His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  In this moment, she thought back to her choices in the past months, and realized that she had been brave. Brave to come to Burndale in the first place. Brave to face the unknown.

  She had faced the fear of that, the fear of failing in her task, of being sent home to her family with no income, no way to keep them safe. She had felt the dark tide of it wash over her. But she had not drowned.

  She had seized the freedom to choose, to defend her choices, to walk as fast as she willed, to escape the confines of Burndale school and meet Griffin on the road.

  The thought of him, of the intensity she read in his gaze, of the heat there and the passion, filled her with shimmering expectation. Oh, she was not so naïve that she could not see the hunger in his eyes, that she did not know it for what it was. He wanted her, and that knowledge was heady and luscious and ripe, bursting inside her like a juicy berry with a sharp, tart tang.

  The choice she made here was not without danger.

  She knew she invited attentions that no unmarried girl ought invite. But there was the crux of the matter. She had always been honest with herself in regard to possibilities, and she had never counted marriage as a likelihood.

  What man wanted a mad wife who woke screaming in the night, her eyes wide, seeing terrors that no other could see? What man wanted such a mother for his children, a woman who would likely taint them with her own anxious temperament?

  That honesty made her acknowledge that here was an opportunity she wanted. Craved. She ached for Griffin’s touch, his embrace, his kiss.

  Was it madness to want it? Of a certainty. But it was a madness that made her burn, and she yearned, just once, to take what she wanted and not be afraid.

  And so she walked on, knowing he would come. Knowing precisely what he wanted.

  She reached the fork in the road and chose her path, following the curve of packed earth, a ribbon of road that carried her to places both familiar and unknown.

  Pausing, she turned her face to the heavens. The sky was awash with color, apricot and cherry and buttercup yellow. Beautiful. She stood for a moment and let the sight fill her heart.

  There was a faint chill in the air, the herald of a cold night. On a whim, Beth pulled off her glove, bent low to the ground, and put her palm on the road. It was warm to her touch, holding the last vestiges of the day’s sunlight.

  Meet me this evening on the road.

  He would come to her soon. She knew he would.

  He would kiss her. Beth was certain of that.

  Wanted that.

  Wanted him. Griffin.

  He had not played the gallant when he had spoken in her defense earlier, silencing Mr. Creavy with whip-sharp words. No, he had not played the part. He was gallant, though he would be pained to know she thought it. He would tell her she was mistaken.

  But she thought of the way he had taken her—a girl stranded by the churchyard—up in his curricle that first day on the road. The way he had caught the wasp to protect her from a painful sting, then set the creature free though it might have stung him in turn. The way he struggled to engage his daughter in some way, coming to Burndale Academy almost daily just to see her, be near her.

  He had seen to the heart of all Beth’s fears, known her secret terrors though she had not given them voice. He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her, not trapping her with his weight, but turning her so it was she who held him in place. She who chose.

  That memory made her shiver.

  Lifting her hand from the road, Beth straightened and walked on, her thoughts full of him, full of the knowledge that she could love him if she dared. Or perhaps she would love him regardless, whether she willed it or not.

  She thought that, like a plague, love chose its victims where it would.

  o0o

  He had told her to come, and she had. Atop a low rise, Griffin watched her from a distance, the sway of her hips, the angle of her shoulders, the way she tipped her face to the sun.

  Beth did not walk with her eyes on the ground, with small mincing, lady’s steps. Not his Beth. She walked as though she meant to go somewhere, with her arms swinging by her sides. He found that incredibly appealing.

  For all her fears, she was brave and brazen. A contradiction. A conundrum. He found that appealing, as well.

  The wind caught her skirt, made the hem rise, the cloth billow before it settled once more, flowing about her like water.

  What did he want of her?

  The thought held a sardonic edge. Yes, of course, he wanted that... but there was something more. Something intangible, almost indecipherable.

  He wanted her trust, her acquiescence in his bed. Her willing—nay, eager—submission to his desires.

  He wanted to hold her safe.

  He wanted to take her fears. To know what had birthed them and steal that darkness from her. Make it his own.

  What was it like, to know such fear each moment of each day? What had she lived through to shape her so?

  Whatever it was, she saw its reflection each time she looked at Isobel. He read that affinity in every interaction he observed between Beth and his daughter. What would she think to know that he was the source of his daughter’s darkness, that he blocked the sunshine from her life?

  He thought perhaps she had disbelieved him when he told her he was a villain, perhaps she thought he spoke in jest. Soon, she would know the truth of it.

  As he watched, Beth paused, bent low and touched the road. Why? She tipped her face to the sun, and then he understood. She touched the road in order to feel the last vestiges of the sun-warmed day.

  Then she straightened and walked on, disappearing from his sight round a bend in the road.

  With a grin, he ran lightly down the hill and set himself a course meant to intercept hers.

  She did that. She summoned his smile whether he willed it or nay, had done so since that first day on the road by the church. She made him feel he ought to grab what joy he could, as she did.

  He was half way to the road when he heard her scream. Short. Sharp. The sound died almost before it began.

  o0o

  Beth knew that smell. She thought that once encountered, it was a memory that dwelled close to the surface forever, a scent never forgotten.

  Blood and death.

  Pressing her hand to her mouth to hold back any further sound, she scanned the clearing and then the shadowed wood. In her shock and horror at the sight of the dead girl lying amidst the yellow wildflowers, she had screamed once, quick, the sound truncated, sliced off as soon as she realized what she did.

  She knew better than to scream, but the shock of seeing the girl—

  Hide in the dark. Don’t make a sound. His footsteps coming closer, and the wet rasp of his breath. The box tight and small. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe...

  No! She slammed the door on her memories and thought only of now, of survival, of a way to be safe. Panting, she fought to stem the tide of terror, to freeze like a rabbit in a field.

  Do not see me! I am hiding. Hiding. The pain in my belly is so sharp, and the box is so small.

  Slowly, she turned a full circle, watching for anything that did not belong. A sound. A scent. It might be here still, the thing that had killed this girl. If she screamed again, she might lure the beast back. If she ran, she might run to her own death.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs and she was choked for breath, dizzy with it. Dizzy with stark terror.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  She dredged up every bit of discipline she had taught herself over the years, forced herself not to scream, not to run. Those were the worst things she could do.

  Panic was a choking smog, coating her every thought with a brown, greasy sludge that oozed and dripped.

  With the back of her hand pressed to her mouth and her lips closed tight, she retched and retched again, her gut churning, her throat burning with the sting of bile.

  Was the monster lurking in the shadows?

  She spun, he
r gaze darting about, but she saw only thick, brown tree trunks and high branches, heard only the sigh of the wind through the trees and the rustle of leaves.

  Swallowing, she listened again for any sound out of place, the crack of a twig, the flapping of the wings of a startled bird. Nothing. Nothing. Only her own breath sounding harsh and loud in the quiet.

  The monster might still be about, watching, waiting.

  Oh, dear God.

  She ached to run screaming from the place, to sob and cry and run down the road, to let her panic surge free.

  And that was exactly why she stayed where she was. Because she would not give in to her fear. She would not.

  Slowly, ears straining to hear any sound out of place, she began to back away a single step at a time. Logic told her the beast was long gone, the girl long dead.

  Her gaze slid back to the dreadful scene before her, drawn against her will by pity and dismay, and by the need to know. That need battled with the urge to flee.

  She was her father’s daughter, raised to think as he thought, and so a part of her catalogued all she saw even as the shock and fear threatened to overwhelm her.

  Breathing shallow little puffs of air through her open lips, Beth drew her shawl from her shoulders and stood staring down. The woman wore a pale blue cotton print dress, muddied and soiled and stained with old blood.

  She was dead. But not recently. There were maggots crawling in the holes that had once been her eyes and nose and mouth, and flies rising and landing.

  Her flesh was gnawed away in places, showing glimpses of white-yellow bone. The fingers of her right hand were gone. And her hair. She had no hair.

  Beth shuddered. Had the girl been killed here? Or dragged here after her death?

  Why? Why?

  She knew that only seconds had passed since she had stumbled upon this macabre scene, yet she felt as though she had stood here for hours staring down at the decaying corpse.

  A swirling maelstrom threatened to drag her deep into the mire of her panic and despair. Trembling so hard she could barely stand, Beth stepped forward and draped her shawl over the remains of the girl’s face, feeling as though she must offer at least that small show of respect, must cover this poor girl and shield her from unkind eyes.

  She backed away then, step by step, keeping a careful watch on her surroundings. Her gaze moved rhythmically from left to right, and then she paused and checked behind. Again and again she did this, one step and the next, carrying her away from this place of horror.

  She knew now that Miss Doyle’s stories of the dead teachers were not a far-flung tale fashioned to instill fear. They were real, and the beast had been here...

  Do you know who found them, there in the woods, all bloody and savaged so their own mothers might not recognize them? Why, it was Mr. Fairfax... perhaps he will stumble upon your body, as well, just as he happened upon theirs...

  Griffin. She had meant to meet him here on the road.

  Heart hammering, she whirled and ran now, toward the road, away from this place. Away from death.

  Griffin. Griffin. Griffin.

  Everything felt wrong. And she was drowning in dread and confusion.

  She was to meet him on the road. This road.

  He had asked her—commanded her—to come.

  To find this horror? Was that what he wanted?

  Even as the questions battered her, she found them obscene.

  She stumbled, her right foot slipping into a shallow hole in the ground. With a cry, she fell to her knees, her palms scraping across the ground, damp leaves and damp earth, the smell rising up to fill her senses.

  Frantic, she surged to her feet, swayed, and ran on, skirting trees and brush, and there... the road. Sweet relief.

  She burst from the line of trees, slammed into something hard, and went down, kicking and screaming now, clawing at the thing that held her.

  “Beth! Beth!”

  Strong arms closed tight about her and she was sobbing, shaking, struggling against the bands that held her fast.

  Free. She must get free.

  “Bloody hell!”

  Hands grabbed her own. Griffin, she realized. Griffin held her fast. Still, she could not stop shaking, struggling.

  His warm fingers closed about her own and, holding her hands, he crossed his arms, bent his elbows, guiding her hands until she closed them about his forearms.

  “Hold fast to me, Beth,” he rasped. “If you cannot bear for me to hold you, then you hold me.”

  He loosed his grip, set her free.

  Sobbing, she dug her fingers into the muscles of his forearms, holding on as tight as she could, shaking so hard that her teeth chattered and her bones rattled. But she held on to him. Closing her fingers as tight as she could, she held on to him.

  He let her sob, making no move to drag her close, no move to hold her, and she was grateful. So grateful. She could not bear it now, to feel anything confining. Even her dress felt tight. Her bonnet.

  With a cry, she undid the ribbons and tore her bonnet free, then raised her gaze and found him watching her.

  Griffin. Just watching her, so calm and patient.

  He rose, staring down at her, his eyes night-dark here in the shadows. In that instant, there was no logic to her thoughts, no rational bent. There was only gut certainty.

  Griffin was her one safe place. She couldn’t explain that, didn’t even care to try. She just knew.

  Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet, the sensation familiar. Another time. Another place. With the stink of blood heavy in her nostrils. Memories slammed her.

  Hands lifting her out of the box. The flare of a rush light, paltry and weak. A scent. The sound of a man’s voice. And then darkness.

  Clinging to him, she swayed, finding her footing and her balance. The memories faded, and she was here, in this place, with the wind cutting through the cloth of her dress. In that moment, she was grateful to feel the cold. Grateful to be alive.

  “Come,” he said, and then he drew her to him, closing his arms around her. She stiffened, expecting a cage and finding only comfort.

  “I cannot¬—” She gave a hiccoughing breath, her throat sore from her crying, her head pounding, and all she could think of was the flies, the maggots... “I cannot simply leave her there like that. Alone. I cannot—”

  Griffin drew back to study her. With his gaze locked on hers, he reached out and stroked the back of his hand across her cheek. She turned her face into his touch, her heart sick with all she had seen, her emotions aching for this small bit of human contact. Human warmth.

  No, not merely human contact. She wanted Griffin. Only Griffin.

  “I will send people to fetch her. I will take care of her now,” he said. “And of you, my Beth. I will take care of you.”

  He meant something more than the words implied. She sensed that. She shook her head, opened her mouth to protest.

  Griffin cut off any sound with a kiss, a hard press of his mouth to hers, and no other part of him touched her. Just his lips, warm and smooth, his breath blending with her own.

  Alive. She was alive as that poor girl was not.

  He lifted his head, his gaze locked on her own, and bent to scoop her in his arms. Carrying her high against his chest, he walked along the road, she supposed toward his horse, or mayhap his curricle.

  “Where do you take me?” she whispered, her cheek against his coat.

  He said nothing for a moment. She could feel his heartbeat, steady, solid, pounding in time to the cadence of his stride.

  She snuggled her cheek against his shoulder, let his warmth seep into her.

  When at last he spoke, the words were a mere whisper, a breath. “Home, Beth. I take you home.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hours later, Griffin found Beth in the bedchamber next to his own, wrapped in nothing more than a white sheet, the folds gathered and draped about her slender frame. She was sitting at the foot of the bed with her knees bent to one side an
d her feet tucked up under her. Flickering firelight danced over her, gilding her hair and her skin, accentuating the swells and dips of her body. He wanted to trace his fingers along each shadowed hollow.

  He looked about the room. The bath things were gone, cleared away. While he had dealt with the sending of messages, the gathering of men and the dispensing of a wagon, Beth had been tended by the maids. He had already been told that she seemed appalled by the attention and had shooed the girls out, insisting that she be left alone to bathe.

  Griffin had refused to let the magistrate question her tonight. He had told Squire Spencer that there would be time enough for that in the morning. For tonight, he would see Beth sheltered and quiet and safe.

  Her clothes had been taken to be laundered, her boots to be shined. Having no wish for the garments to draw bleak memories in the future, he would have preferred to see everything burned or buried. He would have preferred to buy her a new dress—a dozen new dresses. But Beth would not accept them. Not yet. He knew that. He would need time to show her that his way was best.

  Still and quiet, he stood in the doorway, a voyeur, watching as she ran a comb through her hair with slow, languid movements. The long tresses were damp from her bath, just beginning to dry and coil up into ringlets.

  Flax-pale and curled.

  Such beautiful hair. This was the first he had seen it down, tumbling free over her shoulders and along the curve of her spine. The sight was sensual, alluring, enticing him to bury his fingers in the heavy mass, feel her soft curls against his skin.

  The fire cast shadows and light to paint her naked shoulders, her arms, her face, dusting her with a golden glow. He wanted to press his lips to her smooth, pale skin, taste her. Mark her as his.

  Temptation. The fever of wanting her rose and swelled, a pulsing ache.

  She glanced up, saw him in the doorway, and paused in her movements. Dropping her chin down, she turned her eyes aside, her lashes casting small crescent shadows on her cheeks.

  “I must go back,” she said.

  To Burndale Academy. To her lonely bed. He did not think so. Not tonight.