Clara nodded, understanding. She had children, she’d told Sinclair, two grown sons. They’d spent most of their childhood at school and now university. She’d looked surprised when Sinclair had mentioned that Andrew hadn’t yet been shipped off to a school.
Sinclair strode to the door and wrenched it open before he remembered he was in his shirtsleeves. Bertie stood on the threshold, her eyes bright, but not with mirth. She took in his loosened shirt and rumpled waistcoat with a look that told him she knew exactly what was going on in here.
“Andrew is missing,” she announced.
Clara, hidden from Bertie’s view by the door, looked concerned. Sinclair gave her the faintest shake of his head.
“Andrew is frequently missing,” he said to Bertie. “Find Macaulay and ask him to help you search the house. Macaulay knows all his hiding places.”
“I don’t have to search the house,” Bertie said. She had so much color in her—dark blue eyes, pretty flush of her cheek, red lips. “I know exactly where he is. If you’ll just let me . . .”
Bertie ducked under Sinclair’s arm and into the room before he could stop her. Her warmth spilled over Sinclair as she brushed past, and he wanted to lean into her, gathering her heat to him. He’d tumble her mussed hair, bury his face in it.
Bertie walked past Clara, pretending not to notice her, and heaved open the double pocket doors that led to Sinclair’s bedchamber. She swept inside Sinclair’s bedroom without hesitation, striding straight to his bed.
The room inside was dim, only one gaslight turned low for illumination. Bertie turned the light up with a competent hand, and threw back the covers from a lump in the middle of the bed.
Andrew exploded out of the blankets, launching himself directly at Sinclair, who staggered back as he caught his son.
“Papa!” Andrew shouted, flinging his arms around his father’s neck. “I was waiting for you!”
Andrew was so warm. Love flooded Sinclair, and he gathered his son to him in a hard embrace. Andrew’s love poured back over him, the boy generous with it. Holding him was like waking from a bad dream to relieving reality.
Andrew soon squirmed, not liking to be confined. “Put me to bed, Papa. And tell me a story.”
Sinclair was supposed to grow outraged, thump Andrew to his feet, thrust him at Bertie, and snap at her to mind her charges. Banish his only son so that he could get back to the business of carnal satisfaction.
“All right, Andrew,” Sinclair said. “I’ll take you up.”
He glanced at Clara, who looked disappointed but also understanding. The understanding made Sinclair soften a little toward her. She couldn’t help that her skin was as cold as a dead fish’s.
“Bertie, fetch Macaulay and tell him to see that Mrs. Thomalin gets home. I’ll lend her my carriage.” Sinclair made a bow to Clara. “Good night, madam.”
Clara returned the nod politely, as though they were still fully dressed in the reception room filled with people below. “Of course. Good night, Mr. McBride.”
Bertie, again pretending not to notice her, moved past Sinclair and through the door, her skirts holding her heat as they flowed past Sinclair’s legs. Sinclair followed her out, carrying Andrew up through the darkness to the bright warmth of the nursery.
By the time Bertie returned from fetching Macaulay and closed the door, Sinclair was tucking Andrew into his bed, the planned night with Clara Thomalin dissolving into nothing.
Bertie sat nearby, mending Andrew’s shirt—Andrew ripped his clothes every day, so there was always mending—listening while Sinclair told his son and daughter stories about his travels in the army.
He’d been to Egypt and the Sudan, had seen the wonders of the pyramids and tombs of civilizations long gone. The two children laughed or shivered, depending on the story, hanging on every word their father said. He really had a way with them, Bertie observed as she stitched. Pity he had to shut himself up with his dry papers and his stuffed-shirt fellow barristers all the day long.
After a while, eyes grew heavy and both Cat and Andrew began to yawn. Sinclair kissed Andrew’s forehead, then carried Cat, who’d come to Andrew’s bed to listen to the stories, back across to her own bed. He laid her in it and tucked the covers around her, making sure to include her doll.
When Sinclair turned to Bertie, however, the fatherliness fled and the sternness of the barrister returned. He beckoned for her to follow him out into the hall and firmly shut the nursery door.
“Andrew wanted to see you,” Bertie said quickly, before Sinclair could speak. “You can’t blame him.”
“I don’t. I blame you.” Sinclair folded his arms and fixed her with a severe look.
A delectable picture he made, to be sure. His shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, cuffs straining over thick wrists. His waistcoat hugged his tight torso, and his open shirt gave her a tantalizing glimpse of brown throat.
“I can’t chain him to the bed.” Bertie clenched her hands. “Or sleep stretched across the door. Wouldn’t matter—Andrew would just climb down the drainpipe. Letting him open the bedroom door himself is safer.”
Sinclair’s brows drew down, his frown unfortunately making him even more handsome. “I’m paying you to watch them.”
“Only until you hire a new governess, you said.” Bertie shook her head. “You ain’t really angry because I wasn’t watching Andrew. You’re angry because you wanted to get into that woman’s knickers, and I stopped you. A mercy I did, wasn’t it? Imagine, you taking her all cooing and sighing into your bedroom and dropping her right down on top of Andrew.” She broke off with a laugh. “That would have been something to see.”
Sinclair took a step closer and unfolded one arm to point his finger at Bertie’s face. His cuff rode up his wrist, revealing a round, puckered scar. “You work for me. That means what I get up to in my own house is my business, and nothing for you to speculate on. ‘That woman,’ as you call her, is a friend to my sisters-in-law.”
“I saw them bring her in.” Bertie cocked her head, studying the tip of his finger. “A tart is still a tart—don’t matter that she’s in thick with duchesses. I saved you some bother, you know. She’d have found some way to twist you into marrying her so she could get her hands on your money. I’ve seen her sort before.”
Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “Mrs. Thomalin is a widow with plenty of money—” He broke off, as though realizing he had no idea of her financial situation. “And I have no intention of marrying—” His words cut off as he drew a long breath. “Anyone.”
“In that case, she truly is a tart,” Bertie said. And here’s me, pretending I’m all virtuous when I’d give anything to take her place.
Sinclair’s broad forefinger jabbed at Bertie again. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Yes, I do. I mean, it doesn’t matter if she’s upper crust. People are people, ain’t they? She wants your body, but she’ll take your money too, if she can get it.”
“Stop.”
“I’m only saying what I see.” Bertie made herself shrug. “So you missed taking some time with her. Serves you right for never coming home, and being so grumpy when you do.”
Sinclair’s face went deep red. Bertie knew she’d gone too far, but the hurt that clenched her insides wouldn’t cease. Let him sling her out into the street—Bertie had survived before, and she would again.
With a great empty hole in her heart.
Sinclair took another step toward her, and Bertie moved back, until she found herself pressed into the wall. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture on this landing, just bare walls and one gas lamp between the two rooms.
Sinclair hemmed her in, his warmth driving away all chill. She could see nothing but him, hear nothing but his voice, the rest of the world receding into a vague blur.
He was speaking again, saying something-or-o
ther, his broad finger an inch from her nose. He kept his nails nicely trimmed and clean, though his blunt hand was more suited to holding a sword than a pen. “Bertie, you—”
Bertie, her heart thumping, leaned forward and nipped the tip of his finger.
Sinclair froze, words dying, his gray gaze fixing on her mouth closing on his fingertip. His chest rose sharply.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered.
The next thing Bertie knew, she was flat against the wall, her hands lifted over her head. Her wrists were trapped in his grip, the wallpaper cool to the backs of her fingers. Sinclair leaned to her, close enough that the barest inch separated their bodies.
Bertie’s heart thumped and thudded, her hands confined under his strong, firm fingers. She smelled the cloying note of Mrs. Thomalin’s perfume on his clothes along with his crisp male scent and the sweetness of champagne.
Sinclair closed his eyes, head bowing a little, and leaned nearer. “You are so warm.”
“Well, it is stuffy in here,” Bertie whispered. Sinclair’s house shut out much of the winter cold.
Sinclair shook his head, thumbs caressing her wrists. He came closer still, his nose skimming her cheek. “So warm.”
Let me warm you then. I’ve got it to spare.
Sinclair pulled her left hand away from the wall. His long body was nearly against hers, but not quite. A breeze, if there was one, could pass between them. The light pressure of his thighs on Bertie’s skirts and his hands on her wrists were their only points of contact.
The gaslight, dimmed for night, burnished the gold of Sinclair’s hair as he turned his head. He studied her hand a moment, caressing the back of it with his thumb. Heat streaked down Bertie’s arm, straight to her heart.
Sinclair straightened her forefinger and brought it to his lips. He kissed the tip of her finger, then as Bertie had done to him, closed his teeth around it.
Bertie let out a faint cry, more of a gasp by the time it reached the air. Sinclair nibbled a moment, before he closed his eyes and drew her finger all the way into his mouth.
Fire poured through her body in a molten stream. She’d never felt anything like it, and Sinclair was barely doing anything—sucking on her finger, that was all. But the heat of his tongue, the pull of his lips, stoked the fires inside her. Her breasts felt heavy, pushing against the tightness of her corset.
Sinclair’s lashes, like his hair, were light, stark lines on his sunburned skin. Bertie wanted to draw him to her, smooth his hair, rub the back of his neck, soothe away all his lines of pain. But she was afraid to touch him, afraid to break the spell.
Sinclair stepped all the way against her, the space for the breeze vanishing.
He might claim he needed warmth, but Sinclair was plenty warm himself. He let go of Bertie’s other hand to brace himself against the wall, while he licked her forefinger and then pulled a second finger into his mouth.
Bertie’s gasp was louder this time, echoing around the high hall and the carved frieze at the ceiling. Sinclair made not a sound as his body pressed hers, his mouth working.
The strength of his tongue, the tug on her fingers, turned Bertie’s body incandescent. She knew she ought to jerk away and tell him to stop—she’d die if he didn’t. But then he might stop.
Her blood felt thick. Nothing else existed, nothing in the world but herself and this stern, strong man, pressed against her in the upper halls of his beautiful house.
Bertie couldn’t keep from reaching for him. Her fingers contacted the warm sleekness of his hair, and she caressed it, trailing her touch to the back of his neck. Sinclair made a noise in his throat and pushed closer to her.
He lifted his head, his eyes half-closed, and drew his tongue up Bertie’s first two fingers. Then he took a third one into his mouth. His suckling grew fiercer, as though Sinclair strove to imbibe her warmth.
Bertie’s back was tight against the wall, his weight keeping her there. His mouth was a hot place, tongue caressing, teeth lightly scraping.
It was sensual, erotic, wicked, and yet they were both fully clothed, both standing upright, nowhere near a bed. Nothing improper about it at all. But Bertie’s knees were weak, her insides shaking.
She would fall, but Sinclair would fall with her, and he’d stretch on top of her on the floor. All the while, his glorious mouth would squeeze her fingers with heat and not-pain.
His warmth seeped into her, and nothing else mattered . . .
“Papa?”
Sinclair stilled. Everything in the hall stilled with him, as though the moment froze into a crystal shape, captured, unmoving.
After a silent, very long moment, Sinclair slid Bertie’s hand away from his mouth, lifted his head, and looked to Caitriona standing outside the nursery door, her braid of dark hair over her shoulder, her doll clutched to her chest.
Between one heartbeat to the next, Sinclair changed from the sensual man taking his time with a woman to the empty shell Bertie had watched him become for the first time in the courtroom. The warmth he’d taken from Bertie dissipated into the darkness.
Sinclair cleared his throat. “Caitriona. I thought you were asleep.”
“I had dreams.” Caitriona held her doll closer, her serious gaze taking in her father, Bertie close to him, and Bertie’s scalding face. “I miss Mama.”
“Damn it,” Sinclair whispered so softly Bertie barely heard it. Sinclair’s hand tightened on the wallpaper, and he lowered it, straightening up to his full height.
He left Bertie’s side as though he didn’t notice her there. Bertie leaned back against the wall, the only thing holding her up. Her legs surely weren’t—they were shaking like stalks of tender flowers in the wind.
Sinclair approached Caitriona and reached for her hand. “I miss her too, Cat.”
Caitriona pulled back from him. “I want Bertie.”
Sinclair’s chest rose with a hard breath and the hand that he’d held out to her clenched. For another frozen moment, no one in the hall moved.
Then Sinclair turned stiffly toward the stairs, not looking at either of them. “Bertie, get her to bed,” he said in a hard voice, and he started down, his footsteps heavy in the silence. Bertie and Cat heard him open the door to his study; then the slamming of it echoed up and down the stairwell.
Bertie swallowed, her throat hurting. She made herself push away from the wall and go to Cat. “Come, sweetheart,” she said, holding out her hand.
Bertie took Caitriona back to her bed and tucked her in. Cat reached for Bertie as she made to turn away, and something in the child’s eyes made Bertie stop. This little girl, since Bertie’s arrival, had shown almost no emotions at all—the opposite of Andrew, who could change moods in a flash. Cat only watched everyone else, as though she waited for something, maybe had done so for so long that she’d forgotten what she waited for.
Right now, though, Cat’s eyes held fear. Whatever the dream had been, she didn’t say, but it was clear she didn’t want Bertie to go.
Bertie gave her a smile, unwound herself from Caitriona’s grip to pull the armchair to the bed, and reached for the mending basket.
Bertie’s hands shook as she started again with the needle, the fingers that Sinclair had taken into his mouth burning like bands of fire.
“Bertie.” The word came out cracked, and Sinclair cleared his throat. “Miss Frasier.”
Bertie stood in front of Sinclair’s desk in his study the next morning, her heart thumping. Sinclair was on his feet on the other side of it. He’d barely glanced up at her from the papers he was reading, or tidying, or whatever he was doing when she came in, and now she waited, her chest tight, for him to continue.
The desk was a solid barrier between them, like Hadrian’s Wall, built to keep ancient Scots—Sinclair’s ancestors—from overrunning England. At least, that’s what the book Bertie had been reading to Andrew and Cat
said Hadrian’s Wall was about. Sinclair wasn’t coming out from behind it, and the desk blocked her way to him.
Bertie’s head ached, almost as much as her heart did. Her left hand was stiff, because she’d clenched it in her sleep. Once Cat had been sleeping deeply, not moving in dreams, Bertie had gone to bed, only to lie awake herself. Whenever she did drop off, she dreamed of Sinclair’s mouth on her fingers, the warm firmness of his lips, the heat of his tongue. When she woke this morning, she found her hand curled into her palm so hard she’d had to pry it open and rub away the stiffness.
Bertie had emerged from her bedroom, dressed but sandy-eyed, only to be told by Aoife that Mr. McBride wanted a word.
“Did ya want to say something to me?” Bertie asked, not bothering to smooth her speech. Mrs. Hill had been teaching her to talk more properly, but Bertie was in no mood to try this morning. “Aoife said you wanted a dickey bird.”
“I do.” Sinclair finally looked at her. He had a pen in his hand, but he held it so tightly it might snap in two any moment. “Miss Frasier. My children are fond of you, but I will understand if you would like to go.”
Chapter 9
“Go?” Bertie asked in sudden panic. The world seemed to drop out from beneath her feet. “Go where?”
Sinclair’s eyes flickered, the warmth that had filled them last night gone. “I mean resign. Give notice. Take yourself elsewhere.”
Bertie took a step toward the desk. “Ya want me to leave?”
Sinclair studied her for a long time, the mouth that had felt so sinful on his finger tightening. “I’d have thought you would want to go.”
“Why?” The word burst out before she could stop it. Bertie’s throat was dry, not helping her aching head. “Because I twitted you about your lady, and then threw myself at you?”
The pen fell. Sinclair’s fists balled, then he opened them, as though he’d had to force himself to, and cleared his throat again. “No, because I behaved . . . improperly toward you.”
Rules for a Proper Governess Page 10
