The Darkest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “And why ever would I do that?”

  “Because I believe that I have something that you may covet even more than the Rosetta Stone.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “Hear me out first,” Rushford said.

  “I could put a bullet through your head this instant,” Faron said coldly.

  “You will—but not just yet,” Rushford said, equally cool. “I have a missive. From Meredith Woolcott to you. On the Brigand.”

  For a moment a thick cloud of mist obscured the Frenchman from Rowena’s gaze, and then, when the thickness cleared, she saw Faron give a small nod to one of his men, who proceeded to prod Rushford with a pistol at his back. He moved across the deck and then made a short leap over to the Brigand. In several strides, Rushford was at her side. Now there were three men and any number of weapons at their backs. Yet, Rowena felt her muscles relax, the throbbing in her wrists, ankles, and shoulder fading away with Rushford’s nearness.

  “Where is it?” Faron asked softly.

  “Below deck,” Rushford replied. He made no move to touch her, but Rowena could feel his protectiveness enveloping her like a shield. “In the trunk by the bulkhead.”

  Faron gave another nod, and two of the men behind Rowena and Rushford disappeared below deck. “In the interim, to prove to you, Lord Rushford, that I am not such a sentimental fool as you appear to be, I shall become reacquainted with the Rosetta Stone. Now that it is mine.” Moving toward the crate, he gestured to the men to begin working the lid from it. Several more metal hammers and jacks appeared, grinding into the wood.

  Rowena felt Rushford tense beside her for one moment before she heard a crack of what sounded like thunder. The vibration sent her stumbling back before a billowing cloud of smoke from Faron’s sloop obscured her vision. Beside her, Rushford slammed into the man behind them, disarming him in a heartbeat and then running across the deck to secure the door that led to the cabin, trapping the remainder of Faron’s men below.

  “Get down,” Rushford hissed, dragging her to the floor while he pushed them both over to the wheel of the Brigand. The sails caught the wind, and the sloop began to move away from the Frenchman’s now burning ship, wreaths of smoke dancing in the air. Rowena crawled to the edge of the deck, her eyes riveted by the sight of Montagu Faron in the churning waters of the channel.

  The mask had yet to come loose, but his eyes were wide with the incomprehension of a child being tortured for reasons he cannot fathom. Rowena’s wrists were bound, but for a moment she wondered whether she would have reached out to him if she had been able, remembering her own horror, the flow of the river pulling her down inexorably to her death. The explosion still hammered in her ears, her mind numb with shock. And all she could do was watch as Faron floated farther into the channel, his arms stopping their struggle, the icy water having done its work.

  Epilogue

  Three months later at Montfort

  “Ifeel decidedly wicked,” Rowena declared. It was past noon and she was still abed with her new husband. It was early autumn, and a fire in the grate gave the room a warm glow. “I don’t know how ever to explain this to Aunt Meredith. She’s expecting us for tea.”

  “Which is at least four hours away,” Rushford growled, sheets pooling around his waist, his torso bared to Rowena’s appreciative gaze. A bottle of champagne and a deck of cards lay between them. Rowena had forgotten who had lost the last hand of vingt-et-un. Really they had both won, she thought with a languorous stretch that Rushford did not miss.

  “I suppose we have nothing to be embarrassed about,” she mused. “We did exert ourselves this morning with an incredibly energetic ride. So we deserve a nap,” she concluded with effortless logic. “It is wonderful riding Dragon again, although I beg of you to be honest”—She turned to him with a small frown of concern. “Did you allow me to win the race?”

  “And cheat? Never,” he avowed with a grin. “Your prowess left me in the dust.”

  Rowena grinned. “I do ride well, don’t I?”

  “You do.”

  She attempted to look modest. “And you did not allow me to win at cards, either.”

  “I believe it was a draw,” he said with a devilish glint in his eyes as they rested on the sheet that had fallen from her breasts. “Besides which, I believe I suddenly have another game in mind, now that we have exhausted cards and riding.”

  “Chess? Sparring?” she asked provocatively, sliding closer to him. “You promised to show me how to perfect an upper cut, as I recall.”

  “Not even close.” He leaned nearer, his reply a whisper against the warmth of her lips. “I challenge you to guess what I have in mind,” he demanded.

  She placed a finger on her lips before allowing it to drag over her mouth. “That should not prove too onerous, Rushford,” she said, desire suffusing her voice. His hands swept down over her bared breasts, lifting them slightly as they swelled under his touch. The heat of his fingers against her skin sent shivers down her body to her core.

  It had been that way between them from the beginning, and nothing seemed to have changed. Insatiable need for each other, both physical and mental, filled their every waking and sleeping hour. As Julia and Strathmore had done before them, they had married quietly in the chapel at Montfort, attended only by Archer and Meredith. Both Meredith and Julia had received the news that Rowena still lived with overwhelming joy, and Julia and Strathmore immediately began making their way back to England. Galveston had been sent into exile, half of Rushford’s winnings from his estate returned to Lady Galveston, with the other half going to several charities for indigent women and children in London.

  “Rushford,” Rowena murmured against his lips. “I just thought of something.”

  “Have I told you already that you think too much?”

  “You love my mind,” she reminded him pointedly, gently pushing against him. “I can recall at least several occasions when you made mention of it.”

  He lifted his head from what he was doing and shifted to pull her gently onto his lap. “So what is it, my charming bride?” he asked, his expression watchful.

  “You lied about the letter, didn’t you? To Faron, aboard the Brigand. I wish I really knew how Meredith feels—about all of this,” she continued carefully. “I do not want to push her, because she’s always been so reticent about her past and our beginnings with her here at Montfort.”

  Rushford stroked the hair back from her face. “Perhaps it is best not to push her, Rowena. She will tell us when she is ready.”

  Rowena shook her head, the memory of the explosion, and of Faron’s drowning, still vivid in her mind. She had listened to Rushford’s explanation of the black powder contained in the crate, which was so very easily ignited by the spark of a metal hammer hitting a hard surface. “Am I evil in feeling pleasure that Montagu Faron is gone—out of our lives?”

  Rushford shook his head, cradling her in his arms. “You were incredibly courageous, Rowena. You have nothing at all to regret.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Do you have any regrets?”

  “Not one,” he answered swiftly. “Unless it is that I wish I had recognized true love sooner.”

  Rowena looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “I know that I loved you first in my dreams, Lord Rushford,” she said softly.

  “I asked you to stay with me.”

  She tilted her head to one side, devouring her beautiful husband with her gaze. “I remember. And I intend to. For the rest of our lives.”

  And Rushford sealed her vow by lowering his head to hers.

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  Danusia wiggled the key in the lock on her brother’s apartment door. Darn thing always stuck, but he wouldn’t make her another one. Said she didn’t come to stay often enough for it to matter
.

  Yeah, and he wasn’t particularly keen for that to change either, obviously. He’d probably gotten the wonky key on purpose. Just like the rest of her older siblings, Roman Chernichenko kept Danusia at a distance.

  She knew why he did it at least, though she was pretty sure the others didn’t.

  Knowing didn’t make her feel any better. Even in her family of brainiacs, she was definitely the odd one out. They loved her, just like she loved them, but they were separated by more than the gap in their ages. She was seven years younger than her next youngest sibling. An unexpected baby, though never unwanted—at least according to her mom.

  Still, her sister and brothers might love her, but they didn’t get her and didn’t particularly want her to get them.

  Which was why she was coming to stay in Roman’s empty apartment rather than go visit one of the others, or heaven forbid, her parents. She did not need another round of lectures on her single status by her baba and mom.

  The lock finally gave and Danusia pressed the door open, dragging her rolling suitcase full of books and papers behind her. The fact the alarm wasn’t armed registered at the same time as a cold cylinder pressed to her temple.

  “Roman, I swear on Opa’s grave that if you don’t get that gun away from me, I’m going to drop it in a vat of sulfuric acid and then pour the whole mess all over the new sofa Mom insisted you get the last time she visited. If it’s loaded, I’m going to do it anyway.”

  The gun moved away from her temple and she spun around, ready to lecture her brother into an early grave, and help him along the way. “It is so not okay to pull a gun on your sister. . . .” Her tirade petered off to a choked breath. “You!”

  The man standing in front of her was a whole lot sexier than her brother and scarier, which was saying something. Not that she was afraid of him, but she wouldn’t want him for an enemy.

  The rest of the family believed that Roman was a scientist for the military. She knew better. She was a nosy baby sister after all, but this man? Definitely worked with Roman and carried an aura of barely leashed violence. Maxwell Baker was a true warrior.

  She shouldn’t, absolutely should not, find that arousing, but she did.

  “You’re not my brother,” she said stupidly.

  Which was not her usual mode, but the six-foot-five black man, who would make Jesse Jackson, Jr. look like the ugly stepbrother if they were related, turned Danusia’s brain to serious mush.

  His brows rose in mocking acknowledgment of her obvious words.

  “Um . . .”

  “What are you doing here, Danusia?” Warm as a really good aged whiskey, his voice made her panties wet.

  How embarrassing was that? “You know my name?”

  Put another mark on the chalkboard for idiocy.

  “The wedding wasn’t so long ago that I would have forgotten already.” He almost cracked a smile.

  She almost swooned.

  Max and several of Roman’s associates had done the security at her sister, Elle’s, wedding, which might have been overkill. Or not. Danusia suspected stuff had been going on that neither she nor her parents had known about.

  It hadn’t helped that she’d been focused on her final project for her masters and that Elle’s wedding had been planned faster than Danusia could solve a quadratic equation. She’d figured out that something was going on, but that was about it. This time her siblings had managed to keep their baby sister almost completely in the dark.

  A place she really hated being.

  Not that her irritation had stopped her from noticing the most freaking gorgeous man she’d ever met. Maxwell Baker. A tall, dark dish of absolute yum.

  Once she had seen Max with his strong jaw, defined cheekbones, big and muscular body, not much else at the wedding had even registered. Which might help explain why she hadn’t figured out why all the security.

  “It’s nice to see you again.” There, that sounded somewhat adult. Full points for polite conversation, right?

  “What are you doing here?” he asked again, apparently not caring if he got any points for being polite.

  She shrugged, shifting her backpack. “My super is doing some repairs on the apartment.”

  “What kind of repairs?”

  “Man, you’re as bad as my brother.” They hadn’t even made it out of the entry and she was getting the third-degree.

  Really as bad as her brother and maybe taking it up a notch. Roman might have let her get her stuff put out of the way before he started asking the probing questions. Then again, maybe not.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Then Max just paused, like he had all the time in the world to wait for her answer.

  Like it never even occurred to him she might refuse to respond.

  Knowing there was no use in attempted prevarication, she sighed. “They’re replacing the front door.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?” Sheesh.

  He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, muscles bulging everywhere. “I won’t know until you tell me.”

  “Someone broke it.” She was proud of herself for getting the words out, considering how difficult she was finding the simple process of breathing right now.

  This man? Was lethal.

  “Who?” he demanded, frown firmly in place.

  Oh, crud, even his not-so-happy face was sexy, yummy, heart-palpitatingly delicious. “I don’t know.”

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  Freezing rain sliced out of the black sky, turning the wet pavement to glass. Zoey stared out at the freakish weather and groaned aloud. With less than two days left in the month of April, the skies had been clear and bright all afternoon. Trees were budding early and spring had seemed like a sure bet. Now this. Local residents said if you didn’t like the weather this far north, just wait fifteen minutes. She gave it five, only to watch the rain turn to sleet.

  Perhaps she should have asked more questions before taking the job as editor of the Dunvegan Herald Weekly. She was getting the peace and quiet she’d wanted, all right, but so far the weather simply sucked. Winter had been in full swing when she’d arrived at the end of October. Wasn’t it ever going to end?

  Sighing, she buttoned her thin jacket up to her chin and hoisted the camera bag over her shoulder in preparation for the long, cold walk to her truck. All she wanted before bed was a hot shower, her soft flannel pajamas with the little cartoon sheep on them, the TV tuned to Late Night, and a cheese and mushroom omelet. Hell, maybe just the omelet. She hadn’t eaten since noon, unless the three faded M&Ms she’d found at the bottom of her bag counted as food.

  As usual, the council meeting for the Village of Dunvegan had gone on much too long. Who’d have thought that such a small community could have so much business to discuss? It was well past ten when the mayor, the councilors, and the remnants of a long-winded delegation filed out. Zoey had lingered only a few moments to scribble down a couple more notes for her article but it was long enough to make her the last person out of the building.

  The heavy glass door automatically locked behind her, the metallic sound echoing ominously. Had she taken longer than she thought? There wasn’t a goddamn soul left on the street. Even the hockey arena next door was deserted, although a senior men’s play-off game earlier had made parking difficult to find. Now, her truck—a sturdy, old red Bronco that handled the snow much better than her poor little SUV had—was the only vehicle in sight.

  The freezing rain made the three-block trek to the truck seem even longer. Not only did the cold wind drive stinging pellets of ice into her face, but her usual business-like stride had to be shortened to tiny careful steps. Her knee-high leather boots were strictly a fashion accessory—her bedroom slippers would have given her more traction on the ice. If she slipped and broke her ankle out here, would anyone even find her before morning?

  The truck glittered strangely as she approac
hed and her heart sank. Thick sheets of ice coated every surface, sealing the doors. Nearly frozen herself, she pounded on the lock with the side of her fist until the ice broke away and she could get her key in. “Come on, dammit, come on!”

  Of course, the key refused to turn, while the cold both numbed and hurt her gloveless fingers. She tried the passenger door lock without success, then walked gingerly around to the rear cargo door. No luck there either. She’d have to call a tow—

  Except that her cell phone was on the front seat of her truck.

  Certain that things couldn’t get any worse, she tested each door again. Maybe one of the locks would loosen if she kept trying. If not, she’d probably have to walk all the way home, and wasn’t that a cheery prospect?

  Suddenly a furtive movement teased at her peripheral vision. Zoey straightened slowly and studied her surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. The streetlights were very far apart, just glowing pools of pale gold that punctuated the darkness rather than alleviating it. Few downtown businesses bothered to leave lights on overnight. The whispery hiss of the freezing rain was all she could hear.

  A normal person would simply chalk it up to imagination, but she’d been forced to toss normal out the window at an early age. Her mother, aunts, and grandmother were all powerful psychics—and the gene had been passed down to Zoey. Or at least a watered-down version of it. The talent was reliable enough when it worked, but it seemed to come and go as it pleased. Like right now. Zoey tried hard to focus yet sensed absolutely nothing. It was her own fault perhaps for trying to rid herself of the inconvenient ability.

  No extrasensory power was needed, however, to see something large and black glide silently from one shadow to another near the building she’d just left. What the hell was that? There was nowhere to go for help. The only two bars in town would still be open, but they were several blocks away, as was the detachment headquarters for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. There was a rundown trailer park a block and a half from the far side of the arena, but Zoey knew there were no streetlights anywhere along that route.