Captive of Sin

by Anna Campbell

  She said she loved him. But for all her sweet passion and determination, he wasn’t convinced she suffered anything more than a particularly virulent case of hero worship. What he was firmly convinced of was his complete unworthiness. He’d failed so many times. He couldn’t bear to contemplate failing her. As he surely would. Better he set her free to find the man she deserved.

  He bit back his agony at the idea of her falling in love with someone else. He had to think of her future and not his own selfish desires.

  Except that right now, his own selfish desires were paramount, unstoppable. He should leave her to sleep alone, but he already knew he wouldn’t. The astonishing joy he’d found in her arms, when he’d thought any joy at all lost forever, made restraint impossible.

  St. Augustine’s self-serving prayer flickered through his mind. Lord, grant me chastity and continence. But not yet.

  Charis lifted her wine but didn’t drink; instead, she stared into the red depths with a troubled expression. “If you’re sure it’s an almighty mistake, why did you kiss me?”

  Ah, smart girl, to pick the kiss as the betrayal of his principles rather than this morning’s volcanic lovemaking. He told her the simple, incontrovertible truth. “Because, God help me, I can’t resist you.”

  Startled, she looked up, and a smile of utter delight curved her full lips. “Really?”

  She was so pleased with herself, he couldn’t help laughing. Although he was a villain to encourage her belief that they could find happiness. It was a role he suspected he’d become accustomed to in coming days. Because, having tasted her, there was no way on this earth he could keep his hands off her while they shared these rooms.

  Still, even as he acknowledged her power, his reply held an edge. “Yes, damn you, really.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then.” She put down her wine, stood, and rang for the servants.

  Surprised, he turned in his chair to watch her. “Is that it? No more inquisition?”

  “For the moment.”

  He heaved a sigh of masculine relief although he didn’t trust this sudden docility.

  As the maids cleared dinner, tidied the room, built up the fire, prepared the bedroom, he stood beside the mantel, holding himself apart. Just this much activity around him, and his sinews tightened with revulsion.

  No, he was far from cured, God damn it to hell.

  The chilling knowledge seeped into his bones. Briefly, he closed his eyes, trying to summon will to deny Charis—and himself. But will was putty against the potent lure of desire.

  He and his wife would make love tonight. Anticipation fizzed in his veins. He sipped at his claret, wondering when he’d last spent an evening with a lovely woman, knowing they’d end up in bed.

  She looked across from where she sat, pretending to read a book, and sent him a secret smile. She knew how the night would end too.

  Gideon drew a deep breath as the door closed behind the last servant. Now just he and Charis remained, and the air suddenly seemed clearer, cleaner. He ignored the howl from his conscience that he had no right to touch his wife when he was such a disaster.

  His eyes fastened on Charis as she set aside her book. He stayed where he was, enjoying the crescendo of expectation. His hands itched to drag her close for a drugging kiss. To discover what marvels lay under her lovely red gown.

  She stepped up to him and took his wineglass away, her fingers brushing his gloved hand. Even that much contact would have once set him shaking and sweating. Now it just aroused sizzling need. Her carnation scent drifted out to whisper promises of paradise.

  “Will you do something for me, Gideon?” she asked softly.

  A dim warning sounded. In his besotted daze, he hardly heeded it. “It depends.”

  Her lips tilted upward as she placed the glass on the mantel. “That’s hardly gallant. A true gentleman would obey my slightest whim.”

  “I’d say that gentleman didn’t know you very well.”

  She laughed softly, and the husky sound made his gut churn with longing. For all his brave words, he’d lie down and die if she asked him.

  “So suspicious.”

  “Suspicion has kept me alive on numerous occasions. It’s a highly underrated characteristic.” He sent her a searching look. “What do you want, Charis?”

  She sucked in a steadying breath, and he realized that beneath the flirtatious humor, she was nervous. The warning clang became more insistent. “I want you to allow me to do with you what I will.”

  Charis resisted the urge to twine her hands together. She needed to convince Gideon she was a confident, self-aware woman, not a silly girl. Acting as jittery as a canary in front of a hungry cat wouldn’t advance her cause.

  He angled one black eyebrow. “Which involves what?”

  She bit her lip before she remembered she meant to appear nonchalantly assured. Raising her chin, she forced herself to meet his wary dark eyes. “Well, undressing you, for a start.”

  Hot color seeped under her skin. Nonchalant assurance had never been likely. Even coherent speech seemed an unachievable goal. Surreptitiously, she wiped her palms on her skirts.

  “I…see,” he said slowly.

  She waited for more. Anger. Protest. A resounding no. But he remained silent. She rushed into speech. “It’s not salacious curiosity.”

  His lips twitched slightly although she read growing resistance in his eyes. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Gideon,” she said in a low urgent voice. “It’s important that you’ve kept your clothes on whenever we’ve…”

  “Made love?”

  “Yes,” she responded on a thread of sound. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird against her ribs. Not a sparrow. Something big and fierce like a vulture.

  He leaned on the mantel, his long body elegant and powerful. The flames from the grate cast strange, flickering shadows over his face. For a moment, he looked devilish. She licked lips dry with nerves. His eyes fastened on the movement. The blatant interest reminded her she wasn’t completely powerless in this war. She stiffened her spine.

  One gloved hand fisted on the mantel. His voice was silky with control. “So I hand myself over to your tender mercies? Do I have a choice?”

  She knew he resented the way she undermined his defenses. She pressed her palms deeper into her skirts to hide their trembling. “You can say no.”

  “Then you won’t share my bed tonight,” he said grimly.

  Her heart somersaulted with astonishment. Did he know just what he admitted? “I won’t stay out of your bed to gain my way.” She licked her lips again. “You see, I can’t resist you either.”

  His appearance of tranquility abruptly shattered. With a furious movement, he jerked away from the hearth. He was visibly shaking. For one horrified instant, she wondered if his affliction was returning. He grabbed the back of a chair, gripping it with hard fingers. “In Rangapindhi, I was tortured.”

  “I know.”

  She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “You’ll find my scars repulsive.”

  She blinked with shock. This hadn’t occurred to her. Although if she’d thought, it should have. Spreading her hands, she spoke the truth in her heart. “I think you’re beautiful. A few marks on your skin won’t change that.”

  His brief laugh held no amusement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She stepped close enough to touch him. “Let me see.”

  He released the chair. She recognized the gesture as a sign of reluctant acquiescence.

  Very carefully she reached for the lapels of his black coat. The wool was warm from his skin. He braced under her touch although he didn’t retreat. She took this as tacit permission to continue.

  Slowly, she slid the coat from his shoulders and down his arms, then lifted it away. His jaw was set as if she tortured him. He was rigid as an oak board.

  Dear heaven, let her instincts lead her right. If Gideon endured this suffering for nothing, she
’d never forgive herself.

  She tamped down guilt and fear as she turned to lay the coat over the chair. Something deeper than dread or compassion told her that until he let her see him without the armor of clothing, his essential self would stay hidden.

  Her heart careening in a mad race, she steeled herself to face him. He’d dressed more formally than usual tonight. He stood before her in an exquisite white waistcoat, embroidered with silver vines. A snowy neckcloth. Shirt. Biscuit trousers. His hands, as always, were encased in gloves. Tonight, white evening gloves like the ones a dandy wore to a ball.

  The betraying muscle flickered in his lean cheek, and he breathed unsteadily. The soft, broken hiss was the only sound apart from the flames crackling in the grate. When she lifted her hands to his waistcoat buttons, she felt the ragged rise and fall of his chest.

  She flicked open one button. Two. Three. The beautiful garment sagged open.

  She slid her hands under the brocade to slip it off. Now only the fine material of his shirt separated her from his skin. He was hot as a blazing fire and so tense she feared he might shatter.

  Before she thought to censor herself, her gaze dropped. His arousal swelled against the front of his trousers in unmistakable demand.

  “You know I want you,” he said flatly. “You use it against me.”

  She shook her head, setting the waistcoat over his coat. With every garment she removed, she felt like she seized enemy colors in a battle.

  “I use it for you.” If she didn’t believe that, she couldn’t summon courage to persist. She gathered that courage and placed her hand over the bulge in his trousers.

  Her breath caught. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat. She’d never touched him there before. Through his clothing, she felt the tensile power. The life. The vigor. Automatically, she shaped her fingers to the hard length. His flesh surged into her palm as if it had a will of its own.

  Gideon closed his eyes. “Charis…”

  She bit her lip and lifted her hand away. She shook as she reached for his neckcloth. Her fingers were clumsy, and the length of linen seemed impossible to untangle.

  She sucked in a deep breath, redolent of Gideon, and forced herself to concentrate. Eventually, she managed to tug the neckcloth free. His shirt gaped. His pulse beat wildly at the base of his throat.

  He breathed rapidly. So did she. The room felt close, confined, stifling. Need settled low and heavy in her belly.

  She hadn’t set out to titillate him. Or herself. But the act of undressing this big strong man—and him standing quiveringly still as she disrobed him—made heat well between her legs.

  The air was sharp with arousal. Male and female. She wasn’t touching him, but his desire surrounded her like sheets of flame.

  He closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to witness what she did. His tension was a vibrant, writhing force. Air scraped in and out of his lungs.

  Doubt assailed her. Held her paralyzed.

  Could she do this? Should she do this? What if her actions pushed him deeper into purgatory?

  She braced her shoulders and reached forward to pull his shirt free of his trousers. Her heart banged against her ribs. Her hands shook.

  He opened his eyes and snatched the hem of his shirt. “Here, damn you,” he grated out. He tore the garment in two, shucked the ragged pieces, and dropped them to the floor.

  Anything Charis might have said lodged unspoken in her tight throat. Her hands fisted at her sides. Her eyes flew up to meet Gideon’s glassy gaze, then dropped to convulsively trace every line of his torso.

  She’d known he’d be beautiful. But his virile splendor left her speechless. His pale skin stretched tight over ridges of hard muscle. Feathery dark hair covered the broad plane of his chest.

  Scars patterned his chest and arms. Long lines that she guessed came from a whipping. Pale satiny welts that looked like burns. Round marks that could be bullet holes. A tangible history of unrelenting pain.

  Her attention returned to his face. His jaw set like stone with stoic endurance.

  He loathed this. He loathed this to the depths of his being.

  Oh, Gideon, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.

  She reached out and placed a gentle hand on one powerful arm. He flinched away. Just like he used to. Fear scored her heart. Would tonight hurl him back into his nightmare isolation?

  She straightened. She’d set out on this path. For good or ill, she must follow it to the end.

  Steeling herself for what she’d see, she slowly stepped behind him. He held himself so still, she couldn’t hear his breathing anymore.

  His back was long. Leanly muscled. Graceful in its strength.

  Marred with scars upon scars upon scars.

  How had anyone borne such torture and lived?

  Scalding tears stung her eyes, but she forced them back. A sob jammed behind her lips. She must be strong, just as Gideon had been strong.

  Her horrified gaze clung to the pattern of cicatrices across his flesh. Every inch of his back carried the mark of violence. His captors must have beaten him again and again. They must have stabbed him and burned him. Her imagination failed as she sought to measure his torment.

  With one trembling hand, she touched a thick puckered line that snaked around his ribs. He flinched again, although the wound had long since healed.

  “Have you had enough?” he asked cuttingly.

  “Oh, Gideon, what did they do to you?” she whispered.

  “I warned you.”

  She traced the scar, feeling where other scars intersected it. The raised flesh under her touch was unnaturally smooth. “I still think you’re beautiful,” she choked out.

  His muscles tensed, then he jerked away from her tentative exploration.

  “Do you indeed, sweet Charis?” he snarled, whirling to face her. “What about this?”

  With savage swiftness, he ripped the gloves from his hands and flung them to the floor.

  Nineteen

  Charis’s heart crashed to a halt. At last she saw what Gideon had hidden all this time. She saw and yet could hardly believe it.

  She thought viewing the scars on his back had tested the limits of her courage. But this, this went beyond anything she could conceive.

  Her appalled gaze clung to the ruined hands he spread out before her as if he taunted her with their shattered elegance. “Oh, Gideon,” she whispered, the words lacerating her throat.

  “Quite a sight, aren’t they? At least they work. After the torture, I wasn’t sure they would.” His tone stung. He lifted his right hand and held it so close in front of her face that the tangled network of scars blurred. “Do you want these touching your skin? Do you?”

  She jerked back, mainly at the corrosive pain in his voice, then made herself stand still and look without flinching. He wanted her to recoil, she knew. He wanted her to confirm he was as repulsive as he believed.

  “Don’t,” she begged. Shaking, she reached out to catch his hand, but he wrenched free to stand in front of the grate.

  Apart from hectic streaks of color lining his prominent cheekbones, his face was drawn and gaunt. His mouth was a white gash of anger. His black eyes were brilliant with humiliation and self-loathing.

  “Don’t touch you?” His bitter laugh made her cringe. “I wouldn’t dream of desecrating your body with these claws.”

  “No…” He’d misunderstood her. Deliberately, she guessed. Her belly clenched in sick misery. She raised unsteady hands to her face and discovered it wet with tears.

  He had so much pride. His pride was part of his extraordinary strength. But that also meant he’d hate her to cry over him. She should stop.

  If only she could.

  He sent her a blistering glare, then stalked toward the door, snatching up his coat on the way. “I’ve had enough of this. Find some other damned charity case.”

  “Gideon, please don’t go,” she forced through a throat thick with churning emotion.

  “I’ll see you in
the morning,” he grated out without looking at her. On the hand that clutched his coat, his broken knuckles shone white.

  She couldn’t let him leave like this, believing she despised him for his injuries. Lunging forward, she grabbed his bare arm with both hands. “No!”

  “Let me go, madam,” he said stiffly, although at least he curtailed his headlong retreat.

  She expected him to shove her away and make his escape. But he stood facing the door, his back to her, quivering as he did in the grip of his affliction.

  “Never,” she vowed, her voice fracturing. She slid one hand down his arm to cup his poor, damaged hand between hers. “Never, never, never.”

  Dear Lord, she had to stop crying. She sucked in a broken breath and struggled for control.

  He was as taut as a drawn wire. On edge. Furious. Grieving. Likely to lash out at the least provocation. Perhaps she pushed him too far, risked another attack. She muffled a sob and stroked his hand with trembling fingers as if touch alone could mend what could never be mended.

  His other hand opened, and the coat dropped to the floor, tacit admission that he wasn’t going anywhere. His glossy dark head lowered until his forehead rested against the door.

  In the unnatural contours of the hand she held, she felt what his captors had done. The tracery of scars. The spurs and welts. The jagged knitting of the bones. Bones that had been smashed over and over. The knuckles were swollen. The fingernails were jagged and misshapen.

  What had happened to him was obscene, unspeakable, barbaric. The damage made her want to scream and claw and fight. But all she could do was cry.

  Heaven help me, I need to dam these endless tears.

  “Charis, I don’t want your pity.” His voice was so deep, it was a subterranean growl.

  He was wrong about her reaction. Pity was too weak a response to the horrors perpetrated on him. What he’d withstood beggared imagination. She felt like an ax cleaved her heart, and nothing would ever weld it whole again.