Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  ‘‘The village,’’ Chad murmured, but Sophie shook her head.

  Her guess proved correct. Instead of turning north, her uncle crossed and entered the pasture across the road. Sophie moved as if to surge forward. Chad wrapped an arm around her waist and stopped her cold.

  ‘‘We’ll be too close, with nowhere to seek cover.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you wish to know what he’s up to?’’ Her eyes gleamed with eagerness, and with the recklessness that sometimes terrified him.

  ‘‘Go back to the house,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll follow him.’’

  Her attention shifted back to her uncle. ‘‘He’s cutting across the fields. There are other farms in that direction, though I doubt he’s off for a friendly visit. Come, we can stay back a good distance and still keep him in our sights.’’

  Further argument would only have given them away. Not liking this development a bit, he reclaimed Sophie’s hand tight in his. Quickly they scurried across the flat, all-too-open expanse of road.

  Gordon led them across his pastures. The sleepy murmurs of the cows and the bleating of the sheep helped mask their tread. Where the land rolled away to the north, points of light stood out like stars in the sky, marking other farms and shepherds’ cots on Blackheath Moor. They left these behind and trudged on. The grassy turf gave way to the wild heather, brambles and heath rush of the moor.

  The rocky terrain sent Sophie teetering into Chad’s side on more than one occasion, once bringing her to her knees when brambles snared her hems. Her breathing became labored, and he began to feel the strain of their trek in his own lungs. But if the scrub-fringed hills and stony outcroppings made for unsteady footing, the landscape also provided cover to help mask their pursuit. Keeping low and scrambling from one craggy hillock to the next, they trailed her uncle to a lonely farmstead huddled at the edge of a bog.

  There wasn’t much to the place. A tumbling wall wound its way around a sagging barn, a couple of dilapidated sheds and a stone shack. The shack’s roof emitted feeble beams of light through moldering patches in the thatch. Thready smoke rose from the chimney. Gordon rapped twice on the door and stepped inside.

  Sophie started up from their hunkered position beside an outcropping. Chad grabbed a handful of her cloak.

  ‘‘We don’t know who else might come walking up.’’

  ‘‘I hadn’t thought of that.’’

  ‘‘When will you learn to look before you leap? Come. We’ll circle to the rear.’’

  Keeping low to the brush, they steered a wide berth around the property. There were no proper windows at the rear of the shack, only narrow openings in the stone wall on either side of the hearth. Both were presently stuffed from the inside with wads of raw wool, perhaps to keep out not only the damp mist, but also vermin. They crouched beside the nearest aperture.

  ‘‘. . . no sign of ’em.’’ Gordon’s voice.

  ‘‘Shoulda been back by now.’’

  ‘‘. . . the lights . . . They must have seen ’em and stayed away. . . .’’

  ‘‘. . . mighta missed the signal.’’ Gordon again.

  The words bore a combative timbre. Gordon seemed to be accused of something. Of not performing his job to satisfaction, from what Chad could make out. Again he heard Gordon’s distinctive snarl, then a string of oaths, a scuffle and a crash. When the voices resumed they were quieter but no less antagonistic.

  Who had these men been waiting for, and what signal had Sophie’s uncle supposedly missed? Ship lights on the midnight horizon?

  He’d counted three voices in all. Slurring drawls, coarse and uneducated. At a reference to that morning Sophie’s eyes widened and she gave him a significant nod. Another word drifted through the opening, one that halted Chad’s heart in midbeat and raked the hairs on his arms.

  Edgecombe.

  Were these the men who had ordered him to Penhollow through Giles Watling’s message?

  He stole a glance at Sophie, but she gave no indication of having heard. Had he been mistaken? He bloody well hoped so. In frustration he regarded the paltry gap in the stone. If he could only shift the wool aside . . . But he didn’t dare risk someone noticing, especially not with Sophie there.

  Footsteps thudded across what sounded like an earthen floor, and the door of the shack creaked open. Chad pushed to his feet and darted to peer around the corner. Over his shoulder he answered Sophie’s silent question with a nod. Her uncle had just left.

  She started to rise, but Chad quickly made his way back to her and stilled her with a shake of his head. He resumed his crouch near the opening.

  ‘‘. . . bloody nuisance.’’

  ‘‘. . . get rid of him.’’

  ‘‘Soon enough . . .’’

  Pressed tight to his side, Sophie let her mouth fall open. Wishing with all his being that he hadn’t brought her along, Chad wrapped an arm around her and waited to hear more. Were they considering murdering her uncle?

  ‘‘. . . handle it myself.’’ The voice became a vicious grind. ‘‘Tonight.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ The reply was equally fierce, equally guttural. ‘‘Not yet.’’

  Then came a whack like a fist hitting a table.

  Beneath the shelter of Chad’s arm, Sophie trembled. On impulse he pressed a silent kiss to her hair. For several moments he wavered between stealing away immediately and waiting to hear more that might reveal the plans of the two inside. The first action would ensure her safety now; the second her safety and perhaps that of her relatives in the days or weeks to come.

  Then again, he wasn’t entirely certain Gordon was the nuisance they spoke of. Those brigands had mentioned lights, ones that warned off whoever they were waiting for. And they had mentioned Edgecombe, where Chad lit lights each night.

  The shack’s door swung open. Unsteady footsteps skimmed the dirt in their direction. Alarm surged over Sophie’s features. Chad pulled her to her feet and tugged her into motion. He vaulted the stone wall, then helped her over. Together they took off onto the darkened moor.

  They had gone only some two dozen paces when mud sucked at their feet. They had stumbled into a bog. Chad brought them to an abrupt halt, held on to Sophie and listened for sounds of pursuit. In the scant moonlight he could just make out the shadow of a man hunching, apparently relieving himself by the farm’s boundary wall. When he had finished he secured his trousers around his waist, then propped a foot on the wall and stared out over the landscape.

  By Christ, Chad thought, what a time for stargazing. Sophie shivered, and he realized that while his boots would keep out the water for some time, her thin slippers would not. Looking back over his shoulder, he found himself staring directly into the moonlit gleam of the man’s gaze.

  A shout, footsteps and the slamming of the door tumbled on the wind. Chad didn’t linger to see what happened next. He and Sophie splashed through the bog, raising a loud squelch with each step.

  ‘‘Someone’s here! I saw ’em.’’

  ‘‘Probably a deer. Gordon’s gone.’’

  ‘‘. . . not taking any chances.’’

  Sophie began to lag. Her cloak, several inches too long, dragged in the mire, sucking her back until she gave a great heave that lifted it free of the muck. Chad considered tugging the thing from her shoulders and leaving it, but he realized that if found the garment might be identified, and then Gordon would know she had been here.

  With a swift two-word prayer—please, God—that he was making the right decision, he veered hard right. Somehow Sophie managed to keep up, matching him stride for stride. For one heady moment admiration filled him. Then the raw fear returned. Within seconds their feet hit solid ground, their footsteps reduced to a dull thudding through the vegetation.

  They were headed south now, back toward the Gordons’ farm. That would bring them into open pastureland, make them easy targets. Sophie realized it too, for she caught his eye and shook her head. They turned eastward, farther out onto the moor.

  In the di
stance behind them, their pursuers hit the bog; Chad heard the clamor of their splashing. Up ahead the land heaved in a rocky upsurge, visible as a jagged density against the night sky. Hope billowed when the sounds of splashing behind them ceased.

  Had their pursuers given up? Thank God Sophie had worn a dark cloak over her white shift and he’d had the foresight to dress in black. He could only hope the night had swallowed their forms sufficiently to convince the outlaws they had heard nothing more than a startled animal or two.

  The tors were close now, the safety of their granite shelter almost within reach. Chad propelled Sophie on. So close . . .

  An explosion split the night—a flare of light, a deafening crack, the ricochet of fracturing stone. His heart crashing into his ribs, Chad surged forward on a burst of speed, yanking Sophie with him. A second explosion roared, and down she went.

  Chapter 13

  ‘‘Sophie? Oh, God, wake up. Please, please wake up.’’ Choking on desperation, Chad tapped her cheeks with the backs of his fingers, then laid his palms against either side of her face. Her head flopped to the side like a doll’s. ‘‘Oh, God, Sophie, wake up.’’

  Why had he brought her? Why? He might have seized her back at her relatives’ farm, held her down until Gordon was well out of sight. He might have kept hidden among the dunes and not revealed himself to her at all. Not held her, kissed her, nor sought to relieve his guilt in the sweet temptation of her mingled innocence and passion. Passion he had awakened in her. Because he couldn’t do what was right. Couldn’t leave her alone.

  He ran a hand over her torso, then slid it between the ground and her back, feeling for a wound. His fingers came away dry, unstained, which brought only a small, uncertain measure of relief.

  He pricked his ears. Silence. He hooked a trembling arm beneath her knees, slung the other around her shoulders and struggled to his feet. Cradling her, he staggered into the shadow of the tor.

  He picked his way through the night-blackened heather, around brush and scrub, over rocks, careful not to jostle her. While choosing his footing with exceeding care and listening for signs of pursuit, he remained ever alert for what he dreaded most—the sensation of hot moisture seeping through her clothing. Her cheek bumped his shoulder in rhythm with his stride. Her eyes remained closed, her features relaxed as if she were merely asleep.

  As if she weren’t wounded. Weren’t dying. Please, God.

  The air grew frigid and a thick mist surged across the ground. His breath clouding before his lips, Chad quaked from his bones outward. His heart throbbed; the hair at his nape bristled. He clutched Sophie tighter, imparting to her as much of his body heat as possible. He refused to let the cold mist claim her, as it had claimed him on his first night in Penhollow.

  ‘‘I will not let you have her. Do you hear me?’’

  Follow.

  The word was no more than a hiss of wind that breathed frost against his face. He strained his eyes as fury rose up inside him, as he held on to Sophie with every ounce of strength he possessed. But he saw nothing in the darkness. No hideously decaying face, no vacant, hollow stare.

  Yet a few yards away a gaunt spire pierced the fog.

  He blinked, unable to trust the evidence of his own eyes even as relief flooded him. The chapel. Their chapel. It was impossible; surely they hadn’t come so far in their madcap flight from the shack. The stone steps felt solid enough beneath his feet as he climbed them, the door substantial and creaking as he shouldered his way inside.

  Halfway down the nave, he laid Sophie on a wooden pew and knelt on the floor beside her. He swept the tangle of hair from her face. Was she pale? Her lips white? In the darkness he couldn’t tell. He lifted her hand to his cheek. Still warm. He turned it over and pressed the underside of her wrist to his lips. The pulse was steady, strong.

  Unclasping the cloak and peeling it away, he again ran his hands over every bit of her, her bare arms, her legs. He sat her up against him to be certain no stains blossomed on the back of her shift. With every inch of her that revealed no wound, no blood, his heart rejoiced.

  A whimper escaped her throat.

  ‘‘Sophie. Oh, thank God. You’re safe now.’’ The relief was almost more than he could bear. It throbbed and pulsed and stung. It stole the strength from his limbs. It made his head swim and left him dizzy . . . and happier than he ever thought he could be.

  His arms encircled her. Gently he rocked her, stroking her cheek with his fingertips until her eyes blinked open.

  ‘‘Wh-what happened?’’ Through the dark fringe of her lashes, her gaze flickered over their surroundings. ‘‘The chapel? How did we get here?’’

  His emotions rendered speech impossible. He kissed her instead, drinking in the sweet taste of her lips, filling his mouth with the heat of her breath and savoring the pliant, living warmth of her body.

  ‘‘I can answer your first question,’’ he finally managed through a blistering throat. He pressed his forehead to hers. ‘‘Once again you’ve managed to cheat death. As for the second question, I can’t for the life of me conceive of an answer.’’

  A ridge formed above her nose. ‘‘I fainted, didn’t I?’’

  He nodded.

  She groaned and buried her face in her hands. ‘‘I’ve never fainted before in my life. I despise females who faint.’’

  He tried, unsuccessfully, to raise her chin. When she wouldn’t budge, he leaned closer and spoke in her ear. ‘‘We’d run ourselves breathless through a bog. And then they shot at us. I believe they were shooting blindly, but if you hadn’t been able to keep up with me, they might indeed have hit one of us.’’ His chest constricted painfully.

  Her hands slid away. She shivered. ‘‘Did I lose my cloak along the way?’’

  ‘‘No. It’s here.’’ He grabbed the garment off the floor and draped it around her. ‘‘When you fainted I feared you’d been shot. I carried you here, not knowing whether you were dying or not. I had to see . . . know for certain. . . .’’

  She offered her pardon in the form of a smile. ‘‘It isn’t as if you haven’t seen me in my nightshift before.’’ Beneath the cloak a violent trembling possessed her, and she gave him an imploring look. ‘‘Would you do something for me?’’

  ‘‘Anything.’’

  She held out her arms. The cloak fell open to reveal her tempting outlines and the dusky shadows of her nipples peeking from beneath her shift. ‘‘Forget for a moment that we’re in a chapel, and hold me.’’

  However wrong or inappropriate, however much her family would shake their heads, Sophie needed him. She needed the beat of Chad’s heart against her breast to banish the stony chill that would not release its grip.

  Before he woke her she had been cold, so cold. She’d wandered, lost and despairing of finding her way through a bewildering mist.

  He moved onto the bench, drew her into his lap and closed his arms around her. Gladly, gratefully, she pressed her length to his torso. Given the sheerness of the cotton covering her, she was all but naked against him, but the contact wasn’t enough. She needed more of him.

  One by one she unfastened the buttons of his shirt and burrowed against him, relishing the hardness of muscle and the coarseness of chest hair against her skin. Did this make her shameless? The notion seemed not to exist. Neither did disapproval or regret. There was only this stark physical need to be close, to feel connected, to be as much a part of him as she could possibly be. Shifting in his lap, she straddled a leg on either side of him and wrapped all of herself around him.

  She didn’t know how long they sat enveloped in silence and relief and the heat of their bodies. Through his trousers the undeniable evidence of his desire pulsed against her, sending its echo inside her with a promise of something yet to happen between them.

  Inevitable, but not here. Not in this place.

  Against his shoulder she spoke softly. ‘‘Do you think they’ll find us?’’

  He shook his head, stroked her hair. ‘‘We’r
e safe.’’

  She nodded, having already known the answer. There was something perplexing and otherworldly about this chapel, inexplicable yet dependable. They both knew it, even if neither understood it.

  ‘‘We can’t stay here indefinitely, though,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll wait for first light and set out for Edgecombe.’’

  ‘‘But I must return to the farm.’’

  His chest turned to iron against her. ‘‘Do you think I’d return you to those people? To that uncle of yours?’’

  ‘‘If anything he is the one in danger. Those men he met tonight are surely criminals, and he seems to have displeased them somehow. You heard their plan to be rid of him.’’

  ‘‘We don’t know for certain they meant Barnaby.’’

  ‘‘Who else?’’

  His arms tightened around her. ‘‘I don’t give a damn right now who they meant, as long as you’re safe.’’

  ‘‘I will be. No one knows we were there tonight. It was too dark for them to identify us, and we had a good running start.’’ Resolve sat her up straighter, although she was still in his lap, still straddling him. ‘‘My failure to return home will only raise suspicions. What if those men in the shack hear of it? How long before they put two and two together?’’

  ‘‘Assuming they can count that high.’’

  ‘‘They shot at us. They’ve no fear of murder.’’

  ‘‘Precisely why I insist you come home with me.’’

  ‘‘But don’t you see? As long as I slip back into the house before anyone notices I’ve gone missing, I’ll be safe. And free to continue observing.’’

  ‘‘You’ll do no more observing.’’ His voice was rough, edged with emotion. ‘‘Leave this to me.’’

  ‘‘Is it not as dangerous for you as for me?’’

  ‘‘That doesn’t matter.’’

  She heard bitterness in his words, a hint of despair. His eyes glittered as he stared straight ahead into the darkness of the altar. She felt him slipping away again. Helpless to understand why, she gripped his shoulders so tightly she knew she must be hurting him. ‘‘It matters to me,’’ she said with quiet fierceness.