by Lara Temple
She came to the end of the shelves, her finger touching the petals of a rose carved in walnut wood.
‘There must be more if you have been making them for over twenty years. Where do you keep them?’
He didn’t want her to hide again, but it was probably safer. For both of them. He crossed his arms and tried to smile.
‘You cannot expect me to keep all of them, surely.’
‘Oh, no! You couldn’t possibly have discarded any, could you? Especially not after what they did to your mother’s paintings. Surely not!’ Her shock was obvious, her hand holding Boy even more firmly against her, as if he was suggesting destroying it right there and then.
‘You are right. My vanity wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Don’t belittle it. It isn’t vanity. May I see the others?’
‘They aren’t here. I gave them away.’
‘Oh. I see. Never mind. To whom?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose it doesn’t, I just... Never mind.’
He relented, trying not to be flattered by her obvious disappointment and failing. ‘To a foundation called Hope House. We...they are homes for war veterans and their families. The children seem to like them. Especially figurines of animals.’
‘Lady Albinia mentioned you and your friends established homes for war veterans, but I didn’t realise there would be children there as well.’
‘We have homes for the families of the men who cannot work or care for their families because of their wounds, physical or otherwise. We find it is often better for their recovery to keep families together. Not always. We have schoolrooms and reading rooms for the children. Nell, Lady Hunter, supervises them and she had the idea of creating play rooms as well.’ He frowned suddenly, as if just realising what she had said. ‘Did you say Alby told you about the Hope House foundation?’
‘I’m sorry, shouldn’t she have? It was just that one of the gardeners in the Physic Gardens in Oxford lost part of his hand in Waterloo and he was telling us how lucky he is compared to some of his friends and that was when Lady Albinia mentioned he should tell them about Hope House and to contact you if need be and you would arrange for help. I asked her about it when we left and she told me...a little.’
‘A little.’
‘Please don’t be angry with her. She is so proud of you.’
‘We prefer to keep our involvement private, so I would appreciate if you do not discuss this with anyone.’
She looked so chastened and worried he moved towards her.
‘I am not angry with her, I promise. Hunter and Raven and I established the homes for very personal reasons and we already draw enough notoriety to our names. We did not want that affecting Hope House or the men there. They have enough to contend with. Here, don’t hug Boy so hard, you are hurting yourself.’
He reached out to gently take Boy from her, revealing a little red half-moon mark along the tantalising swell above her bodice where Boy’s ear had pressed into her. He could feel the pressure of that mark on his own chest, like the tip of a dagger lodged into his skin, and before he could think he reached out, his fingers skimming the border between fabric and flesh. A sunburst of pain-edged pleasure filled his chest, clenching his whole body like a fist around a forbidden act.
He turned away, placing Boy on his desk and trying to anchor himself in the familiar before he did something irrevocable. He didn’t want to scare her away or stem her curiosity or her generosity or even her concern. He wanted her, like this, trusting and giving, Chrissie, just a little longer before they had to return to reality. At least his better half did. The Sinclair in him was on the hunt and straining at its shackles. If she knew in what danger she was at the moment she would probably turn and run.
* * *
Christina stood, hardly daring to breathe. She wished he had left her Boy, she needed to cling to something. Did he even realise that these fleeting touches were almost as devastating as the memories of his embrace? Evidently not for him. But there was an unconscious intimacy in them that beckoned her on.
‘I’m surprised your mother didn’t value your gift if she herself was artistic.’
He hesitated but didn’t withdraw as she expected. ‘She did in a way. At least enough to mention it in her farewell letter. She said she didn’t take the figurine so that it would remind me of her when she was gone. That might count as appreciation.’
‘She left you a letter?’
‘Us. A communal letter. But I found it.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Better I than my father. I took it to my uncle and then when I went to tell my father I remember he sat down and just stared at the wall for a long time. Then my uncle came in to say he had the carriage brought round and was leaving to find them and he said...my father said...“I can’t bear it any longer.” I think he was crying, I don’t know. The next thing I remember was my uncle telling me she was dead and that I was to stand firm. That was two days later. I wasn’t allowed to go to the burial. They sent me back to school. I remember it snowed the whole way there and the postilions were worried we would be caught in the drifts and I thought I would end like her, frozen by the side of the road. But we arrived. The school was still almost empty, but at least Hunter was already there and the cook took pity on us and made us hot chocolate and allowed us to sit in the kitchen.’
She couldn’t bear the blankness in his voice. Eight years old and thrown into the middle of a storm of betrayal and abandonment and darkness. She took his hand, but though his hand tightened on hers it was an unconscious gesture and she was glad of it; the moment he realised it he would withdraw.
‘I remember you spoke of the snow when you were ill. You were so worried about it.’
‘Was I? I don’t remember. I still don’t like it. Foolish, isn’t it? It is only frozen water in the end. Russia was the worst. I never should have gone there. For many reasons. I should have turned tail the moment I entered that white-and-grey wasteland. But then it might have taken me longer to come to my senses so perhaps it was unavoidable. Society assures me I am the better man for being reformed, whatever that means.’
He raised her hand, frowning, and she waited for him to drop it. He curved her fingers into her palm, caressing the fist he made. Every inch of space between them was now tangible, an extension of the heat that reached out to her. She searched desperately for something to say that would prolong the pleasure of him opening to her. She didn’t want to be sent away yet. Ever.
When he spoke again, he surprised her.
‘Wait here. I want to show you something.’ He dropped her hand and moved towards the door at the other end of the study, but she didn’t wait. She followed.
Like the workshop, the next room was also large and long and with a door probably leading to the corridor and another to a dressing room. The wall facing the garden also had floor-length windows, but these were covered with thick curtains now partly drawn, casting the room into a pleasant gloom. Rays of sunlight filtered through the gaps, one laying a streak of gold along the floor and coming to rest on the bed, picking out shades of red and blue on the brocade cover. It was like an accusing finger—I know what you are thinking, Christina. You might be untouched, but you certainly don’t wish to remain that way.
She watched her feet cross the threshold, looked up and her heart stuttered and leapt forward. He was standing by the bed, his gaze on her, his hand outstretched. The suspended arrows of light gilded his shoulders and slashed across his chest. Again she realised he wasn’t beckoning to her, but holding something. It wasn’t a figurine, but a carving on a block of dark wood of a shadowy figure standing by a wall, one hand resting on a windowsill, each finger so distinct she could almost feel their pressure against the sill. The wind was frozen in the billow of long hair and the sweep of fabric against the curve of her hip. She seemed to be just on the verge of turning, perhaps to a
nswer someone’s summons, but she was also caught in some dream, something beyond that window.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Is that me?’ She was so shocked she spoke before she could worry about the presumption in her words.
‘Yes. I had a dream for a while after Illiakos—just an image of you standing by the window in that room and you would begin turning, but I would wake up before I saw your face. I did this to stop the dream.’
‘Did it stop?’
‘Time stops pretty much everything, Chrissie. Pain and pleasure both. Eventually. Time, patience and perseverance. You know all about that, don’t you?’
She shook her head. It hadn’t worked for her. The thought that some part of that episode had haunted him, however briefly and for whatever reason, only made it stronger. She had felt him then, had fallen in love with him as much as a frightened girl of eighteen was capable, and she was in love with him still, only so much more so now.
‘It worked quite well until King Darius decided he wanted to interfere in my life again. But time will work its wonder on this, too.’
The sting of his words was brutal. Was she so transparent?
‘Time doesn’t heal everything.’
‘I know that only too well. But you’re a survivor, Chrissie. You adapt to the hand life deals you. To your parents’ indifference and being shunted off to a family that didn’t want you and finally to Illiakos and what the King and the Princess want from you. No, don’t shake your head at me. I’m not condemning you. I think you are one of the strongest women I know, you make the most of what life offers you and you deserve the comfort you have earned. I have no right to pass judgement. None. It’s not your fault I want to bed you.’
The statement was so bald her body caught its meaning before her mind. She couldn’t stop the shudder of excited need that coursed through her and her hand rose towards him. He caught it, bearing it down behind her back as if to hide it from view.
‘Don’t. Don’t test me, Chrissie. I have no incentive to succeed.’
‘Alex...’
His name was a whisper, muffled as his lips caught it, his own words a low growl that tingled along her skin.
‘Say it again.’
‘Alex...’
She had no idea why his name opened the floodgates, but he groaned, his body sinking against hers, his shudder flowing through her.
‘They’re back,’ he said, his words as much a caress against the sensitised flesh of her neck as his lips on hers. ‘The dreams. But different. Sometimes you are right here, by my bed, veiled. Remember how you used to put on that salve? No one has every touched me like that, as soft as gossamer, but with a will of steel. Those moments were my worst moments on Illiakos. I was certain you could see what you were doing to me, how much I wanted to pull off those veils and sink into you. I wanted to touch you so that you would tell that cursed husband of yours and he would come and try to thrash me and I would take all this frustration out on the poor fool. When you told me it was all a lie it was worse. It felt like a betrayal and a release, but all I could think of was that I wanted you. You were right to send me packing. Believe me, I felt like a fool for wanting a woman I couldn’t even see and for begging you to come with me. I told myself that as soon as I recovered I would be thanking the fates you threw my offer back in my face. I never expected the dreams to linger... No, don’t go, not yet. I won’t do anything you don’t want, I swear. Stay just for a moment. Don’t be scared, Chrissie...’
She hadn’t been trying to pull away; she just couldn’t stop the shudders of need his words conjured, sinking her into an abyss of heat. Right now she wasn’t scared of anything but that he might stop. She wanted to enter those dreams and stay. She leaned in to the hands that held her, fitting herself to them with a sigh. This was right. She reached up and slid her hands over his chest, around his neck, the nerves in her fingers alive with pleasure even at the texture of his shirt and the warmth of his skin beneath. They passed the line of his shirt and touched skin, warm, firm over corded muscled, and then they slipped into the silky hair and fire twisted through her, brutal and unfamiliar and terrifying and right. A moan throbbed through her, so powerful it seemed to shake the air around her, echoing in Alex’s body as he drew her against him, one hand digging deep into her hair, tilting back her head, and she closed her eyes, her lips parted on a little gasp, between pain and surrender as she waited for him to seal her fate.
With one finger he pulled, very gently, on her lower lip and released it. A stabbing ache of desire burned through her and she slid her hands into the warm hair at his nape, raising her face to his. Finally.
‘Alex...’
The faint knock barely registered through the pulse thudding in her ears, but the sudden stiffening of Alex’s body did. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he put her behind him, striding towards the door and planting his hand on it.
‘What is it?’ It was more a snarl than a question and his valet’s voice was hesitant as he answered through the door.
‘Lady Albinia said to tell you the guests wish to dine early today after their travels and will be gathering in half an hour. Shall I lay out your clothes for dinner, my lord?’
She didn’t wait to hear Alex’s answer. She found the latch on the long window opening towards the garden and slipped out, hurrying along the gravel path in the lengthening shadow of the yew hedge. The cool air stung her cheeks.
She knew what would happen now. He would apologise, again, even though this had been utterly, utterly her fault. She had seduced him. Not very expertly, but it had been a seduction none the less. She had not only entered his rooms with him, alone, but she had coaxed him into sharing his pain and past with her in a way that was as much an invitation to take what she offered as if she had undressed in front of him. She had been within a whisper of putting him in an unbearable situation. What would have happened if his valet had entered the room? He might talk as much as he wished of his sinful past, but she knew he would have taken responsibility for their transgression.
His duty.
He might want her, for now, just as he had temporarily wanted the veiled handmaiden six years ago, but she wasn’t necessary to him as he was to her. It was as simple as that. He would enjoy her and then she, too, would become a burden and a duty to be shouldered like all the others in his life. He would be kind, but she would know. He didn’t need her.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Alexander?’
Alex glanced up as his aunt paused in the doorway to the library. He really didn’t wish to speak to anyone. He had to call on all his diplomatic skills and reserves of social graces just to navigate dinner while his mind had battered itself uselessly trying to understand how he had so far forgotten sense and every resolution by even inviting Chrissie to his rooms in the first place, luring her across each threshold with his wooden figurines like an ogre casting sweetmeats before a child.
It had been an abuse of his position as her host and a man with much more experience than her with the seductive power of compassion.
It was just that of all times for her to stand firm and follow rather than run, entering his rooms was not what he had expected. Not that it was a decent excuse for his actions.
The worst was that his only regret was his valet’s interruption. If he hadn’t...
He had been completely lost in the feel of her, his hands burning as they moved over her face, her hair, the delicate lines of her ears and throat. In her scent—those elusive wildflowers and beyond them the forest, faraway and lushly green. A whole landscape. The same way his hands knew how to move over the wood, to bring out its essential shape, they burned to move over the rest of her, ply her, shape her until she released her secrets, until she gave herself to him. Nothing had mattered but the lushness of the curve of her lower lip, the shakiness of her breath telling him she was ready and waiting, the heat warmin
g her eyes to sapphire. He hadn’t meant to stop. He had meant to take the passion he knew was in her and force it to its fullest pitch, have it burn through both of their restraints and take all choice away. He hadn’t been in any state to consider if it was wise or the greatest folly. It didn’t matter.
He should be grateful she had run in the end. Grateful, too, she had avoided him when he had tried to speak with her in the drawing room before dinner. It was madness to try to speak to her anyway while everyone was gathering, though what the devil she thought he would do in full view of everyone he had no idea.
He shouldn’t be surprised she had avoided his eyes and clung so firmly to the Princess’s side when he tried to talk to her. She was impressively clear-sighted about her priorities. How many times would she have to tell him before he heard her? She might enjoy the undeniable physical attraction between them but it could not compete with what she considered truly important. She had found her haven and she was staying there. Unlike Vera, Chrissie had the good sense to run and hide when someone crossed her lines. Better sense than him because all he wanted was to keep crossing them. He was within an inch of begging, just as he had back on Illiakos. He should take a leaf from her book and accept her rebuff. Not just accept it, but be grateful. It was like his stepmother and strawberries. She knew she came out in hives if she ate them, except that sometimes the temptation to just nibble at one of cook’s strawberry tarts was too alluring. Apparently Miss James was his version of strawberries—either avoid her or suffer the consequences. There was no middle ground.
Fool.
‘I won’t interrupt if you are busy, Alexander. We can talk tomorrow.’
Alex stood, flushing a little at his loss of focus. For a moment he had even forgotten Alby was still standing in the doorway.
‘No, come in, Alby. I’m sorry, I’m just a little distracted. Why are you awake so late? Is your shoulder paining you?’