by Holt, Cheryl
He winked—the ass—then casually looked away, his expression bored and aloof. A footman motioned for him to start up the stairs, and he and Miss Dubois promenaded over and began to climb.
They were such an arresting pair: attractive, stunning, magnificently attired. And they were proceeding directly toward the spot where Sarah and Caroline were lurking.
“Let’s get out of here,”she urged Caroline, and Caroline didn’t have to be told twice.
They scurried away to the servants’ stairs, Sarah hobbling on her sore ankle. By the time they were outside on the verandah, Sarah’s temper was flaring.
Who was John Sinclair? What game was he playing?
“What’s wrong, Sarah?”Caroline inquired. “You’re in a state.”
“Remember yesterday, when I fell out on the road.”
“Yes. A handsome stranger came along, like a prince out of a fairytale, and carried you home. You lucky dog.”
“It was him!”
“Who?”
“Mr. Sinclair. My knight in shining armor was Mr. Sinclair.”
“I thought you figured him to be a traveling laborer.”
“I didn’t know what he was. He spoke well and was dressed in fine clothes, but they were ordinary, informal clothes. Not…a suit fit for a king.”
“You said he was scouting properties in the area, that he was hoping to purchase a residence.”
They frowned, and Sarah cautiously asked, “You don’t suppose he’s here to…buy Bramble Bay, do you?”
“No, no,”Caroline hastily insisted. “Hedley would never sell it. Mildred wouldn’t let him.” She paused. “Would she?”
Hedley was Mildred’s darling, beloved boy. He was five years younger than Sarah, age twenty, but he seemed much younger than that.
He’d been cosseted and spoiled by Mildred, his every whim granted, his follies and foibles ignored, and he was worse off for it. He’d grown to be an arrogant, frivolous wastrel who viewed himself as a dandy. He spent all his time in London, gambling, racing fast carriages, and chasing fast girls.
Mildred had convinced him that he was wonderful, and he believed the whole world owed him whatever he wished to have.
Bernard hadn’t been a nobleman, so Bramble Bay wasn’t entailed. Hedley could sell it if he wanted to, but it was their home. Sarah would never agree to such a reckless decision, and she refused to accept that Mildred or Hedley would consider it.
But she didn’t trust Mildred, and if Hedley chose to pursue a certain path, Mildred would never stop him.
What was Hedley thinking? What about Mr. Sinclair? What was happening?
“I can’t predict what Hedley and Mildred might do,”Sarah claimed, her heart sinking, because she absolutely knew. Hedley had repeatedly proved himself capable of any negligent conduct, and Mildred would never counter his excesses.
“I didn’t like the looks of Mr. Hook or Miss Dubois,”Caroline said.
“Neither did I.”
“And Mr. Sinclair is definitely plotting mischief.”
“I have a very bad feeling about this. I’d best find out what they’re up to.”
“How would you?”
Sarah analyzed her options. If she confronted Mildred with irksome questions, her stepmother would tell her to mind her own business. Sarah and Hedley were cordial, and he might or might not admit the truth, depending on whether he was in a jam and didn’t want her to learn of it.
He’d always been jealous of Sarah. Their father had favored her, and compared to Hedley, she’d been an easy child to raise. She’d never caused trouble or behaved as she shouldn’t. Hedley hated that Sarah coasted through life with so few difficulties, while he constantly bounced from disaster to disaster.
Of course his adversities were of his own creation and any consequences thoroughly deserved. Not that he would ever acknowledge it.
“I should talk to Mr. Sinclair,”Sarah ultimately said.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s affable and approachable. After the uproar from their arrival dies down, I’ll seek him out.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll simply ask what he’s about. I’m positive I can get him to confide in me.”
“What if you don’t like his answers?”
“Then I’ll speak to Mildred so she knows to be wary of him and his friends.”
“You’re mad to involve yourself with him or with Mildred.”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“We could just wait until it all crashes down on our heads.”
Sarah scoffed. “That’s not a plan, Caroline.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
Sarah went inside, her thoughts awhirl as she tried to decide when and how to tackle Mr. Sinclair.
* * * *
It was late afternoon, the house quiet, the staff settled in for tea. The hallways were deserted, the shadows lengthening.
Sarah neared Mr. Sinclair’s suite, and she rolled her eyes at her ridiculousness. Would she knock and demand entrance? Would she meet with him in his private quarters? The outrageous notion didn’t bear contemplating, yet she was about to proceed.
Though every instinct screamed her lunacy, she was excited to be with him again. She wanted to grab him by his fancy lapels, to shake him for being so mystifying, for lying to her the previous day, for concealing his identity.
Obviously, he’d been spying on the property and taking note of the surrounding area. To what end?
She tiptoed over and held very still, listening, but heard no voices. The door was ajar, and she peeked in, but didn’t see anyone. She pushed it a little wider and moved into the threshold so she had a better view.
The sitting room was empty, the inner bedchamber, too. His beautiful lavender coat was casually tossed on a chair, a sleeve drooping on the floor. His black riding boots were haphazardly thrown in the corner.
He’d sampled the brandy; a decanter had been opened, a glass next to it. She remembered her comment out on the road, where she’d petulantly complained about Mildred’s stuffy guests, that they would have to suffer with the Teasdale family’s typical fare, and her cheeks reddened with embarrassment.
She hoped he didn’t recall her insult, but she was certain he would. She doubted he ever forgot any detail. He was an intriguing enigma, and she was much too fascinated.
A magnet might have been pulling her forward for she strolled into the suite and went over to the lavender coat. She ran her palm over the lush fabric. Up close, the garment was even more magnificent. Where would a person purchase such a thing? How much would it cost?
Clearly, Mr. Sinclair was extremely wealthy, but from what endeavor?
Her brother, Hedley, prided himself on his wardrobe, and he had many expensive coats, but she’d never seen an item remotely similar. Poor Hedley. When he and Mr. Sinclair stood side by side, Hedley looked positively dismal.
She walked into the bedchamber and assessed his scattered belongings, trying to glean some clue about him from his satchels and trunks.
The servants had unpacked and hung some of his shirts in the cupboard. Realizing she was insane, she slinked over and smoothed her fingers across the exotic apparel. She took a sleeve and pressed it to her nose, detecting his masculine scent in the material.
As she studied the various pieces, she was disturbed to discover that the lengthy hems hid many weapons, pistols, daggers, swords.
Men carried weapons when they traveled. The roads were generally safe, but still, an encounter with a brigand could occur. Yet he seemed heavily armed in a fashion that was much more lethal than necessary.
There were no dangers at Bramble Bay. No criminals camping in the park, no highwaymen robbing carriages as they rolled by. Why would he feel the need for so much protection?
She knew she should sneak out, that she’d pushed the limit of what she could explain if she was caught snooping. But she was too curious, and she continued on to his dressing room. She peeked in and, s
till seeing no one, she brazenly entered.
He’d washed and shaved. A towel had been pitched on the floor, his razor and soap brush balanced on the table by the washstand. Creeping over, she traced her thumb across the ivory handle of the brush, then picked it up, gauging its weight, liking the cool glide of ivory on her skin. She imagined him stroking the bristles over his handsome face, and she was utterly riveted by seductive visions of him unclad and proceeding with his ablutions.
Without warning, the door to the adjacent bedchamber opened, and he stepped through and drew it shut behind him. He turned and, grinning his devil’s grin, he sauntered over.
She should have squealed with alarm and raced out, but at his sudden appearance, she was too stunned to move.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, so his chest was bare, his hair unbound and curling over his shoulders. He was simply too striking and remarkable, and she was practically giddy with emotions she didn’t understand.
His trousers were loose, the first few buttons undone, his navel visible, as well as a smattering of hair that descended to parts unknown. She’d heard that men and women were built differently in their private areas, and Caroline had told her shocking stories about how those differences were put to use in the marital bed, but Sarah was confused on what exactly was concealed under all that fabric.
He noticed where her attention had been concentrated, and his grin widened.
“Hello, my damsel in distress.”
She was still holding his shaving brush, and she dropped it as if it was on fire.
“Mr. Sinclair, I apologize for interrupting. I didn’t realize you were here. I brought you some…ah…towels.”
“Towels. Really?”
“Yes.”
“Are you spying or snooping?”
“Neither.”
“So you were dying to be alone with me. Admit it.”
He kept coming, approaching until he was so near that the tips of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. She could feel his body’s heat, could smell his skin, the aroma of the soap with which he’d recently bathed.
“What is it you want?” His voice was low and inviting.
“Nothing. I…I…”
“I’ll give you whatever it is. Just tell me.”
He leaned in, and she lurched back, but the wall was behind her, blocking any retreat.
“Are you curious, my innocent little maiden?”
“Curious about what?”she asked, then she frowned. “Wait a minute. Where is your French accent?”
“What French accent?”
“When I met you out on the road, you had a French accent.”
“When we met on the road?” He scowled as if perplexed as to what she referred. “We couldn’t have.”
“Don’t deny it,”she snapped. “I fell, and you lifted me up on your horse and brought me home.”
“Did I? I don’t recall, although how I could forget a girl as pretty as you is quite a mystery.”
She studied him, wishing she could read his mind, wishing she could open the top of his head and peer inside to decipher his thoughts.
“Don’t lie to me,”she firmly said.
“Am I lying?”
“You blasted oaf! You know you are.”
The worst gleam of mischief blazed in his mesmerizing green eyes. “I might recollect, but if you mention it to anyone, I’ll say you’re mad.”
“What are you doing at Bramble Bay? Tell me the truth.”
“The truth? I’m visiting your stepmother and brother. I’m their special guest. What would you imagine I’m doing?”
“I have no idea. Why are you here?”
She was determined to get a credible answer from him, but he ignored her and braced his palms on the wall so she was trapped between his arms. She should have shoved him away and stomped out, but to her eternal disgust, she didn’t want to leave.
He was completely focused on her, his attention thoroughly captured, and she could think of no finer experience than to have him gazing at her with such heightened interest. He leaned even nearer so his body was pressed to hers all the way down. She could feel the ripple of muscle in his chest and stomach, the hard expanse of his thighs.
“I don’t want to talk about Hedley or Mildred,”he said.
“What do you want to talk to about?”
“You and me.”
He dipped down, and to her astonished surprise, he bit her nape. The nip of his teeth, the soft caress of his lips, caused goose bumps to cascade down her spine and legs.
His wicked fingers went to her hair, and with a few flicks of his wrist, he plucked out her combs, and the heavy mass toppled down.
She was so astounded—both by his bold advance and by the tempting sensations being produced—that she stood like an imbecile and let him proceed. But only for a moment.
The man was a sorcerer who overwhelmed her good judgment. She put a hand on his chest and eased him away. He stepped back, but just a tiny distance so she would realize he was moving away because he chose to and not because she had insisted.
“Stop that,”she scolded.
“Stop what?”
“I can’t dawdle in here while you bite my shoulder.”
“Why not?”
“I barely know you, and what I’ve learned so far worries me greatly.”
“I could do more than bite you. Where you’re concerned, I have all sorts of naughty suggestions.”
“You do not,”she scoffed.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
He reached down and had the audacity to unbutton the top button on her dress. She gasped and slapped his fingers away.
“You are a menace.”
“Ah, chérie”—a hint of his French accent slipped into his voice—”you are the one who sneaked into my room. What am I to think? It appears you want something from me, and I’m happy to give it to you.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Don’t you? If I had to guess, I’d say you crave what I’m eager to provide.”
He chuckled and set his thumb on her chin, tipping her face toward him as he bent down and touched his lips to hers.
She’d been kissed before—by Patrick, her long ago fiancé—but it had been years since it had happened. She was frozen in place, riveted by him. But quickly, she remembered herself and yanked away, managing only to bang her head on the wall.
“Don’t do that,”she fumed.
“Or what?”
“Or…I don’t know, but I didn’t come in here to be kissed by you.”
“Perhaps you should ponder the actual reason for your arrival. The house is quiet and supper won’t be served for ages. No one will miss you if we spend a few hours together.”
“Doing what?”
“If you have to ask, then I am certain you should stay so I can show you.”
He dipped down as if he’d kiss her again, and her heart was racing so hard, she thought she might swoon. It dawned on her that she’d love to misbehave in ways she should never allow. She felt bewitched, as if he had magical powers and had cast a spell on her.
She couldn’t predict what might have transpired, but the door to the adjoining room was wrenched open again, and Annalise Dubois entered from the other bedchamber.
“Jean Pierre—” On seeing Sarah huddled with Mr. Sinclair, she bristled with affront. “Mon Dieu, Jean Pierre! I can’t leave you alone for two seconds, and you are trying to tumble the servants.”
Sarah moaned with dismay and stumbled away from him as he turned to Miss Dubois.
“You have the worst habit of interrupting,”he told her, “when I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“I traveled with you for your pleasure,”Miss Dubois pointed out. “Not mine. If you require intimate company, you don’t need to seduce the housemaids.”
“I’m not a servant!”Sarah indignantly huffed, but they ignored her.
“I couldn’t resist,”Mr. Sinclair said. “I came in, and she was in here—with her hair down
and her gown unbuttoned. She was practically begging to be ravished.”
“I was not!”Sarah seethed as Miss Dubois snapped, “I’m sure she was.”
Sarah gazed at Mr. Sinclair, at Miss Dubois. Their long acquaintance was clear, a thousand visual messages flitting between them. They were so closely attuned, they could quarrel without speaking a word.
As to Sarah, she had never been more horrified, and if Miss Dubois mentioned the incident to Mildred, what catastrophe would result?
Before Sarah could scurry out and run to safety, Miss Dubois strutted over. She was very tall, very angry, and she towered over Sarah.
“Be gone, you little harlot,”Miss Dubois growled.
“How dare you insult me!”
“If I catch you sniffing after Jean Pierre again, I’ll do more than insult you. I’ll tell Madame Teasdale. I don’t imagine she would like to hear about your low morals.”
“I wasn’t sniffing after him,”Sarah insisted. “I brought him some towels.”
“A likely story,”Miss Dubois scoffed. “If I find you with him again, I’ll have you whipped, then fired. You won’t look quite so pretty if you’re living in a ditch.”
“You are insane,”Sarah mumbled.
The imposing woman raised a fist as if she might strike Sarah. Sarah blanched and hurried down the hall, Mr. Sinclair’s laughter ringing in her ears.
CHAPTER THREE
It was nearly eleven o’clock. The moon hadn’t risen, so darkness provided a fine shield behind which mischief could be perpetrated.
John glanced about, saw no one, and hefted himself onto the small balcony outside Sarah Teasdale’s bedroom suite. The French windows were open, the curtains rippling with a gust of balmy sea air.
As he’d hoped, Miss Teasdale was present. She was seated at a table in the corner, eating a late and cold supper from a tray. There was no fire in the grate, and a single candle burned next to her plate. She was a lonely sight, locked away like a naughty child.
Mildred hadn’t yet introduced him to Miss Teasdale. And Raven had mentioned that there was another female on the premises too, a buxom blond named Caroline who appeared to be about Sarah’s age.
