The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  Rushford realized she was physically daring, maddeningly courageous, but he hadn’t expected this. The jump was impossible, a reckless and wild gambit. He had no time to respond except to collect his own mount, adjust his stride, and then sail through the air after Rowena Woolcott. He had barely landed on the other side of the hedge, his horse narrowly avoiding a wide trench, when he was forced to urge the animal forward. Because Rowena was racing ahead of him again, across a rolling pasture, the thrill of the hunt clearly heating her blood.

  Rushford gave full rein to his mount, arcing over another hedge until he was alongside Rowena, who was totally oblivious to his presence, aware only of the sounds of the huntsman’s horns and the pounding hooves filling her ears. Bending low over the neck of her mount, she was focused on the fox, a reddish-brown streak that had gone to ground. Together they pounded behind the hounds and into the bracken, the rest of the riders left behind.

  Rowena collected the reins and slowed to a canter, watching the hounds lose the scent and scatter in all directions. She was panting slightly, but her tone was jubilant. “That was incredible. A wonderful run. I’ve never enjoyed anything more,” she confessed. The feathers in her hat were slightly wilted, and her face had taken on a pink cast. “I’m almost happy we lost the fox.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d prefer not to run him down.”

  Rushford didn’t know whether to haul her from her mount and take her back to Alcestor Court or revel in her unwise exuberance. “You could have broken your neck,” he declared instead.

  The sounds of their breathing sawed the air, the only other sound the hum of crickets. “I am an accomplished rider, Rushford,” she said, tilting her chin. “I’ve ridden every day since I was five years of age. And that hedge we just jumped is nothing compared to what . . .”

  “Hardly an excuse.” He interrupted her. “We are here to keep you safe until we can find Faron and eliminate the threat to your family. Or have you forgotten?”

  Stung, she stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you saying? That I would jeopardize Meredith and Julia for a moment of recklessness?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly.

  “Then you know me less well than you think. Perhaps you were the one who found the jump daunting.” It was a ridiculous assertion as she well realized. His mount was bigger and more powerful than hers.

  They slowed to a trot. “You never contemplate the consequences of your actions, do you?” He wondered at the source of his anger, gathering the reins of his mount into his right hand.

  “I won’t disappoint you, Rushford. I shan’t do anything reckless,” she said, glaring at him and at the frustrated pack of hounds behind them. “And in the interim, I assume you will continue to see specters behind every bush.” Then before he could respond, she turned her horse skillfully to the left and cantered off across the field, away from him. But she could not ignore the hooves following her, as he leaned low over his horse’s neck, keeping pace until they both emerged onto a stretch of flat land. Rushford nudged his mount’s flanks and the animal broke into an easy gallop.

  They raced across a common, up a hill and down the other side. Perhaps because of his greater height, he saw the farmer and his shotgun in a copse of trees first. The man raised the muzzle of his rifle. Then a volley of shots ricocheted into the sky and Rowena’s mount reared on its hind legs, the golden light of the sun silhouetting them. She struggled with the reins regaining her seat, experienced enough to know that the slightest mistake would be enough to throw her off balance and have her hurtling to the ground.

  Although Rushford kept his eyes open, all he saw was Kate, her face on the pillow, whiter than was possible for living flesh, her eyes open, accusing him of not keeping her safe. In front of him, as though time had slowed to an agonizing crawl, Rowena fought to control her horse, and when he pulled himself out of the jaws of memory, he glimpsed something else by the copse of the trees. Rowena’s mount was frantically dancing toward it.

  Rushford’s eyes had been trained to see what others missed. He knew it was useless to shout out, his roar would only panic the horse further. Then for a dizzying moment, Rowena was in the air, her mount collapsing to its knees in a heap, panting, reins hanging loosely from its neck. On the ground beside the roan, in a shallow ditch covered lightly with branches, Rowena landed in a sprawl, her hat flung several feet from her body, her rich auburn hair spread over the hard earth.

  Rushford reined in his horse and threw himself from the saddle, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands loosened the emerald pin at her cravat to feel for her pulse. It was faint but steady beneath his fingertips. Beside them her mount struggled to rise to its feet, whinnying softly in distress.

  At the sound, Rowena’s eyes flew open, her lips slightly parted as she attempted to sit up. “Is he all right?” she croaked, her unfocused eyes looking up into the flawless sky.

  “Don’t move,” Rushford said. Casting a quick assessing glance over her body, Rushford rose from his knees to go to the horse, running his hands down the length of its strong legs, testing for lameness. “All is well, it seems,” he said after a time. His fingers traced the girth straps, grimacing at what he found.

  “Thank God,” she murmured as Rushford returned to her side. “I would never forgive myself otherwise.”

  He watched her carefully, silently, looking for injury and finding none. She struggled to sit up, her hand at the small of her back. “I don’t know how I bloody well let that happen,” he said with quiet ferocity. Rowena regarded him with a puzzled frown. “Do you understand now what I’ve been warning you about? Why I did not like the idea of your coming with me to Alcestor Court?” he asked tersely, gesturing to the ditch.

  “I am posing as your mistress so that we might gain entrance to the Baron’s circle. And that requires my being here by your side. Besides which,” she continued, “this incident was an accident.” She endeavored to rise to her feet, pushing his hands away. “Where is my hat? I must have it.” She straightened her skirts and walked several unsteady feet before grabbing at the scrap of fabric and, with shaking fingers, pushing it back on her head.

  “No accident,” he said abruptly, rising. “I suspect that they know your true identity,” he said, watching as she shoved the last tendrils of her hair under the hat, its plumage irredeemably crushed. “Someone just tried to kill you. Not Miss Frances Warren but Rowena Woolcott.” He brushed at the grass on his knees.

  She shook her head, wincing. “I’ve had worse falls. And I’m quite all right,” she said. “The farmer simply could have been watching for poachers.” She leaned against her horse to regain her equilibrium, stroking its quivering flanks, murmuring softly into its muzzle.

  “You think so?” he asked, walking to her side to draw the horse’s girth straps to her attention. “Deliberately cut,” he said curtly. “You would have come off sooner or later, but the gunshot and trench were extra assurance.”

  Rowena’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  Rushford walked over to the shallow pit, no longer covered with bracken. “And if you’re seeking further evidence, it’s impossible to explain this away,” he said brusquely, shoving the twigs and branches aside with a booted foot to expose a three-foot hollow into which Rowena’s horse had stumbled. Rowena refused to look where he stood, her lips tightening, but she took a moment to run her hands along the girth straps, examining them closely while speaking soothingly to the horse. She pulled the saddle to the ground. Still ignoring Rushford, she looped an arm around the horse’s neck and pulled herself on its bare back without assistance. “If you’re at all concerned, I have ridden bareback many times. And as they say, if you come off, for whatever reason, get right back on,” she said coolly, unwilling to allow shock to rob her of reason.

  She had not broken her neck, but Rushford was ready to do it for her. He was equally angry at himself for acknowledging the strength emanating from this young woman sitting proudly astride the roan, her eyes already on the horizon. And ther
e was something else. He felt himself responding to her wildness, and to the passion and fearlessness that drove her.

  Unbidden, he remembered holding her in his arms over a year ago, stroking the damp hair from her forehead as she wept after one of her nightmares, her body rigid against the pain. She had clung to him, shivering in her fever-soaked nightgown, and he hadn’t known how to comfort her except to hold her and infuse her with the warmth of his own body. When her weeping ceased and her eyes opened, he had gently rocked her, then kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and her mouth. She had slowly warmed beneath his touch and welcomed the heat of his body lying along hers, drawing strength from the passion and possession they shared.

  Her reality, past and present, was grim. Standing in the fields of Alcestor Court, he pushed aside the memory, and in the next instant knew he would send Rowena back to London. He would contact Archer to ensure she would be protected. He pulled himself onto his mount, aware that Rowena had read his mind because there was no mistaking the stubborn glitter in her eyes. She would not leave Alcestor Court without a fight.

  Their course took them across four fields, and Rowena was close at his heels throughout the ride. They took the longer route, through fields and over ponds and streams, the warm air streaming past them. Hooves crashed over the furrows of plowed fields, and they plunged through a copse, Rowena leaning low to her horse’s neck to avoid branches whipping by them, her expression set and determined.

  When they arrived back at the circular gravel drive of Alcestor Court, their mutually enforced silence continued. Rushford expected Rowena to exhibit fatigue or at least the aftereffects of shock. But she did neither. Instead, she swung down from her mount without assistance. Rushford’s sharp eyes noticed that she wavered for a second before her feet touched solid ground and that she held her shoulders straight with effort. He dismounted and watched as the groom led both their mounts away, then put a hand lightly under Rowena’s elbow as they climbed the steps to the open front door. The atrium was deserted, the riders still at the hunt and the rest of the guests still abed.

  Rowena had no chance to turn him away at her rooms. He opened the door and thrust her inside, regarding her unsmilingly. His hands immediately went to the row of buttons on the bodice of her riding habit. In leisurely but determined fashion, he undid them one by one. Rowena stood motionless under his purposeful hands, and he could feel his blood pounding in time with his rising anger. He didn’t know if it was rage, lust, or just plain relief at having her safe and alone in his arms.

  Lifting her wrists, he unfastened the tiny ivory buttons before parting and pulling the bodice from her arms. He tossed the garment aside and stood looking at her, bared to the waist in the morning light, her corset and chemise a pale foil against the satin of her skin. She said nothing but endured his intense scrutiny, her response only to begin loosening the fastenings of her corset, parting the stiff fabric to let it slide to the floor.

  Rushford needed no other inducements to take the swells of her breasts, covered in the finest lawn, in the palms of his hands, his thumb flicking the nipples, his eyes holding her before he lowered his head to tongue first one breast and then the other. Rowena caught her breath, folding her hands in the thickness of his hair, unwilling to break the spell of silence.

  Rushford seized her waist and lifted her onto the bed before pulling off her riding boots and stockings in turn. He wondered if she realized that he was doing this for the last time, that he would send for Archer to meet his carriage with Rowena Woolcott as its lone passenger. It was the last time. And yet, he forced himself to go slow. As though they had every moment of the morning left to them, he deliberately unfastened the waistband of her skirt, lifting her off the bed again to push the garment from her hips. Finally, she lifted her arms like a child as he pulled the chemise from her torso.

  Rushford felt her shiver, and he lowered her to the bed. She smiled into his eyes and said, “You seem to like carrying me around, Rushford.” Her voice sounded strange after the intensity of their silence. Rushford looked down at her as she lay on the bed, open in her nakedness. He smiled in return. “Perhaps it’s the only way I can ensure that you remain safe—in my arms.” Or at least the illusion of safety, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “There is nowhere I would rather be,” she said, and he wondered whether she realized the impact of the staggering honesty of her words.

  He shrugged off his riding jacket and shirt and came down on the bed beside her. For the next few hours, they made love furiously, stingy with their words and generous with their passion, in a feeble attempt to hold the menace outside the bedchamber door at bay.

  “I can’t bear it. This is almost too much,” Rowena managed to gasp at one point, her head falling back, the column of her throat arched. His fingers bit into her flesh as she convulsed around him. She fell forward with a moan, her forehead resting on his right shoulder, and he held her as his own orgasm slowly subsided.

  She raised her head, still astride him, her lids heavy with spent passion. “Is it always like this?” she asked. It was precisely the question he didn’t want to answer. “I have no way of knowing,” she said with her usual brutal honesty.

  Rushford did. The other women he’d known, and one in particular, did not readily jump to mind. How the bloody hell had that happened, he asked himself silently, running a finger over Rowena’s lips. He hoped his expression was not as bewildered and open as hers.

  “No,” he said finally, unable to lie to her or to himself. “This is different.”

  Her dark red hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her long legs stretched astride him. “In what way?”

  “Some things are difficult to describe.” He lifted her off his lap, aware that his answer satisfied neither him nor her. “And we don’t have the time at present to discuss why we happen to enjoy sexual congress as we do,” he continued, no longer able to delay what was inevitable. She could not stay at Alcestor Court. “Even the Baron’s guests might be shocked if they guessed how we’ve been spending the afternoon.” He shook his head, taking in the sprawl of Rowena’s naked limbs beside him, the unruly tangle of hair, her eyes soft with satisfaction. He watched as she gathered up her chemise and pantalets. “Particularly if the Baron believes that you have met with an accident.”

  “I refuse to run and hide,” she said, her head emerging from a froth of silk.

  “I’m sure running and hiding undermine your very principles,” he said, leaning forward to begin closing the small buttons on the chemise. “However, that doesn’t help us with the unpleasant reality facing both of us. And do not deny the facts. You saw the girth straps and trench as well as I did.”

  “All the more reason to stay. We are obviously getting closer to Faron, if your hypothesis is true.”

  “Consider this, then, Rowena,” he said. “If my hypothesis is true and they wish you ill, they have probably discovered that you are not Miss Frances Warren.”

  Her expression remained surprisingly calm. She took the drawers from the bed and stood to slip them over her feet, raising her hips to pull them up. “I believe it is Sebastian who recognized me,” she said tonelessly.

  His chest tightened, and he didn’t recognize the sensation until a moment later. Fear—for Rowena. “What makes you say that now?” he asked carefully. He tried to ignore how she lifted her right leg and slipped a lace-trimmed garter up to her thigh and then completed the same action with her left leg.

  “His voice sounds familiar,” she said.

  “Familiar?”

  “Similar to what I remember.” A slant of her hair obscured her profile and expression. “What I recall from my nightmares about the abduction.”

  “Why did you not tell me earlier?” he asked, knowing her answer before she could respond. “Because you knew that your recognizing Sebastian would have been one more reason to rule against your coming to Alcestor Court.” He paused deliberately. “That places Sebastian at the scene of your abduction.”
/>   Concentrating on lacing up her corset, she did not meet his eyes. “I can’t be sure.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, turning around to face him. “I don’t relish your choice of words, Rushford. I was raised by my aunt to be an independent woman who definitely does not wish to be ruled against.”

  Rushford rose from the bed. “Even if your life is at stake? And the lives of your family?”

  Rowena immediately stopped getting dressed, awash in a sudden rage. “How dare you imply once again that I don’t put my family first, sir? When you, I warrant, are more concerned about your bloody stone tablet than anything else. You would prefer me to disappear from view for fear that I might put at risk whatever plan you have in place regarding the Rosetta Stone—”

  “Hold off!” he ordered, his voice dangerously soft. “The Rosetta Stone is no business of yours, as I’ve told you a dozen times. You will only endanger yourself and your family further if you become embroiled in this situation.”

  “As though you know anything at all about loyalty, or love for that matter, Lord Rushford.”

  “I would be careful what you say, Rowena.”

  “I will say whatever I wish, sir,” she interrupted, her complexion paling, her eyes dark blue pools. “You have absolutely no power over me. I shall do precisely as I wish.”

  Rushford seized her upper arms, and in reaction Rowena attempted to swing her palm against his cheek. Her hand hung an instant in the air before she spun away from him in horror. There was a lengthening silence as he looked away from her to gaze out the window. “This is all a mistake . . .” The rawness of the encounter left him drained. “I shall send for the carriage.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t know how we arrived at this juncture.” The words between them were ridiculously formal.