by Eve Silver
She thought she would like to lay her fingertips against that scar. To ask him how it had come to be.
She made herself look at him then, determined to see only a man, to feel none of the cascading emotion that had drowned her each time she encountered him.
But determination, however strong, was not strong enough.
There it was again, the warmth and the heady rush of elation, the ache that was not an ache.
He was watching her with a taut, hard expression that only fueled her heated thoughts. Common sense bid her look away, run away, but some abominable perversity made her choose to stay.
A huff of air escaped her and she dropped her gaze to his mouth. What would it feel like to have those hard lips on hers? She had never before kissed a man. Never been kissed. She wondered... There was a riot in her belly that felt like a thousand butterflies fluttering for freedom.
Did he know her secret yearning?
She thought he might.
She thought he must.
That in itself was enough to make her flushed and dizzy.
The faint scent of turned earth reached her, and the smell of autumn in the air. Leaves swirled about her feet, caught by the wind, their chorus a dry, crackling sound. She glanced down and frowned, remembering another day in this very garden when dead, brown leaves had danced at her feet.
A day when someone had watched her, veiled from sight.
Apprehension skittered across her skin and through her veins, to lodge like a lump of clay in her belly. Her gaze shot to the man before her once more. He was no longer looking at her; instead, his attention had turned to his daughter.
The trees rustled as the leaves caught in the strengthening wind. Beth tensed. She was certain that a week past there had been someone watching her from those trees, and she thought it had been so every day since.
Today, that someone had been Mr. Fairfax.
She pressed her lips together and frowned.
Had it been Mr. Fairfax watching her on those other occasions? Had he been outside her window that first morning, a shadowy figure standing in the rain? Had he watched her the first evening when she walked on the road and again here in this garden?
Perhaps. But if so, why?
Queries and uncertainties circled her thoughts, crows after carrion. Now there was a lovely image.
With a little breath that was more sigh than mere exhalation, she looked at Mr. Fairfax once more.
She chose her words with care. “Do you sit in that tree and spy upon us very often, sir?”
“Every day,” he replied, sardonic.
“In truth?” Beth blurted, aghast.
He merely shot her a closed look and said no more.
The sunlight touched him, and he was incredibly handsome, so dark against the bright glow of it. She was... attracted to him. A bee to pollen.
Oh, dear. Her cheeks heated at the thought and at the fact that he was now watching her once more with perfect concentration, his eyes warmed with a light that spoke to something deep inside her and made it roar to life.
She let the first words that came to her mind trip from her tongue. “Why do you spy? It is a strange pastime. Why do you not simply play with Isobel? Talk to her?”
“I know little of children’s games.” He paused, grim, then added in a low, rough tone, “And she never speaks.”
He sounded... sad. Beth could summon no rejoinder.
“She never laughs. She never plays. Sometimes, when I come to fetch her for a visit, she is distraught. I fear the even the sight of me distresses her.” He shrugged, the blithe action out of synchrony with the intensity of his tone and the sudden starkness of his expression. “And I have none but myself to blame.”
Then he blinked and his mouth tensed, as though he was surprised—and perhaps none too pleased—that his words revealed so much.
“Why do you say that?” Beth asked. “Why is the blame yours to bear?”
For a moment, she thought—prayed—he would answer, would share some secret. She could not think why he should entrust his confidences to her; she only knew that she wanted them, that in this frozen moment, she coveted his secrets, his trust.
She, who could trust no one.
She held his gaze, noting that in this light his night dark eyes were rimmed by a rich and verdant green. Noting, too, that he suddenly looked severe and remote and cold. Despite the sunshine and the shawl that draped her shoulders, Beth felt chilled.
“That is a tale for another day,” Mr. Fairfax said shortly, then he slanted a sidelong look at the back wall of Burndale Academy. “Or perhaps you have already heard hints of it.”
“I—” What to say? That she had heard he was a killer, a murderer? Alice’s whispered accusations could have no possible basis in truth, could they? If, in fact, Mr. Fairfax had actually killed someone, surely he would have been brought to justice.
As though he read her thoughts, he said, “So you have heard something.” Then he laughed, the sound soft and smooth... and infinitely appealing despite the tinge of darkness.
“Yes, I have,” Beth replied after a long moment. She cast a warning look toward the girls. Lucy, the further of the two, was at a great enough distance that she could not likely hear their exchange. Closer to them, Isobel stared at nothing, her fingers buried in the dirt, quiet and still. Beth was certain she listened to every word.
When Beth turned her face to Griffin Fairfax once more, she found him staring at his daughter with contemplative longing. For a moment, she just watched him, saw him, and felt something inside her shift.
Mr. Fairfax was a man faced with an odd, eccentric daughter, a girl who was fey and wan and eerily quiet. Most would have simply seen her confined to a madhouse.
What did it mean about this man’s character that he did not pursue that very avenue? And why did it please her so very much that he did not?
Walk, dear heart. Walk faster.
Beth’s heart gave a sharp, quick twist.
It pleased her because she knew very well what it meant to be a fey, wan, eerily silent child.
Chapter Eleven
Griffin watched the play of emotion that crossed Beth’s face. Clearly, she knew not what to make of him. As she walked a few steps away and went to stand by Lucy and Isobel, he had the thought that at the moment he knew not what to make of himself or his inexplicably strong attraction to her.
He had thought her merely pretty. He remembered that as he stared at her now.
Her hair was tumbling loose in a half dozen places, curling moon-pale tendrils that escaped and fell free of the plaits she had twined, light against the dark cloth of her bodice.
She glanced at him, and away. Dusty blue eyes rimmed in dark lashes.
Not coy. Wary.
Wise girl.
He found her smart and intriguing and far more than merely pretty. Lovely. Fascinating. Full of contradictions, and strengths and vulnerabilities that combined in a heady mix.
“Watch the wasps,” he said, stepping forward to bat one away from Isobel’s cheek. “They can be aggressive at this time of year. The threat of the coming winter drives them to a frenzy.”
Not a flicker of emotion altered Isobel’s bland expression. He had expected nothing else, but hope and expectation were not the same thing.
“Lucy, Isobel, time to wash your hands,” Beth said, the sound of her voice calm and even.
Isobel glanced at her and nodded. Nodded! Isobel acknowledged her in a way she did no one else.
Elizabeth Canham had reached past the broken places that tormented his daughter, the first person to do so in three endless years.
Elizabeth. Beth. He wanted to whisper her name, to watch her eyes widen and her lips part as he said it. He wanted to touch her calm center and ruffle her a bit.
More than a bit. He wanted to bring a flush to her cheeks and a darkening to her eyes.
She had her back to him as she watched Isobel and Lucy gather their gardening tools. Her hand lifted, and with
a languid movement, she shooed away a wasp. The sun caught her hair, bright, dazzling. A nimbus.
“You mention the threat of the coming winter,” she said, looking over her shoulder so her gaze meeting his, open and frank. “Do you see winter that way? As a threat?”
“Not at all,” he replied, smiling a little at her tone. And that surprised him. He thought he had not smiled so much in three years as he had smiled since meeting Elizabeth Canham. A poor reflection on his life, or a wonderful reflection on her. Either way, he was nonplussed. “I have a fondness for winter, for a crisp, sunny day. For a fresh fall of snow.”
As he said the words, he recalled the stain of dark crimson against a blanket of white snow. He folded the image away. That memory had no place in this sun-dappled garden.
Beth nodded, a graceful tip and tilt of her head.
He tried to determine what it was about her that so piqued his interest. Her face. Her form. Her bright-as-the-moon hair. She was lovely, with her delicate features and her wide, lush mouth. When she smiled, she was truly beautiful.
Her physical attributes tempted him. Of course. All those feminine things drew a man, and he was perhaps more base than most.
The truth of it was, as he looked at her sweet round bottom outlined by the black cloth of her dress, and the tempting swell of her breasts where they pushed against her bodice, he wanted to touch her, stroke her, pull his knife from his boot and slit her wretchedly ugly dress straight down the front, baring her smooth, soft skin to his touch.
Bloody hell.
But there was something else, something more. A different connection. He frowned, pondered, caught an idea. It was that she saw to the heart of the matter. That each time they met, spoke, she said something that left him feeling as though she saw him, knew him, and found his company pleasing nonetheless.
In turn, he knew things about her. He knew she was intelligent, observant. She was acquainted with fear, but chose to face it rather than cower. That made her both wise and brave.
He knew she could not bear to be still, to be confined. He had sensed a nervous edge in the way she stalked along the road and set her gaze to the horizon, the way she put stitches in her handkerchief, then ripped them out, again and again.
He knew she had suffered.
Or perhaps he only painted her with attributes and quirks where none dwelled in truth.
Perhaps. But he thought not.
“Come along now, Isobel,” Lucy said, her tone mimicking a schoolmistress’s as she took Isobel’s hand. “We must wash our hands.”
Isobel allowed herself to be led away by the other girl, docile, looking neither to the right nor the left. Then, as she passed Griffin, she reached out and touched the hem of Griffin’s coat. Just touched it with the very tips of her fingers, before she moved on.
He stared after her, astonished.
A long moment passed. Slowly, he turned his head and met Beth’s gaze.
She had seen it. Seen Isobel’s touch, the first that had been granted him voluntarily in the years since his daughter had witnessed his darkest sin.
And she understood what it meant to him.
He wanted to shout to the heavens. He wanted to grab Beth and drag her close and kiss her, revel in the hope and exultation that rocked him.
Her eyes widened as she held his gaze, and her breath hitched, a soft, sensual sound that reached inside him and made him think of other sounds he’d like to draw from her lips. Cries. Moans.
A surge of fierce, hot longing twisted him tight.
He stepped forward, close enough that she was forced to let her head fall back in order to meet his gaze. Her lashes were not very long, but they were thick and curled and dark for one so fair.
Inches separated them. Mere inches.
He could smell the scent of her hair, subtle, faintly floral. And the scent of her skin. Feminine. Arousing.
“What do you want of me?” she whispered.
Sweet innocent. It made him smile.
She was breathing quickly, the swell of her breasts rising and falling and he wanted to touch her, taste her, take what he wanted of her in silent answer to her query.
Almost did he reach for her.
Trembling, she stumbled back a step, jerked her gaze away to look down the now empty path. She meant to flee, to follow the children. She angled her body to shift around him. When he failed to move from her path, she frowned.
“Please let me pass, Mr. Fairfax,” she murmured, her chin raised high, her tone almost steady.
Of course, a nice man would not have accosted her so in the first place. A gentleman would step to the side and offer a bow or doff his hat and politely let her go on her way.
He did neither, but rather shifted his weight to more completely block her escape.
“Sir,” she said, her voice quite calm. “I must go.”
In her words and tone he discerned the clear expectation that he would let her, and the faint tremor that belied her pretense of control.
A dark smile twisted his lips.
“Beth.” He spoke her name like a caress. Beth. His Beth, with her delicate appearance and her core of forged metal. “You must realize by now that I make no claim to politesse. I barely graduated from short pants when I wandered onto the path of villainy, and though I now find myself back in the guise of an upstanding fellow, high-born, well-bred, the image is deceiving.” He shifted closer, their chests almost touching.
A pulse beat swift and hard in her neck. He wanted to lean in and press his lips to the spot, feel the tempo of her lifeblood, know the taste of her skin.
“I am neither a nice man nor a gentleman,” he whispered, a clarification lest she had misunderstood his meaning. A simple truth. No matter the clothes he wore or the fine, pretty façade he conjured, he had long ago acknowledged that he was no scion of chivalry, that his was a heart of darkness. Or perhaps no heart at all.
“You are a villain, then?” she asked, low and breathy.
“I am.”
She nodded, unsurprised. Studied him. A disconcerting thing, the way she looked at him, as though she could delve deep and see parts of him that even he did not know.
“A villain who issues pretty warnings,” she observed, making no move to look away.
He remained as he was, blocking her path, far too close for their interaction to be deemed appropriate, breathing in the scent of her hair, unapologetic. Hot lust ground through him, and images of wants and needs. He wanted to drag her against him, push her thighs apart with his knee, feel her writhe as he pressed his fingers deep into the softness of her buttocks and held her tight against him—
On a sharp exhale, he stepped back.
“What—” She pressed her lips together, shook her head, her confusion apparent, as was her attraction to him. She was innocent, yet he had little doubt that she knew what he thought, what he wanted.
What he meant to have... eventually.
The wisps that had come loose from her plaits, so sweetly curled, made him ache to drag out all the pins, to let the whole of the curling mass tumble free, to dig his fingers in and weave them through the silky strands.
With a desperate little gasp, she edged to one side.
He had no desire to let her go, but he realized with a bolt of clarity that had no wish to frighten her either. He merely wanted to... to what?
Be with her. Listen to her voice.
So he did the unacceptable and closed his fingers on her wrist, not tight or hurtful, but enough to stay her impending departure. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth.
With actions instinctive and swift, he drew her wrist up, breathed deep. She gasped and twitched but did not pull away. Pressing his mouth to the soft skin on the inside, he ran his tongue along the crease, tasting her. So sweet.
She froze, trembling in her place. He could feel the pulse at her wrist pounding wildly.
“Mr. Fairfax,” she whispered. “You overstep the bounds of polite company.”
Without rais
ing his head, he cut her glance through his lashes and swirled his tongue over her skin, a luscious taste of her, before offering his reply with his lips grazing her pulse.
“Yes, I do overstep. You see, I have little care for the bounds of polite company. Make no mistake about the sort of man I am, Miss Canham.”
“No.” The word was less than a whisper.
With care, he licked along her wrist, sank his teeth into the fleshy part at the base of her thumb, a gentle bite. She made a sound, of shock, of pleasure, a sharp exhalation that sank through his gut straight to his groin.
“Please,” she gasped, and tugged briskly once, then again, harder.
Dropping his gaze, he studied her slender wrist, her skin pale against his own where he held her. Then he looked up once more.
Brows high, eyes wide, the dusty blue color darkened to purple, she stared at him for a tense moment, holding his gaze, never wavering.
Brave, but not unafraid. A woman of valor, or perhaps a woman who had known—and faced—her share of fears.
She took a step back, pulling on her wrist once more, and this time he freed her with a slow, lazy uncurling of his fingers and a lingering caress to the back of her hand.
She looked down, her lashes veiling her eyes, her head bowed as she stared at her wrist and the seconds trooped one after the next like a line of ants. At length, she raised her head.
“Is it your intent to distress me?” she asked, her eyes narrowed now, sparking blue fire, her successful withdrawal leaving her anger stronger than her fear, and her passion lacing both.
She took another half-step around him.
“You ask only if I meant to distress you, not if I meant to harm you. Are you such an innocent that you do not realize that I might well do just that? We are alone here in the garden.” And he had held her back from escape.
Anger roared through him, at himself for his precipitous actions, at her for not screaming and running. He had warned her and still she did not seem to grasp exactly what he was.
A villain. A monster.
He was grateful that she did not see it; he was furious that she did not see it.
