One day I might. This day, there are fewer questions. My untruth harms no one.”

  “Your purpose as a married woman matters a great deal to you.”

  She nodded. “I came here for the peace I have not felt since I was a girl.”

  “And did you find it?”

  “I am accepted, yes. They know little of my husband—just that he is away and I await his return. This is usual of many wives, especially those of seafaring merchants. I do not want to bring questions here, nor do I want to open my past for the scrutiny of potential suitors.”

  “Understood.” And though he spoke the truth, he could not help but wonder how much she did not say. What story lay beneath her surface? He did not sense an unkind thread in her, so her husband must have been a churl to earn such a dismissal of his life. Knowing what little of her to which Henry had become privy, he found himself stringently on her side in the matter.

  Suddenly hot—whether from rum, fire, or woman he did not guess—he sat up to remove his jackets. Lydia arrived to help before he could struggle out of his greatcoat, whereupon he discovered his torso had stiffened in the time he had lain supine. His groan must have alarmed her, for she quickly steadied him with an embrace that brought him to her chest and turned the heat into a blessed inferno. Why he thought her innocent—especially in light of her confessions—he did not know, but something in those wide, lovely eyes spoke of such purity. His thoughts shamed him, for his want of furthering the experience demanded liberties not his for the taking, yet he could not clear his mind of them. Nor did he want to.

  She made no haste in distancing him, rather holding him in position as she slipped free his topcoat and lay it aside with the other garment. When he thought she might move away, he reached for her, lightly grasping her upper arms.

  She looked to his fingers, imploring another wave of heat against his skin.

  “Tell me,” he said, drawing her gaze to his face. “Do you miss the attention of a man?”

  Her voice low and serious, she said, “Not the type of attention to which I was accustomed.”

  “Then you deserve better.”

  “Few could deserve worse.”

  He wanted not to consider the impropriety of her next to him on the bed, but once he realized whereupon they sat, joined in touch, he could think of little else. Someone had hurt this woman, and every part of him ached to right that wrong. Were he not in such a useless state, he would take that as a cue to straddle his horse and gallop until he thought of her no more, but he could not change the circumstance any more than he could change the cerulean blue of her eyes.

  Even if she granted permission—which he expected not—she was not a woman he could merely use for his pleasure. He admired her in a way he had not thought possible. Already she held him captive as no woman before, and as much as he longed for a taste, he would do nothing to hurt her. For a purportedly married woman
, a casual meeting with a stranger could do no less.

  With reluctance, he released her arm, but she did not move away as he expected. With only inches between them, his resolve deteriorated at an alarming rate.

  She cleared her throat. “The hour is late, or early, as it were. You should rest.”

  “I should,” he said. He reached for her face and traced a finger over the soft skin of her cheek. “And what of you?”

  “I am not courting your injuries. I—”

  A bang at the door sent it flying open with a rush of cold wind.

  “Lydia!” A woman burst past the threshold. “Oh… forgive me!”

  Lydia stiffened, but did not jump away. He admired her restraint, for he would have been prone to leaping apart had he any leaping left in him.

  “What is it?” Lydia asked, rising gently from the bed to meet the stranger crossways.

  The other woman’s eyes had grown exceptionally round. Even across the modest room in the unsteady flicker of firelight her surprise was visible.

  “You are seeing…a man?”

  “He is injured,” Lydia said. Only when she spoke in this cool, soothing tone did he realize how she had shed that vocal with him. Their conversation had turned intimate, and he had been too lost in her eyes to thoroughly enjoy the warmth of her voice.

  And now this Goodwoman stared at them as if she had just walked upon the next great scandal. A married woman in bed with a stranger.

  I do not want to bring questions here.

  Whether or not Lydia could see it, their position could do nothing but.

  The Goodwoman had taken to whispering, but so loudly Henry thought sure Willard could hear every word from the paddock. “Liberties with a stranger, Lydia! What of your husband? Adultery is a serious offense. You will be whipped. Put to death!”

  Henry did not put to mention their state of full dress, though he wished with desperation Lydia would. She, however, had apparently been driven to speechlessness. Despair rose like bile in his throat. The blame for her predicament lay fully at his feet, and no amount of denial would stop tongues from wagging.