by Cheryl Holt
"What have I done that's so appalling?" Though she
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inquired politely, Sarah wasn't overly inquisitive as to Rebecca's opinion for she couldn't help recalling Michael's assertion that Rebecca was up to mischief. As he'd been correct about so many matters, she felt inclined to regard her relative with a jaundiced eye.
"You never participate in any of the entertainments that Lady Carrington has devised." Rebecca counted off Sarah's sins, one by one, on her fingers. "You rise early and have breakfast before anyone else. You spend your afternoons in the garden, preoccupied with your reflections. You dress for supper, come down at the last minute just as the meal is announced, then you eat in silence, rarely conversing with your companions. After, you retire to your rooms, and no one sees you again until morning."
"A perfect vacation."
"Everyone's whispering about you."
"Alleging what?"
"That you're a virtual stick-in-the-mud!"
"I always have been; that's hardly news."
"But how are you to make friends?"
"Maybe I won't." Glancing about warily, she grumbled, "Not with this crowd, at any rate."
"What about the gentlemen who are here? How are any of them to ..."
There was a significant hesitation as Sarah stared her down, her shrewd gaze working as well on Rebecca as it always had on Hugh. Sharply, Sarah demanded, "To what?"
"Well, silly ... to get to know you, of course. Hugh confided that you were hoping for a few introductions, and—"
Sarah cut her off. "I wouldn't put too much stock in what Hugh said if I were you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm here to relax. Nothing more. Nothing less."
For the briefest instant, she was certain Rebecca scowled at her with an unobstructed amount of loathing, but as
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quickly as the sensation emerged, it vanished. She was her customary, affable self.
Sarah didn't intend to immediately worry about what the disturbing impression might portend, but she tucked it away for later. At the moment, she was too absorbed with Michael Stevens and her novel carnal quest. With her concentration so engrossed, Rebecca was like a bothersome fly, buzzing about on the edge of her consciousness, and she felt like swatting at her.
"Speaking of Hugh," Rebecca mentioned, smiling and nodding to a gentleman down on the lawn, "I received a note. He's bored in town and thinking about stopping by for a visit."
"How nice," Sarah murmured, though she was actually contemplating that his arrival would be utterly horrid. She had no desire to run into Hugh, or have him hovering about and trying to manipulate her. When she relocated to Scarborough, there'd be plenty of opportunity to worry about him and his recent fiasco. His irksome presence would ruin her blissful respite.
She pushed back her chair and rose. "I believe I'll take a walk."
"There! You've proven my point!" Rebecca complained. "A gentleman has been asking about you, and he has a friend whose companionship I enjoy. The four of us could play in the next game of ball."
"I don't think so." As she strolled away, she discreetly masked her disgust at the repugnant notion.
At loose ends, restless, she left the terrace and rambled out into the yard, roaming aimlessly until she found the bench where she and Michael had tarried. She soaked in the tranquillity, surveying, watching the house, peering at the gardener's shack where he'd lured her and kissed her so splendidly.
Where was he? What was he doing? Who was he with?
Behind her, a pair of gossiping women were gliding by. Sarah was separated from them by a thick, trimmed hedge
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so she could listen to them, but not distinguish who they were.
"Yes," one of them whispered, "it was Brigham and Stevens."
Suddenly frantic, her ears perked, Sarah bolted upright. Brigham was the knave who'd accosted her!
"No doubt about it?" the other prompted.
"George insists it's true," the first said. "Brigham was leaving for London, but Stevens caught him out behind the stables. Beat him to a pulp! Broke his nose, some ribs, perhaps an arm..."
"I'd like to have seen that." The woman giggled inappropriately. "How long ago?"
"An hour or two."
"Any idea as to the cause?"
"Well, George contends it was over an insult to a woman, but with Stevens, and his pride, who can tell? It might have been any slight."
"I can't imagine there's a female alive who could incite him to defend her honor."
"Not anyone here, certainly."
Their voices drifted off as they sauntered away.
"What's happening now?" The query drifted over the bushes.
"Brigham was destined for town, with a bloody cloth pressed to his face, and Stevens is ..."
Sarah couldn't discern the remainder. The women had wandered too far down the footpath. She sat immobile, chaotically striving to come to grips with what she'd just learned.
Michael was fighting? With mat libertine, Brigham? Was he insane? Wrestling in the barnyard like a ruffian! She couldn't decide if she was more alarmed or angry. Then, like a slow-wit, the truth dawned on her: She'd been the catalyst!
Where is he? This time, the question had a desperate edge to it. Was he injured? Did he need assistance?
She had to speak with him so as to ascertain his con-
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dition for herself. Jumping to her feet, she was eager to run for the mansion, but years of excellent breeding kicked in, and she slowed her step, lest others note her hurrying by. She was too intent on her destination to have anyone identifying her, interrupting her for a chat, or remarking on her haste.
Like the nonentity she was among the verbal, exuberant crowd, she flowed through the garden, up the verandah steps, and into the house without a single person nodding hello. Inside, she casually strode to the grand staircase that led to the upper floors. Luckily, no one was about as she ascended, and she climbed regally but determinedly.
Where else might he be but in his private quarters? She would check, and if he wasn't there, she wasn't positive of her next course of action. She couldn't plan that far in advance. He had to be in residence!
Seeming bored but firm, she slipped into her own apartment and barred the door. Shucking off her bonnet and gloves, she marched through the dressing room and knocked at his adjoining suite. If someone answered— someone other than Michael Stevens, that is—she hadn't thought about what excuse she'd render. She simply forged ahead, but no one responded, no footsteps trod toward her, so she rapped again, then reached for the knob and turned.
The two previous times, when she'd been impetuous and tested the knob, the entrance had been locked. Yet on this third attempt, to her immense astonishment, it opened. Almost disbelieving, she watched it swing back. In a matter of seconds, she stood facing his bedchamber, and she didn't have to hunt far to find him.
As though he'd been expecting her, he lurked on the other side of the room, frowning intently at her door, almost willing her appearance simply by peering at the wood. He didn't seem at all surprised to have conjured her up.
A bath had been delivered, and he was soaking—naked, she assumed—in a large tub brimming with steamy water. Leaned against the back, his knees were raised and spread.
Though it was a pleasant day outside, a small fire had
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been laid in the hearth, and it cast his wet skin in shades of bronze. A table was next to the tub, and bathing accessories were stacked on it. A dark green robe had been casually thrown on the floor.
With his right hand, he held a glass of amber-colored liquor from which he vigilantly sipped, not taking his eyes off her as he did so. The hand was bandaged with a cloth. A second cloth had been folded over and was pressed against a bleeding cut on his brow.
Nervously, she stepped across the threshold, and she experienced the
strangest sensation that she was traveling from one dimension to another, leaving her old life, her old disposition behind, as she moved forward to embrace his world and whatever she might eventually encounter within it.
"May I come in?"
He motioned with his libation. "Yes."
Compelling herself to be the assertive person she usually was, she crossed to him, refusing to be cowed by his nudity, by his maleness, or by their secluded environment. For once, she had him just where she wanted him: all to herself.
As she approached, he glowered up at her. There was a strange look about him, daring her to draw nigh, chafing to discover if she had the temerity, but she had no intention of disappointing him. She neared, bravely advancing until her thighs abutted the rim.
"I just heard," she mentioned, and she gestured toward the pad that was compressed above his eye. "Is it bad?"
He didn't answer but proceeded to stare and, when she might have vacillated or fled, she forced herself nearer still, bending and balancing her hip on the edge. She breathed in the scent of the sandalwood soap he'd used, and the pungent, healing bath salts that had been dumped into the water.
Without waiting for an invitation, she covered his hand with her own and removed the cloth from his head. The gash wasn't deep or long, but red and oozing, and it prob-
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ably ached terribly. Tentatively, she traced along it. "How did you get this?"
He was silent for so long that she concluded he wasn't going to reply, then he conceded, "I'm not generally so clumsy, but I wasn't concentrating, and one of his coachmen blindsided me"—pausing, he shifted away from her questing finger—"or I might not have stopped."
His report painted distressing images of the altercation, of its brutality and violence. "And Brigham?”
"He'll live,"
The admission disturbed her. He was so passionate and intense. How was a mere woman to deal with such potency? And if she tried, how could she emerge unscathed?
"Are you in pain?" A stupid interrogatory, since she knew he was, but she was struggling for something to say, which was odd. She was never tongue-tied around him; the man habitually induced her to jabber incessantly.
"A little." He shrugged. "I'll mend."
Ere she could deviate from her chosen route, she braced herself against the basin, bent over and placed a tender kiss on his forehead, just above the laceration. Lingering with her lips on his skin, his eyelids fluttered shut as he accepted the sweet ministration.
As she straightened, and his sapphire gaze captured hers once more, they were separated by only a few inches. He was incomparable, magnificently virile, and wonderfully masculine, and he smelled so fine. His hot, slippery body beckoned, and she couldn't resist touching him, so she massaged comfortingly against his shoulder.
"Why?" She had to understand. No one had ever defended her before, never rushed to her aid, or taken her side. Emotions warred; she was confused, furious, frightened, but in the same instant, enchanted that he would risk so much.
After a prolonged, charged moment, he retorted flippantly, "Why not?"
"But he didn't harm me or—"
"He tried. That was sufficient." Obviously, he consid-
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ered the matter closed, his motives and behavior beyond debate or dissection.
She took the beverage from him, setting it on the table, then she loosened the bandage that bound his knuckles. They were bruised and swollen, flinty evidence of the thrashing he'd inflicted, and she suspected that they throbbed unmercifully. Blood was caked between his fingers, so she grabbed a clean cloth, dipped it in the bathwater, and sponged away the mess.
Observing, but offering no comment, he was silent and ponderous. When she'd finished, she kindly kissed across his fist, then cradled his hand in both of her own, hoping that by holding him in the simple fashion, she could provide ease for his afflictions.
"We need something cold for this swelling."
"There's special water in that pitcher."
He pointed to one of the dressers, and she rose and went to it, pouring some into a bowl. Indeed, its temperature was frigid—several ice chunks were floating—then she returned to him and applied the chilly covering. For a few minutes, she clamped it in place until his tension slackened, men she chanced another glance at him.
"Better?" she queried, but he didn't respond directly.
Instead, he narrowed his focus. "Why are you here?"
This was one of those occasions when she supposed she should simper and coo as a more accomplished female might, but babbling inanely had never been her style. Plus, she appreciated that he was watching her carefully, assessing her for a greater purpose, that she now had a chance to prove herself, to elevate their relationship to another level,
"I was worried about you, and I had to see for myself mat you weren't seriously wounded." A tad scolding, she added, "I came upstairs the moment I learned of what had happened. It's a good thing I found you so easily, too, or I'd have torn the house apart, chasing you down."
"I've ended up in worse condition."
His casual dismissal made her wonder if sparring wasn't a typical diversion for him. What a wild, marvelous notion!
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She'd never known another like him; certainly not the staid, stodgy gentlemen of the ton. None of them would act so impulsively, so outrageously. From birth, their sensibilities were quashed to where they hardly felt anything at all. He was an extreme individual, and she'd had some of his formidable personality aimed in her own direction, so she pitied the person who enraged him enough to provoke conflict. Michael didn't look as if he lost very often.
The frigid dressing on his battered knuckles had heated through, so she went over to douse the cloth, then gingerly swathe him again. He continued to study her, and there was a peculiar air about him, his stillness like that of a viper or other ferocious animal, and she wished she fathomed more about him so that she could properly deal with whatever was troubling him.
Struggling for levity, she smiled. "I didn't realize you were a brawler, Mr. Stevens."
"There are many things you don't realize about me, Sarah."
"Do you regularly engage in fisticuffs?"
"When the situation calls for it."
He shrugged again, so unforthcoming that she longed to box his ears. She was so curious about him. Yet their assignations had been so odd, and so accursedly condensed, that she never uncovered any relevant information.
What drove him? Why had he been so affronted on her account? What part of his character had urged him to act as her defender?
Needing more revelations, she probed, "When was the last time?”
"A few months ago. I had to drag James out of a dock-side tavern."
"James is your brother?"
"Aye."
"And he didn't wish to depart?"
"No."
With the modest revelation, a thousand questions popped up, but she seemed unable to voice any of them. His gaze
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had dropped to her mouth and stayed there. He was endeavoring to intimidate her, though she wasn't sure why, but whatever his incentive, he was in for a shock, because she wasn't about to shy away.
"I don't want to talk about my brother," he finally said. As before, the pronouncement made it indisputable that it would be fruitless to pursue the topic. "In fact," he proclaimed, "I don't want to talk at all."
Her heart sank. While she deemed that she belonged with him, and was ecstatic to offer comfort when he was suffering, perhaps he didn't feel the same. His dictum constrained her to suggest, "Would you like me to go?"
He shook his head, and she repressed a shiver of relief. A drowning woman thrown a rope!
"I'm glad you came," he admitted. "I'm glad you're here."
The disclosure severely astounded her, and apparently, him, as well. He scowled, pondering why he'd affirmed so much.
"So am I." Boldly,
she reached out and rifled her fingers through his hair as she'd been itching to do. It was thick and silky and damp.
He seized her wrist, shifting her so he could kiss her lightly, almost chastely. When he pulled away, there was a suspicious sheen in his eyes that couldn't be tears. Yet she perceived that the frightful combat he'd waged on her behalf had gravely overwhelmed him, had loosened some compass that guided him. He was hovering on a cliff of despair and wretchedness over which he could leap. Or not.
She melted. For reasons she couldn't define, the man called to her, intrigued and amazed, daunted and exhilarated, and she couldn't bear his agony. Mothering instincts, to protect and hold dear, surged to the fore.
"Thank you." She cupped his cheek with her palm and bestowed a chaste kiss of her own. "For what you did today."
"You're welcome," he solemnly declared. Brooding and quiescent, he persevered in analyzing her when, more than
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anything, she yearned to be whisked into his arms and treasured in all the ways of which he was so capable.
But he did nothing. He said nothing.
There was so much she aspired to tell him. That she was in awe, thunderstruck, and very likely falling ridiculously and senselessly in love, yet she dared not share any silly ardent outbursts. With ominous certitude, she grasped mat he wouldn't approve of a sentimental overture.
Still, she couldn't prevent herself from stating, "I hate that you're hurting. How can I help you?"
His focus sank to her mouth again, then lower, to her breasts. He caressed them meticulously with his eyes until the nipples peaked and rubbed against her corset, and she had to resist the impulse to squirm.
"If I requested that you disrobe"—his torrid examination slid up her torso—"and lie down with me on the bed, would you?'