by Holt, Cheryl
So far, she hadn’t had a chance to explore, and even though she was furious with Mr. Sinclair for his high-handed behavior, she couldn’t deny her fascination—both with him and with the adventure that had been thrust upon her.
She’d never previously been on a ship, and as they’d crossed the Channel, she’d intended to be snippy and rude. But she’d been too intrigued by the maneuvering of the sails, by the sailors going about their duties.
Furtively, she’d watched Mr. Sinclair as he issued orders, as his crew worked together like a well-oiled machine.
He’d been busy with a thousand tasks and had ignored her for the entire trip, which had been irksome. She was angry and aggrieved and feeling incredibly abused, and it was galling that he didn’t seem to notice or care.
It had been dark when they’d docked, so she hadn’t been able to view his residence. She’d entered through the gates, the walls towering over her, so she hadn’t grasped its ancient design, hadn’t understood its magnificence.
During their arrival, Mr. Sinclair had been conspicuously absent, and his competent staff had immediately rushed to tend her. A gaggle of pretty housemaids had escorted her to a lovely suite, complete with writing desk and balcony. The furniture was elegant and understated, the feather mattress on the bed too plush for words.
She’d crawled onto it and had instantly fallen into a deep and wonderful sleep. When she’d awakened the next day, the maids were hovering with the news that Mr. Sinclair was still occupied, but that she would meet him for supper.
To the staff, this was an important and significant invitation that required significant preparation. Despite her reticence, despite her insistence that they didn’t need to fuss over her, she’d spent the afternoon in her room, being bathed and perfumed and lotioned and massaged.
They’d styled her hair in an intricate coif, attired her in a fabulous green gown that was sewn from a soft, flowing fabric she’d never seen previously. She had an expensive string of diamonds—that she assumed were real—hanging around her neck, diamond earrings dangling from her ears.
As they’d finally declared her ready, when she’d been allowed to look at herself in the mirror, she’d nearly fainted with surprise. The alteration was stunning. She appeared wealthy and beautiful and nothing like the ordinary, boring Miss Sarah Teasdale she’d been all her life.
“You’re not the only one who adores Mr. Sinclair,”she said to Mr. Thompson. “The servants seem particularly loyal.”
“That’s because he’s saved all of them from dire fates.”
“He inspires an enormous amount of devotion.”
“He does, he does.” Mr. Thompson nodded. “But then, considering everyone’s circumstances when rescued, it makes sense.”
“He must be very tough, very brave.”
“He is.”
“What, exactly, is his line of employment? How is it that he’s constantly sailing the seas and saving so many strangers?”
Mr. Thompson’s brows raised, his mind working, as if his response was a puzzle that had to be deciphered. They were at the top of a curving staircase, and he avoided answering her question by motioning to the closed door in front of them.
“Ah, here we are.” He knocked once to announce them and spun the knob. “Enjoy your supper, Miss Teasdale.”
“I’m sure I will,”she lied.
“I’ll catch up with you in the morning. We’ll reminisce about England.”
“I can’t wait,”she lied again.
He urged her over the threshold, shut the door behind her, and—she was certain—locked it so she couldn’t leave.
She didn’t check to find out if he had for she couldn’t bear to know. If she’d been locked in, what could she do about it? Pound and bang and shout until her hand was sore and her throat raw?
Evidently, she was in Mr. Sinclair’s private quarters, and the place was obviously arranged to provide maximum tranquility. The sitting room was done in soothing shades, the décor and furnishings generating an ambiance of ease and comfort. A cheery fire burned in the grate.
In the adjoining room, she could see his bedchamber, could see his large bed. It had a canopy over the top and a carved headboard fit for a king. She yanked away, refusing to gape, refusing to admit what it indicated.
What was the true reason she’d been brought to him? Was her ruination about to commence?
There was an open archway that led out onto a balcony. A brown-skinned man stood there, wearing a turban and flowing trousers. The house was full of peculiar characters, of all nationalities and colors, many of whom did not speak English or French. It was as if Mr. Sinclair had sailed the world and plucked up a collection of novel, foreign people to serve him.
The man grinned and bowed, gesturing for her to approach, to follow him onto the balcony. She walked over, and he pulled on a curtain and ushered her outside.
Finally, she was face to face with Mr. Sinclair. He was seated at a small table set for two. The linen was blindingly white, the silver polished until it gleamed. Red wine had been poured.
Liveried footmen hovered off to the side. Behind him, over the balcony railing, she could see the bay, the village curved around it, his ship and many others anchored in the harbor.
With the sun dropping in the west, the vista was spectacular, the scenery quaint and picturesque. It could have been a painting, an artist’s rendering of a perfect spot on the French coast.
Mr. Sinclair stared at her, and she stared back. The moment was very odd, very dreamlike. She was overcome by an impression of familiarity, as if she’d always known him, as if they’d shared intimate suppers a thousand times previous.
The dashing Frenchman had returned. His white shirt was meticulously embroidered, tons of lace on his cravat and sleeves. He was wearing another expensive coat, but in a green hue that matched her gown. The hem was stitched in gold flowers, and in light of the opulence of his home, she suspected it was real gold thread.
His blond hair was loose, curled on his shoulders, the green of his coat enhancing his striking emerald eyes.
He was such a feast for her female senses, and she felt herself softening toward him. She couldn’t wait to dine, merely so she could ogle him all evening. She warned herself to buck up, to be wary, but couldn’t muster any genuine affront.
At the sight of her, his hot gaze was inflamed. He studied her carefully, as if eager to ensure his servants had put her in the right costume.
The gown fit like a glove, as if it had been specifically designed for her, and she took some comfort from the fact that it couldn’t possibly have belonged to Miss Dubois. His mistress was much taller and broader across the hips and chest, so thankfully, Sarah hadn’t been attired in his whore’s clothes.
His assessment complete, he pushed back his chair and stood.
“Chérie, you are so beautiful.” He motioned to her. “Come.”
The pretty compliment was too much for her. She’d received so few of them in her life, and she could have dawdled all night, listening to his flattery. How was it that he managed to simultaneously terrorize and awe?
When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Come to me, chérie.”
She hesitated, suddenly shy, but he simply drew out the other chair and held it for her like the most gallant gentleman. She should have spun away and huffed out, but instead, she stumbled over, unable to ignore his allure, unable to behave as rudely as she ought.
Once she was seated, he shifted nearer so his legs were touching hers, their feet tangled together. He shoved on the sleeve of her dress and kissed the inside of her wrist, his lips lingering on her skin, sending goose bumps down her arm.
She pulled away, hoping to look scolding, but the effect was lost on him. He was fully aware of how thoroughly he overwhelmed her, and he enjoyed it.
“Thank you for joining me,”he said.
“Did I have a choice?”
He considered for a moment, then claimed, “You could have refused, but then you wo
uld have missed the splendid meal my chef has prepared for us.”
“Could I have demanded that a tray be delivered to my room? Would you have allowed me to dine alone?”
“Yes, but you would have missed my charming company. And I would have missed yours. There’s no point to our quarreling, is there?”
She thought there was an enormous point to it, but she’d already blistered his ears a dozen times over. Talking to him was like talking to a log. He only listened to comments he felt like hearing.
Needing to distract herself, she tried a sip of wine. It was lush and fruity, better than anything she’d ever tasted and a further example of how wealthy he was, how he surrounded himself with pleasures.
“You’re French again,”she said, the remark sounding like an accusation.
“I always have been French.”
“But you can seem as English as I am—when you wish to be.”
“I can.”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you ask? Are you dying to know more about me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
A footman brought a plate of several kinds of food, fish in buttery sauces, mushrooms and other vegetables she didn’t recognize.
Mr. Sinclair took a fork, speared a bite of fish and held it out to her. She could have declined, but she was starving and everything smelled delicious.
“Oh, my,”she murmured as flavors exploded on her tongue.
“Good, non?”he inquired.
“Good, yes.”
He chuckled and fed her again, offering her different configurations until she pushed him away.
“Is this the first course?”she asked.
“Yes.”
“I have to pace myself, or I’ll never keep up with you.”
“We’ll eat slowly. We can take all night—unless we decide we’d like to amuse ourselves in other ways.”
There was no question as to what he referred, and his gaze was so open and inviting that her feminine parts seemed to be melting. How was she supposed to resist him? She felt like Eve in the Garden, being tempted by the snake.
“I’ve heard,”she said, “that the French are adamant about their food.”
“They are, but I am especially interested.”
“Why is that?”
“I was often hungry when I was young. I constantly told myself that I would grow up to be very, very rich so I could eat whatever I liked whenever I liked.”
“You were poor as a boy?”
“Extremely poor. It wasn’t so bad while my mother was still alive, but after she died, well, it was a bit dire.”
It was very possibly the only true thing he’d ever said to her. A bleak expression crossed his face, but it was quickly masked. Would she ever be allowed another glimpse at his genuine self?
“How old were you when she passed away?”
“Ten.”
“Where was your father?”
“Back in England.”
“Your father was British?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother was French?”
“No, she was British, too.”
“So your parents were British, but you were raised in France.”
“Mostly in Paris.”
“That’s why you’re a chameleon. You can change nationalities to suit your mood or situation.”
He shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps.”
She observed him, baffled by his statements. He was an expert at fabrication, and he threw out facts, but she had no ability to judge his veracity.
He’d once claimed his mother was Florence Harcourt, but then he’d denied it. Were his parents British? Was his mother deceased? Had he even had parents? He seemed so exotic. Maybe he’d been reared by wolves.
“After your mother died, your father provided no support?”
“He was…busy.”
“Too busy to support his son?”
“It was no matter.” He shrugged again. “My friend, Raven, helped me to survive. I was fine.”
His use of the word survive rattled her, and she didn’t like the images it conjured. It made her worry over his past, made her feel sorry for him when he deserved no sympathy.
Her father had never been wealthy, but Bramble Bay had been prosperous, and they’d always had plenty. What would it be like to be alone in the world, to be orphaned and fretting over your next meal?
She envisioned him as he must have been at ten, with no mother or father, and Mr. Hook his savior. With that history, was it any wonder he was mysterious and mystifying?
“You’ve definitely thrived.” She gestured to the balcony, indicating his servants, his castle, his life.
“I have.”
“How have you grown so affluent? It must be a fascinating tale.”
The servants froze, and an eerie silence fell, as if the Earth had stopped spinning so everyone could listen to his reply.
He grinned. “I might tell you someday.”
“Tell me now. Are you in…shipping?”
“You could say that. And salvage. I occasionally retrieve cargo from vessels that are sinking.”
A footman bit down a snort, which Mr. Sinclair ignored.
“Are you a smuggler?”she baldly inquired.
“Me? Do I look like a criminal to you?”
“No, but you act like one.”
He laughed. “How could a brigand accumulate so much wealth?”
“I don’t know. How could he?”
He didn’t respond, but motioned to the footmen, and they bustled into action, clearing plates, pouring more wine. She was already sated, and she had to remember to restrain herself, to moderate her intake of alcohol. She wasn’t a drinker and could rapidly find her inhibitions lowered to a dangerous level.
“Where were you today?” She was much too curious about him and still irked that he’d brought her to his home only to disregard her presence entirely.
“Why? Did you miss me?”
“No.”
He laughed again. “Oh, chérie, I am so charmed by you.”
“I’m glad to be of service.”
He pointed to the harbor, to where his ship sat at anchor. “When I travel, even for a short time, many tasks await me when I return.”
“You were working?”
“Always. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be so rich, would I?”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
“I apologize for leaving you alone. I thought you’d enjoy being pampered.”
“I enjoyed it very much,”she admitted. The experience had been relaxing and soothing. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
“I’ll behave better toward you tomorrow,”he stated like a threat. “You can have all my attention.”
“All your attention?”she hastily said. “I don’t believe I’ll need quite that much.”
“How much of it would you like then? I can spare whatever amount you feel you require.”
There was heat in his gaze and innuendo in his words. He was much too sophisticated for her, and she had no idea how to spar with him. She was desperate to change the subject, to focus him on topics other than her pending ruination.
“Tell me why you came to Bramble Bay,”she said.
“You know why. To gamble with Hedley.”
“Why him specifically? What did he do to you?”
“Hedley? He did nothing.”
“So…it was Mildred? I realize she can be exasperating, but how has she spurred your animosity? I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been living with her for twenty-three years—all of them unpleasant. Yet I’m hardly seething with malice.”
“You should be.”
“Because she let Hedley give me away?”
“Yes. She was fully complicit and happy to be shed of you.”
“All right, she was hideous to me, and I’m livid. Now what’s your excuse?”
He took her hand again, and he started rubbing his thumb across her wrist, over and over on the spot where h
er pulse pounded under her skin.
“You ask so many questions, chérie.”
“You never answer any of them. Is Mildred your aunt? Was Florence your mother?”
“What if she was?”
“You’re surrounded by people, but you seem to be a very solitary person. Why shun your family? Why torment your aunt?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t be flip. This quarrel you have with Mildred has wrecked my life, and I think I deserve to know what’s driving you.”
“My quarrel wrecked your life? I beg to differ. Your life wasn’t so grand as you recall. There wasn’t much to wreck.”
“It was my life. It was mine. Can I go home?”
As was typical when he didn’t want to supply information, he nodded to the footmen. Quickly, the table was cleared, just the wine glasses remaining. When she glanced up, the servants had slipped away. The balcony was empty except for the two of them.
“You can’t keep me prisoner, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“What am I then?”
“My very special guest, and you’re to call me John when we’re alone.”
“Not Jean Pierre as your mistress does?”
At her crude reference, he didn’t bat an eye. “I’ll be British for you. You may call me by my British name.”
Her temper flared, and she pushed her chair away and went to the balcony railing. She yearned to stomp out, but she couldn’t forget the locked door. It would be too humiliating to make a huffed exit, only to find herself trapped. He’d get too much enjoyment out of watching her yank on the knob.
She stared out at the harbor. The sky was a deep indigo, the last vestiges of twilight flickering on the horizon.
Candles were being lit down in the village. Lamps on the ships were lit too, their flames twinkling on the water. She was dressed like a queen, being cosseted like a rich heiress and fawned over by the most handsome, most compelling man she would ever meet.
A perception flashed—that she was a princess in a fairytale, that an evil prince had her imprisoned in his tower. But in fairytales, the evil princes turned out to be heroes in the end.
