A Brother's Honor

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

“After I find us some water.”

  “No, rest first, chérie. You don’t need to encounter one of our new neighbors by a stream.”

  Abigail acquiesced to his good sense. After all, she was not thirsty. She had been swallowing gulps of the fog all night.

  With more stability than she had expected, Dominic led the way into the trees. “The walking seems to have loosened my tight muscles,” he said, warning her that he had noted her surprise.

  “You will want to massage your ankle before we begin walking tonight. Your muscles may tighten up while we are resting.”

  He sat near some briars. Taking care, she lowered herself to the ground. She sighed, wanting to fall instantly asleep. She was not sure where they had walked for the past hour, because she had been half asleep.

  “Before you rest, Abigail …” Dominic put his hand on her arm as she was about to curl up on the damp ground. “You wanted to check my back.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “For tonight?” His laugh was hushed. “Then you will be so anxious to be on your way that you will be furious at yourself for not doing this now.”

  She sighed. She hated it when he was right. “All right,” she murmured, then swallowed harshly as he slid the sleeves along his arms. Although she had cared for him since they were washed ashore, the motion of the muscles between his bronzed skin mesmerized her.

  She leaned forward to check the puckered skin where he had been burned by flying debris from the ship. She tried to ignore the expanse of bare skin before her eyes. It was futile, but she strove to concentrate on her task. Without his shirt, she could not overlook the sinews knotted along his arms and across his chest. He must have helped with all aspects of sailing his ship, for he appeared as strong as the crewmen who hauled in the sails and worked as stevedores in port.

  Telling herself the pleasure simmering within her was from discovering his burns were getting better, she loosened the sweaty cloth around his head and smiled. His cuts were healing well, too.

  “I don’t think you will need to bandage your head any longer,” she said, sitting back on her heels. “I do believe you are going to survive.”

  “You need not stop, chérie.” Taking her fingers, he drew her forward until her face was only an inch from his. He held her hand between his as he said, “I like your touch.” Pressing her fingers to his bare chest that was softened so slightly by dark, curling hair, he chuckled when she gasped. “Can I hope that your eyes are wide because you are pleased by this, too?”

  She jerked her hand away. “I find no pleasure in being seduced by a married man.”

  “Married? What are you babbling about now?”

  She pointed to the ring on his left hand. “That.”

  He laughed.

  “What is so funny?” she asked.

  He touched her cheek. “The only one I am wedded to is La Chanson de la Mer. I have no wife mourning my reported demise. This ring is a family heirloom which fits on that finger. Nothing more.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he pulled her against him. “If you do not make it a practice to be seduced by married men, would you consider being seduced by an unmarried one?”

  “Dominic, I do not intend to be seduced by you or anyone else today.”

  “Why do you insist on using that precise tone when you are frightened of me?”

  “I am not frightened of you!” She started to rise, but he put his hand on her shoulder, keeping her on the ground beside him.

  When she gasped in astonishment, he laughed. He might be hobbling, but he had recovered the strength he had on the ship. She should have guessed when he matched her, as he had promised, step for step all night.

  As his fingers moved along her shoulder to the curve of her neck, he tilted her face toward him. She knew she should tell him to stop, but she could not deny the delight oozing through her at his gentle caress.

  “I think we should go to sleep,” she whispered.

  “Why?” he asked reasonably as his finger moved along the line of her pulse to the responsive skin behind her ear. “We have no reason to hurry anywhere, chérie.”

  A thousand words burned on her tongue. Insults and retorts she wanted to shout at him. She was not going to cede herself to him now. Whether he was married or not did not change her mind. He was her enemy, and she was with him still only because she needed his help to flee England, not because she was fascinated with his touch. She intended to say that and more, but instead she swayed nearer to him as his tender touch brought back memories of the night of the storm when he had held her so sweetly.

  His fingertip teased the curve of her ear, sending strange, wonderful sensations cascading through her. When her hand rested on his shoulder, he smiled. It was the only warning she received as he pressed her back onto the earth beneath him at the same moment his lips found hers.

  She softened as he snatched her breath from her with the tempest-strong power of his kisses. Under her fingers, his strong muscles responded to her touch. He raised his head to gaze down at her, and she wondered why she had denied herself this pleasure for so long.

  She did not speak as she stared up at his midnight-dark eyes. The glitter in their mysterious depths could mean anything, but she did not care. Slowly her fingers rose to touch the coarse texture of his fiercely sculptured face. She closed her eyes as his tongue traced her lips before seeking within for secret rapture.

  Turning her head away, she whispered, “No, Dominic.” Anguish filled her voice. She could not forget the last time he had kissed her like this. Then he had been ready to force his way into her bed.

  “Abigail?” When she refused to look at him, he cupped her chin and brought her face up toward his again. “Abigail, that was a mistake.”

  “Today or that evening on the ship?”

  He laughed lowly, but there was only regret in the sound. “How can you ask that?”

  Pushing him away, but taking care not to hurt his injured leg, she sat and brushed the dirt off her shirt. He caught her hand again. She glanced at him quickly and away. That he refused to release her until she answered his question should not have been a surprise. Dominic St. Clair was a man accustomed to having his way.

  “You have hurt me, Dominic,” she whispered, “any time I have lowered my defenses in the slightest.”

  “Hurt you? I did not think holding you in my arms and kissing your luscious mouth would hurt you.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oui, I do. But do you know what this means?” He tugged her back into his arms. Her protest against his lips was halfhearted. Cradled against him, she was aware of every inch of his skin. His mouth moved along her neck as his fingers had, and her arms arched up his back. While she stroked his skin, sparks burned into her with his eager kisses.

  When he raised his head to look down into her eyes that were blurred with passion, his gaze moved along her. “You fit so perfectly in my arms, chérie.”

  “Dominic …” She sighed eagerly as his tongue teased her ear.

  “You are always a puzzle. I never know if I shall find a wildcat or a temptress in my arms.” He whispered against her ear, “Now do you know what my kisses mean?”

  Pushing against his chest was the most difficult thing she had ever done, but she could not remain in his arms. The craving within her demanded satisfaction. But she must not. She had to remember who he was and who she was. “You are a fool!”

  “Mayhap, but even a fool craves happiness.” He cupped her chin in his hand again and brought her mouth against his for the shortest second. “Go to sleep, chérie.”

  “Yes.” Her voice quivered on that single word, but she was glad he had seen sense.

  “No,” he murmured when she moved away. “Here in my arms.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  He shook his head. “’Tis chilly. If one of us sickens, we may lose our only chance to get out of England.”

  “Do you promise not to … that is …”

  “I promise to
hold you in my arms and nothing else.” He winced as he shifted his leg. “And, Abigail, I keep my promises as well as you do.”

  “All right.”

  He drew her back against him as he rested on the ground. His hard chest was the perfect pillow. “You are beginning to trust me, chérie. Could it be that you no longer are afraid of me?”

  “I have not been afraid of you for a long time, Dominic.”

  “Then what frightens you when you are in my arms?”

  Abigail saw no reason to lie as she nestled her cheek against his chest so his heartbeat thundered beneath her ear. “Of being your prisoner again.”

  “My prisoner?”

  “Forced to do as you wish.”

  He leaned his head against her hair. “Trust me on this one thing if on nothing else, chérie. If I had thought I could woo you to do as I wished with a few kisses, I would have done that long ago.”

  “Which you could never do.”

  “Which I will never be able to do.” As he sealed those words into her lips, she let sleep take her. That way she did not have to guess which one of them was still lying.

  Chapter Nine

  A carriage burst from the darkness along the country road. Dominic shoved Abigail out of the way. She winced when she fell onto the grass beside the thick hedgerow. The carriage was swallowed by the night before she could stand.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked as she rubbed her hip.

  “Just another bruise to add to my collection.”

  He laughed and took her hand as they continued along the dark road. In the three days since they had left the hut, his ankle had strengthened, and he now used a heavy branch as a cane instead of leaning on her.

  “Mayhap, Abigail,” he mused, “you should have stolen a carriage for us instead of that delicious meat pie you purloined from a windowsill.”

  “I suspect a carriage would be missed a bit more quickly, and we would have been arrested in no time.”

  “And why would we want to travel so swiftly along the road in such comfort when we can enjoy this walk?”

  Abigail laughed. She had not guessed that Dominic St. Clair would have such a honed sense of humor or that she would come to appreciate it. Whenever she was exhausted or irritable, he found a way to make her smile. She glanced at him as she recalled her favorite way. That was when his lips brushed hers while he drew her into his arms.

  With a shout, he leaped out onto the road before she could answer his silly question. What was he about? She gave chase.

  She skidded to a halt when she saw the carriage that had nearly run them down stopped in the middle of the road. A single man stood by the door, silhouetted by the lanterns hanging off each side of the carriage.

  Dominic did not slow. She wanted to shout after him to take care, for she could not miss the way the dim light glinted off the barrel of a pistol in the man’s hand. Dominic was not armed. He could be killed.

  “Now!” the man by the carriage snarled. “Give the baubles to me now, m’lady, or you shall be wearing them in your coffin. If—”

  Dominic jumped from the shadows and wrapped his arm around the highwayman’s throat. Abigail took another step forward, then froze when she saw something glitter in Dominic’s hand. The knife!

  “Donnez-moi le pistolet,” Dominic shouted.

  Abigail stared in horror. Why was he speaking French? She understood when the highwayman froze, shocked.

  With a growl, Dominic repeated in English, “Give me the gun.” He chuckled as the highwayman threw down his pistol. “A very wise move, mon ami.” Shoving the thief toward his horse, he added, “Begone before I do the king’s work and put an end to your useless life.”

  The thief swung up onto his horse and raced into the darkness. Motioning for Abigail to join him, Dominic picked up the highwayman’s gun and hid it somewhere among his tattered clothes. He took her hand as voices burst from the carriage.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Other than having my wits scared away, yes,” Abigail said.

  “Good.” He turned to the carriage and peered inside. “And you?”

  Abigail could not help staring at the elegant vehicle and its two occupants, who were dressed to match. The woman, whose hair was as dark as Dominic’s, appeared to be younger by a few years than Abigail. A boy sitting next to her had a similar aristocratic nose set in the middle of his narrow face. His face was pale, emphasizing the splash of freckles that were more numerous than Abigail’s. Their clothes were fashionable, even to her uneducated eyes, and were elaborately decorated with lace and glittering gold buttons.

  “We are unhurt,” the young woman said, fluttering a lacy handkerchief in front of her face. “Thanks to your valiant efforts, sir.”

  “It was my honor to be able to assist …”

  “Lady Clarissa Sudley,” she said in a whisper.

  “My pleasure, Lady Sudley.” He bowed toward her with as much grace as if he stood in Napoleon’s court instead of in rags by the side of this narrow country road.

  “Are you—?” Lady Sudley gulped. “Are you French?”

  “Not all the French are from France, my lady. There are many in Quebec,” he said with a smile that was so genuine that Abigail would not have guessed he was creating a story for the lady to swallow. “In Canada, my lady,” he continued when Lady Sudley’s brow ruffled, “I am Dominic St. Clair, and this is Abigail.”

  “Abigail is not a French name,” the little boy said.

  “No.” Dominic gave him another broad smile. “But remember that most of the people in Canada are not French. Many came from England or the colonies before the War of American Independence.”

  “Forgive us for being so questioning,” Lady Sudley said.

  “You have reason to be flustered, my lady.”

  “But we are safe, for you saved us, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Abigail could not keep from flinching at what Lady Sudley called him. When Dominic looked at her, Abigail knew he had sensed her reaction, even though the darkness had not been battered back far by the pair of carriage lanterns. Nothing must hint to Lady Sudley that Dominic was accustomed to another title, because addressing him as Captain would bring forth dangerous questions.

  “I am pleased I could be here to be at your service, my lady,” he said with another gracious bow.

  “You must allow me to reward you.” She smiled. “I have just the dandy. You must allow Sudley Hall to host you and your lovely wife tonight.”

  Dominic’s hand squeezing Abigail’s arm silenced her gasp. Wife? She realized that Dominic had allowed Lady Sudley to believe that by not using her last name. No wonder Lady Sudley had this mistaken assumption. To disabuse her of her misconceptions now might topple the stack of lies Dominic had devised. That could be fatal for both of them.

  “That is very generous, my lady,” Abigail somehow said. Dominic’s hand gave her arm another quick squeeze. She drew away. Being false with this kind lady sickened her.

  “Edgar?” called the lady.

  Abigail glanced into the carriage. Was that the child’s name? No, she realized when a man jumped down from the top of the carriage. The name must belong to the coachman.

  “Yes, my lady?” he asked, tipping his tall hat to her. His voice trembled with residual fear, and Abigail was sure that if the night had been a bit more quiet, she would have heard his quivering knees knocking together.

  “Will you have Mr. and Mrs. St. Clair’s things put in the boot?” Lady Sudley smiled, clearly delighted to offer this benevolence.

  “His help is not necessary,” Dominic replied. “We have no bags with us.”

  “Nothing?” asked the boy.

  “Hush, Newton,” chided the lady. Her smile grew strained. “You will have to excuse my little brother. He seldom thinks before he speaks. Do come and sit while we are on our way to Sudley Hall.”

  Abigail’s answer vanished when Dominic wobbled as he was about to step back to assist her into the carriage. She grabbed h
is arms. He still would have fallen if the coachman had not helped keep him on his feet.

  “My ankle,” Dominic said with a moan. “I fear playing the hero has a high price.”

  As Lady Sudley gave orders and her brother squealed with excitement, Abigail helped Edgar guide Dominic into the carriage. The coachman was stronger than he appeared, and with his help, Dominic managed to hop up on one foot and sit on the green leather seat facing Lady Sudley. Newton edged toward his sister as Dominic set his right foot on the seat beside the boy.

  “Thank you,” Abigail whispered when the coachman offered his hand. She sat next to Dominic.

  Lady Sudley’s eyes were wide with dismay as she stared at them. Abigail could not fault her. Even though Dominic spoke like a gentleman, both he and Abigail looked like the lowest of vagabonds. Lady Sudley gripped the little boy’s hand tightly and blanched when the coachman closed the door.

  When Dominic did not make a comment to assuage the lady’s qualms, Abigail turned and gasped. His face was nearly as colorless as Lady Sudley’s. When the carriage lurched into motion, a soft groan bubbled past his lips.

  “Is he ill?” Lady Sudley asked, her handkerchief now pressed to her face.

  “No. He was injured when the ship we were sailing on was sunk.” Abigail was glad to be able to speak the truth.

  “Sunk?” Newton nearly jumped off his seat with his enthusiasm. “By the French?”

  She shuddered, hating what she had to say, but fearing that if she lied, she would make a mistake and betray them later. “The Americans sank the ship.”

  When Lady Sudley and her brother asked for more details, Abigail tried to give them answers without revealing the truth. She must not allow them to find out that her father had been the captain of the ship or that Dominic had captured it.

  Lady Sudley pulled a small vial from the beaded bag on her lap, the very bag Abigail suspected the highwayman had been interested in stealing. She gave Abigail the bottle.

  Opening it, Abigail smiled as the sweet scent of flowers rose from it. The perfumed water would be perfect to dab on Dominic’s temples to ease his pain. Thanking the lady, Abigail was curious why Lady Sudley carried this with her, but did not ask. She was glad that Newton kept the carriage from becoming silent as he prattled on and on about how exciting it must have been when the ship sank.