by Eve Silver
Chapter Fifteen
Sitting rigid in her seat, Beth stared at her lap for a long moment. The silence was unnerving. She slanted a glance at Mr. Fairfax, caught his eye for an instant, then dropped her gaze to her lap once more.
He had haunted her these past weeks, haunted her secret dreams that surfaced in the midnight hour, and now he tormented her in the full light of day. Not by any particular action, but by his mere presence, the way he looked at her, the subtle scent of him, the way he moved. He had risen as Miss Percy rose, and now stood tall and solid, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, filling the space.
Just the two of them in the tiny room.
Beth said, “I had best return to the schoolroom.”
“Wait,” he ordered, his voice resonant and low.
She froze in her seat, her head falling back to watch him as he moved to stand above her. His gaze held her pinned, enthralled. She felt a sharp click of connection, like a key in a lock. There was something about him that made her want to obey his command.
Physical distance separated them, but it was no barrier. The look of him, unsmiling, mysterious and handsome and vaguely frightening, sent shivers through her.
“What is it you fear, Miss Canham?” he asked, low voiced.
He knew. He had seen what she hid, perhaps today or in one of their encounters in days past, something had revealed her secrets. Or perhaps all the small bits of the whole had come together to expose her. Her heart banged against her ribs, and she stared at him in mute dismay.
She would not say. She could not.
She folded her hands in her lap, closing one tight about the other so their shaking would not betray her.
With an oath that was soft and slurred—she heard only the tone but not the word—he jerked away from her. In three strides he closed the distance to the door and pulled the portal shut with a firm tug.
Feeling trapped, Beth half rose, appalled.
“Sit. Please.” His voice was little more than a whisper, and not a request. It did not need to be more. She sat, her heart thudding ever harder, a dull, steady rhythm, too fast for comfort.
“Tell me, Miss Canham. Tell me your greatest fear. Closed, tight places? The dark?”
She was frozen in place, unable to follow the shift in his mood. Where was the tug of amusement that he often showed at the corner of his mouth? Where was the gentleness she had witnessed in the garden when he had opened his hand to free the wasp, unharmed?
He was not that man now. He was hard and implacable and chillingly calm. He was not a man to be deflected or gainsaid.
Dear heaven, she was caught in his grasp as surely as that wasp had been, but she doubted in this moment that she would escape unscathed.
“I will scream,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked.
Of course, she would not. In truth, he had done nothing more than close the door. What had she to scream about, other than her myriad terrors? And those she should have long ago learned to bottle in the depths of her soul.
“Then scream.” He shot her a sardonic look and strode to the window to jerk the heavy draperies closed, blocking out the sun, blocking out the light, leaving the room small and closed and dark. “But I think you will not.”
In that instant, she hated him. Hated him for the meanness that made him choose to torment her so.
“Yes,” he said, his gaze caressing her face. And he smiled, ironic. “Be angry. Fill yourself with fury. Rage will chase away the dread.”
She stared at him. He sounded so certain, as though he knew.
“Tell me your greatest fear.” He spoke each word with precise, sharp diction. “Tell me.” An order.
“I fear—” What was she thinking? To tell him all? Nay, that was sheer folly.
With a strangled gasp, she pushed herself up from her seat, but he was faster than she, moving on limbs stable and sure while hers were weak and trembling. In a heartbeat, he crossed the distance between his place at the window and her seat.
Strong, blunt fingers closed around the arms of her chair, and he leaned his weight down, caging her with the solid lines and planes of his body. He bent closer, until she could see each dark, curling lash, and the fine white lines that converged to form the scar at the side of his mouth.
Not one scar. A network of little lines, like a star. Some darker, some fainter.
This near to him, she could see that now, while before she had seen only the deepest lines that, from a distance, appeared as a single white mark.
Half standing, half sitting within the steely circle of his arms and his chest where he bent over her, she hovered, frozen. A deep breath, and the tips of her breasts brushed his chest, sending a sharp jolt to her senses.
Trapped. She was trapped. By his physical presence, and by her own volatile emotions.
“Tell me,” he whispered, a demand that would not be denied.
Her heart pumped so hard and fast that she was sick with it, dizzy from it, and the walls were so close, the light so dim. She hated it. Hated the closed space, the dark. The fear.
“I fear small spaces. I fear the dark.” Piteous words that made her as angry as she was afraid. She let them fall free, tumbling through the silence where the only sound was the harsh rasp of her breath, and his.
She prayed those words—an admission that cost her much—would make him step back, step away, let her free. She had given him what he asked for. Nay, what he demanded.
The warmth of his breath fanned her cheek. Her hands tightened round the arms of the chair, holding her up. She dared not sit once more but he—with his hands next to hers, bearing his weight—prevented her from fully rising. And so she hung suspended in the space in between, her thighs burning and screaming in protest.
But to sit once more was to capitulate, to leave herself vulnerable.
Arching a little, she drew back and met his gaze.
In the absence of sunlight, his eyes were night dark, turbulent.
“You fear those things... closed places... the dark,” he rasped. “But here you are in a tight little room with the shadows eating the corners, dim enough that I must be this close to truly see your face, and you are fine. Do you see, Miss Canham? You are fine. You have given them voice, your worst fears, but they have no power. You sit here in the midst of them, and in the end, you have survived with no greater consequence than a racing pulse.”
“I—” Dear heaven, it was true. He had forced her to speak of her terror, forced her to sit here and face it, and though her heart pounded like the hooves of a runaway beast, her breath scoring her with a sharp pain, she had survived it.
As she always survived it.
“And if you were locked in a tiny box, in a space so tight that your shoulders bumped each side, you would not die from it. Your fear has power only if you let it.”
In a rush she exhaled, and she was left weak and trembling. She sank down on the chair, no longer able to maintain the odd, crouched position she had held.
Locked in a tiny box with her shoulders bumping each side. Memories tore at her. How had he known? How could he know?
“You are intelligent and courageous, Miss Canham, stronger than all your terrors combined. You can master this. You have mastered this.”
She understood then. He did not know about the box, but he did know about unreasoning terror.
His words—little more than a vehement whisper—did make her feel brave, strong. Why?
Griffin Fairfax was well acquainted with the power of fear.
She wondered how she could think at all, with her emotions so raw and ragged. Comprehension hovered just beyond her reach as she puzzled it out. She was afraid, yes, but where was the mindless panic that had overwhelmed her earlier? The walls were as close as they had ever been, the shadows as frightening, but as Griffin Fairfax loomed over her, his breath ruffling her hair, the strength of his body surrounding her like a cage, she thought that what she feared most was him. The inexplicable sway he held over her, and the str
ange pleasure she felt at giving him that power.
Unbidden came the image of his strong fingers closing about the wasp, a trap. As she was trapped by him now. But he had set the insect free, unharmed...
She stared at him, at the stubble-darkened plane of his jaw and the hollows of his cheeks, the shadowed depth of his gaze. He overwhelmed her, his presence, his intensity and energy.
Had that been his intent? To give her something even greater to fear?
Or perhaps only something greater to fill her thoughts. Him. He filled her thoughts.
“Tell me what you fear now,” he whispered, leaning close enough that his nose touched her cheek.
The scent of his skin, his touch, his nearness, they made her limbs feel sensitized, and her lips, and her breasts. Every part of her lit with heat, a liquid glow deep in her belly. She was left quivering with something far more complicated than fear.
A realization, an awakening of sorts.
It was not him she feared most, but herself. Her reaction to him. To Griffin Fairfax. Even in the wretchedness of her distress she found him beautiful. Alluring. Fascinating.
She thought that if he touched her, drew her close, wrapped her in the shelter of his embrace, she would not be afraid.
He was warm and hard and solid.
Dear heaven, what madness was this?
He moved his head so he drew his nose down, along her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck. The sound of his soft inhalation shimmered through her, and the even softer sigh of his appreciation.
Emotion buffeted her, a storm of confusion and dismay and... yearning. The room had not changed. It was still small and close and gloomy. But she could not see that now.
She saw only him, felt only him.
“Tell me,” he commanded, drawing back so his gaze snared hers. There was hunger there, such hunger, feral and stark. The strength of it touched her, lured her.
“You. I fear you.” A half-truth. She feared the frightening urge to turn her face to his, to breathe the scent of his body as he breathed hers, to touch her tongue to his skin and know the taste of him.
“Then you are a wise woman.” A dark whisper, his words made her shiver.
She had no wish to be wise at this moment. She wanted to be reckless, wanton, to press her open mouth to the side of his neck and lick his skin, to sink her teeth into the swell of muscle where his shoulder began.
Why? Why did she feel this?
Arrow-sharp yearning speared her, straight down the middle to her most private place, between her thighs. She reeled with the shock of it, from excitement and mortification and a slew of emotions mixing together in a heady brew.
Kiss me.
The madness of her thoughts made her gasp. She wanted this, wanted him, his mouth pressed to hers, here, in the dim, small room, where there was nowhere to hide but in the feel of him, the taste of him.
He would be her anchor.
A sound that was barely a sound escaped his lips. He closed his fingers round her upper arms and dragged her to her feet, then hard against him. Genuine alarm touched her, mingled with pounding anticipation.
Such a formidable thing, attraction.
He moved, and she had little choice but to move with him, a step backward, and another and another until the cold wall was at her back and the hard length of him at her front.
His weight pinned her, burning heat.
Breathless, panting, she absorbed the sensation, conflicted. Her heart thudded and jerked.
With a groan, he turned them both, so it was his back against the wall and she was pressed full against his front, pinning him, holding him, her weight on his.
She was free. Free to want. Free to choose. Free to flee.
For an instant, nothing held her but her own desire.
Then the flat of his palm eased down to the small of her back, while the other hand cupped her chin, his thumb dancing over her lower lip. He did it again, a stroke of his thumb, dragging the soft flesh, and she felt as though every part of her tingled and hummed.
Her legs felt weak, shaky, and as he stroked her lip a third time, dipping the tip of his thumb into her mouth to touch her tongue, her knees gave way altogether until she was held up only by the corded strength of his arm at her back.
Solid, contoured, he felt like a wall of pliable stone layered in coat and shirt and breeches. The clothing did nothing to hide the shape of him, the feel of him. She was full against him, thigh to thigh, belly to belly.
The sensation was foreign and heady and wild.
She had the shocking, tempting urge to run her hands over him, over the solid muscle that ridged his chest, and lower, around to the small of his back, to the tight swell of his buttocks. To stroke him. To know the impression of him.
The heat of his body passed through the layers of cloth between them, and the scent of his skin surrounded her, luscious, spice and man, sending a thrumming urgency coursing through her.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Hunger roared to life inside her, stronger, brighter, a burrowing need that left her reckless and aching. The suddenness and power of it nearly undid her.
She was mad with it. Mad with the need to press closer still, to wind her hands round his neck and pull his mouth down until she could taste him at last.
At last. At last.
“Have you dreamed of me?” he asked, low. “Have you woken restless and confused with your sheets tangled about your limbs?” And when the flush of embarrassment made her want to refuse to answer, he forced her to look at him and commanded, “Answer me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. She had dreamed of the way he had kissed her wrist, the vision so real, so powerfully stimulating. She had nurtured this secret yearning all along. She realized that now.
Some part of her had been waiting for his kiss since first they met, since he had smiled at her and teased her about her indecision that first day on the crossroads before the church.
“Beth,” he rasped, and then he dipped his head and took her mouth, took the kiss, his lips solid and insistent against her own, his tongue pushing into her, hot and wet and so luscious that she moaned at the pleasure of it.
Dark, rich pleasure.
She had not imagined... she could never have imagined...
He bit her lower lip, gentle and rough at once, exactly the way he had nipped at her thumb. The sensation was wonderful. Heady. Thrilling. Shards of need, urgent and primitive, radiated to her belly. She made a soft sound, capitulation, lust, and he shifted his mouth on hers to kiss her deeper still.
A sweet burning turned her limbs weak. She could not think, could not breathe, and she could not find the will to care. She only let herself feel, the rough stroke of his tongue. The sharp nip of his teeth. The ache in the tips of her breasts where they were pushed tight against him, so sensitive. She rocked her hips forward, wild with the urge to undulate, to sway.
This wanting of him was a living, writhing thing, powerful, lush. A drowning of sorts. A madness in her blood, both alarming and pleasing.
Wriggling in his embrace, she gave in to temptation, rubbed her hips side to side against his, lured and fascinated by the hard round ridge that prodded her. Him. So different than her. She did it again, shifting from side to side, reveling in his sharp intake of breath and the pounding of his heart against her own.
He liked that.
Fascinated, she had the thought to touch him, to touch this, the evidence of his need, and she slid her hand along the curved bone of his hip to the flatness of his belly, and lower.
“Bloody hell,” he rasped.
Steely fingers closed about her wrist, and his warm lips left hers. She could feel his body straining, taut as a bowstring, and then he loosed her wrist and put his hands at her waist, shifting her from him just a little.
In the dim light, she saw him close his eyes, lower his head, his breathing ragged. His elbows were locked as he kept his hands at her waist, holding her from him.
Beth watched
him, confused, bereft at the loss of his heat and the feel of his mouth on her own. Her entire body thrummed with the need to touch him, stroke him, rub herself against him like a cat.
With a tentative touch, she reached out and caressed the long, silky strands of his hair, following them along the back of his bowed head to where they curled at his collar.
His shoulders tensed. An instant later his lashes lifted and his head came up. She thought he would kiss her again.
She prayed he would kiss her again.
Instead, he eased to the side, away from her.
Befuddled, she stared at him, and then she understood. He did not wish to kiss her any more, to pet her, to hold her. There was now a bitter tinge to his expression, a coldness that chilled her. For an instant, she felt ashamed, somehow lacking.
Then his gaze met hers and in his expression she read all the self-recrimination, the guiltiness, the remorse.
He believed the lack was his.
“Mr. Fairfax—” she began, but his low huff of self-mocking laughter stopped her.
“Griffin,” he said. “After what we have shared, Beth”—he said her name slow and sultry, as though savoring the flavor of it on his tongue—”you must call me Griffin.”
She stared at him. He had kissed her and she had kissed him, twined her tongue with his, felt the hard proof of his desire press against her belly. And she felt shy to use his given name.
Now, there was another peculiarity to add to her already lengthy list.
Confusion buffeted her, and she came to a sudden sharp awareness of where she was and what she had done.
She had kissed him. Here, in Miss Percy’s study, where any might happen upon them.
What madness had caught hold of her?
He had touched her, pressed his mouth to hers, and she had been lost. Lost in sensation. Lost in the feel of him and the taste of him. Everything else had faded from her thoughts.
With folded arms, she stood, her thoughts in turmoil, her face half turned from him, her gaze flitting from him to the drawn curtains to the door, and back again. For once, the confined space was not her greatest concern, but rather the knowledge that she had kissed Griffin Fairfax, and that even now, faced with the realization of what she had done, and where she had done it, she wanted to do it again.
