He shook his head, not letting go of her waist. “Not my town house.”
“Then where are we going? You must tell me.” She glared at him in the dimly lit room. “I somehow cannot shake the feeling that this is all fitting neatly into some scheme of yours. Mr. Hamilton may be right in his suspicions.”
Archer grimaced. “Hamilton is the last man you should trust.”
“I find that assertion strange coming from you.” Yet she found herself offering little resistance when he pulled open the door. He drew her into the chill air, toward the coach that materialized from the early morning mist, awaiting them at the corner of the mews. Pulling the pelisse more closely around her shoulders, she shook off his offer to hand her into the coach. He followed behind, settling beside her on the tufted seat.
The coach lurched forward as Meredith pressed herself deep into the corner of the upholstery in a vain attempt to create a whisper of distance between them. He was right. Desire, not fear, washed over her. Damn the man, and his ability to set off a ricochet of unwelcome sensations that she had thought exorcised many years ago. The banquette was too small and Archer too big, his long legs and broad shoulders filling the space.
The sudden turn of events did not fit with her plans at all. She spared a sharp glance at his fierce profile, the lines etched around his mouth, the furrow between his brows, the thick hair with the threads of silver that defied taming. Unease uncoiled within her. Her past would not let her go and the depth of her loss, so many years ago, could not be erased. It was through loving that her life had collapsed, that she had brought danger to those closest to her. Love and deception and betrayal had wrought a sea change in her years ago, warning her against allowing anyone such power over her again. Not ever.
But here she was with Archer, a man who was both stripping away and building up her carefully constructed armor, forcing her to confront a past that she believed she had put behind her. She wavered between desperately wishing to trust him and being unable to do so. And yet she was riding in a coach with him, to an unknown destination.
His words startled her. “Your staring is making me uncomfortable.” The customary mockery was back in his voice. Even in the dimness of the coach, she could make out the penetrating blue of his eyes, stripping away yet another layer of defense before she could snatch it back. “I don’t believe I can withstand it, and we still have several miles to go.”
“My staring should be the least of your concerns.”
“Please enlighten me. I suppose Hamilton put all manner of doubts about me in your head.”
Meredith forced a note of calm into her tone. “You dislike the man, I can tell, when there is nothing to dislike about him. He all but saved my life.”
“Saved your life? At least you admit that you are in danger.” His eyes narrowed and Meredith tensed, sensing a turn of his thoughts.
“I didn’t say that.”
With the grace of a man half his size, Archer rose and pulled her up alongside him. He watched her with the intensity of a predator, but she refused to move away from him. Instead, she gazed out the carriage window. They had left London behind them, she noticed.
“Whatever you do, do not trust Hamilton.”
“You know nothing of him. Besides which, whom I choose to spend time with is none of your concern.”
“You may change your mind.”
She twisted away from the window, throwing him a cool glance. “So you continue to maintain. However, the only man I find it difficult to trust sits beside me at the moment.” She hunched further into the seat.
“We will get to that shortly,” he said. “In the interim, you are cold.” Without waiting for an answer, he took off his greatcoat and drew it around her shoulders. Meredith fought the urge to melt into the warm folds and inhale the scent of sandalwood and man.
Unaccountably grateful, she held the coat close with one hand, the wool crushed in her grip. “Why do you not tell me where we’re going?”
His breath stirred the soft skin of her ear. It would be quite natural, Meredith thought, to feel protected with such a man. Entirely safe, if her situation was anything resembling normality, which it wasn’t. Nothing she was feeling was making any sense. And in the end which was more dangerous, the threats from the past or her own physical weakness? Even as he loomed over her, a lush heaviness freighted her body. He was not wearing a cravat and the top fastenings of his shirt were loosened. His boots brushed the hem of her gown. The impact of those small details consumed her.
For the next two hours, she sat in agonizing silence, mounting a wall between them, glancing at her reflection in the dark opaqueness of the carriage window. The road beneath the wheels became rougher, pockmarked with ruts and potholes that challenged her to maintain her rigid posture. The cold country air gave way to a hint of brine. They were close to the sea, the sound of the surf audible over the grinding of the coach wheels beneath them. A moment later, the carriage careened around a sharp curve and drew to a halt. Opening the door before the coachman had a chance, Archer grasped her hand and swept her down the stairs. A few remaining stars glittered overhead in the icy sky, the lapping of the water a quiet murmur in the stillness of early morning. Meredith eyed the elegant sweep of The Brigand with a sharp inhalation of breath. No other ships were tied at the mooring sheltered in a cove surrounded by rocks silvered in the dawn light.
“We are at my country estate,” he said curtly.
“All I see is The Brigand.”
“Forgive me. I prefer it to the forty-room monstrosity up the hill.” He gestured to the cliffs above them.
“You must be hungry,” he said without further elaboration and as though she must gird herself for the battle to come. It was winter, but the small gangplank had been cleared of ice, and Archer bundled her quickly aboard the yacht. To her surprise, a wall of heat hit her from a small coal-fired stove. Meredith’s gaze took in the cabin, the floor covered with a painted canvas drugget, several paintings on the bulkheads and two chairs and a settee covered in green damask. A large mirror filled the port side, opposite a table that could seat several guests. In the corner, shadows hid a narrow alcove where she saw a bed.
Archer remained silent, gesturing to the table. There was an ease in his manner, a decided comfort that he took in his surroundings. Every line in his body declared his ownership of the yacht. She did not know the man, but it appeared as though he was at home on the elegant sloop. She bent slightly to slide into a low chair, letting his greatcoat fall from her shoulders.
“You had all this prepared in advance, didn’t you?” Settling opposite her, Archer watched as she took in the platter of cold meats, cheese and wine. “I did,” he said. “I didn’t think I was that predictable,” she murmured into the silence. “And whilst I thank you for your hospitality, I find myself not particularly hungry. Instead, I would prefer that we have that confrontation we’re both so keen to enter into.” She looked around the cabin. This was the ship that had sent her Rowena into danger and saved her at the same time. It did not bear thinking about, Meredith told herself.
Archer read her thoughts. “I had it refurbished since Rushford and Rowena’s adventure.” He did not elaborate, preferring to keep the details of the explosion that nearly took her ward’s life to himself. “Now please eat. You look as though you need it.”
He opened the bottle of wine at his elbow, pouring them each a glass. With hooded eyes, he watched her hesitate and then finally pick up a fork and begin to arrange food on her plate, first some cheese and then some meat, as though by rote. After a time, she said, lifting her eyes to his, “You’re not eating.”
“I seem to have lost my appetite,” he began, his fingers toying with his glass.
“As have I,” she replied defiantly. She pulled the napkin from her lap, and placed her fork carefully on the side of her plate. “I find these circumstances exceedingly trying. You promised to show me some kind of evidence, to prove that there is real danger.” She refused to be mor
e specific, to mention Faron, to give credence to Archer’s claims.
He narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass, picking up a thread that they had lost in the carriage. “First you must promise me to stay away from Hamilton.”
“The very devil, Archer. You drag me hours from London to the Channel in the depths of winter, promising me that all will be revealed, and this is the best you can do? Mr. Hamilton is my friend and I shall hear no more about him.”
“You don’t know anything of the man,” he said enigmatically.
“And I know even less about you, if truth be told. My apologies if I don’t see your point.”
“You are persisting in making things difficult—for yourself, most of all.”
Meredith shook her head. “You are the one who is holding something back. I sense that you can handily deceive those who lay their trust in you, Archer. And yet you expect me to believe, upon no evidence, that you are acting nobly on my behalf. In the interim, all I have experienced since our meeting is a heightened sense of peril.”
The wine flamed clear to her stomach and she wondered why she should suddenly feel as though the ship’s keel was moving violently beneath her. The wind was still.
“For which you blame me.”
“Not entirely.” She hesitated. “But I can’t help thinking that you are holding something back.”
“I could say much the same.”
“I have had just about enough of your prevarications.” Instinct tore the words from her chest. “If you are trying to spare me ... don’t.” And then she felt a crushing sense of defeat, the certainty that she could not go back to the world of fear that had once held her in its thrall. The blood must have drained from her face because he anticipated her flight, trapping her forearm beneath his on the table. Reaching for the bottle of wine with his free hand, he refilled her glass and leveled at her a probing look. She strained her arm against his.
“Running away won’t help. I should have thought you would know that by now.” His eyes blazed with certain knowledge. “At least not anywhere that I or the truth won’t catch up with you.” He released her arm and settled back in his chair with a confidence that grated on her.
Meredith felt her lips curl and a tightness in her chest, the desire to flee stifled for at least a moment. “I do not know what you expect, Archer. Why would you ask me to bare my deepest soul to a man I scarcely know and hardly trust?” The scars, long healed, burned underneath the sleeves of her shirtwaist. “Why are you so desperate to learn about Montagu Faron? Particularly when he is dead.”
A shadow descended between them and in the small brazier, the coals hissed and sang, reminding Meredith of another fire, long ago but never far enough away. She forced her hands to her lap.
He did not answer directly. “I do not wish to hurt you.” His tone stilled her fingers, shocking her with its compassion. Then don’t, she wanted to say. His gaze stripped away every layer of reserve she possessed. And then she knew what she was running from, not simply from her past but also from Lord Richard Archer. Her heart constricted.
“But I need you to be honest with me if I am to help,” he said softly.
“You know nothing of what lies in my heart or my past,” she bit out, her fingers digging into the heavy wool of her skirt, twisting. “And why should you?”
“Would you believe that I care?” His voice was little more than a growl. “Look at me, damn it!”
She was already staring at him, dry eyed, across the table. “Why will you not believe me?” he asked.
Meredith had to bite her lips to keep from screaming. They were well-chosen words, but they could mean nothing to her, could not be allowed to penetrate the scar tissue around her heart. She had felt his caress even in the angry grip that still burned on her arm. “There is no possible way I can begin to answer your question. It is a rare thing to be able to tell the truth about the past.” She shook her head. “How long do you propose we stay here? On The Brigand? Until I change my mind, perhaps? And begin to believe and trust you?” As though the enforced proximity could make any difference.
“You came with me willingly.” His features tightened. “You wished a confrontation, or so you said, and now you have it.”
He spoke the truth about suspicions she could not easily lay to rest. “Very well,” she said, hating the fleeting satisfaction that shot through her, almost as much as she loathed her instinct to follow his lead. “Let me put this as clearly as I can, sir. As I have already stated several times since I have met you, my life has recently been a series of mishaps.” The images roiled in her mind. “First Rashid, then Rotten Row—”
He leaned over the table toward her. “Rotten Row?”
She had no choice but to answer him. “A rider whom I encountered when I was alone. It was probably nothing, but nonetheless disturbing in my present state of mind.”
His voice was deadly quiet. “And you suspect me. That I am somehow behind all these encounters, including last night outside Burlington House.”
The challenge tumbled from her lips. “Tell me that it doesn’t make a strange kind of sense.”
“Whatever reason would I have to hurt you?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” It was difficult to trust. The old wounds beneath the fine cambric of her sleeves ached.
He bit out, “You should have told me, Meredith. About Rotten Row.”
She had to lower her eyes when his burned hotter than the sconces surrounding them. “Whyever should I come to you with anything, Archer? When there is nothing between us, no past, no present and no future. And most of all, when you have yet to answer any of my questions honestly.”
“I have done so, repeatedly.”
“Hardly to my satisfaction.”
“You still don’t believe that I care for you. Aside from my connection with Rushford.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “That is a ludicrous claim and you well know it. We barely know one another and we couldn’t be more different in temperament or interests. Further, I am hardly of an age ...”
Archer loomed forward in his seat, forcing Meredith deeper into hers. “You are disingenuous in the extreme, as you well know. I am a man, hardly immune to your charms, much though you would like to deny them.”
She waved away his statements, turning her eyes towards the glowing brazier.
He continued unabated. “Even you cannot deny that there is something between us. Your head won’t let you believe it, but your body tells a different story.”
Damn him. “I don’t have to listen to this.” She gripped the edge of the table. “I wish to return to London.”
“Yes, I believe you would, because you seem intent on inviting disaster. You can only tempt fate for so long, Meredith, before it catches up with you. And yet you wish that I set aside every thought of protecting you.”
She closed her eyes against his words. “For the last time, I don’t require protection, least of all from you.” Who was she running from? Faron? Archer? From herself? She didn’t know anymore.
“Don’t fear me, Meredith,” he said. “I’m the only safe haven you have at the moment.” His words sounded more like a threat, a last warning. He drained what remained of his wine. His large hand dwarfed the crystal, seeming to make a conscious effort not to crush it in his long fingers.
She thrust her chin up at him. “We are getting nowhere with this conversation. I don’t believe your protestations of affection, which places us at an impasse.”
Archer set the crystal on the table, presenting her with his strong profile. “I may have something that could help us with this impasse, much as I regret having to use it.” He turned and stared at her with such intensity that she again sat back in her chair. Just as she’d feared, he had somehow maneuvered her into a corner.
“So you have threatened repeatedly. It causes one to wonder why you are so reluctant to produce whatever evidence you have that you feel certain will change my mind.”
He arch
ed a brow. “I’ve little doubt that it will produce the desired effect.”
“Which is what precisely?” she asked.
He paused for an imperceptible moment. “Convincing you that Faron is somehow behind the attacks on your person.” His voice was smooth, yet something simmered there, just beneath the surface. Something that sent a chill through Meredith.
Faron was dead. “I have nothing to say on that topic.”
His eyes glittered. “Perhaps not at this moment.”
Meredith’s blood pounded. “Do not play with me, Archer.”
“This is far from a game.”
The breath became trapped in her chest. Beneath her booted feet the floor of The Brigand seemed to tilt again, despite the fact that they were in port.
Archer withdrew a small bundle of red silk from the inside of his jacket and placed it on the table between them.
For a moment, it appeared like a glistening stain of blood. “What is this?” Meredith clutched a hand to her abdomen, unable to bear the impenetrable look on Archer’s face.
“I did not wish to hurt you. Believe me, Meredith.”
“Believe you?” she breathed, wishing to back away from the table and the blot of crimson amidst the discarded dishes.
“This might be the only way of convincing you that you are in danger. And not from me.” The ship groaned and a piece of coal fell with a hiss in the hearth. With efficient movements, Archer unfolded the silk.
She had never thought to see it again. Copper, with mother-of-pearl inlay, and so innocent, it was the kaleidoscope from the nursery at Claire de Lune.
She nearly tipped her chair, rising abruptly. Tears stung hot at the backs of her eyes, and she gritted her teeth against them. In an instant, Archer was by her side, holding her so close that their chests pressed together with each breath they drew. Memories roared through her mind, a storm of images. Visions of Faron taking her in his arms, of Julia settling Rowena on their beloved rocking horse in the nursery, the fire devouring everything she held dear.
“Where did you get this?” she said into Archer’s shoulder, unable to look away from the table.
The Deepest Sin Page 16