Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  Beside her, the mattress dipped beneath the weight of someone climbing onto the bed. A pair of arms closed around her. A familiar solidity pressed against her cheek, and a deep voice rumbled in her ear.

  ‘‘Sophie? Oh, God. Sophie. You’re alive. You’re all right.’’

  Desperation lent a frightening intensity to Chad’s embrace, to the way he surrounded her with his body and crushed her to him, to the way his lips dragged across her brow, her cheeks, through her hair, endless kisses in a frenzied show of relief. She felt the same desperation as she let him go on holding her, kissing her; as she used all her strength to tighten her arms around him and bury her face against the frantic pulse in his neck.

  Like her, he shivered violently, his heart pounding so wildly she could feel its thrash against her breast. But then, her own heart beat so furiously her entire body throbbed with it. She burrowed against him, seeking his warmth, sharing her own.

  Like that night in the chapel.

  ‘‘The most horrific dream . . .’’ he began.

  ‘‘Me too,’’ she whispered. ‘‘An awful dream. I can’t begin to describe . . .’’

  ‘‘You were drowning. . . .’’

  ‘‘You were trying to save me. . . .’’

  ‘‘There was a storm. . . .’’

  ‘‘Fearsome waves . . .’’ This last they uttered together, and each suddenly realized what the other had been saying. Sitting up, they broke apart and went still.

  The fierceness in Chad’s eyes belied the gentleness of his touch as his hands smoothed up and down her bare arms. ‘‘It isn’t possible.’’

  Despite his caresses, goose bumps erupted on her flesh. What they had each been describing . . . he was right. It wasn’t possible. And yet . . .

  ‘‘We had the same dream,’’ she whispered, hands clamping around his forearms.

  ‘‘How could we have?’’ A muscle in his cheek ticked as his mind worked it over, even as she groped for some logical explanation. In the end, one didn’t exist. There was only the force of the energy crackling between them, the blaze in his eyes and the need that sent her back into his arms.

  They closed like steel around her, and the room tipped as he pressed her to the mattress and covered her body with his. His lips burrowed at the edge of her camisole, claiming the exposed tops of her breasts with urgent kisses. Over and over he spoke her name, between smoldering kisses and the fiery stroke of his tongue.

  Through billowing relief, desire burgeoned in her, stark and powerful. ‘‘You came for me.’’ She held on to him, needing to feel the heated certainty of his body against hers. ‘‘You were there, and I knew I was saved. I knew I would live.’’

  ‘‘I thought I’d come too late.’’ His whispered confession splintered in his throat. ‘‘Too damned late. I tried, but—’’

  ‘‘No. It’s over. Just a dream. Nothing but a dream.’’ She raked her fingers through his hair, closing them around a handful and tugging until his head came up and his lips met hers. Flames of longing licked through her, igniting the tips of her nipples and the juncture of her thighs, burning at her core.

  ‘‘Just a dream,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank God.’’ He kissed her and crushed her in his arms with a force that alarmed her; yet his desperate show of relief whispered of the man she had met in the chapel on the moors, the one who had rushed up the aisle to take her in his arms and shield her from the eerie night with its bewitching vapors.

  Through petticoats and camisole his hands trailed fire across her skin, and she found herself parting her legs for him as he sought out her most intimate places. His touch felt somehow right, fit perfectly along each quivering inch of skin he explored.

  A ribbon came free and her breasts spilled into his waiting hands. She gasped aloud as he swept his palms over them, brushing his thumbs in feather-soft caresses across the nipples. The sweet agony released a torrent of longing, a twisting surge of physical sensation and roiling emotion.

  And something more . . . an urgency not only to take, but to share this astounding pleasure, even as they had shared the terror of the dream.

  She thrust her hands beneath his shirt, her breath hitching at each startling discovery made by her trembling fingertips: the impossibly hewn lines of his chest; the fascinating pattern of muscles rippling across his back; the tight, stony curve of his buttocks beneath his trousers. Across her body his much larger hands roamed everywhere, her breasts, her thighs, her buttocks, branding her with the fever encompassed in his palms. Desire mounted, became frenzied.

  At the line of crisp hair that disappeared into his waistband, she paused. Dare she follow it?

  His rumble of consent sent her fingers dipping beneath the fabric. Oh, there was nothing soft about this man, nothing but his lips that nipped encouragement across her flesh. He was as solid and as rigid as the Cornish landscape. But it was his smoothness that fascinated her, the velvety hardness of his shaft throbbing in her palm.

  A growl vibrated against the breast he was kissing, pleasuring with his tongue. She closed her fingers around him, and his deep groan set off a quickening inside her, a yawning desire that demanded to be filled.

  She released him and used both hands to unbutton his trousers. His arousal sprang forward, thudding against her belly. He moved his mouth from her breast to her lips, breathing his desire into her through a deep and insatiable kiss.

  Her petticoat became bunched around her waist. His hands were on her, between her thighs, spreading fire through her lacy drawers. One hand slid to cradle her bottom, while the other eased her thighs apart and caressed her through moist fabric. Tendrils of need shot through her, undulating in surging waves but never quite breaking, carrying her along on an uproar of sensation.

  ‘‘Do you want this, Sophie?’’

  ‘‘I . . .’’

  Be a nice girl, Sophie. A proper young lady.

  She went still. Oh, God, would she never be free of her family’s censure? Why now, of all times? They were not here; they didn’t—couldn’t—understand the circumstances that had led her into Chad’s embrace. They had effectively abandoned her, banished her. Why should she let them continue to dictate her life?

  She shut her eyes, pulled his head down and kissed him. ‘‘Yes. I want you.’’

  ‘‘And I you. But open your eyes, Sophie. Look at me.’’ When she obeyed he stared down at her for a long moment, his large hands gone still between her thighs. Slowly the desire written so plainly across his face receded into an expression of regret. ‘‘We mustn’t. It would be wrong. I would never forgive myself.’’

  Sophie’s thumping heart stilled. Had he sensed her inexperience and been seized with a bout of conscience? Or had her eagerness put him off?

  Within the tangle of confusion and aching need, the answer formed, plain and simple. Even here, now, with no one to see, she would have been ruined, besmirched. No one else might ever know, but she would know.

  She would know how far short she fell of being a proper young lady.

  Shame crawled through her, making her want to slink away and die. She covered her breasts with her hands and started to sit up, but he pressed her down, moved her hands away and kissed her, a sweet, redemptive touch of his lips.

  ‘‘There are other ways . . .’’ he whispered.

  He pressed kisses down her length, starting at her breasts, moving along the ticklish ridges of her rib cage and across the trembling stretch of her belly. With each moist offering she released more and more of her discomfiture and gave herself up to rapture. He reached her inner thighs and kissed each one, nipped them, trailed his tongue over flesh that quivered at his touch. His hands closed over her hips, lifting her to the heat of his mouth.

  His lips pulled and suckled the sensitized flesh. The tip of his tongue teased; the length of it scorched with sizzling heat. As it entered her in earnest, liquid fire raced to her core. Letting go, she crested on wave after wave of sheer bliss, surrendering to the shimmying upsurge, higher and hig
her, until her cries filled the air and her body bucked and shattered like storm-ridden surf against the cliffs.

  Several minutes passed before her racing heart calmed and her wild panting ceased; before she once more felt herself to be part of the physical world, rather than a dervish of passion and sensation. He came up beside her, gathered her in his arms and rolled until she lay cradled on top of him. His hands burrowed in her hair and lifted the damp weight off her back. She shivered, pressed closer to him and wondered.

  He had brought her to heights of pleasure she had never imagined, yet knowing he had not shared in that pleasure diminished her own, or at least dulled the lingering glow. ‘‘Why did you deny yourself?’’

  His breath stirred her hair. ‘‘The truth?’’

  She nodded.

  ‘‘I have no damned idea.’’ Tipping his head back against the pillows, he threw an arm across his eyes.

  Had he simply lost his desire for her? Needing to know, she slid a hand toward the juncture of his legs. Her fingertips met with stony heat for the briefest instant. Then his free hand closed over hers and drew it aside. ‘‘Do not tempt me, Sophie. You’ve been reckless enough today, tempting the sea.’’

  The admonishment prickled in her ear, and she felt a measure of his warmth recede beneath her. Lifting her head, she gazed up at the hard line of his jaw, the rigid set of his mouth. His hewn forearm continued to shield his eyes—and his thoughts. A strange foreboding came over her, so at odds with the tender passion of moments ago.

  She longed to reassure him, to banish his enigmatic mood and see his rare smile return. ‘‘I’ll be more careful in the future. I shan’t go chasing danger again.’’

  ‘‘You had best not.’’ Arm sliding from his face, he gripped her shoulders, rolled until her back was pressed against the mattress. He held himself above her.

  ‘‘Remember this: each time you endanger yourself, you endanger me. Because I intend to be there. Wherever you are, whatever foolishness you devise, I shall be right behind you. Or, if I’m lucky, one step ahead of you.’’

  Lying trapped between his arms, his fisted hands, she stared up into a stranger’s eyes and shivered in the fierceness of his promise. A promise that resounded with the discordant tones of a threat. Was it intentional on his part? Was his sternness meant to coax her to safety, or dissuade her from interfering any further in his affairs, and the affairs of Penhollow?

  She had thought to tell him about the conversation she had overheard yesterday between her aunt and uncle. Now . . . she thought better of it as insidious suspicions she hadn’t quite dismissed reemerged. His refusal to admit his presence here that day she saw him . . . his unpredictable moods . . . his bouts of reticence . . .

  She loathed doubting him, loathed believing he might be hiding something.

  He eased away from her and sat up. She rose beside him, her breasts exposed by her open camisole, the nipples pink and beaded from the attention he’d shown them. She quickly gathered the ends of the drawstring and pulled the garment closed.

  ‘‘As I told you,’’ she said quietly, ‘‘I thank you for what you did today, but I do not need another—’’

  He yanked her close, cupped his palm over her breast through the cotton and claimed her mouth with a kiss that stole her breath. ‘‘I am not your father, Sophie. Or your grandfather. Don’t ever be foolish enough to believe it.’’

  Good heavens, no. He had made that more than clear.

  Chapter 9

  Standing on the headland, Chad watched until Sophie made her way down the road and disappeared into her relatives’ farmhouse. He lingered a few moments longer, as if he could possibly see inside and know whether she’d gotten in without mishap, without any of the family confronting her about her long absence this morning or the unfamiliar dress in which she returned.

  Not that he could have done anything to improve matters. Showing up there now would only make things worse for her. He only hoped he could find Grady in time to line the sailor’s calloused palm with enough additional coin to induce the man not to spread gossip about the lady in her underthings climbing bluffs with the Earl of Wycliffe.

  Clucking to Prince, Chad continued along the village road, still shaken by the near disaster of the previous hours. The climb, the dream, but worst of all, how close he’d come to being villain enough to rob Sophie of her innocence. Good God, he had wanted her. Painfully. Selfishly. Had wanted to bury his fears and guilt in sweet, virginal flesh and seek forgiveness in her guileless gray eyes.

  Doing so would have rendered him irredeemable, so much worse even than the Henry Winthrops of the world. He knew he had hurt her with the sudden cooling of his passion. In those final moments, nestled in rumpled sheets and her warm scent, he had pretended anger and disapproval to warn her away, both from investigating those damned harbor lights and from him. Better she believe him erratic, a cad.

  Better she remained free to walk away from him and look elsewhere for a more deserving man.

  Just outside the village he stopped, his progress arrested by a niggling sensation of being watched. The wind had suddenly dropped. The birds had become too quiet. The very landscape seemed tensed, as if waiting. . . .

  The latter notion restored a modicum of sense, while a quick look about assured him that no lurking entity, living or otherwise, held him in its sights. Shaking off his apprehensions he continued on, retrieving Prince from the stable yard behind the Stormy Gull, his coat and boots from the bottom of Grady’s skiff.

  The Irishman assured him he’d spent the remainder of the morning fishing, and hadn’t spoken to a soul since. Chad flipped him a sovereign to ensure the man’s continued silence, more than willing to part with his little remaining silver for Sophie’s sake.

  He donned his own boots immediately, glad to exchange them for the toe-pinching pair he had found in his father’s dressing room. His next stop brought him to the vicarage at the top of the village road.

  Walking Prince along the mossy cobbled drive that led around back, he noted the unusual number of fresh graves dotting the churchyard. Most of them occupied the rear corner, the paupers’ section, as Kellyn had said. Yesterday’s newest grave had been filled in to form a low mound marked by a plain wooden cross.

  Arriving at a small carriage house, Chad dismounted. Within a stone courtyard built off the back of the residence, the man who had presided over the funeral crouched between the neat rows of a garden.

  Chad called out a greeting. The vicar glanced up, removed his hat and swiped a shirtsleeve across his brow. ‘‘One moment, if you please.’’ With a pair of pruning shears he snipped a handful of drooping, verdant leaves and dropped them into a basket beside his knee. The mingled scents of fresh herbs wafted on the breeze. ‘‘My vervain has reached perfect ripeness today,’’ he said. ‘‘It must be harvested before the temperature drops.’’

  While Chad waited he studied the little parish compound his father had funded. It consisted of the church, which doubled as a school, and the modest dwelling, both composed of formidable granite block and shielded from the ocean gales by sturdy slate rooftops. These structures would withstand both time and the elements, unlike his father, who had succumbed to both.

  The sudden silence of the clippers drew his attention back to the garden. The vicar pushed to his feet, sunlight flashing off a pair of silver spectacles. ‘‘Welcome to St. Brendan’s. May I help you?’’

  His gaze meeting Chad’s, the man went suddenly still, wide-eyed. His clippers dropped to the ground. Hand clutched to his chest, the vicar took a backward step right onto one of his well-tended herbs. ‘‘Franklin . . .’’

  Several more plants suffered as Chad rushed to his side and gripped a trembling forearm to steady him. ‘‘I’m Chad Rutherford. Franklin’s son.’’

  The vicar’s eyes appeared glazed, held Chad as if to stare clear through him. He blinked several times, dragged a breath into his lungs and released it slowly. He shoved a hand through his thinning brown hai
r. ‘‘Forgive me . . . the resemblance is . . .’’

  ‘‘I know. Extraordinary.’’

  ‘‘Uncanny.’’

  Chad released his grip. ‘‘I’m sorry I startled you. I should have sent word of my arrival.’’

  ‘‘No, no, my lord. It is I who am sorry. I had heard you were in Penhollow, was even told you bore a striking resemblance to your father. But . . .’’ His spectacles had slipped halfway down a short, round-tipped nose that reminded Chad of a ferret’s. He pushed them back up and offered a tentative smile. ‘‘I never quite imagined this. But do forgive me. I am Tobias Hall, St. Brendan’s vicar.’’

  Chad shook the man’s hand. ‘‘An apt name for a seaside church, St. Brendan’s. He is the patron saint of sailors, no?’’

  ‘‘Indeed, my lord.’’

  ‘‘And would you say he brings Penhollow’s sailors good fortune?’’

  He had asked the question lightly enough and expected a reply in similar kind, but the vicar frowned. ‘‘I’m afraid our saint has shown us but fickle favor in recent years.’’

  Chad gestured toward the paupers’ section of the churchyard. ‘‘I see you had a funeral yesterday. Any word on the man’s identity?’’

  ‘‘Poor soul. No.’’ The man gave his head a little shake. ‘‘Will you stay for tea, my lord? I’ll send my man out to tend your horse.’’

  Chad made himself at home in the vicar’s modest parlor while Hall disappeared into an adjoining room to prepare the refreshments. Chad couldn’t help wishing he had encountered the man at the Stormy Gull instead, where they might have indulged in brandy or a pint rather than the one brew he abhorred. He forced a smile as Hall reentered the room and set a tray on the table in front of him.

  Chad balanced his cup and saucer on his knee. ‘‘You mentioned vervain, Mr. Hall. Are you a physician as well?’’

  ‘‘I did study medicine for a short time at Cambridge, but I discovered my calling in the church instead. Still, with no medical doctor in Penhollow, I often tend the sick and bind wounds when the occasion calls for it.’’