Temptation's Kiss

by Lisa Bingham

  An icy foreboding settled into her bones. Not because Nigel Sutherland rested so near. Or because the house reminded her of all she’d tried so hard to forget.

  No, the feeling that doused her in panic was a result of realizing that once again, she’d tasted those same emotions she’d once shared with Jaime: safety, love, and more. So much more. Never had she craved a man’s company so completely. Never had she experienced such a passion, an all-consuming adoration—one that made her adolescent infatuation with Jaime MacDonough pale in comparison. One that seemed suspiciously like love.

  Richard.

  When had she begun to care for him so much? When had each breath she’d taken centered upon his well-being?

  Her heart began to thud in her breast, jarring against the restraint of her ribs. A terror for this man’s safety rushed through her muscles like a numbing drug. She was caught in a snare with no way to escape.

  Nigel Sutherland already wanted the man dead. If he ever were to discover the leanings of Chelsea’s heart, he would stop at nothing to arrange such a state. Once and for all.

  Jaime MacDonough’s cries seemed to howl in the wind. The picture of his body, broken and bloody, swam into her mind.

  Crying out, Chelsea rushed away from the promontory, nausea churning in her stomach. Once again, Nigel had taught her an invaluable lesson. But this time, this time, she would have to find a way to thwart his efforts. She would remove Richard Sutherland from his grasp.

  Now. Tonight.

  Even if she had to trade her soul with the devil to do it.

  Chapter 17

  Sullivan Cane stepped into the nursery to discover a package had been left on his bed. Thinking it was yet another gift from his grandmother, he unwrapped the simple brown paper. What he found inside, however, caused him to sigh in pleasure.

  Clothes.

  He tore the rest of the paper away like a stripling lad opening his presents Christmas Day. He soon discovered a jacket, three lawn shirts, two pairs of breeches, a vest, stockings, dressing gown, and undergarments. All crafted of the finest wools and cottons, all obviously well tailored and artfully made.

  By the foot of his bed, he found another box. Upon lifting the lid, he uncovered a pair of riding boots, a soft pair of kid dress shoes, and a fur-lined set of slippers.

  Sullivan handled them greedily, not knowing until that instant how much he had missed having a proper wardrobe. A loincloth and oversized shirt might be appropriate for the island surf; but here in Scotland, the brief attire did not suit the climate. Not to mention that the garb of a savage tended to make a man forget his own code of values—as if by shedding the outer veneer of civilization, one let a bit of the heathen creep into one’s soul.

  Sullivan realized such had been the case with him. He had hardened his heart and concerned himself with only the needs of his immediate family. It was time to extend those lines. His sojourn in the English Isles might be short, but ties had been formed. Ties that linked him as strongly to these people as those that bound him to his brothers.

  The familiar tap-slide, tap-slide of his grandmother making her way down the hall caught his attention. Taking one of the shirts, Sullivan stepped to the doorway and leaned his shoulder against the jamb.

  “The clothes are beautiful, thank you.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Yes, the things you left on my bed.” She limped closer to peer around him. “Ooh, such lovely things. Who brought them?”

  “You mean you didn’t—”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps Chelsea found an extra penny or two in the household budget.”

  If there was one thing Sullivan had learned while playing the barbarian, it was that there was no excess money in this particular household. Even the food placed on the table came from the garden first, and through a trade of items and services second. The articles on his bed were of too fine a quality to have been exchanged for Smee’s expertise as a blacksmith or for a pint of Greyson’s aspic.

  Ignoring the bell pull, Sullivan marched to the head of the staircase. “Smee! Greyson!”

  In a half-dozen ticks of the clock, two heads peered around the landing.

  “You called, sir,” Greyson droned, not so much as a raised eyebrow betraying the fact that he had never heard the master of the house speak before.

  “Come up here, please. Both of you.”

  Greyson and Smee exchanged glances but complied nonetheless. The butler was the first to take the stairs, moving slowly, calmly, and with infinite dignity. Behind him, the portly hostler darted from one side of the treads to the other as if wishing to pass his companion but daunted by the results should he succeed.

  “This way.”

  Sullivan led them into the nursery and gestured to the clothing that spilled over the worn counterpane of his bed. “Explain, please.”

  The clock ticked in a rusty, wheezing manner.

  After some time had passed, Greyson responded dryly, “I believe they are clothes, sir.”

  “I know that, Greyson. I would like you to be a little more specific, however.”

  “Woolen frock coat, silk vest, three shirts, one each of cambric, lawn, and—”

  “The specifics I require are not about the garments themselves, Greyson, but how they came to be here.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  He darted a guilty look at Smee. Smee pursed his lips and scuffed at the rug with the toe of his shoe.

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” Greyson finally said.

  “Couldn’t or shouldn’t?”

  “A … little of both, sir.”

  Sullivan studied the duo, sensing that there was more than the mystery of the new garments abubble here. Turning to the older woman, he bent to kiss her cheek lightly. “Grandmama, I do believe you seem a bit tired. Don’t let me keep you from your nap.”

  Beatrice Sutherland touched the spot where he’d bussed her. So delighted was she by the unexpected caress and the title of Grandmama, she didn’t refuse but limped into the hall and disappeared into her room.

  “If there’s nothing further you require, Master Richard …”

  Before Greyson or his companion could take another step, Sullivan closed the door, shutting them all in the nursery.

  “There are many things I still require,” Sullivan interrupted smoothly, a determined expression hardening his jaw. “The first of such is a few answers.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “I think you do. If my suspicions are correct, I also think that you know a good deal more about Nigel Sutherland and his endeavors than you have heretofore been willing to admit.”

  Rupert eyed his brother across the room and tamped down the worry that had been dogging him for some time. Gregory had returned from his reconnaissance several days earlier, and Rupert hadn’t needed the “sight” to know he’d been to Lindon Manor. Since then, he’d grown even more gloomy and morose than he’d been before—and that was a remarkable description of his present black mood, since he hadn’t been fit company in more than a year.

  Rupert sympathized with him, he really did. Nigel Sutherland had been responsible for Lydia’s death. He had sent the bloodhounds who had tracked the Sutherland brothers to the coast of Brazil. The trackers, thinking they had finally cornered Richard Sutherland IV and the natives who cared for him, had torched the hut where Gregory and Lydia and two of the family servants had been hiding. The dried grasses and palm fronds thatching the roof had ignited with stunning speed, collapsing before all of its occupants had escaped into the darkness. Rupert could still hear the screaming … the screaming …

  Gregory had never been the same since. His brief sojourn at Lindon Manor had only served to intensify his grief. Rupert had tried every trick he knew to bank the bleak light that doused what little joy remained in Greg’s eyes, all to no avail.

  “Gregory?” His brother, who was stari
ng out the window, didn’t even blink. “Gregory!”

  Gregory, muscular, overwhelming, brooding Gregory, finally glanced his way.

  “I’ve got to go out for a bit. You’ll see to Richard, won’t you? After his walk, I persuaded him to rest for an hour.”

  A simple nod was the only answer he received. Knowing he must do something soon, Rupert decided the time had come to find Sullivan. Nigel Sutherland had to be stopped before Gregory’s spirit became his latest victim. He only prayed he could find Sully without drawing attention to the fact that Nigel thought he had only one heir to contend with.

  When, in fact, there were four.

  Chelsea ran back to Bellemoore as if the hounds of hell snapped at her heels. She sprinted as fast as she could go, holding her skirts above her knees and scrabbling down the uneven path. She was driven by the sights and sounds of past horrors as well as visions of future repercussions.

  “Smee! Greyson!” Bursting into the house, she rushed from empty room to empty room, searching for signs of Richard. But the echoing halls were her only answers.

  Dodging back out of doors, she hurried down to the stables, where she found Smee, dressed in his apron, throwing grain to a pair of chickens—the only animals other than the horses that still existed on the grounds of the cottage.

  “Smee, where’s Master Richard?”

  His features wrinkled in obvious dismay. “Well, I—”

  “Where?” she asked, seeing a flush steal into his cheeks.

  “He left.”

  “Left? Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know, miss.” Smee wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “We tried to stop him, we did—Greyson and I. But he wouldn’t be stopped.”

  “What—”

  “We managed to provide him with some proper clothes. He appeared most grateful—even had Greyson help him with one of the cravats. But when he couldn’t find you anywhere about, miss, he took one of the mounts from the stables. Before we knew what he meant to do, he was galloping down the lane like the banshees were after him. Greyson followed him, he did.”

  “Which way?”

  Smee pointed toward the direction of Lindon Manor. “That way,” he admitted hollowly.

  A sick swirl of fear roiled in her chest. Surely he hadn’t gone to confront Nigel. No. Please, no.

  She ran down the path, scouring the horizon. But she saw no sign of a lean, heathenish form. Except for the churned trail of the earth, she would not have known that he had been there at all.

  Richard Sutherland sat easily upon his gelding, unconsciously adopting the posture of a man who had ridden all his life and had been trained by an expert horseman.

  Greyson awarded the younger man his grudging approval. Although he didn’t condone Master Sutherland’s unorthodox methods of introduction to the family, he couldn’t fault him, either. To bide his time and gather information, all the time playing the savage, why, it was something … something the Avengers would have done.

  “This is as close as I dare let you ride, sir,” Greyson advised, bringing his own animal to a halt. They were shielded in a heavy thicket of trees. Only a few hundred yards away lay Lindon Manor.

  Greyson never ceased to feel a sharp twinge of regret each time he traversed this road. He had served with the Sutherland family for years—nigh on to fifty, if the truth were known. He remembered the good times, when laughter and love had echoed from this house.

  “Sutherland lives here, then.”

  “Only during the summer months, sir. There was a time, a few years back, when he frequented the manor house more regularly,” Greyson hesitantly admitted. “But that has not been the case in more than a decade.”

  “Why is that?”

  Sullivan saw the way the butler chose his words carefully, then responded. “He had a ward, sir. A young lady. He visited her off and on throughout the year to check on the progress of her … tutors.” The old man’s words resounded with hidden meaning, but Sullivan sensed he would refuse to explain himself further.

  Sullivan experienced a twinge of unease, having known Greyson to be so protective of only two people: Biddy and Chelsea. But he pushed his disquiet away, determined to keep to the matter at hand. “How many people reside there now?”

  “Normally, just the staff—the assorted footmen, house-maids, and estate servants. Nigel Sutherland, his wife, Estella, his son, Cecil, rarely visit anymore. However, each June, Lord Sutherland entertains. This year, he brought only his wife, secretary, and personal servants.”

  “How many guests are in attendance, Greyson?”

  “Upwards of a dozen. The present Earl of Lindon prides himself on being very discriminating.”

  “They all stay at the manor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “Another few days. A masquerade will be held tomorrow evening in honor of the summer solstice.”

  “A masquerade …”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sullivan felt a stir of an idea, a spurt of satisfaction. “Tell, me Greyson. Are there other servants who still reside at Lindon Manor who worked with you thirty years ago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Quite a few, sir.”

  “Are they loyal to Beatrice?”

  “Yes, indeed, sir.”

  A smile tipped his lips. “Good, good. See if you can’t round them up for me, Greyson. I’ll need to see them as soon as possible. Tonight, if feasible. But later. Midnight. I don’t want their positions put in jeopardy.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Sullivan’s grin widened even more. “Tell me, Greyson. How came you to be so knowledgeable on these matters, hmm?”

  For once, he thought he saw a flash of discomfiture flit across the butler’s face. “Why, I’m sure it’s common knowledge, sir.”

  “I wonder,” Sullivan drawled mischievously. “Of course, when one is an Avenger, one is also privy to all sorts of information, isn’t one?”

  He chuckled aloud when the butler’s jaw dropped open, literally dropped, and he gaped at Sullivan like a fish out of water. “You see,” Sullivan murmured, leaning close, “not only can I speak, but I can read as well. There seems to be a good deal of newsprint stacked on the breakfront. Old issues of the Addlebury Post. A common thread of subjects seems to be folded to appear on top. A pair of dastardly brigands tormenting the female population of the countryside. The two men, one tall and thin, the other short and round, bear a remarkable resemblance to you and Smee.”

  Finally regaining his voice, Greyson sat poker-straight in the saddle, assuming an air of wounded dignity. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Never fear, Greyson, your secret is safe with me.” Sullivan dropped the teasing facade, adding, “We may have need of your talents sometime soon. Meanwhile, I think it’s time I paid a call to Lindon Manor.”

  “Oh, but you can’t! Nigel, Lord Suth—”

  “Never fear, Greyson. It’s not the master of the house I intend to visit. But the mistress.”

  Greyson stared at him, long and hard, evidently testing his will. His jaw remained stiff, square. But then, to Sullivan’s infinite amazement, a flicker of some warmer, gleeful emotion appeared in the old man.

  “You mean to help her, don’t you, sir?”

  Sullivan didn’t know which “her” he spoke of and thought it better to remain silent.

  Greyson didn’t seem to need any more confirmation of his thoughts. He merely looped the reins around his palms and stated firmly, “I’ll wait for you here, sir. The shade beneath these trees is quite refreshing. I shall be quite comfortable provided you do not remain too long.”

  “Aye, aye, Greyson.”

  As Sullivan rode to Lindon Manor, he realized Greyson had extended his protectiveness to include one more person besides Biddy and Chelsea. In all honesty, he couldn’t account for the warmth that settled around his heart like a
sea of melted butter.

  Nigel Sutherland brought his horse to a stop next to the steps leading up to Lindon Manor. A hostler scurried forth to take the reins as Lord Sutherland came forward, nodding companionably to the people milling about the veranda and the front lawns.

  As always, Estella had seen to it that his guests were entertained. Originally, a croquet tournament had been planned for the afternoon. Because of the inclement weather, his wife had organized an impromptu musicale. Even now, the strains of the pianoforte could be heard spilling through the halls, accompanied by the warblings of a tenor imported all the way from Rome for the occasion.

  Nigel grinned at a particularly high note. Pity that MacDonough fellow had shot himself. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had to inquire on the continent for a man able to hit a high C.

  Chuckling, Nigel flicked a spot of dust from his jacket and joined Lord and Lady Selby near the back of the room. He had only just offered his hellos when his secretary appeared.

  “Lord Sutherland.”

  “Yes, Wilde.” Damned if Reginald wasn’t slinking about again.

  “There are some papers to be signed. I put them in your office.”

  “Not now, Wilde, I’ve got things—”

  “I really feel you should take care of them. Immediately.” With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Wilde cautioned Nigel against protesting once more.

  “Very well. If you’ll excuse me,” he offered to his guests.

  He followed Wilde to the opposite wing of the house, closing the door behind them. “What’s so blasted important it couldn’t wait until later? I told you those reports—”

  “It’s not the reports, sir.” Wilde stepped to the window and motioned for Lord Sutherland to follow.

  “Damned cloak-and-dagger theatrics,” Nigel muttered. “What in bloody hell …”

  Then he saw her. Estella. She sat in the cool shadows of the arbor. Despite the gusting wind and hazy day, she had braved the miserable weather and now sat alone—