The Deepest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I wish none of this had been necessary,” he said his eyes pinning hers.

  She looked up at him, disbelieving. “I never took you for a cruel man.” She choked on the bitterness that coated her tongue. His hands fell from her as if he’d been burned. She drew a step back beneath his regard, but perversely wished to feel the strength of his arms around her again.

  He said with deceptive softness, “There was nothing else I could do. To convince you.”

  Meredith could hardly still the trembling in her hands, a nauseating combination of rage and fear burning in her chest. “Again,” she said hoarsely, “you are denying me answers. For once tell me where you found ...” She could not complete the sentence, gesturing at the table. The glowing embers of the brazier forced her to close her eyes. She so feared stirring the coals in her heart, searching for that clear spark of hatred and vengeful determination that she knew was there. For Faron, the two-headed Janus. Odi et amo. I love and I hate.

  Fleetingly, she saw Faron’s face, his passionate black eyes, his wide, humorous mouth, his hair the color of a raven’s wings. And for an instant her skin remembered the feel of his hands on her body, the assured touch of a first love who had known the deepest recesses of her soul. Pain washed through her as harsh as a knife’s blade, robbing her of her breath.

  She was back in Archer’s arms. “What is it?” he whispered into her hair. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head with effort, her eyes clouded. One hand came up to his chest to clutch at his waistcoat. Her fingertips hooked over the edge of the fine linen of his shirt with desperation. She struggled to form a sentence. “Please tell me where you got this.”

  He pulled her closer still. “The Arab. At Rashid,” he said.

  Meredith groaned, the sensation of her pistol back in her hand, the memory of raising it and releasing the hammer. She tilted her face up to his. “Where could they possibly have found it? From whom did they get it?” The question was laughable and she knew it before it was out of her mouth. She wondered whether Archer felt her pain in his own body, transmitted through the skin that burned beneath his hands.

  “Dear God,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Will it never be over? I thought it was over... .” She repeated the words like a litany. The smoke enveloping the nursery, the rocking horse, the kaleidoscope, the crackling of the flames overtaking Julia’s plaintive cries.

  And even now, almost two decades later, she could still not reconcile the fact that the fire had been set by Faron, the man she had thought she loved. “Sometimes,” she whispered into Archer’s shirt, the words echoing in her mind, “I think his scent still lingers on my own skin, his taste on my tongue, his laughter ringing in my ears.” And she needed to make him go away, drive him from her blood like a disease that had been held at bay only to come rushing back with full force. She slid her arms around Archer’s neck.

  He stiffened, suddenly stone beneath her hands. Nonetheless, his hands moved slowly down her body, soothingly, comfortingly, until they gripped her hips. Desire began as a low pulse, rising steadily, the urge to press her lips to his was overwhelming. She was taken by a sudden desperate need to feel his stroking tongue filling her mouth. He looked down at her and she was captured again by the blue of his eyes.

  “Just this once,” she said. “Just this one night.” To make it all go away. She needed to be all body and no mind: she wanted the purity of physical desire and no painful memories threatening to pull her over the edge.

  Archer pulled her closer to the hardness between his legs, impatient now. “I’m hardly flattered,” he said, his voice low. “You do know that you’re not doing this for the right reasons.”

  She stiffened slightly. “Are you turning me away?” Her eyes shuttered and she put one hand up to his chest and pushed him back a fraction of an inch.

  “I didn’t say that,” he said, pressing close again, his hardness riding against her abdomen, clear proof of his inclination. His gaze was searing and she wondered what it would take to appease his pride. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know what it is you do to me.”

  “Do to you?” Her eyes flashed.

  “I know exactly what you’re doing. And I should feel offended.” He cupped her jaw, ran his thumb along her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin. He dropped an openmouthed kiss on the skin just below her ear. “You are using me, Lady Woolcott.”

  She shivered when he bit her softly on the neck, teeth grazing flesh. It was true. And there was little she could do about it. “Forgive me,” she said weakly, breath shuddering out of her, along with the memories. All was blotted out save for the hard muscles under her hands and the skylit blue of Archer’s eyes burning into hers. He brushed her chin with his before tonguing her earlobe and then moving on to her mouth. “I need this,” she breathed against his lips.

  Archer just smiled and kissed her lightly, knowing she had nothing more to offer than her desperation, first proffered not so long ago under a desert sky and on the hard ground in Rashid. “My pride smarts, madam. So I surely can ask for a fair trade.” He pulled back slightly, just enough for the cooler air of the room to rush between them and rob her of his warmth. “Remain with me here for twenty-four hours,” he said brusquely.

  Her hand locked on to his lapel. “That is patently unfair to ask.” She was desperate with need, and she wanted to drown in the blue of his eyes. There was something in the depths that she couldn’t read, something of an intensity at odds with the lightness of his tone that sent renewed chills over her skin. But it was simple passion that she wanted, anything to override the legacy of memories that threatened to engulf her.

  “Fair or not fair. It’s what I demand,” he replied with a challenging glint in his eyes. He pushed her farther away from the table toward the brazier that lent a dull glow to the room. A single candle burned on a gleaming shelf. He put one hand out to her, beckoning, and pulled her toward the alcove hidden in the shadows. His eyes never left hers, confident of her response.

  The bed was mounded with pillows and a fur rug. The room suddenly seemed too still, too quiet. Wrenching her gaze from his, she began removing her pelisse, still fully clothed, and watching him. In their movement, her skirt had ridden up, revealing her stockinged calves, and outlining a slender thigh that glowed in the dim light. She had not worn stays, but even her camisole felt suddenly too tight beneath the high-necked lace of her shirtwaist.

  Archer watched as she watched him. He slipped the buttons free at the neck of his shirt, pulled it over his head and threw it onto the floor. Then he pulled her over to the bed, and began with her heavy skirt, undoing the tapes until it slid to the floor. Tugging at the tie at her waist, he unwound the long strings from her rib cage. She slid her dress down her arms and abruptly stopped.

  “We will go slowly,” Archer said. He couldn’t remember exactly how he’d rid himself of his coat or what had become of her pelisse. She tried to steady her breathing and that only served to make him all too aware of the rise and fall of her breasts, of her slender arms still wrapped in the sleeves of her dress. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. Slender, with high breasts, and long legs encased by cotton stockings.

  Stroking her arm, he kissed her, one hand cupping her breast, his palm filled with warm flesh. “Are you cold?” he asked, drawing the crisply pressed sleeves over her elbows and wrists. His hands caressed her skin and she gasped, letting her breath out in a hiss as his fingers lightly brushed the inside of her arm, up and down its length. He let his hands roam, reveling in her reactions to his softest touch. A nail traced lazily along her collarbone and she was shaking. She seemed to still, not even daring to breathe, each time he touched her.

  He gently pushed her onto the bed, rolling her onto her back, placing a string of kisses along her neck, blazing a trail to the soft spot where her neck met her collarbones, biting down lightly, savoring the way her head fell back when he did, and the way she said his name in a small gasp. Moving lower, he laved her n
ipples through her chemise, making her twitch, running his tongue down the valley between her breasts.

  Her arms were still imprisoned between them and she didn’t seem to notice as he kissed his way down the soft skin, pulling the cambric along with his palms. A long pucker ran across the inside of each wrist, a perfect match, a silver slice marring the perfection of her skin. He had seen enough scars in his lifetime not to be shocked, and had earned a few in his own right. But suddenly he wanted to know, would know, who had done this to Meredith Woolcott.

  Now was not the time. A shudder ran through her as he carefully ran his tongue down the inside of her wrist. Such a small action to provoke such a response. He studied her face, her beautiful face, taking note of what caused her to close her eyes and what brought her to trembling attention. She had wanted this escape, and he was going to give it to her, leave her wrecked and boneless with nothing in her head or her heart save for excruciating pleasure. She lay resplendent on the fur, eyes closed, clad only in her chemise and her pantalettes, as he leaned forward to run his tongue along the beautifully defined line of her hip. She clenched, the muscles in her stomach tightening. His hardness twitched and thickened, demanding attention.

  But he wouldn’t let her go that easily. His mouth slid up her leg, from the stocking covering her knee to the bare flesh above it. He licked the fine skin at the top of her thigh and she groaned, turning her face further into the soft fur. Knowing that she wouldn’t protest, he slid his tongue up the valley between her thighs, parting and exploring. His hand came to rest against the skin of her abdomen, keeping her on her back as his mouth locked over the sensitive peak just covered by the fine silk of her drawers. Her fingers wound themselves in his, palms turned upwards as she writhed, trying halfheartedly to dislodge him.

  No escape. Not now. Archer smiled to himself and flicked his tongue over her, first slowly and then faster, pressing in against the sensitized flesh. His mind stopped working, shutting out the realization that he’d wanted to taste her like that since the first time he’d met her. He would have done anything to get his mouth on her like this. She writhed beneath his ministrations, her panting mixed with groans, her body tensing beneath him. Her feet pressed against him, a knee pushing hard against his shoulder. He wrapped his hands around her hips and held her down while she made a series of protests, incoherent with need.

  Archer’s stomach clenched while his erection swelled more inside his breeches. Working under her drawers, he slid two fingers into her lavish wetness, locked his mouth over her, and took her to the precipice. Instinctively, her long legs wrapped around his shoulders, squeezing with a panting release that seemed to go on forever.

  Her knees finally relaxed, legs splayed open, she lay silently taking great gusts of air. Unwilling to mar the occasion with talk or protestations, Archer stood, opened his breeches, and pulled her towards him, pushing her pantalettes down her legs and onto the floor. Her eyes widened, still dusky with desire, as his hands slid over her exposed bottom and gripped her hips. He leaned onto the bed, the head of his erection finding entrance to her body.

  Meredith closed her eyes, her hands fisting in the fur. With excruciating slowness, he moved in a fraction of the way, then out again, repeating the disciplined motions with infinite patience. She was tight, tighter than he’d expected, the slickness of her warmth inviting him in. And then she surprised him as, without preamble, she arched up, rising to meet him, stockinged feet digging into the bed. With a shudder, she took all of him, encasing him in tight, hot flesh.

  They found their rhythm, ridiculously, outrageously well matched. Fast, then hard, then exquisitely slowly, they lost themselves in the sensation of body meeting body, nothing else. When Meredith had been reduced to writhing sensation, Archer leaned forward, using his weight to hold her in place, running his hands up her torso. There was nothing but a layer of fine cambric between them. She twisted, the muscles of her back and waist alive under his hands. She moaned as he counted to ten somewhere in the wide universe. Giving in to the sensation, to the hot wetness, he was past coherence. He vaguely felt her nails digging into his back, her whispers in his ear. He changed the angle of his thrust and suddenly she was crying out beneath him, clenching around him as she found her release again. The muscles climaxing around him were all he needed. He shut his eyes, and with a few more rocking thrusts he came, pulling out of her in time as his own breath came in ragged gasps.

  The sun hung low in the sky, turning the red roses at the cottage door to fire. Fluttering muslin curtains wafted gently in the summer breeze. It was a book-lined room, papers scattered on the polished wood floor. The center was dominated by an opulent bed, high and fitted with the finest sheets and damask coverlets, where two naked figures slept entwined, their bodies heavy with fulfillment. The woman lay on her back, her red hair fanned across the pillow, one arm falling loosely around the back of her partner. His dark head was pillowed next to hers, a leg flung possessively over her thighs, trapping her in the sumptuous feather mattress.

  A small sigh escaped her lips, a muted sound of remembered desire that faded into a contented breath. Meredith felt the familiar body by her side, in tune with hers after long hours of passion. She kept her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, breathing in the scent of the summer breeze finding its way through the open door of the cottage.

  Then the scene shifted. She dozed beside a sickbed, awakened by a rustle, like the sounds of a creature scurrying in the underbrush. It played at the fringes of her senses, getting louder, gaining momentum. She pulled herself straighter and took a quick glance at the bed. There was no one in it.

  The noise was louder now, a building crescendo invading the room. A curl of smoke insinuated its way between the spaces of the open doors, curling toward the bed. Her stunned gaze took in the coiled plume of gray that expanded suddenly into every corner, clogging her throat, stinging her eyes.

  She lifted her stunned gaze to find a figure wreathed in smoke, coming from the nursery next door. Only the blank stare of eyes behind a leather mask was visible, his arms raising a truncheon. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. And then he was gone, enveloped in the choking smoke. In the chamber of her mind, her scream continued as if her breath was infinite, the piercing cry matched by the clanging of a fire bell and the violent barking of hounds.

  Meredith awakened drenched in sweat, shivering, her heart pounding and her throat hoarse. The sheets beneath her were damp with perspiration, her eyes wide with terror. Another man was at her side, one with broader shoulders, thicker muscles, the intense scrutiny of his blue eyes calling out to her. Not Faron.

  Archer took up the coverlet beneath the fur rug and draped it around her shoulders, covering her nakedness. He said nothing, simply gathered her into his arms. He took her chin between finger and thumb and brought her face around. Immediately, she closed her eyes to hide her pain. “You’re safe. You’re fine,” he said, softly insistent. Her eyes opened reluctantly and they were shiny with unshed tears. She did not wish to weep, for Faron and the love she thought they’d had. Her pulse still raged in confusion and terror, afraid that somehow she was beginning to feel deeply for the man with whom she had just made love.

  Archer stroked her back, bending his head to press his lips to the curve of her neck as his hand smoothed over her shoulders in a caress that gave warmth and reassurance. It was as though he understood her nightmare, absorbing the terrible confusion of emotions that had left her shaking. Harsh winter daylight poured through the unshuttered portholes.

  He asked nothing of her, simply rocking her in his arms. She tried not to notice how broad and hard his forearms were or how his heavy, dark hair fell across his strong brow. His vital presence soothed her senses, drawing her away from her nightmare. She had not given a thought to how she would feel about doing with Archer what she had only done many years ago with Faron. When Archer had covered her body in kisses, she remembered other lips skimming the softness of her skin. When he moved his
clever hands over her breasts and thighs, setting her aflame, she experienced a languid pleasure only vaguely reminiscent of a response long ago.

  She was not ready for this. What had she done? She tensed at the hand on her back, and she turned her head aside, to the portholes letting in the daylight. They lay silently, her back spooned into his body for an eternity, the gentle lap of the water the only sound intruding upon their self-imposed silence. Meredith fell asleep first, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, his arm folded across her waist. Archer felt her irregular breaths ease as he lay awake listening to the familiar sounds of his yacht, adjusting to the ebb and flow of the water.

  Chapter 8

  Hector Hamilton woke to the din of the coal man making his weekly delivery at the Watling Inn. An inauspicious hostelery in Charing Cross, it was all he could afford, what with his gaming debts. His leg pounded with every beat of his heart, with every moan of the creaking floorboards overhead and with the hoarse cry of the fishmonger seemingly right outside his window. He slowly rolled over, trying not to move his leg too quickly.

  He blinked in the dimness of the weak morning light. The lumpy mattress protested every move he made and he suddenly wished to be back home in Cambridge, in his own bed, at his venerable college, waiting for the housekeeper to prepare his morning tea. He ran his tongue over his teeth. His mouth was chalky and bitter. He had a vague recollection of the previous night, Burlington House, the footpads, Meredith Woolcott’s ministrations and then the physician, Dr. Codger.

  He’d never felt worse in his life. Not even when Cressida’s tears began to flow, her rosy little hands coming up to cover her pale cheeks, when he’d told her that he no longer wished to make her his wife. Hamilton stared across at the cold grate and considered whether he was suffering from a fever, given his fit of tremors. The wound must be kept clean, the doctor had cautioned, to avoid sepsis. An unpleasant taste lingered in his mouth, the result in part of the bitter medicine the doctor insisted he take and the remnants of outrage that he had sunk so low... .