Captive of Sin

by Anna Campbell

  “You look almost bashful.” Her husky voice bubbled with warmth.

  “Good God, Charis…” He struggled to express his shock. “You can’t find our predicament amusing.”

  Her lips turned down. “I’d rather laugh than cry.” She turned away and gazed across the choppy water. “You can see what everyone thinks when they look at us. That waiter this morning leered.”

  “We’re newlyweds,” he said somberly. “If your stepbrothers inquire, I want people to say we acted like any couple.”

  “Then perhaps you should touch me,” she said softly but implacably. She still stared over the restless iron gray sea.

  Silence fell. While the waves rolled and the gulls cried and traffic clattered along the street behind them.

  “Charis…”

  She turned and the humor had fled. “You touched me last night.”

  He clenched his gloved hands by his sides. Clearly his sweet young wife was in the mood to torment him. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk about what happened,” he said in a tight voice. Christ, he didn’t.

  “Why would you think that?”

  Because I hurt you. Because I made a tragic mess of something that should be wondrous. Because I can’t stop thinking how it felt to be inside you.

  “Because it’s done.”

  An inadequate, cowardly answer. He knew it. So, blast her, did she.

  “You’re crossing a line through the subject of our…marital relations, never to revisit it?” Color still marked her high cheekbones. She wasn’t as easy with this discussion as she wanted to appear.

  “Don’t you think that’s best?”

  She arched her elegant light brown eyebrows, a few shades darker than the bright glory of her hair under the neat chip bonnet. “No negotiation?”

  He released a heavy sigh. “Revisiting last night should be as painful for you as it is for me.”

  She straightened from the wall and sent him a direct look. “You…you did what you had to.”

  “There was no joy.” If only someone would approach so she’d abandon this conversation. But the promenade around them remained empty.

  “Practice makes perfect,” she said staunchly.

  Every brave word gashed at him. “Not in this case.”

  He longed to tell her he’d give up his hope of heaven to change desolate reality. He longed to tell her she was more beautiful than the dawn. He longed to tell her he died of desire for her.

  What good was any of that when, if he touched her, he’d only hurt her?

  Her jaw set in a stubborn line. “I don’t accept that.”

  “You have to.” Why couldn’t she see there was no hope? After how he’d botched things last night, she should shrink from him as if he had the plague.

  “The Westons are fighters, Gideon,” she said firmly. Her throat moved as she swallowed, another indication that beneath her determination, she was nervous. “I want a husband in my bed. I intend to do anything I can to achieve that end. Anything. I know you want me. I’ll use it against you if I can.”

  Oh, dear Lord in heaven. He supposed he should admire her honesty in admitting her strategy, but all he could think of was the lacerating misery awaiting both of them. “We made a bargain…”

  She shook her head. “No, you set ultimatums.”

  “You agreed.” He couldn’t keep a hint of temper from showing. It was difficult enough fighting for his own equilibrium without having to fight her as well.

  “Yes, I did. Then.” When she looked down, gold-tipped lashes fanned the hectic pink of her cheeks.

  Need, primitive, uncontrollable, gnawed at him. How much easier this would be if she wasn’t so beautiful.

  Or would it?

  He’d liked her from the start. His longing wasn’t rooted in her appearance, spectacular as that was. He wanted her because of her pure, unquenchable spirit.

  His voice roughened with urgency. He admired her courage, but she was tragically mistaken in what she wanted. “Charis, I beg of you, don’t push this. I know what I ask seems cruel. But crueler by far to keep you clinging to futile hope. You’ll end up destroying us both.”

  The fugitive color fled as quickly as it had arisen, and the eyes she raised were dull with misery. “It could save us too.”

  Regretfully he shook his head. “This isn’t a fairy story, my wife.”

  Her lips flattened in displeasure. “No, it’s a story where you consign me to another man’s bed. Is that what you want?”

  The prospect of her sharing last night’s intimacies with another lover made him burn, like someone brushed his skin with naked flame. The idea of anyone but him touching her, hearing her sigh—God, pressing into that tight sheath—hurled him to the verge of murder.

  “Yes.”

  “Liar.”

  She cast him a scornful look, turned, and marched back toward the hotel, her boots clicking on the cobblestones. Helplessly Gideon stared after her. Unless he was very much mistaken, his wife had just declared war.

  When he was younger, before Rangapindhi, he’d occasionally imagined taking a bride. The idea had seemed simple, inevitable, uncomplicated.

  Hopelessly naïve.

  He bit back a curse. He’d known when he came up with this plan to save her, it meant suffering. He’d known it required will and sacrifice.

  But until his wife threatened to seduce him, he had no idea what hell awaited.

  She was yards away, walking with a natural self-confidence that attracted more than one admiring glance from the few men braving the cold.

  Impudent dogs.

  Biting down his rage with her, with himself, with the whole damned world, he strode after her. His eyes never wavered from the saucy sway of her hips.

  She didn’t look at him when he caught up. For the sake of appearances, he grabbed her arm. Even through his glove and her merino sleeve, he felt the tingling warmth of her skin. The ineffable life force that had set his desire afire when he held her last night.

  He wanted that heat and vitality.

  Devil take it, he wanted her.

  Even as another sizzling bolt of need hit, the old urge to snatch away fought to the surface.

  She glanced sideways. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he grated out, trying to control his inevitable shaking. He sucked in a breath and spoke with corrosive bitterness. “This is what you want? You’ve got bats in your belfry.”

  She looked straight ahead. “I want you.”

  Her voice was firm, sure, determined. And a little sad. Gideon had to remind himself she was a girl and couldn’t know her own mind. After last night, the words rang hollow, false.

  “Well, God help you,” he said grimly, and tightened his reluctant hold on her slender arm.

  Charis sat up in the bed where last night she’d lost her maidenhead. Rain slammed against the windows, and wind rattled the glass. The wild weather was nothing compared to the confused storm of emotions in her heart.

  She’d hated what Gideon had done to her last night. More, she hated that he’d hated it. She was vain enough to want her husband to find pleasure in her.

  There had been no pleasure.

  Actually, that wasn’t completely true. She’d felt pleasure when he touched her, even with him wearing those wretched gloves. When he’d stroked her bare flesh, a wanton heat had curled in her belly. Her breasts had ached for his caress, and her pulse had kicked into an unsteady race.

  At last the body she’d longed to explore had been near enough to touch.

  If he’d allowed her to touch him.

  He’d been near enough for her to breathe his clean scent and feel the warmth radiating from his skin. She’d seen the hard planes of his chest, felt the brush of his hair against her neck.

  All tantalizing hints of what they could find together, if only she could free him from Rangapindhi.

  Her belly knotted as she recalled the unbearable intimacy of that moment when he pushed inside her. The pain had been overwhelm
ing, but the act had bound her to him as nothing else could.

  They were one flesh.

  Only now did she understand what those words truly meant. Perhaps the anguish of the consummation made the joining so irrevocable. Perhaps if they’d embarked on married life in lighthearted hope, she wouldn’t suffer this dark obsession with her husband.

  She knew Gideon felt the connection too. For all he tried so staunchly to stay separate.

  For the sake of that connection, she meant to take a huge risk. A risk not only for her and her bruised, longing heart. But also a risk for Gideon’s grimly retained sanity and health. Heaven forfend she was wrong. The consequences would be tragic.

  In the long dark watches of the night, she’d felt at the crossroads between two futures. The future Gideon planned—cold, divided, lonely. A future where she didn’t resist his decision to give up on hope and love.

  Or there was another future. A future where they grew together, confronted their challenges, created a family and a home.

  Was there a chance she could make this second future reality?

  Charis didn’t fool herself about the magnitude of the obstacles. But last night as she’d witnessed his pain, something in her screamed denial at abandoning him to suffering. She yearned to cherish him. She wanted to restore his trust in life. More, his trust in himself. She wanted to give him back his capacity for happiness.

  All huge tasks.

  Impossible?

  No. She refused to give up. Whatever it cost her.

  Half an hour ago she’d left him in the parlor. He’d been drinking brandy, and the bleakness in his eyes had made her want to weep. The desolation had always been there, but now she knew his past, it cut her to the bone.

  He’d already decided his life was over.

  Well, the woman he’d married meant to shatter that resolution. She loved him so much, she couldn’t lose.

  Brave words. She wished she felt half as confident.

  She looked up from her troubled thoughts to see Gideon standing in the doorway. She hadn’t heard him arrive. He always moved like a cat, so that was hardly surprising. His hair was ruffled, and one gloved hand negligently encircled a glass. He’d removed his neckcloth, and his shirt was open, giving her shadowy glimpses of his hard chest.

  His masculine beauty was a constant goad. Sometimes, like now, it stopped her heart.

  Her belly clenched as his half-dressed state inevitably reminded her of last night. His remorse at what he’d done that stabbed her like a blade. His sorrow afterward that made her want to die.

  He didn’t advance into the room. “I’ll say good night, Charis.”

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?” The question emerged as a husky invitation.

  She licked lips dry with nerves. His gaze fastened feverishly on the movement. His gloved hand tautened on his brandy. The warm air swirled with sudden sensual turbulence.

  He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze above her head. “I’m sleeping in the parlor. I think…I think it’s best.”

  With unsteady hands, she grabbed a shawl and slid out of bed. Ignoring the resistance in his face, she stepped close enough to read ravaging torment in his dark eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gideon. It’s cold and uncomfortable.”

  He looked at her. “After Rangapindhi, it’s the height of luxury.”

  “Oh, my dear, Rangapindhi is over,” she said in a low voice. It seemed a sign of progress that he mentioned his captivity without prompting. She extended one hand toward him, then let it drop to her side. “You’re free.”

  His smile held no amusement. “I’ll never be free.”

  This acceptance of his fate angered her. “If you don’t fight, you won’t.”

  His tall, lean body vibrating resentment, he stalked across to the fireplace. He tossed back his brandy and set the glass down sharply on the mantel. He focused a furious glare on her. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

  She mustered her fading courage. She couldn’t fail at the first hurdle. Worse difficulties awaited before she gained what she wanted for him. A chance at happiness. Liberation from his past.

  Her mind filled with a sudden memory of the stark desire in his face as he’d looked at her body last night. Had she nerve to use that weapon to break him?

  With excruciating slowness, she let the beautiful shawl slide down. Her new nightdress was silk, and while far from immodest, had been designed by Madame Claire with a honeymoon in mind.

  Color lined his slanted cheekbones as his eyes followed the slipping shawl, then returned to trace the dip of the neckline over her breasts. She shivered under that heated gaze and was suddenly overwhelmingly aware that sheer white material clung to hips and buttocks and swirled around her bare legs. The strange hot weight, familiar from last night, settled in her belly. Her heart set up a rapid tattoo of excitement.

  “I understand you’ve decided to wallow in self-pity for the remainder of your days,” she said, knowing she wasn’t fair. But this wasn’t about fairness. This was about ripping at his control until his memories lost their grip.

  “You have no right to say that.” A muscle jerked erratically in his cheek. He was close to losing patience.

  “I’m your wife. I can say what I like,” she said defiantly, standing straight, so her breasts pressed against the delicately embroidered bodice. The cool brush of silk on her nipples teased, built the damp heat between her legs. Her breasts swelled, yearning for his hands.

  “This is a marriage of convenience,” he said, sounding strangled. He was taut as a drawn bow. His gloved hands opened and closed convulsively at his sides.

  “It’s more like a marriage of inconvenience,” she shot back, taking a step in his direction and tossing her thick plait behind one shoulder.

  Feverishly, his eyes clung to her. “We had a bargain.”

  “Yes, my safety in return for a lifetime of unhappiness.” She fought to keep her voice steady. Difficult when every reaction she achieved from him stoked the heat inside her. “Forgive me if I seek to renegotiate.”

  He turned away and closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. One unsteady hand curled over the edge of the mantel.

  “I won’t forgive you if you make this more a nightmare than it already is.” He flung his head up and glared at her like he hated her. His furious black eyes threatened to incinerate her where she stood. “Why the hell would you want to repeat last night’s farrago? Damn it, Charis, I hurt you.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that,” she said in a ghost of her usual voice.

  “For us, it does.” He sounded heartbreakingly sure.

  Doubt frayed her resolution. What if she was wrong? What if her plan to help him only damaged him further? She lifted her chin and shored up her courage. “I’m not giving up, Gideon.”

  His mouth thinned with anger, but when he spoke, his voice was frigid. “You will. This is a war you can’t win.”

  She spread her hands in helpless bewilderment. He had so much strength. Why didn’t he enlist it in his own cause? “Don’t you want a real life?”

  His short laugh was so harsh, it flayed like flying shards of glass. “Of course I do.”

  She fought the impulse to retreat. She’d known when she chose this path that her greatest enemy would be Gideon himself. “Your memories aren’t always in control,” she said hoarsely. “I saw you in Portsmouth. You knocked down any man within reach. You weren’t afraid to touch people then.”

  “Yes, I find relief in violence.” His voice roughened into sarcasm. “Are you suggesting I beat you?”

  She blinked back hot tears. How easy to make optimistic promises when she lay alone in her bed. Less so facing his stubborn intransigence.

  He was so angry and lost, and he defended himself the only way he could. She knew he acted for her sake. He firmly believed he wasn’t worthy of her love. He believed living with him would destroy her. Limitless self-loathing was one of the toxic fruits of Rangapindhi.
r />   Could she change his mind? Did she have the power to reach him? “Gideon…” she protested huskily.

  He stiffened and glared at her. “Don’t be a fool. I’d never hurt you.”

  She bent her head. “You’re hurting me now.”

  She glanced up to see his face darken with remorse. He made one of those strange truncated gestures she’d noticed from the first. “Charis, don’t.”

  She shook her head and twined her arms around herself. She was cold with a chill of the soul more than the body. If only he’d take her in his arms and warm her. “I can’t help it,” she whispered.

  He stepped close enough for her to feel his living heat. How could he consign himself to a cold tomb of isolation?

  “I’ve done you a great wrong,” he said with a regret that made her want to cry.

  “No.”

  “Yes, I have. I hoped to preserve your freedom by tying you to a man who made no demands. Instead, I’ve only brought you pain.”

  “I want to be your wife,” she said obstinately.

  “You are my wife.”

  “Not in any way that counts.”

  He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. “Charis, you ask too much.”

  “Better than asking nothing at all,” she snapped back.

  His eyes flashed, and he swung away. She knew it was unjust to berate him over what he couldn’t change.

  Something women always said when they made less-than-satisfactory marriages.

  He looked tired, discouraged. Her demands couldn’t be easy. He’d come to an unknown woman’s rescue and adopted responsibilities that took over his life.

  Except she didn’t believe he felt like that. In her heart, she believed he could love her. Sometimes, she caught him staring at her with such hunger, her heart skipped a beat.

  “All I can promise is once we’ve established our marriage’s legality, you can set up home anywhere,” he said with a coldness she knew was meant to put her at a distance. “You need never see me again. This interlude will become only an unhappy memory.”

  “You think that’s what I want?” she asked bitterly.