Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Then, too, she wasn’t entirely certain she could afford to make this an issue. If she dared to, and he released her from her duties, what then would she do? She had no proof of anything as yet, and if she went complaining to the authorities that Peter forced his son to study ... who would champion her? Nobody! They would applaud him in truth. At least Ruth, no matter that she did not seem to like Sarah, was looking out for Christopher’s best interests.

  His father was an overbearing oaf who expected too much of his son.

  “I should ask,” Sarah ventured, “why do you wish him to begin his studies so young?” It was a sensible enough question, Sarah thought, and she waited expectantly for his answer, certain that he could not have a very reasonable one.

  “I smell taffy!” Christopher exclaimed suddenly, averting their attention. “May we get some, Daddy? May we? May we?”

  Peter chuckled at his son’s enthusiasm. “I should have known you’d smell a vendor at ten paces. Why not?” he relented. “Wait here.”

  He left them standing beneath an old oak that was bearing its first leaves, just the two of them, and hurried after Christopher’s treat.

  “Are you having a good time, Christopher?” Sarah asked, as she watched his father, for the first time unheeded. His back was to them as he drew out some coins from his pocket, handing them to the vendor. He was quite a handsome man, she had to admit. He drew attention from women without even seeming aware of it. Sarah hadn’t missed the appreciative stares they’d received as they’d passed other female strollers in the park—even those hanging on the arms of their lovers.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Christopher answered.

  Sarah laughed. There was little doubt as to his enthusiasm by the expression on his face and the tone of his voice. “I suppose this is rather exciting,” Sarah agreed. “Much better than being locked away indoors all day long.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Christopher answered, and thrust his little hand into his pocket. He turned his face up to the sky, and appeared to be scenting the wind, his expression quite blissful.

  “How would you feel about bringing our lessons to the park sometime?”

  He grinned.

  “Would you like that, Christopher?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am!”

  He was so quiet—except around his father—so well mannered. Had he not recited her words almost verbatim to his father, she might have wondered that he’d listened to her at all, because he scarcely gave a response unless prodded for it. “I suppose you don’t get out very much?” Sarah asked in an attempt to draw him out.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!” he answered. “My daddy brings me to the park every Saturday, and sometimes on Sunday too.” He smiled at that, looking rather proud. It was obvious he had great admiration for his father.

  Her surprise was evident in her tone. “He does?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!”

  “Good Lord, Christopher!” Sarah exclaimed, laughter tinting her voice. “Don’t you ever say anything besides ‘Yes, ma’am’?”

  Her question seemed to amuse him. “Uh, yes, ma’am,” he replied, and burst into giggles.

  Unable to help herself, Sarah giggled along with him. The two of them, she realized, stood there, giggling, looking and sounding like a pair of loons. She wondered how others perceived them—she with her dark spectacles, Christopher with his sightless stare, both with their canes, and both laughing hysterically at nothing apparent. Passersby probably thought them mad.

  Well, she didn’t care.

  It felt wonderful to be in Christopher’s company.

  Too bad his father chose that moment to return, albeit bearing taffy and flowers. When she saw the flowers, Sarah’s heart began to thump once more. Her laughter died abruptly as he handed the taffy to his son. Christopher tore into the confection with unmistakable fervor.

  “Your second today,” his father reminded him. “Enjoy it, son. It will be your last, or we’ll both find ourselves bearing long faces at dinner.”

  Sarah suddenly felt like an intruder in their midst.

  It must be a wonderful feeling to have a family, to share meals together, and laughter... and hugs.

  She had to remind herself this was not a regular family, although at the moment, they certainly seemed it—despite their lack of a mother...and wife.

  “Aunt Ruth will be mad!” Christopher predicted, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

  Peter patted his son’s head. “I’ll not tell if you’ll not tell,” he said.

  “All right, Daddy. I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Christopher returned, smiling, as his father smoothed the hair down over his forehead.

  “And...” He turned to Sarah. Sarah pretended obliviousness to the offer he held in his hand. “I’ve a bribe to ensure Miss Hopkins won’t tell either.”

  “Flowers,” Christopher said matter-of-factly, tearing off a generous portion of his taffy with his teeth. “Figures.”

  Sarah marveled at his keen sense of smell. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “I thought I smelled them, too. Lilacs?” she asked, taking Christopher’s example, though she could see very well what they were.

  “Very good,” Peter said, and pressed them into her hand, smiling down at her.

  Sarah’s throat closed a bit. His gesture left her at a loss for words, but she refused to be moved by it. It was a smooth maneuver, to be sure, by a man who was accustomed to giving flattery to get what he wanted. He’d managed to win Mary’s heart, though Mary had sworn she’d never be wooed. He wasn’t going to win hers so easily. Not that it was his intention, she realized.

  What did he want?

  “They are... absolutely... beautiful,” she stammered, and brought them closer to inhale their delicate scent.

  He seemed to go suddenly still at her declaration. He was looking at her curiously, and Sarah’s heart slammed against her breast when she realized what she’d said.

  “The scent of them,” she amended quickly, hoping to divert him. Her heart hammered. “They smell so beautiful. Thank you!”

  He was still staring at her, she was aware, though Sarah dared not look at him. In fact, he was studying her quite intently and it made her skin prickle with gooseflesh.

  “I don’t think I remember ever getting flowers,” Sarah added uncomfortably.

  “Never?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  He bent closer, and whispered. “Not even from your fiance?”

  Sarah blinked at his question. “Fiance?” Whatever was he talking about?

  “The man with whom you were engaged to be married...”

  Her brows lifted as she belatedly recalled the story she and Mel had concocted. “Yes... of course,” she said after a moment, a bit provoked by his sarcasm, “but no...” When had he the occasion to ask Mel about her personal affairs? “He never did,” Sarah continued, deliberating the answer to her own question. “He wasn’t the sort to bring me flowers, I’m afraid.”

  He fell silent, and Sarah knew he was contemplating how best to ask her about her accident. If Mel had told him about her fiance, then certainly he must have asked about her accident itself. And yet there was no story to tell, because she and Mel had agreed that their web of lies was best kept modest. They had agreed only to give the most cursory details and to refuse further inquiries. It wasn’t as though Peter needed to know the cause of her blindness to give her employ, was it?

  She refused to elaborate.

  “It isn’t the most pleasant subject for me,” she told him, dismissing it once and for all.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, and let it go, though reluctantly.

  It was clear by her tone and her body language that she would not appreciate his prying. And yet curiosity needled him.

  What sort of man had she loved? And why had he never brought her flowers?

  Had they an arrangement as he’d had with Mary? Or were they to marry for love?

  Standing there, staring down at her, he could scarcely imagine any man m
aintaining any measure of distance from her. How could any man look at those lips and not crave them? How could he see the pleasure in her face as she inhaled the fragrance of those lilacs, and not wish to bring her flowers every damned day? How could he spy the flush of her cheeks and not yearn to place fingers to her warm, soft skin?

  It must be soft—it seemed to Peter she had the most perfectly luminous complexion he had ever laid eyes on.

  What color were her eyes?

  He longed to see them.

  He had to stop himself from reaching out to remove her spectacles from her face, from looking into her eyes.

  “Sarah,” he said.

  “Yes?” She lifted her face from the lilacs, and it was all Peter could do not to bend and kiss those lovely lips.

  Damn, but he craved the taste of her more than he had craved anything in so bloody long—more, even, than he craved the sweet numbing liquor against his tongue.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, couldn’t help himself. She startled at the touch, and he dropped his hand.

  “You are beautiful,” he said low, and watched her breast rise with her intake of breath.

  What would she do if he kissed her now?

  He didn’t dare.

  That didn’t stop him from imagining... the feel of her lips upon his mouth...

  “You won’t tell, will you?” Christopher asked suddenly.

  Sarah started at Christopher’s question, as though she’d somehow forgotten his son’s presence. “Tell?” she asked, sounding confused. “Tell who?” It was obvious to Peter that she was flustered, and that, for some reason, pleased him immensely.

  “Aunt Ruth,” Christopher replied with a scrunch of his nose.

  “Oh, that. I think not!” she assured his son rather passionately. “If your father says you may have taffy, then who am I to say you may not?”

  Peter bent low, and said for her ears alone, “A very, very intriguing woman, Miss Hopkins, that’s who you are.” She buried her nose in the lilacs he’d brought her, and he added, not entirely benevolently, “I shall look forward to getting to know you better, Sarah.”

  The afternoon had left him with more questions than answers, and answers were what he wanted now.

  Chapter 10

  “No need to bother, Gunther,” a woman’s voice echoed from the hall. “I’ll see myself in.”

  “But, ma’dame!” Gunther protested. Their hurried footsteps echoed from the hall. “Mrs. Morgan!” he declared a little louder, and it sounded more a desperate warning. Peter glanced up from the papers strewn upon his desk to see Cile approaching his office, her expression furious.

  Their gazes met. Her blue eyes glittered angrily. “Didn’t you get my message?” she asked him as she stalked into his office.

  Peter pushed aside his papers. “What message?”

  She came directly to his desk and leaned on it, looking straight into his eyes. “The one I sent telling you to meet me at August’s home!”

  “I did not,” Peter assured her.

  “Damn you, Peter! Whatever has gotten into you? Do you know how embarrassing it was to wait there for you and have you never show up?”

  “Cile,” he repeated. “I did not receive it.”

  She straightened and peered down at him, giving him that familiar pout. “I heard you were at the park today,” she said.

  Christ, news traveled fast in this town. “No doubt you did,” he told her, and suddenly understood the nature of her visit. In fact, he doubted she’d sent a message at all. It was hardly unlike Cile to use such a tack. The last thing he needed was Cile on the warpath, and he decided to soothe her temper rather than call her on it. “In any case,” he said, “I didn’t get your message. But now that you’re here, why don’t you join us for dinner?”

  She suddenly had that all-too-familiar gleam in her eyes. “Are you certain you wish me to?”

  Peter gave her a wry smile, wondering what it was she was up to. “Of course, Cile.”

  “Well... I did wish to meet your... guest,” she confessed, and Peter lifted a brow.

  So that was what this was about, he thought, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable evening under Cile’s watchful eye.

  Sarah wasn’t certain what it was that woke her, but she thought perhaps it was the click of a door as it closed.

  She opened her eyes to the faint light of a candle flickering by the window and an empty room, and closed them once more, so tired she could scarcely remain conscious.

  God, she was so tired... having stayed awake so late the night before, weeping over Mary. She’d thought herself long past mourning, but evidently it wasn’t so. Being here, in this room, was not easy.

  Exhausted, she drifted back into a troubled sleep.

  Today in the park... she had been so confused.

  Peter’s actions and her perceptions of him were becoming muddled.

  She remembered what her cousin had written in her journals; she had saved every last printed excerpt. But the man in her company today had not been the same man her cousin had written about. He had not been selfish or cold or thoughtless. He had treated his son with respect and warmth, and he had been more than considerate of her, despite that she had been so mean with her cane. But good Lord, it had felt good to vent in such a manner! And still... how had he rewarded her? He’d brought her flowers, and though she was not quite repentant, Sarah’s conscience pricked her just a little.

  The scent of lilacs permeated the air.

  He’d had a vase brought to her room, and then had the flowers arranged at her bedside while she’d finished up with Christopher’s lessons. They’d been waiting for her upon her return, and Sarah had felt torn between wanting to throw the bloody vase at the door, and... well...

  No man had ever given her flowers.

  She supposed her attitude was hardly conducive to it. She was well aware she came across as cold and even a bit combative at times. She hadn’t joined Peter and his guest for dinner, hadn’t dared. The afternoon had taken an emotional toll on her, and she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of sitting before him, enduring his scrutiny.

  Sarah hadn’t been hungry at any rate. Though she’d ordered dinner brought to her room, she hadn’t had much of an appetite. She’d had perhaps a few bites of bread and drunk her tea. And then she’d grown sooooo tired afterward…

  Lilacs.

  She wasn’t supposed to see the flowers, but she couldn’t miss their scent so near her bed.

  Lilacs... and another stronger floral scent... sickeningly sweet...

  The perception confused her.

  She could scarcely smell anything else... except...

  The smell of smoke jarred her awake.

  Sarah opened her eyes to the flicker, not of candlelight, but of a flame.

  The curtains were on fire!

  A scream caught in her throat.

  Her heart leapt within her breast as she tripped from the bed. The room spun before her. The nearest thing to grab was the small blanket she had found in the wardrobe. Mary’s last efforts. Snatching it from the chair where she’d left it, she used it to slap at the tiny flames that licked upward upon the curtains.

  Smoke began to choke her.

  She slapped furiously at the flames, jerking down the curtains and beating at them in growing panic.

  In the space of seconds, the room exploded around her.

  Her lungs filled with smoke as she pounded desperately... until she realized it was a lost effort, and then with the charred baby blanket in hand, she raced for the door, tripping. She fell to her knees. God, it was a bad dream! It had to be a nightmare! Everything seemed so distorted. Crawling the rest of the way upon her hands and knees, she clawed her way up the door and threw it open, collapsing into the corridor.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs.

  It was the past revisited.

  Somewhere in Peter’s sleep-drugged mind, the screams registered. His eyes flew open. He leapt out of his bed and bounded
into the hall, trying to gain his bearings.

  The hysterical shrieks were coming from the direction of the nursery, and he lunged toward the noise, running as fast as his legs would carry him. In the darkness he tripped over a table and vase. The vase smashed in his wake as he regained his balance and turned the corner in the hall.

  The far end of the corridor glowed red. He could see the silhouette of a woman standing in the flickering shadows.

  Sarah!

  Her room was on fire.

  He began to shout for help at the top of his lungs. His first thought as he reached her and lifted her into his arms was for Christopher’s safety. Christopher’s room, thankfully, was near his own, and as long as they worked with haste, they could contain the flames.

  They must contain the flames!

  Sarah was barely conscious, her arms falling limply down his back. God, he didn’t know what to do. Take her and Christopher outside? Or leave them here?

  He carried Sarah without a word to his son’s bedroom, knowing there wasn’t time to dally, and dropped her upon the bed, waking Christopher from his slumber. “Stay with him,” he commanded her. “Do not leave this room!”

  There was no time to waste.

  Even as he turned and raced away, leaving Sarah to deal with his frightened child, he knew time was of the essence.

  Containing it wasn’t simply a matter of saving their own lives. In this city, where rooftops merged one with another, fire was their worst enemy.

  Sarah tried to shake off her stupor.

  Even in the darkness, the room spun before her.

  God! But she hadn’t known what to do.

  She’d been frozen with fear, but she was regaining her senses. Comforting the whimpering child, she urged him out of the bed and into her arms.

  “Hurry!” she pleaded with him.

  “Where are we going?” the child whined.

  “Everything will be all right,” Sarah assured him. “We are going to wait outside for your father.” Even in her state, she understood the dangers of remaining inside. The sensation of burning lungs remained with her, and the fear of it propelled her to her feet.