Sweeter Than Sin

by Andrea Pickens

  "What are you making?"

  "A caramel confection. First I melt the sugar and butter and cook it over a low heat until it turns a rich golden brown. Then I'll add the chopped walnuts and let it cool to a toffee-like consistency. Lastly, I—that is, we, assuming you would like to help—will form small balls of the mixture and dip them in melted chocolate."

  "That sounds absolutely heavenly."

  "There is a reason the Aztecs called chocolate the food of the Gods." He dipped his finger in the simmering sugar, and turning to the table extended his hand. "Here, would you like to try a taste now?"

  Perhaps it was the combination of moist heat, heady scents and softly flickering sunlight spilling through the leaded windows that created the irresistible enchantment. Whatever the unseen force, Kyra found herself powerless to resist. She leaned in and flicked out her tongue.

  "Mmmm." Closing her eyes, she sighed as she savored the seductive sweetness. A buttery warmth seemed to melt through her limbs, and all at once she felt light as a feather, floating on a sun-kissed tropical breeze.

  Oh, wouldn't it be heavenly to always feel so free! Unweighted by careless mistakes...

  A light touch of his fingertip to her lower lip brought her out of her reverie. "You must finish the rest. It's too delicious to waste a drop."

  Her lids flew open and at the sight of his oh-so sensuous mouth close to hers, Kyra recoiled.

  Rafael leaned back, his smile pinching to a look of dismay. A spark of emotion flashed for an instant, turning his smoky blue gaze to a hard-edged sapphirine glitter. Anger? Or hurt? The smoldering look that lingered was impossible for her to decipher.

  He muttered something in Spanish, then switched to English. "Am I so very repulsive or threatening?" he demanded. "Whenever I get close, you pull away as if... as if I have sprouted horns and cloven hooves."

  She drew in a ragged breath, searching her benumbed brain for words to explain.

  "Not all men are devils," he added softly.

  "It's not you," stammered Kyra. "It's me."

  "You?"

  "Yes, me!" She backed up another step. "You are good and honorable, and far too kind to me. I... I don't deserve it."

  Rafael's expression softened. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that, querida?"

  "Because you don't know the truth." A harsh exhale. "Oh, I don't doubt that you've heard the rumors—all the rumors."

  "Si, I have heard them. People have vicious tongues."

  "Trust me, they are too kind by half."

  "Lady Kyra—"

  "Truly they are. I—"

  A sudden commotion in the entrance hall cut her off. A door slammed followed by a shout.

  "Uncle Aubrey!" Rafael spun around and nearly tripped over Hero, who had been roused by their heated exchange. "He's been looking a little unwell of late." Dodging the gamboling hound, he raced past the pantries and down the corridor.

  Kyra threw down her paring knife and ran after him, followed by Hero tagging along at her heels.

  The wall sconces flickered wildly, casting dark-fingered shadows across the wainscoting. The noises grew louder—a jumble of voices as housekeeper and butler tried to talk at once.

  Fearful that the earl had indeed been stricken ill, Kyra quickened her pace. Word was that he had been suffering from a weak constitution, but she feared the true cause of his ailment was not entirely physical.

  Could one pass away from a broken heart?

  Turning the corner, she nearly collided with Rafael, who had stopped short in archway. His whole body had gone rigid, as if carved out of steel.

  Or ice. He looked frozen in place.

  A clench seized her chest, making it hard to breath, and the voices of the servants seemed to fade to a faraway mumble. Still, she made herself duck around him to see what had happened.

  Her gaze swept over the checkered tiles, but instead of finding a body, she saw only a pair of the very worn and very dusty boots.

  The housekeeper burst into tears.

  Kyra raised her eyes. Ragged buckskins, none too clean... a tattered coat, whose broad-shouldered bulk only accentuated the painfully thin limbs of the scarecrow wearing it... unkempt hair in dire need of a trim... a topaz twinkle beneath dark wing-shaped brows...

  Of all the gentlemen she had met, only one had eyes that exact hue of Baltic amber.

  "Dear God in Heaven," she whispered.

  "Nay, just a mere mortal, though I daresay I'm only a shade of my former self," replied a familiar voice. "Even so, I was expecting a rather more welcoming homecoming."

  Chapter 9

  "Buen día, cousin." The gaunt face angled toward Rafael, sparks of sunlight gilding the dark stubbled whiskers on the sunken cheeks. "Aren't you going to welcome me back from the dead?"

  It was Jack. For a long, long moment, he hadn't dared believe it was aught but a fiendish hallucination, brought on by some inexplicable chemistry in the cooking cauldron. But on seeing the faint smile wreath the other man's face, the doubts dissolved.

  One—two—three quick strides closed the gap between them and then his arms wrapped around Jack's bony shoulders in a fierce hug. "Dios mío! I thought... I searched the battlefield, but I was told..." Rafael's voice caught in his throat as he tightened his hold on his cousin, unashamed of the tears welling up in his eyes.

  "Aye, I was told much later that the French searchers had searched the hill first, and after collecting their wounded, buried the dead in a mass grave. I was lucky—a French officer who was still alive had fallen atop me, and as they heard his groans and came to carry him away, they saw my legs twitch and took pity on me."

  "Thank God for your having a guardian angel," rasped Kyra, who had taken a few tentative steps closer.

  Jack grinned. "Rafael will no doubt insist it was his grandmother, Dona Maria, who was looking out for me. And it may well be. As a boy, I was always a little in awe of her magical powers."

  "Whatever force of the cosmos, I shall offer up my fervent thanks." A pause. "And a cup of frothed Spanish chocolate as a sacrificial libation."

  "I would rather you gave the chocolate to me," quipped Jack. "Given all your stories of cacao's healthful nourishing powers, I could use a cup or two."

  "You'll have potfuls of hot chocolate, and I shall also stuff you with cacao confections made with butter and nutmeats." Aware of his cousin's jutting ribs and withered muscles, Rafael loosened his embrace and gruffly added, "You need to put some meat on your bones."

  "Confections?" Jack raised a ragged brow. "Does that mean your grandmother's journals did contain recipes—"

  "Never mind that now." As the initial shock subsided, Rafael suddenly had a myriad questions bubbling up in his brain. "Why the devil didn't you write to let us know you were coming? Uncle Aubrey..."

  Thank God the earl had not witnessed the door being opened to the ghostly apparition. His heart might not have survived the shock.

  "I take it my letter didn't arrive." His cousin slanted a look at the still-weeping housekeeper, though her tears were now watering a joyful smile. "My apologies for giving you all such a fright. Had I known you had received no advance warning of my arrival, I would not have appeared like some specter from the Underworld." A shrug, which set the oversized coat to fluttering like the wings of a bat against his dusty boots. "My father..."

  "Your Father is working in his study. I had better be the one to inform him of the joyous news," said Rafael quickly. "Seeing your phiz—especially in its current state—might put him in the grave instead of you."

  "Come, let us await him in the drawing room," rasped Kyra as she placed a tentative hand on Jack's arm. "You ought not be on your feet." To the butler she added, "Please bring tea and some sustenance."

  "Tea," murmured Jack. "I've missed that good English brew." A wry smile. "Along with a number of other things."

  As his cousin allowed himself to be led away, Rafael turned and hurried down the corridor, trying to compose the appropriate words to tell a fat
her that his dead son had come back to life.

  Miracles do happen. The brutal realities of war had shattered many idealistic illusions he had had about life. But a moment like this one reaffirmed that a bright, pure light could penetrate even the blackest shroud of darkness.

  A smile playing on his lips, Rafael knocked softly on the study door, then slowly eased it open.

  "Forgive me for interrupting, Uncle Aubrey, but I have some news to share you with."

  "Hmm?" Hendrie looked up from his book and the untidy pile of scribbled notes with a vague squint. "Oh, no apologies are necessary. An excuse to abandon this passage of Pindar is most welcome. It's deucedly difficult to translate ancient Greek humor into iambic pentameter." He pinched at the bridge of his nose, then removed his spectacles and polished the lenses on his sleeve before putting them back on. "So, have you discovered some hint of a new species of cacao in Dona Maria's journals?"

  "Exciting as that moment would be," murmured Rafael, "this one is even better."

  "Ah, well, then it must be momentous, indeed." Laying down his pen, Hendrie waited expectantly. Though he had forced a smile, Rafael couldn't help but note that his uncle's blue eyes seemed to be leaching color with every passing day. In the muted shadows, they appeared naught but a lifeless grey.

  "Indeed it is." Rafael drew a chair close to the desk and sat down. "Though at first it may come as something of a shock..." An understatement if ever there was one. "So please prepare yourself."

  "My dear boy, very little can shock me at this point in life." Though it was said with a humorous tone, a profound sadness shaded his uncle's voice.

  "Suppose I were to tell you... that the assumption of Jack's death was a mistake."

  Hendrie went pale as the fragment of ancient Greek marble that graced his desk. Drawing in a ragged breath, he let it out in a whispered rush of words.

  An oath? An exultation? They were too jumbled for Rafael to make out.

  Lips trembling, the older man took a moment to compose himself before adding, "W-W-What are you saying?"

  "That I've just learned our regiment's commanders were wrong."

  Hendrie fumbled with his pen, then his spectacles, as if some talisman of his everyday life could help affirm that what he had just heard. "How can you be sure?" he croaked. "They might be wrong again."

  "There's no mistake." Rafael reached out and twined his fingers around his uncle's frail wrist. He could feel the rapidfire thud of the other man's heart pulsing beneath the warm flesh. "You see, Jack is here, having a cup of tea in the drawing room as we speak."

  "H-Here? In the flesh?"

  "More bones than flesh." All at once, a laugh welled up in Rafael's throat. "He looks like a wraith from Hell, and smells even worse. But yes, Uncle Aubrey, he is here."

  Hendrie half rose and then fell back heavily to his chair.

  And then they both burst into tears.

  * * *

  "Sit," commanded Kyra, leading Jack to one of the tufted overstuffed armchairs. "But first..." She grasped the coarse wool of his overcoat and gently eased it off his shoulders.

  "Oh, aye, it is a rather foul garment, and Mrs. Ganton would birch my bottom if I were to soil her precious brocade." A sigh slipped from his lips as he slouched into the soft down cushions. "Ahhh. This is far more comfortable than the sack of turnips I sat on during the ride from Plymouth to Exeter."

  She pushed over a hassock and lifted his legs one by one to rest on it.

  "Had I known I would be waited on hand and foot, I might have stepped into a saber slash sooner," he quipped as she spread a soft merino throw over his lap.

  "Do not get too accustomed to being treated like royalty," she replied tartly. "Whatever other bodily harm you have suffered, it's apparent that your annoying sarcasm escaped uninjured. So my sympathy will be short-lived."

  "Alas, you wound me grievously." Exaggerating a soulful sigh, Jack placed a hand on his chest. "My heart aches at your unkind words."

  "What fustian." Kyra plumped a pillow and placed it behind his head. "You don't have a heart, a fact that countless young ladies in London will happily attest to."

  He laughed, and for an instant the harsh lines etched around his mouth softened, the dark hollows in his cheeks lightened, giving her a fleeting glimpse of the carefree young man who had marched so confidently off to war.

  Looking away, she blinked back tears.

  "You know me too well. I cannot pull the wool over your eyes, I see—you will always call me to account for my sins."

  Kyra flinched at the word "sins."

  Whether or not Jack noticed, he shifted and brushed a lock of lank hair back from his brow. "Since we are speaking with the frankness of old and dear friends, allow me to say that..."

  She felt her skin hot and prickly under the intensity of his gaze.

  "Hell's Bells, you look bloody awful," he finished. "What the devil happened?"

  "An accident," replied Kyra. "A reckless horse race gone awry. Lexy is dead—and all because of me."

  "I'm so very sorry."

  She didn't dare look at him for fear her voice would crack into a thousand shards. "As am I."

  "You were injured as well?" His eyes were still as sharp as ever. It was more a statement than a question.

  "A broken leg—and a shattered reputation." A wry grimace. "The leg is nearly mended. The reputation is most definitely not."

  "Tell me what happened," he asked softly.

  "You'll hear the sordid story soon enough. But in a nutshell, I'm considered fast, in every sense of the word. After my unbridled rashness in accepting a racing wager with Lord Pemberton, rumors began to circulate that I was a... fallen woman."

  "I don't believe it—"

  "Of course you do," she interrupted roughly. "You know I've always been reckless to a fault."

  "High-spirited and independent," he corrected.

  Kyra bit her lip. "Which has led to my ruin. My fiancé cried off as a result, so I am an outcast, shunned by Society."

  "You're the most fiercely loyal person I know," responded Jack. "You would never commit such a betrayal."

  That her childhood comrade in mayhem was steadfast in his support eased the clench in his chest. So many of her former friends had abandoned her at the first whiff of trouble. "That's sweet of you—"

  Jack cut her off with a low oath. "Damnation, it's not sweet, it's simply the truth." He frowned. "If I recall correctly, Father wrote me that you were engaged to Matherton."

  She nodded.

  "Never liked the fellow," he muttered. "A shallow, self-absorbed fribble, out for his own gain. Had I been here, I would have advised you against the match."

  Her lips quirked. "And I would likely not have listened."

  Jack grinned. "True. But then I would have simply gone and pummeled Matherton to a pulp to warn him off."

  The arrival of tea and a hearty selection of pastries forestalled any further discussion of the subject. The housekeeper had insisted on carrying in the tray herself and went through the ritual of arranging the table with everything positioned in perfect order.

  "Cook sent your favorite ginger snaps, Master Jack, along with the cakes. And she promises to have a custard tart ready for supper."

  "Thank you."

  "I had her add a wedge of Stilton and a slice of pigeon pie to accompany the fresh-baked bread." Peering over her spectacles, she clucked in disapproval. "Look at you, poor mite—you need some good English fare to put some flesh back on those bones. Thin as a rail, you are."

  "And twice as pale—isn't that how the old nursery rhyme goes?" Kyra ducked her head to hide a smile. Even in his present state, her old friend was hardly a 'mite.'

  Mrs. Ganton wagged a finger at her. "You, too, Missy. A tiny sparrow eats more that you do. When I come back, I don't want to see aught but crumbs left on this platter."

  Jack snapped off a jaunty salute. "You know I never dare disobey a direct order from you, Ganny."

  "Hmmph." The hou
sekeeper tried to maintain a stern expression but as she moved through the blade of sunlight, the glitter of wetness in her eyes softened the effect. "And pigs may fly."

  "Speaking of gammon, I would welcome a platter of Cook's special spiced ham for supper."

  "I shall pass on the request," answered Mrs. Ganton. "No doubt she will cosset you with any delicacy your heart desires."

  "Spare the rod, spoil the child—isn't that an old English adage?"

  Kyra looked around to find Rafael leaning against the fluted moldings of the doorway. His face was angled in such a way as to hide all but the upward curl of his mouth.

  "Indeed," replied Jack cheerfully. "A fact that was drummed into me often enough in my misspent youth. The slap of the birch on my bum left a lasting impression!"

  "Oh, fustian," she said. "As if your father ever resorted to corporal punishment, much as you deserved it."

  "Well, I might be guilty of a slight exaggeration—but I'm sure Cook took a cooking spoon to my bottom when I filched a handful of her freshly baked ginger snaps."

  Straightening from his slouch, Rafael interrupted the banter by clearing his throat. "Speaking of your father, Jack..." He stepped back to reveal the earl's frail figure hovering in the shadows.

  Hendrie took a tentative step forward. "Dear God in Heaven. D-Dare I believe it is really you?"

  Jack levered to his feet, and in the flickers of sunlight dancing in through the windows, she saw a spasm of emotions ripple beneath his usual sardonic smile.

  "Halloo, Father. Yes, I'm afraid you are stuck with me for a little while longer. Like a cocklebur, I seem to be a stubbornly difficult entity to dislodge from this mortal world."

  Hendrie drew in a lungful of air and let it out in a wordless sigh.

  The sound seemed to break the awkward silence. Both father and son moved at once and in a heartbeat were in each other's arms.