“You are trying my patience.”
Sebastian continued, “No need to concern yourself. I have it all well in hand.” Was it his imagination or did he hear Lowther grinding his teeth? “You will be pleased, relieved, and grateful to learn that I have a contingency plan in place.”
“Enough with the enigmatic ramblings,” Lowther said, returning to his seat reluctantly. “I suggest strongly that you don’t wait to enlighten me.”
“Very well. Our lovely Miss Warren, mistress to Lord Rushford”—Sebastian blew another plume of smoke, locking eyes with Lowther—“is no other than Rowena Woolcott, come back to life. You look positively apoplectic. Are you surprised ? I certainly was.”
Chapter 11
Rowena did not trust herself to speak in the carriage ride back to the Knightsbridge apartments. The silence was suffocating; overwhelming shock and fatigue blurred her thoughts. She wanted to go home, to run to Montfort, to discover for herself that Julia and Meredith waited for her there. She knew it was out of the question though. One look at Rushford, at that cool enigmatic face across from her in the carriage, and she realized the dangerousness of her yearnings. How much did he know that he wasn’t telling her?
With typical efficiency, he had them both in the apartments moments later, the discreet housekeeper who had been recently engaged opening the door and disappearing just as quickly. Rowena strode into the center of the salon, pulling the wig from her head and running a shaky hand through her hair. She turned on her heel to face him.
“What in bloody hell have you been keeping from me, Rushford?” she demanded.
“Would you please sit?”
“No. I have questions that I should like answered.”
“I can see that.” He blocked the door.
“What do you know of Eccles House, Wadsworth, and my sister?”
He appeared entirely and infuriatingly unconcerned, his hard jaw shadowed with stubble against the crisp white of his shirt. “I made inquiries the past few days.” He stepped into the room, forcing her to move closer to the divan.
“And did not share them with me?” she asked, her voice low with anger, battling a dangerous rush of memories, of Montfort and her sister.
“There was nothing to share.”
“So you say. All of this is entirely too fortuitous, Rushford. Your knowing Galveston, Sebastian, Faron, the situation at Eccles House. What is going on?” She put a hand to her forehead as if to contain her swirling thoughts. “If you don’t tell me immediately, I swear I shall make my way back to Sebastian and confront him directly.” She drew off her gloves and threw them on the floor.
“You are acting like a child, Rowena, when you do not fully comprehend what you’re dealing with.”
“Then tell me,” she challenged outright with a lamentable lack of finesse.
“You know nothing of it. Trust me, it is better that way. Recall that you were the one who pushed your way into my life, and now you assume you have the right to tell me how to go about my business.”
“That is hardly fair,” Rowena interrupted, outraged. “As though anyone could push their way into your life if you did not want them to.”
“You offered me little choice,” he interrupted in turn, with a bleakness in his voice she had never heard before. He paused for a heartbeat before continuing. “And if I am to resolve this matter successfully, you would be wise to trust me and do as I say.”
For a brief moment, she considered what lay behind the starkness of his words. Then impatience won out. “Oh, please stop.” She threw the words at him with ringing scorn. “You are entirely too condescending. And dismissive.” There was a heaviness in the room and a barely contained fury beneath the attempts at civility. “I have much more at stake in this than you. The fate of my family is involved. Whilst you are going about this business with Felicity and Faron as though on a lark. Are you merely whiling away the hours in your day, Rushford?”
Rushford’s direct gaze was unambiguous. “Believe what you will. And then let’s leave it at that,” he said. “There is little else I can do or say to convince you otherwise.”
Rowena shut her eyes briefly against the intensity of her feelings. Sebastian’s voice rang incessantly in her head. She drew in a shallow breath. “I don’t believe you.” The words echoed hollowly between them.
“Then believe this.” His voice was gruff, heated, an undertone of resentment rising to the surface. He closed the distance between them in an instant, suddenly gripping her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. “I sent word yesterday to Montfort to inquire as to the well-being of your aunt and sister.”
She wrenched herself from his grip, protectiveness for her family making her strong, her head suddenly clear. “You had better know what you are about, Rushford,” she said. “If Faron’s people discover that someone is inquiring about the Woolcotts . . . I have died a thousand times, wishing that I could send word to them.” The words faltered on her lips. She walked away from the divan to cross the room and sit down in a small occasional chair, fear for Julia uppermost in her mind. She steadied her voice. “Please tell me what you know of Julia and Eccles House.” He could do that for her at the very least.
Rushford exhaled swiftly. “She is safe. Married. And in North Africa.”
“Good God. North Africa? Married?” Relief and anxiety swept through her simultaneously. “That’s not possible,” she began, and then the pieces of the evening’s conversation came back to her. Strathmore and his bluestocking—her sister Julia. “Who is this Strathmore?” she asked.
“Lord Strathmore is a renowned explorer who, I discovered after reading the banns published last year, married your sister and took her to North Africa with him. Do you know what that means, Rowena?”
Rowena hid her face in her hands, not answering the question. Julia was safe. Far away. Under Lord Strathmore’s protection, as his wife. Relief was so sweet that she could have wept with gratitude. When she looked up again after several moments, she said, “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am to hear those words.” She drew herself up straight. “Now I have only Meredith to worry about, at least for the time being.” Thoughts whirled through her mind, driven in equal measure by nerves and dread. “Once we arrive at Alcestor Court, we can formulate a plan to discover Sebastian’s connection to Faron. And Faron’s whereabouts,” she said, her thoughts running away with her.
How she would proceed once she confronted Faron, she had no idea. She was so deeply immersed in her ruminations and planning that she nearly jumped when Rushford’s hand fell on her shoulder. He crouched down in front of her. “You’ve had a shock. A number of shocks tonight, Rowena. And now we are getting ahead of ourselves,” he said quietly.
Rowena looked up at him. “I must do this. I can’t stop thinking about it.” His hand slipped to clasp the nape of her neck, warm, comforting. Suddenly, the anger and anxiety of the previous moments dissipated, subtly altering to something else. For the second time that night, Rowena found herself leaning into the firm pressure Rushford’s body so easily and readily provided. Her muscles and limbs relaxed. “I am so tired,” she confessed, feeling shrunken inside her whalebone stays, corset, and voluminous gray silk.
“Of course you are,” he agreed. “I propose that we continue this discussion tomorrow morning.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is close to three.” But his fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck as if he could not bear to let her go. Or so Rowena suddenly imagined.
“I agree,” she said. They remained silent for a few moments, Rowena acutely conscious of Rushford’s even breathing, the warmth of his body. She realized unexpectedly that she’d become accustomed to such moments, to touching a stranger, enveloped in his warmth and his strength. And she didn’t want him to leave. At that instant, as though in response to her thoughts, he let his hands fall from her, rising to his full height. “Off to bed with you. Shall I ring for the maid?”
“No need. I can manage,”
she murmured as he held out a hand to help pull her to her feet. Only inches separated them.
“I’ll bid you good night then.”
The words burst out of her. “Don’t go.” Rowena breathed in his scent, stealing the warmth from his body, potent memories, hazy and indistinct, driving her on. “I don’t wish to be alone with my dreams—and my nightmares.” She reached out and touched his arm, trying to remember all the reasons that he should leave. “Please don’t go.” Her arms slid around his waist.
“This isn’t right, Rowena,” he said, his voice low.
“I’m not asking for anything,” she said, lying to both of them. She didn’t know what she wanted herself, other than to feel his strength next to her. And to banish her nightmares.
“None of this will help. I will only hurt you if I give in to what you believe you want.” Gently he unclasped her arms and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be. You are simply enervated and acting out of shock,” he said. “You are exhausted and will fall asleep quickly.”
“I understand,” she said. “I simply don’t wish to be alone.”
His jaw clenched. “You would regret it later.” He drew a shallow breath.
“I’m not sure of anything right now,” she conceded. “With the exception of the nightmares and the dreams. I don’t wish to face them. Not tonight.”
“What are your dreams and your nightmares? Perhaps it would help to talk about them.”
She could only shake her head mutely. Words would only serve to bring them to life.
“I can hold you for only a moment.” His voice was heated, but he made no move to touch her. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We promised—I promised, more importantly—that this would not happen again.”
“It’s my decision.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking, Rowena.” His gaze was fierce. “Surely you can’t be that naïve.”
“I am not naïve,” she said with conviction, aware suddenly of the decade and breadth of experience that separated them. But she somehow knew what she wanted—desired. Yet how could that be? She slid her hands up over the satin lapels of his jacket while he stood rigid under her ministrations. Raising herself on her toes, she slipped her hands around his neck. “Please,” she whispered. “Stay with me only an hour.” Her voice was liquid longing as she tugged his head down toward her.
When their lips were a whisper apart, he said, “I can’t do this, Rowena.” He pulled her arms from around his neck and stepped back only to come up against the barricade of the wall. “Go to bed. You will thank me tomorrow.”
And leaning forward, he lightly kissed her mouth, and then, straightening, immediately stepped away.
Chapter 12
It was only when he heard her footsteps recede and a door close in the distance that Rushford exhaled. He swore fluently under his breath, cursing the fact that his feelings refused to cooperate no matter how much he reasoned with himself. It had been so long since he’d acknowledged any feelings other than pleasure that he wasn’t certain he could recognize real emotion anymore.
He’d made the mistake once in a bid to comfort Rowena Woolcott, and he would not make it again. He needed a drink to distract himself, although he questioned the logic of further numbing his already shaky self-control. Striding over to the drinks table, he poured himself a brandy. He should leave, he told himself, instead of lingering a few feet away from the object of his desire like some love-struck schoolboy. But he didn’t. Draining his glass, he reached for the decanter placed conveniently on the floor beside his chair and poured himself another drink, at a loss to explain his motives or Rowena Woolcott’s irresistible allure. She was young. She was beautiful. But she was definitely not Kate.
No answers came to mind, no easy resolutions except for the guilt that rose like bile whenever he forced himself to think back over a year ago. Bloody hell, she had been so young and had needed him so much. And what had his defense been? He had needed her, he decided with brutal honesty. No excuse.
The irrepressible sun heralded the breaking of dawn, turning the curtains into incandescent flame. Life went on, wasn’t that the lesson of the greatest tragedies? He was no further along in solving his dilemma. Worse still, his decision to allow Rowena even the smallest role in his unfinished business with Faron was suspect. If she pressed him further on the morrow, he would give her the truth, or at least a half-truth, about the Rosetta Stone and his original role in ensuring its safety. That is, if she didn’t awaken to her own memories, courtesy of her dreams and nightmares, before he could do anything about it. He swore softly. He should leave now. It was simple as that. He inhaled deeply, swallowing the last of the brandy. If only he could.
A low sobbing jerked him out of his stupor and into full awareness before he realized what it was. In what seemed like two strides he was jerking open the door of Rowena’s bedchamber, finding the room suffused with early-morning light.
She was sitting up in bed, tears sliding from her closed lids, rocking her body from side to side as though seeking comfort behind a mountain of blankets.
“Rowena,” he whispered, shocked to his soul, guilt swallowing him whole. She did not respond, and he touched the bare skin of her back where the ribbon of her night rail had come undone. He repeated her name again, just as softly, his palm cupping the damp curve of her shoulder. Her eyes remained shut, and the sobs continued. Deeply asleep, she sat with her knees drawn up, reliving an anguish whose contours he knew too well. She had warned him. The nightmares. The dreams. And he realized exactly what they were about.
“Rowena—wake up.” He spoke quietly but with force, kneeling on the bed to grasp her shoulders and prod her awake. “You’re fine, Rowena. You’re with me. Wake up.”
Her eyes slowly fluttered open, the torment in them staggering. Her hair clustered around her face, clinging to cheeks damp with tears and sweat as she stared at him, uncomprehending. Then it was as though time unspooled in her mind, and her eyes lit up with the same joy and relief he remembered from over a year ago. It robbed him of breath.
His eyes raked her face, finding her expression calm, the dark blue of her eyes returning his scrutiny openly.
“How do you feel—are you all right, Rowena?” When she didn’t answer, he swept a lock of hair back from her cheek, the skin scalding beneath his hand. “Please answer me. Say something.”
“I remember,” she said simply.
Rushford’s world shattered at the innocent longing in her eyes, the lush feel of her body against his, weakening his already equivocal resolve, his body automatically responding to her nearness.
“I remember,” she repeated. “You were the one who saved me,” she breathed. “I wanted you then and I want you now.” She moved her hips against his growing erection. Her eyes were dark blue, untouched by doubt, her mouth inches away from his. He dropped his head slowly, while his hands drifted lower, sliding down her back, cupping her bottom and pulling her hard against his body. Then he kissed her as she sighed into his mouth, confident and greedy in her desire, reveling in his acquiescence. Melting against him, she tasted him deeply.
He dragged his lips from hers to whisper, “You remember. Tell me. I need to hear it.” He gently pushed her away. “It can’t simply be gratitude.”
She frowned, a hand on her forehead. “Gratitude? How can you think that when it was so much more?” she asked, all innocence and youth. “I was so cold, so very cold,” she said. “And I heard my sister’s voice, calling out to me.”
Rushford sat very still on the side of the bed, watching Rowena limned in the light of the rising sun, the mahogany of her hair catching fire. “Time started and stopped, and then I remember water pulling down my skirts. I tried to swim but I couldn’t. Even though I’d learned as a little girl in the frigid lake at Montfort,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “But I didn’t sink like a stone. Strong hands found me in the current and held me aloft. And those same hands—�
� She broke off.
The silence lengthened before she continued, knowing what he needed to hear. “I dreamed of those hands,” she said with a shaking voice, “saving me, enveloping me in a combination of softness and strength. I heard steps, the door to my room opening, then the warmth of a body shifting beneath the sheets. I felt the heat, like a cauldron, a furnace into which I turned my cold body.” It was as though she was reciting a poem, an incantation. Her voice, low and soft, drifted around him. He fought against his desires, knowing it could lead to nothing but hurt, knowing that he shouldn’t give her what she wanted.
When he finally trusted himself to speak, he said, “I was the more experienced. I should not have given in to my desire.” There was an undertone of regret in his words.
She shook her head. “Our desires. Not simply yours.”
“At the very least, I should explain,” he muttered brusquely, struggling against his base impulses. And that’s all they were, he convinced himself.
“Later,” she murmured, moving toward the edge of the bed and melting against him, her needs and her terrors driving her, as though nothing mattered but feeling him inside her.
The warmth of her body, the soft pressure of her breasts, her hips, her thighs burned through the fabric of his evening clothes, stripping him of his defenses and bringing back the memories with blinding force. It did not bear thinking of. How could this slight young woman so arouse him, when he knew that the only woman he’d ever loved was dead?
Agony tore through him. Then, before he realized what was happening, all he could smell was her warm skin tinged with the freshness of youth. His mouth found hers, tasting sweetness as pliant lips opened beneath his, allowing his tongue to run lightly over her mouth. Her body was pressed to his, her heart beating against his chest. His arms went around her, his hands spread over her back under the thin lawn of her nightdress, feeling her supple slenderness. For a moment, their tongues played, slowly and sensually, until he moved his hands to grasp her head, holding her strongly as he drove deep within her mouth with a fervor that in some faraway part of his brain seemed long past due. He was not prepared for what was happening. He responded from some deep, passionate part of himself that was not simply mired in lust. He wanted Rowena, to feel her and taste her, as vitally as he had ever wanted any other woman in his life. Including Kate.
The Darkest Sin Page 15
