The seven of clubs.
“My lord?”
“I should go now.” He needed to leave quickly. Today was unwise; tonight would be an even bigger mistake. He looked at her, so beautiful he nearly forgot his name. Then he blinked, remembering who he was. But even that wasn’t enough. “I’ll come for you at seven.”
Astley’s Amphitheater was a circular arena packed four levels high with patrons—loud patrons, and the show was just beginning. The high ceiling provided relief from the elements, but raised the applause and cheers to a deafening pitch. Colin had obtained seats near the center of the arena, and now he watched the trick riders with a critical eye. He had come to see the reenactment of St. George slaying the dragon. It seemed particularly appropriate. St. George was a man of courage, and yet his own courage seemed to slink further away every time Sarah smiled at him.
He had made his plans, now he simply needed to proceed. He planned to marry Charlotte Lambert. No, the girl’s name was Catherine, wasn’t it? He desperately needed to convince Sarah to stay away from him before his own control was gone. Yet each time he gathered his resolve and readied himself to speak to her, Sarah would look at him, and his tongue swelled till it filled his mouth, and it seemed more likely that he would sprout wings and fly across the arena. When she gazed at him with those eyes, as if she believed in him—truly—he wanted so badly to believe in himself. Yet his hands would start to shake with need, his lust obliterating all other thoughts, and he was no more a man than his father.
Nothing but an animal.
He dreaded the thought of his marriage, but his birthday was less than two months away. As yet he had done little. And wasn’t that what the old earl had thought would happen? That Colin was too like his father to marry. The old earl was wrong. He would marry Miss Lambert, and then he would seclude himself away at Rosemont. It seemed a fine plan. And yet here he was, with Sarah at his side. Doing a good and noble deed, completely in control.
He lied to himself; told himself that the only reason he chose to accompany Sarah tonight was to make her dreams come true. Just for one evening. He liked the thought of being responsible for her pleasure. Yet he knew the true reason for his actions and it was not nearly so noble. He simply wanted to be near her. To watch her, to hear her laugh, and sometimes, when he lost himself in her eyes, to touch her.
As if she sensed his thoughts, she turned. “Is it what you expected?”
It took a moment for him to realize she was speaking of the performance. “I underestimated the size of the crowd. And the clowns are amusing.”
“Yes, I’ve seen you laughing several times.”
“And yourself? Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, right as a line. I always survive.” When she smiled, he couldn’t help but smile back. “Why did you let me win?”
She did that so well, smile so serenely, yet glide forward with the wiles of an eastern dragon as she moved in on her quarry. He turned away, watching the performance once more. “Because I wanted to make amends. Because you believed in me.”
“And after tonight?” she asked.
For a moment he closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. The sound of her voice alone was enough to set him afire. He could take her outside, pull up her skirts, and push inside her. He fisted his hands, digging his fingers into his palms until his resolution returned. The old earl’s laughter echoed mockingly and his desire flickered away. “The riders are very good, don’t you think? Beowulf would have me disembarked in a moment if I tried such trickery.”
“Who is Beowulf?”
“My horse.”
“Ah.” The crowd burst into applause, and she waited until the noise abated. “You fought in the Peninsula?”
“Yes.” He watched the magnificent horses galloping below, not daring to look at her.
“I read the papers this morning. If Napoleon escapes, would there be war again?”
“Yes.”
“And would you fight?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you had obligations? Something to keep you in England?”
There was such distress in her voice. A piece of urgency that made him turn toward her, stare. Her eyes were more potent than the strongest drink. He was a fool to have come this evening. “Yes.”
“Are your feelings so cold that you care for nothing?”
He turned away, needing to hide. “We should be watching the performance, don’t you agree?” He heard her hiss of anger, and watched her through the corner of his eye, her fingers tapping impatiently. He should be watching the performance.
But of course he couldn’t.
The horsemanship was exemplary, the costumes spectacular, but he found his eyes drawn to her. After his ill behavior, she sat quietly, and every few moments, she would slowly lean forward, completely absorbed in the riders and horses.
She turned her head, found him watching her, and smiled. He racked his brain, searching for something clever to say, but before he could say anything, she had turned back to watch the show. He felt oddly disappointed.
A set of gymnasts appeared in the sawdust ring and twisted their bodies into fantastic shapes. It seemed rather painful to him. Although they were amusing and quite talented, when she laughed, he lost all interest in the clowns.
Her laughter was bright and cheerful and several heads turned to look in his direction. More fodder for the gossips. He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the curious looks. They did not see Cady’s son, only the daughter of Oliver Banks. How did she live with such attention? There was a determined tilt to her chin and sometimes she held her jaw a little tighter. He had seen the chill in her eyes when others looked in her direction. Yet her strength did not mar her beauty, only refined it. The curve of her lip fascinated him, the way the bottom lip dipped low, sometimes in a pout, sometimes in what he wanted so badly to believe was invitation.
Again she turned her head toward him, her eyes warmer. He blushed like a schoolboy caught cheating. He hadn’t come here to gaze at her like a moonstruck cow.
“What?” she asked, with a knowing smile.
“I’m sorry, you’re quite lovely.”
She studied him for a moment. “That sounds like a compliment, my lord.”
He nodded. “I think it was.”
“I see,” she said and turned to watch the riders in the ring below.
What did that mean? Had he erred? Shouldn’t he pay her compliments? Probably not if he were to remain distant and keep his baser attentions to himself. One evening. He had made a vow to himself. He would not hurt her.
Yet still he looked. Her hair appeared softer than usual. She had bound it up tightly, yet there, at her nape, three curls had escaped. Winding and twisting over the curve of her shoulder, threading their way down her back.
“Is the swordplay accurate?”
He imagined burying his lips in her hair, letting it spill over his arm like a river of fire. He blinked. “No, in a battle they would be killed.”
“Why did you fight?”
Because it was in his blood. “Many reasons. Loyalty, honor.”
“And courage?”
“Yes, that as well.”
“Surely there are times when a man must lay down his sword?”
A DragonSlayer’s sword was always at ready. “Perhaps,” he answered with a shrug.
She saw through his lie. “And the men who stay home, with their families? The farmers, the sailors, the merchants? What of them? Are they to be branded a coward or a traitor?”
“No, of course not.” They were good men who had no need to prove themselves. Gentle men, who were not bred to violence, but to peace instead. He was not one of them. His talents were not for farming, but for killing.
She continued on, confusing him even further. “Not every man is destined to be a soldier. Some must attend to their obligations at home. Greater obligations than the calling of their country.”
“What are you trying to say, Sarah? You don’t ap
prove of the fact that I was a soldier?”
She tilted her head, her fingers tapping as she thought for a moment. “Sometimes the male ideology confuses me.”
He laughed. “I thought nothing confused you.”
“I understand cards and wagers, can calculate odds. Nothing has confused me until now.”
He heard the implied statement in her tone, saw the question in her eyes. He confused her, and for that he was grateful.
“You’ll understand in time I’m sure. You’re too wise a woman not to discover the truth.” He smiled with difficulty, knowing there was nothing he feared more, and then he turned away.
The master of the ring walked to the center and bowed low, his dark hair falling over his eyes. His booming voice carried throughout the stands. “Ladies and gentlemen, our show is nearly at end. But before you go, there is one more battle to see, the battle of good versus evil. May I present for your enjoyment, St. George and the dragon.”
The man disappeared into the shadows and the dragon appeared, a costumed rider with a heavy serpentine tail draped over the horse. The crowd hissed low and long. As if in answer to the judgment, flames erupted from the dragon’s mouth, and Colin wondered how they managed that trick. Its claws flashed of gold and tinsel, and the horse’s mane was braided with green and brown silk.
Then St. George himself appeared in shining armor on his white charger and the audience cheered with great delight at their hero. He shook his shield at the crowd, bowing and nodding to the ladies. His horse went down on one foreleg in front of a blushing maiden in the audience and many a female sighed with longing. Obliging the noble knight, the lady took a ribbon from her hair and presented it to the rider.
The dragon roared and turned on the hapless knight, and a hush fell over the crowd as the two prepared for battle. The dragon charged and missed, the knight just escaping the heated flames. Once again the dragon charged, and once again the knight evaded the fiery beast. Then the knight studied the audience, the ladies fair to swooning at the chivalrous gallant. The dragon roared and the knight lunged, his sword outstretched. The dragon used his lethal claws to parry the blow and the sound of ringing metal echoed through the large amphitheater. The light from the great chandelier overhead glinted on the knight’s armor, enveloping him in a glow almost ethereal. The dragon’s horse reared, its hooves striking the red cross of the knight’s shield. The knight’s horse stumbled and a collective gasp sounded from the audience.
The dragon moved in for the kill. And just as it seemed the knight’s fate was determined, he lifted his sword high, and drove it deep into the dragon’s neck. The dragon fell from his horse, rolling on the ground, its roars transforming into quiet, desperate gasps. The knight raised his sword to the crowd, blood dripping from the weapon, forming red pools on the sawdust ground.
The dragon was dead.
Applause burst from all levels of the theater, the stands shaking with exuberant approval at the destruction of the beast. Beside him, Sarah was silent, politely applauding, but not with such enthusiasm.
“You’re very quiet,” he said.
“It seems the odds are stacked against the dragon. He always loses, doesn’t he?”
The dragon was evil. Evil must always lose. “Yes.” He thought of making a joke at the dragon’s expense, but his stomach twisted, and he only nodded stupidly.
By springtime, he would be married. No matter what she believed, no matter how touching her faith, he was not a hero. Although he chose to pretend, it was nothing more than a performance. An act, just as impressive as the one they had just seen. If she could read his thoughts, his fantasies, she would not gaze at him with such trust.
He didn’t deserve it.
Eventually the crowd began to depart, the stands emptying as people made their way out. He helped her with her coat and kept a guiding hand at her back. One time his hand strayed, lingering for a moment at the nape of her neck. He felt her muscles tense at his touch. Quickly, he halted the offensive contact, remembering his promise to keep her safe. The sawdust ring below was splattered with the blood of the dragon. Evil must always lose. Carefully, he tucked his hands into his pockets. He dared not touch her again.
Sarah closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the soft cushions of the carriage. Her one night was coming to an end. Each time that she believed he was drawing closer to her, he would pull away. As if she frightened him. There was something frightening in her feelings for him, perhaps he felt them as well. Something raw and quite unrefined. But that seemed the sort of man that he was, and she was in awe of his power.
Such powerful magic that he stirred in her. She could do anything when she was near him. His presence had quelled the laughter and prevented the snubs. Tonight she had felt at peace, a sense of belonging and welcome that she had never known. It was as if her world of make-believe was becoming real.
Needing to test the extent of the illusion, she counted to three and then opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was Colin, splendidly handsome and decidedly real. His eyes were nearly shut, his arms folded across his chest.
But he was watching her, and every bit of her tingled under his penetrating glance. She felt the magic weave its spell, curling around her with a warmth that was slowly beginning to burn. The steady rocking of the carriage should have been lulling, but she found herself on edge, waiting.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He raised his brow, surprised. “For what?”
“The evening. I’ve dreamed of such a night for some time. To be able to return their stares and feel nothing. My father would have enjoyed it.” She flashed him her most beguiling smile. “Was tonight so difficult for you?”
“Stop,” he said, his voice clipped with anger.
She shrugged. “It was merely a question, nothing more.”
The wheels rumbled through the dark night, the sound a welcome respite from the awkward silence.
Sarah watched as he untied the knot at his throat, pulling the linen free.
“You seem very. . . tense, my lord. Are you feeling well?”
“Wonderful,” he replied dryly.
Once more she’d crossed the line, once more he’d pushed her back. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It doesn’t seem that way, does it?” She stared out the window into the black night.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. Sometimes I forget you’re not as formidable as you want to appear.”
“No, I bleed just like everyone else. I’ve just learned to keep my scars hidden.”
“Sarah, if things were different—”
Damn the man for his pithy remarks. “What an excellent deduction, my lord. If things were different, then they wouldn’t be the same, now would they?”
“Sarah . . .”
She looked up at him and saw the tender way he was staring at her. Her heart lurched, and she found herself staring back. “My lord, you should be more careful. I might garner the impression that you’re not as eager to see the last of me as you have led me to believe. You never answered. Was it so difficult for you to withstand my company? Or did you find this evening as pleasurable as I?”
And tonight, wrapped in the magic, he didn’t look away.
She dared not move, dared not breathe, lest she disturb the gossamer threads that were drawing him to her.
“You were the most beautiful woman there.”
She outstretched her hand, a simple gesture that could convey a thousand different meanings. Her purpose was not well-defined, she only wanted his touch.
He reached out and grasped the tips of her gloved hand between his fingers. With excruciating slowness, he began to pull. The chilled air kissed each inch of skin as it was exposed, yet her flesh heated and throbbed. Silvery moonbeams shot through the small panes in the carriage, and in the dim light, his eyes glinted with some emotion that left her breathless with anticipation.
With each
tug, he let the growing length of the empty glove fall helplessly atop his thigh. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth when the edge of the white silk rode over her wrist, her impatient skin craving the feel of his touch.
When she felt his hand close over her covered fingertips, she nearly moaned, so great was her relief. All beyond Colin faded away.
With his tug on her hand, her breath caught.
When he hauled her into his embrace, it disappeared completely.
Strong arms came round her, encircling her with him—his broad chest, his large hands. However, it was his kiss that laid waste to her heart.
His mouth was gentle, his lips touching hers almost timidly. It was a kiss of caution and uncertainty, a kiss waiting for her response.
Her hands slid up his chest, finally settling, clenching and unclenching over the breadth of his shoulders. His lips began to gently pull at her own, a slow seduction that heated her blood. Her head tilted back into the crook of his shoulder as she fell victim to the onslaught of desire that was weaving its way through her core. She opened her mouth and he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping inside, possessive and bold.
He stirred against her, restless, his hands pulling her closer, their bodies merging together into one. There was no more gentleness or uncertainty in his movements, and she rejoiced at his boldness. She could have blamed her wanton behavior on champagne, but she knew it was the flavor of Colin that caused her mind to spin so easily.
His hand moved, sliding over her waist, and then higher still. She tensed, her heart pounding, and, as if he sensed her need, his fingers covered her breast, his thumb slipping beneath her bodice to find her nipple, tracing and circling the peak until she was frantic from the hard feel of his fingers.
“Colin.” She whispered his name, pleading, begging, wanting.
He eased her down into the soft cushions, his body covering hers, the gentle motion of the carriage causing their bodies to move together in the most delightful way.
And then she heard the shot.
Colin jerked upright, muttering a curse, and scrambled to the far corner of the carriage. He had drunk much too much this evening.Yes , the sly voice replied,that’s what you’d like to believe, isn’t it? You haven’t had a drop. He watched Sarah sit up, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. If he were a gentleman, he would help her. If he were a gentleman, he wouldn’t have pawed her in his carriage.
Touched by Fire Page 13