His Sinful Touch

by Candace Camp

  Well, it was useless to regret what they hadn’t done. He turned his thoughts to his other talent, the ability to sense things from objects. But what good would it do him to touch one of these walls and feel the rage and despair of an earlier prisoner here? It would, if anything, only increase such feelings in himself, which he had just fought to batter into submission. The last thing he wanted was for them to rise up in him, swallowing him.

  He closed his eyes, opening himself to ideas, but all that appeared was the memory of the time he and Con and Anna, Theo’s wife, had stumbled upon the body. It was long ago, before the dreams had started. He remembered standing on the footbridge, gazing down into the water, watching it swirl and tumble over the bed of rocks. He remembered Anna turning and stepping off the bridge onto the dirt path. She stopped in her tracks, looking suddenly pale. He and Con went to her, Alex reaching out to take her arm, thinking she was about to faint.

  The most horrible feeling he’d ever experienced rippled through him, a wave of fury and hatred and bloodlust that had almost felled him on the spot. Alex dropped her arm, and the feelings subsided, but there was still a trace of it in the air. He felt it calling to him, and though he tried to push it away, it had been too strong. He turned and looked.

  Anna walked toward the body, and he and Con followed. Alex fought the emotions trying to shove their way into him. But it was impossible. The killer’s fury swamped him, fury and insane delight, mingling in a horrific way with the pain and terror of the person who had died. The sight of the blood and the battered head were awful, but it was the flood of feeling that invaded him that sent him fleeing from the body and heaving up everything inside his stomach.

  It had been the first time Alex had experienced one of his visions, and it had been terrifying. He had not even touched the body, yet the horror had swarmed into him. He had never spoken of it to anyone. Indeed, he had never even acknowledged it to himself. He remembered only the bloody body, ignoring the rest of it. And when he thought of the start of his ability, he always attributed it to a different trip with Kyria and Rafe.

  But now the full memory poured through him. Once again he felt the raw, wild emotion, the awful fear of becoming lost in it, being overtaken. Alex shivered, pale and cold as ice. This was what he feared.

  The realization struck him like a blow. It was the power of his ability, the possibility of what it could do to him, that haunted his dreams, both then and now. As his power had grown, he had controlled it, disciplined it, removed it from himself. No wonder the dreams had started up again when Sabrina came into his life. She had slipped beneath his defenses, the link he had with her widening the carefully small channel he had allowed for his talent. She had awakened the dormant power, and its strength loomed again, threatening to shatter his carefully built control.

  But he was no longer a boy, bombarded by an unknown force. He was a man, experienced in controlling his power now. He could accept the full scope of his ability without being overwhelmed. He could use it.

  And to save Sabrina, he would, no matter what it might do to him. Alex stood up and started toward the door.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  SABRINA’S LEGS TREMBLED as she stepped out of the carriage and walked up to the door, but she controlled her expression. She had to be calm and unafraid if she were to help Alex. She rapped sharply with the brass door knocker.

  A footman opened the door to her, and as she stepped through the door, Mr. Dearborn hurried toward her, smiling unctuously. “Sabrina. My dear. I am so happy you came.”

  “I had no choice,” she replied flatly. Did the man actually think she was so stupid she would believe his act?

  Dearborn ignored her statement. “Come into the drawing room, my dear.” He turned toward the footman. “You may go, Wilson.” Dearborn reached out to take Sabrina’s arm, but she jerked it away, and he turned the movement into a gesture toward the door. “This way, dear.”

  She stalked into the room he indicated, and Dearborn closed the door after them. Peter stood at the mantel across the room, reminding her forcibly of the scene she had witnessed at the Morelands’ house. The Dearborns didn’t know she had heard everything they said. Nor would they be aware that she had recovered her memory. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

  Peter came forward to greet her, but her glare stopped him in his tracks.

  “Would you care for some tea, Sabrina?” Dearborn asked.

  “This isn’t a social call. Where is Alex?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t keep track of Moreland’s whereabouts, my dear.”

  “Stop calling me that.” Sabrina unclenched her jaw and continued, “Mr. Dearborn, I’m not here to play games. You sent me this.” She pulled the cuff link from her pocket and held it up. “The implication is clear. You are holding Alex for ransom. I want to see him.”

  “Now, Sabrina, child, there’s no need to be melodramatic. All we want is for you to return to us. To take your rightful place as Peter’s wife. I’m sure your memory will return when you come home.”

  “There is no need to keep up your pretense of affection for me. I’ve had more than enough of that the past few years.”

  “My de—Sabrina,” Dearborn said reproachfully. “There was never any pretense. I have loved you like a daughter. Peter loves you, as well. You may not remember your life with us, but you were very happy. Don’t let Alexander Moreland poison your mind with wicked tales of us. You and Peter fell in love and married—”

  “I have recovered my memory.” A dead silence fell after her words.

  After a moment, Dearborn said, “Oh, I see.” Rallying, he went on, “Then you remember how happy you were with us. How much Mrs. Dearborn loves you. All the things we’ve done for you. We took you in after your parents died. You love us, Sabrina. It would break my heart to lose you. And poor Regina would be devastated.”

  “If you regained your memory, then you must remember our wedding ceremony,” Peter said in a cajoling voice. “Saying your vows...”

  “I remember saying my vows before an actor!” Sabrina shouted.

  Peter blanched. “You’ve—”

  “Yes, I have talked with your friend Anderson Fairfield—if, of course, that is his name. My God, Peter, I never imagined that you were so low.”

  “I’m not! Damn it, Sabrina, I don’t understand what’s the matter with you. We’ve always been close. I would treat you like a queen.”

  “Would that be before or after you locked me away in Bedlam?” When both of them stared at her in astonishment, she went on, “You see, I know all of it. I know what sort of creatures you are. I know you have been stealing from my trust for years. I know that you hoped to continue to control my money by marrying me to Peter. You cannot in a thousand years convince me to do that.”

  “Are you prepared to say goodbye to any hope of seeing Alexander Moreland again?” Mr. Dearborn’s face was hard now, his voice harsh, all show of sympathy and love gone. “You will marry Peter. We have the special license—you will go to a priest and say your vows.”

  “I will not.”

  “Well, that is that, then.” Dearborn turned away.

  Sabrina kept a firm grip on her emotions. “Do you think you can just kill Alex and get away with it?”

  “No, no, we won’t kill him. All we have to do is not return.”

  A chill ran through her, and Sabrina knew it must have shown on her face, for a triumph flared in Dearborn’s eyes. She shoved away the thought of Alex locked away somewhere, alone, dying inch by inch each day. All because of her. She hated the shakiness in her voice as she replied, “He’s the son of a duke. They will bring the law down on you like a hammer.”

  “Why?” Dearborn widened his eyes innocently. “We know nothing about Alex Moreland or what happened to him. Why should we? We barely know the man. The only one who is claiming we murdered him is a poor girl who has f
or years been prone to fits of fear and melancholy.” His voice turned wheedling. “Come home, Sabrina. Take your vows. We will do our utmost to locate Moreland, if it will ease your mind.”

  “I will not agree to anything until you free Alex.”

  “That’s out of the question,” Dearborn snapped. “Not until we are certain of you. Marry Peter. Now. Or Alex Moreland will disappear.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Well, Sabrina, what is it to be? His future is in your hands.”

  * * *

  ALEX SQUATTED DOWN beside the tray of food and took off the glass and bowl. Clearing his mind of all thought, he gripped the tray firmly between his hands and opened himself to the sensations.

  He could feel his captor’s presence. He concentrated and it flowed into him—bitterness, stubbornness and fear. Yes, mingled with the antagonism and distrust was a strong thread of fear. It seemed absurd that the man should fear him, so Alex dug more deeply, pulling at the sensations in a way he never had before. And, there, sunk deep inside, was the bedrock on which his fear sat—superstition. Primitive, unreasoning superstition, the kind that set men on witch hunts.

  Witchery, the man had said. Dearborn had convinced the man that Alex was capable of working magic. Seeing this dark, stagnant pool of ignorance and fear inside his jailer, Alex guessed that it had not been hard to do. Alex set down the tray and began to pace, thinking. There must be some way to use this knowledge.

  A time or two in his life, Alex had wondered if his ability worked both ways. They had been small, insignificant things—he had been reading a book of Theo’s, thinking how hungry he was but unwilling to pull himself away from the book, and after a few minutes Theo had stuck his head in the door, asking why Alex hadn’t come down for tea. Another time he had talked one of their tutors into allowing them to skip their last hour of studies, and afterward he had wondered if the fact that he was holding the tutor’s pencil had helped him convince the man.

  He had dismissed them as silly, impossible ideas. But what if it was possible to touch another’s mind or rouse their feelings from afar by using his talent? And if it were, wouldn’t the sort of mind that was ruled by superstition be easier to sway? Alex was frankly desperate enough to try anything.

  Picking up the tray again, he clamped both hands on it and focused. When he felt the faint tingle of the man’s presence, the trickle of his emotions into Alex’s consciousness, Alex directed his own thoughts back into the channel, swimming upstream. It was difficult and strange, and Alex felt a kind of pressure building in him. Then suddenly he broke through, and his thoughts began to mingle with the other man’s. He pushed all his will into the Scotsman, urging him to come to Alex. He could feel the other’s resistance, then the gradual lessening as fear opened up a path for him.

  Alex imagined himself lying ill on the floor. Who would be held liable for killing a peer of the realm if Alex died? Certainly not Dearborn; no, it’d be the Scotsman who’d go to prison. To the gallows. He felt the alteration in the man’s emotions, the sudden uneasiness, and he pushed hard on resentment of Dearborn for putting him in this position.

  But still the man dithered, his mind circling. Alex redoubled his efforts. Now he infused his thoughts with the threat of magic. He encouraged and increased the guard’s belief that Alex was a sorcerer. Alex could reach through walls with his talents; he could turn himself into air and vanish from the room.

  He heard footsteps at the far end of the hall, and Alex jumped to his feet. The man stopped. Cursing himself for letting go of the connection in his excitement, Alex once again clamped his hands around the tray and shot his power back into him. Redoubling the fear, he urged the other man to look in the cell, to reassure himself that Alex was still there and not dying.

  Without letting go of the tray, Alex flattened himself against the wall beside the door, out of sight of the narrow spy window. He could hear the man pacing about in the hall, his halting steps toward the door. Finally he was at the door.

  “Here! You!” His voice was high and thin, at odds with the bluster in his manner. “Show yerself. Moreland!” The man pounded his fist against the wall, then stood there, waiting, breathing heavily.

  Open the door, Alex urged. Open the door and see if he’s flown. The key rattled in the lock, and slowly the door eased open. The guard eased his head cautiously around the door. Alex, waiting with hands upraised, smashed the tray into the guard’s face. The other man staggered back, letting out a howl and clutching his bleeding nose.

  Alex stepped forward and swung again, coming down so hard on the side of the man’s head that the wooden tray cracked. The guard hit the wall and bounced off, going to his knees. He wobbled, then collapsed on the floor.

  Alex stepped over his body and out the door, pulling it shut behind him. The key was still in the lock, and he turned it, then ran for the stairs at the end of the hall. He was alert for someone to pop out of another room or to be waiting for him at the top of the stairs, but there was no one to impede him. He emerged into a warehouse, piled high with crates, and ran down the aisles they created until at last he found the doors and burst out onto the street.

  Pausing for a moment to orient himself, he took off at top speed, running to Sabrina.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  DEARBORN’S WORDS SLICED through Sabrina. She thought of Alex, imprisoned somewhere, left to die. It was all her fault. She swallowed the sob that wanted to burst out of her and faced Dearborn. He waited, calm and expectant. He was sure she would crumble. Faced with anger, influenced by his manipulation of her guilt and her debt to them, racked with fear for Alex, Dearborn knew she would back down.

  She stiffened her spine. “Then I suppose we are at a standstill.”

  He snorted. “You’re bluffing. You won’t leave.”

  That was true, of course, but she had to make him believe her. There was no hope of saving Alex without learning where he was.

  “No?” Sabrina raised a contemptuous eyebrow and started toward the door.

  Peter stepped in front of the closed door into the hallway, blocking it. She stopped.

  Behind her, Dearborn rasped, “Don’t be a fool. You aren’t leaving here.”

  Sabrina tightened her grip on her parasol. Perhaps she really would have to use it as a weapon. She swung back toward Dearborn. “You intend to kidnap me, as well? How many more people will you abduct? Lilah knows where I am. She knows about your plot. By now, I’m sure the entire Moreland clan knows. They’ll soon be knocking down your door. Do you intend to do away with all of them?”

  Almost as if planned, a thunderous pounding began on the front door. Dearborn’s head snapped in that direction, his face almost comical in its dismay. There was the muffled sound of voices, then a clear “Get out of my bloody way!” followed by a resounding crash.

  “Really, Con!” Lilah’s voice came through the door. “Did you have to knock him into the vase?”

  “Yes.” Con’s voice was so much like Alex’s that it made Sabrina’s heart hurt. He flung open the double doors.

  Peter had whirled in surprise at the noise in the hall. Con grabbed Peter by the lapels and flung him aside, then charged at Dearborn. Dearborn skittered back, knocking into a table and going down in a heap. Con hauled the older man to his feet, shaking him.

  “Where is he? Where the hell is my brother?”

  “Con, he can hardly talk with you shaking him like that.” Lilah entered the room in Con’s wake and hurried over to hug Sabrina.

  Tom Quick entered last, going to Con and tugging on his arm. “Here now, sir. You’re choking the man.”

  Con dropped his hands away. “I’d like to. And I will, if he doesn’t tell me where Alex is right now.”

  Dearborn stepped back, straightening his jacket and trying to regain some shred of dignity.

  “You’re a madman. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 
“I think I can persuade you to come up with one.” Con doubled his fist.

  “Mr. Dearborn, for pity’s sake.” Sabrina joined them. “Have you gone mad? How do you expect to get away with abducting a duke’s son? If you have any hope of saving yourself, tell us what you did with Alex.”

  “What the devil is wrong with you, Sabrina?” Dearborn lashed out in frustration. “Peter is offering you his name. It’s your only hope of salvaging any shred of reputation. No decent man would marry you now. It’s obvious you went traveling around with Moreland, alone, unchaperoned.”

  “I was with them,” Lilah said.

  Dearborn shot her a withering glance. “I would have thought better of you, at least, Lilah. We all know that’s a lie. You were at Broughton House pretending to be Sabrina while she was spending time with her lover. That was obvious as soon as we saw the two of them come sailing back in the other day.” Dismissing her, he whirled back to address Sabrina, “It wasn’t the first time you’ve been alone with a man, either. You and Peter shared a bedroom the night—”

  “You dare to bring that up?” Sabrina cried.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Lilah said. “No one knows about that.”

  “Oh, but they will,” Dearborn said meaningfully. “Your reputation is in shreds, Sabrina. You have to marry Peter.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You have no other choice. If you think your precious Alex will marry you, you are sadly mistaken. No doubt you’re fine for dallying with, but a duke’s son will look much higher for a wife, believe me.”