The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  A tiny flame of suspicion reignited in her chest. She leaned back against a wall, where a thin shadow shielded her from the sun and his questioning. Why was he here? Why had he followed her? She rubbed her forehead and tipped her head back against the wall, closing her eyes briefly before daring a reply. “None of this is any of your concern.” Her voice hardened, and her fingers closed into a fist.

  “I know you don’t wish to talk of it. About Faron.”

  The name landed like a blow between her ribs. She was speechless. For a moment, she didn’t dare breathe and could only stare back at him.

  “That’s the danger here, Meredith. One you shouldn’t ignore.”

  She bounced her fists softly against her thighs. “He’s dead.”

  Archer was still studying her, steadily, as though he was looking for a point of entry. “How can you be so certain?”

  “I know,” she said more evenly this time. Because I can feel it. In my heart.

  It was as though he had read her mind, heard the unsaid words. He smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic, Lady Woolcott.”

  He was dangerous, Lord Richard Buckingham Archer.

  “We are wasting time with this nonsense,” she said evenly, although it cost her great effort. Anything to make the subject of Faron go away. “I absolve you of whatever Lord Rushford or Rowena and Julia asked of you. As a matter of fact, I shall cable them directly when I return to Shepheard’s so you may go about your business with a clear conscience.”

  To her surprise he nodded, although it was not quite a surrender. “You are correct about one thing at least. We are wasting time. We can continue this discussion once safely back in Cairo.”

  The subject was closed.

  They left the fort by the north entrance, going down narrow, cobbled steps in silence. Archer scanned the horizon as they passed into the remains of the fort’s garden, the air heavy with heat. Only the bitter tang of creosote spiked the air, as the austere landscape loomed before them. Danger was on the horizon, Meredith thought, cutting a sidelong glance at Archer, and moving back into her life.

  Her every instinct warned her to back away, to send Lord Archer on a swift return to London. This man, even in claiming to protect her, opened up possibilities she never wished to contemplate again. His mount waited, tucked into the coolness of an alcove. The terrain became more uneven, steepening. Archer moved ahead of her, then turned quickly to slide his hand around her waist.

  “I can manage, surely—”

  Too late. He lifted her easily while her hands grabbed instinctively at his shoulders, their bodies once more entirely too close, her fingers curling into the linen of his jacket. They were face-to-face, his implausibly blue eyes inches from hers, her pulse hammering a staccato beat. It was only a moment before he lowered her down his length. But the ground was suddenly unsteady beneath her feet and she reminded herself to remove her hands from his broad shoulders. Archer still grasped her waist, his heavy palms warming her skin through the fine wool of her trousers. She remained there, looking up at him until his horse neighed, rending the silence.

  He released her waist. And she lowered her hands. Perversely, her pulse did not slow and his warm masculine scent lingered in a cloud. Meredith was agonizingly aware of Archer as a man. She would have to share a saddle with him, traverse the desert in a cocoon of heat and wind, even though she knew that he was not for her, with his lean hard face and those penetrating eyes that promised more danger than help.

  It was worse than Meredith expected, a struggle to hold her body away from his as they rode along the same path which she’d traversed just twenty-four hours previously, with Murad at her side. She sat back in the saddle, her hands held tightly against her waist. The air was like cotton, soaking up her thoughts, and after an hour’s ride, the wind picked up, and the shifting sand made a deafening roar around her head, pummeling her ears and making it impossible to keep her thoughts straight. Archer appeared oblivious, urging the mount beneath them to keep a steady pace.

  They passed some scraggly brush, leaning so far over it looked as though it would be torn up by the roots and blown into the horizon. Clouds of red shimmered in the distance, causing the sun to take on a copper hue in the haze. Meredith pulled her bonnet low over her eyes as the sting of grit bit into any exposed skin. The horse began to struggle against the onslaught, ears pinned back. Archer said something over his shoulder, his words swallowed by the roar of wind and sand. Around them the desert shimmered, a flatly undulating expanse offering no shelter from the gathering sandstorm. It was among nature’s most violent and unpredictable phenomena, unleashing a turbulent, suffocating cloud of particles into the air and reducing visibility to almost nothing in a matter of moments.

  Archer urged his horse off the narrow road, toward a low sand dune in the near distance. It made sense to seek higher ground and in moments they both slipped from the saddle. “This is the best we can do until the worst is over,” Archer said, motioning to the leeward side of the dune. “At least we will not be struck by flying debris.” Reaching quickly into the saddle bags, he procured a bandana, moistened it from his flask, and slipped it over the horse’s mouth and eyes. Then the blanket reappeared.

  Meredith found herself slipping to the ground, the blanket quickly settling over both of them, a makeshift cocoon. It was stifling and yet a reprieve from the assaulting dust. “How long do you think this will last?” Her voice was barely a croak, the dust having settled to the back of her throat. They were so close that their shoulders touched.

  “Haven’t any idea. Dust storms vary both in size and duration. Most are quite small and last only a few minutes.”

  “You are trying to reassure me.”

  He didn’t glance at her, but kept holding the blanket over their heads to allow for a modicum of airflow. “You don’t appear to need reassurance. So you won’t blame me for being honest. I might also add that the largest storms can extend hundreds of miles and tower more than a mile into the sky, lasting several days.”

  As though confirming his words, the wind’s muffled fury whirled about them, the blanket becoming heavy with sand. Meredith struggled to remain calm. “I have also heard it said,” she said, licking her parched lips, “that the winds can pick up huge amounts of sand very quickly and one could find oneself buried alive.”

  “While we are comparing possible disasters,” he said, his voice rising over the groan of the wind, “at least we are not in a ditch. Flash flooding can occur even if no rain is falling.”

  “It appears as though this situation does not disturb you in the least. I take it that you’ve experienced something similar.”

  He shrugged philosophically. “Unfortunately I have been in the eye of the storm once before. In the actual dust cloud, I’ve learned the hard way, rain generally dries up before it reaches the ground, but it may be raining nearby and quickly flood low-lying areas.” He turned to look directly at her, their breaths mingling in the excruciatingly close quarters.

  At the moment, sitting quietly against him in the semidarkness, Meredith did indeed look like the woman who had outmaneuvered Montagu Faron. She sat up straight, no terror in her eyes, stoically waiting out the effects of the sudden blow, as though she’d done it many times before, breathing through the shock, convincing herself that it would ease. If she remained strong.

  Archer thought of what he’d read in Whitehall’s dossier and what had been hidden between the lines. Both Rushford and Rowena had been reticent to reveal what they knew about Meredith’s involvement with Faron, believing the danger past and wishing to give her privacy and time to recover.

  Archer felt restless with his partial knowledge of the woman now sitting by his side. He thought of the small cylinder in his saddlebags, and struggled against the impulse to push her into telling him what he needed to know. Both for his own satisfaction and Whitehall’s, he reminded himself.

  As though following the trend of his thoughts, Meredith turned her head to
ward him. “We cannot be that far from the village,” she said.

  The enforced proximity obviously rankled her, much more than her fear of nature’s fury. “As long as this storm continues, we might as well be on the other side of the earth,” he said.

  She tipped her head to the side, thinking. “I suppose all we can do is wait.” She paused. “Unlike you, this storm is a novel experience for me.”

  “You are managing remarkably well.” Archer wondered what else, and most likely far worse, might lie in Meredith’s past. “What’s a little dust storm,” he said with a smile, “given the challenges you’ve confronted in your life?” It was as close to a personal question as he dared, expecting her to shut him down with her customary crisp, one-word replies. He sensed she wouldn’t welcome anyone prying into her life, having lived so long in a cocoon of isolation to protect everyone she’d loved best in the world.

  Meredith hesitated so long he thought he had overshot the mark, which would do nothing but ensure continuing silence between them. But apparently, she was taking the time to respond and her voice was soft when she spoke. “We all face challenges, Lord Archer. Some more difficult to bear than others.”

  A gust of wind came and the blanket shook overhead, nature’s discordant symphony. He trod carefully. “Rushford told me some of what happened.” But not everything. How had she escaped from France, taking the two children with her? And why the need to flee?

  She seemed to hold her body very still, as though her posture could deflect any further questions. He realized that he wanted to know her entire story, least of all because of Whitehall’s directives. They saw Meredith Woolcott as a means to an end. Nothing more. The waters were muddied indeed because he found the pull toward her irresistible, an undertow that urged him to entangle himself in her life, although to what purpose? Hours ago, he had found himself touching her, tasting her, but he had pulled away at the last moment, recognizing that she was clinging to him from need that had little to do with him, and everything to do with her past. His pride still smarted.

  “There is nothing important left to tell,” she said simply. “It all feels like a very long time ago.”

  Archer couldn’t help pressing on. “Perhaps if you tell me more, we can lay to rest what happened yesterday, at St. Julien.”

  One of her hands slowly curled into a fist against her thigh. He knew that she wished to turn away from him, to be alone. Yet the sands whirling around them outside their small haven prevented her from fleeing. “What difference would it make?” she asked softly.

  “We don’t know unless you tell me.” Perhaps he would start somewhere different. “Have you any other family, besides Rowena and Julia?” It was an innocent enough question.

  “A few distant cousins, but after my father died, I entirely lost touch.” She added fiercely, “Rowena and Julia are my family. I have raised them since they were still in the nursery, at Montfort.” Love and protectiveness radiated from her. She was alone in her sense of responsibility and guilt. That much Archer detected. He shifted his shoulder restlessly to accommodate his unease. Familial relationships were never smooth. He thought of his mother, remarried when he was at Eton and spending most of her time in Italy, and as distant from him as the moon.

  “You inherited Montfort from your father, I take it,” he prodded gently.

  She sighed before responding, as though the information was being wrenched from her. “My mother died shortly after I was born and my father left England for France when I was ten.”

  “He never returned.”

  She added abruptly, “He died in a fire, along with his young wife.” Perspiration glinted on her forehead. “Dear God, it’s hot. Have I answered enough of your questions, Archer?”

  Something in the rigidity of her spine warned him to desist. Fire. The secret behind the conflagration was hers to keep. “Of course,” he said, humoring her, accustomed already to her reticence. The wind moaned around them, their makeshift shelter a thin shield against nature’s fury. Other women would dissolve into tears, or into his arms, or keep up a constant chatter to keep hysteria at bay. It was then the realization struck him that Meredith had earned her strength and no longer knew how to be weak. Her father and Faron and later, Rowena and Julia, had never allowed her the opportunity.

  There was a silence during which the wind continued to roar for what seemed like hours but was in reality merely minutes. Despite the suffocating heat, Meredith huddled into her riding jacket, her face smudged with streaks of sand and perspiration. He tried not to stare at her, but it was difficult at the best of times, and now he was so close he could wipe the fatigue and smudges from her skin if he chose. Her singular beauty arrested him as always, etched at this moment with love, grief and intelligence.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his elbow, an arm still supporting the blanket overhead. Despite her frosty reception of him, Meredith Woolcott was a sensual woman, a fact he had recognized from the first moment he saw her silhouetted against the stone entranceway of Montfort. She had all but capitulated last evening, and there was every reason for him to tempt her into doing it again. Danger, he knew, was a peculiar aphrodisiac and it would be nothing for him to tip her head back into his palm and take her lips with his own for another sweet taste of her mouth. He recalled the silky skin of her throat and the suppleness of her body which he could now ease to the ground, pushing down her ridiculous trousers and looking into her gray eyes while he fitted his own body between her legs.

  White heat pulsed through his veins and he closed his eyes. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? He tried to conjure Camille, but he couldn’t. He took a steadying breath.

  “Sometimes minutes can seem like hours,” she said, her low voice interrupting his thoughts. His shoulder brushed hers and she suddenly felt as fragile as spun glass. “Am I permitted a few questions of my own? It would be only fair.”

  He opened his eyes. The blanket overhead was heavy with sand. He jabbed it with an elbow to lighten the load before answering. “There’s not much to know.”

  She looked askance at him. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  He wanted to inch away from her but couldn’t. Even their shoulders touching seemed too much. “I promise you that the story may very well put you to sleep,” he said evenly. “I am an only child, served several years in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, do not allow the moss to grow under my feet and spend far too little time in London or my estate in Essex, according to my solicitor.” He rested one hand on his knee, the other still supporting the blanket that formed a canopy over their heads. “I probably drink and gamble too much. Love to sail. And that’s about all that’s interesting about me, Meredith. All of which you already know.”

  Stiff from sitting so long in one position, she rolled her shoulders, looking at him speculatively. “Never married?”

  He went still and stared at her a moment, feigning affront. “Why is that always the first question women ask?”

  She bristled. “It is your duty to marry and produce an heir.”

  “So I am shirking my duties? When I have a passel of cousins who have produced the next Lord Buckingham?”

  Her lips curved into a smile. She cocked her head, clearly amused. “Heaven forbid should you be occupied with something serious.” A small laugh and then she coughed, patting her chest. “Obviously, you don’t miss family,” she said when she’d cleared her throat, rubbing her face carelessly to remove some of the sand and perspiration.

  “I did not have a particularly close relationship with either parent, not entirely unusual, judging by the experiences of my peers. What is there to miss?”

  Her expression changed. “How very sad. Whereas my life would hardly be worth living without Rowena and Julia.”

  “And yet you have more in your life than your wards. You are dedicated to your scholarly work.”

  She shrugged. “It all came rather naturally. My bookishness and eccentric interests did not recommend me to the wid
er world, but I was nonetheless encouraged heartily by my father. My unusual education allowed me to realize that I had a purpose in life.”

  “You are implying that my life lacks purpose.”

  “I said no such thing. Only that my work is important to me.”

  “Your work,” he echoed. “Quite unusual for a woman of your background, working.”

  “Why?” she asked sharply. “Outside the rarified world which you clearly occupy, Lord Archer, the vast majority of women in the world work—in factories, in fields, in shops, to name just several examples, whether we are speaking of London or Cairo. And although the choices for women are rather limited, I was fortunate in that my father was open-minded and had the foresight to allow me an education.”

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of one arm, he added, “Many women of your rank and means would be content with hearth and home. Although, trust me, I have seen much of the world and woman’s role in it.”

  Meredith bit back a flash of temper. “You do not believe a woman capable?” she asked with deceptive softness. “Is that your meaning?”

  “Hardly. Although you seem quite sensitive to the matter. I was merely referring to your undoubted dedication to your wards.”

  “I don’t see the two pursuits as incompatible. As a matter of fact, both my wards were encouraged in their intellectual activities. Throughout their lives, they had the benefit of the best tutors and materials. You saw the library at Montfort.”

  He nodded. Her profile, her slender nose and full lips, were lovely in the semidarkness.

  “Julia has pursued photography, and has most recently helped her husband, Lord Strathmore, with his explorations in North Africa, capturing the local flora and fauna in a monograph which she hopes soon to publish.” Meredith warmed to her subject, delight in her eyes. “And of course, you are better acquainted with Rowena, who, I must tell you, was a veritable hoyden when she was a child, not that I ever discouraged her excesses.” She clasped her hands together over her knees. “She is an expert equestrienne, absolutely fearless, and courageously outspoken.”