His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  “Isobel will be distressed,” she said, not looking at him, her voice very soft. “We take breakfast together each morning, and I cannot bear for her to be dismayed by my absence on the morrow. She does best when there is order and routine.”

  Her words, her tone, poured through him. She cared for his daughter, perhaps loved her a little. Of a certainty, she knew Isobel better than he did, for he had not known that she did better with order and routine.

  He recalled a conversation on a long ago day, Beth’s first in Burndale.

  You prefer chaos, Mr. Fairfax?

  At times... Disorder can be liberating.

  He knew himself for a man who held his emotion under rigid control, but who decried any other limitations. No schedules, no planning, no organization. He found such things confining, restricting.

  Given his own penchant for mayhem, he had not even considered that Isobel might not favor it. Instead of liberating her, perhaps chaos caged her all the more in her world of silence. The thought pained him no small degree. Selfish creature that he was, he had not considered that his daughter might be so different from him.

  But he would learn. With Beth to teach him, he would learn.

  “Isobel is here, at Wickham Hall,” he said. “She is even now ensconced in her chamber with a maid sleeping on a trundle by her side. I sent a footman to fetch her the moment we returned. She came readily once she knew you were here.” He paused and then braved the remainder of the thought. “I needed to know she was here, under my roof. Safe.”

  Beth exhaled and her shoulders slumped. “I am greatly relieved to hear that she will not search for me in vain tomorrow.”

  Still she did not look at him. He wanted very much for her to look at him.

  “And what of my absence? What did you have the footman tell Miss Percy?” she asked, tracing the tip of her index finger in small circles on her sheet-covered thigh.

  “That you would remain at Wickham Hall for the night to supervise Isobel and return to the school some time on the morrow. I begged her indulgence in making do without you for a short time. I suspect that she will think nothing of it, given our conversation regarding your attendance here at dinner.”

  She exhaled at his reply, sharp and quick.

  “It feels as though a month has passed since we spoke of my accompanying Isobel to dinner,” she murmured. “Has it only been a day?”

  “Only a day. And I suspect that Miss Percy will be forgiving of your absence in light of what you have lived through this day.” The words came hard to him, seeming paltry comfort. He wanted to tease and cajole her, make her smile, but in this laden moment, he could not think how.

  With deliberate care, she leaned to the side and placed the comb on the small table near the bed. Then she turned her gaze up to meet his, her eyes wide and blue as the heavens, solemn and wise.

  “I have been put through little enough when one takes all in context,” she said, and her tone turned fierce. “I am alive.”

  Three small words, spoken in a manner that said all. Brave Beth. His Beth, shining like the brightest star in a dark sky. He felt something inside him give way, like a dam succumbing to the brutal assault of a storm-swollen river, and he balked at the tide of emotion.

  Did he love her?

  He thought he might, and that brought a bitter twist to his lips. His affection was a poison she would be better off without.

  He had loved Amelia, and he had killed her.

  He loved Isobel, and he failed her again and again.

  Better that he not love Beth. Better that he want her, and let that be enough. He knew what manner of man he was, charming when he wished, deadly when he chose. He had no right to love her, for his love only brought destruction.

  But he could not control the flicker in his heart, the insistence that his best plans and rigid control might not be enough to hold back the emotion. Unwelcome. Unwanted. There, whether he willed it or nay.

  “And if Miss Percy does think something of my absence?” Beth asked.

  “Then the devil take her,” he said. Seeing Beth’s eyes widen in dismay, he added in a milder tone that hid his deeper inclinations and contemplations, “Miss Percy will say nothing.”

  He wanted to tell her that he had no intention of letting her return to Burndale Academy. That she was meant to stay here with him from here on.

  She was his.

  His to treasure.

  He was not a man to share. Not a man who enjoyed being gainsaid.

  But such thoughts were outlandish, perhaps even obscene. She deserved better than to have him think of her as a possession, and in truth he did not. It was only... no, he would not visit the root of his peculiar preference to hold her by his side, to never let her go, to keep her safe.

  He had no right to say those things, and such words would only frighten her. He had no wish to do that. Fear had no place in what he intended for this night.

  Pulling the door shut, he turned to her and took a step forward, then paused.

  “Do you prefer that I leave it open?” he asked with a gesture at the door, uncertain of her mood.

  Her lips curved, and when she spoke, her voice was low, husky. “Do you prefer an audience?”

  He blinked, laughed, taken aback by her reply.

  Beth smiled. She couldn’t help it. He had a... wicked laugh. Unselfconscious. Deep. The sound fascinated her, wove through her, making her blood pump in an eager rush and her pulse trip over itself.

  He prowled the room, paused to stir the fire with the poker, moved to the washstand. There, he paused, frowned. Reaching out, he traced his finger over the pin Beth had left there, her pearl pin from her grandmother. He studied it for a moment, and moved on.

  Holding the sheet tight about her, she put a hand to one of the carved oak bedposts and rose, his prowling igniting her own need to move, to walk. A fine pair they were, two caged cats.

  She went to the window, her back to him, her gaze directed out, into the night. With eyes closed, she just stood there, thinking that she should be afraid, of the dark, of the closed chamber, of the horrific memories that threatened to surface and swallow her whole.

  But she felt nothing like that. In her heart and her mind, there was only a sweet swell of gratitude.

  She was alive. She was here, with Griffin. She was not that poor girl lying on the forest floor with yellow wildflowers about her and maggots crawling from the holes that had once held her eyes.

  That girl would know nothing more of life.

  But Beth still had a chance, an opportunity to taste what she could, and she meant to do that. Meant to grab hold of the possibilities and sample them as she might, to tamp down the insidious wave of her secret dismay. No more would she let terror be her prison.

  She meant to live, even if in doing so she flouted convention and rules of appropriate behavior. What care had she for such things? Despite the life her mother had once led, pampered and proper, it was not the life Beth had been born to.

  Earlier, when she had left Burndale Academy, she had already taken the first step on this path, intending to meet Griffin on the road, to let him kiss her and hold her, to sample a sip of forbidden joy. Now, she would sample all he offered. She meant to enjoy this moment, for who knew when there would be no moments left.

  She knew that better than most. Had always known it, since she was a child. It had only taken this to make her remember.

  And her position at Burndale? The income she guarded so carefully? Well, she had seen enough now to know she was not in danger of losing her place. Foolish girl that she had ever thought otherwise. Who would come here to replace her?

  People talked. Rumors traveled. She remembered the men she had traveled with, the words of warning. And the stagecoach guard that first day by the church, his cautions and his look of apprehension. People knew of the women who had died here, and now there was yet another dead girl.

  Who would come to a place where foul murder had been done, not once but thrice?
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br />   Moreover, Griffin Fairfax held great sway at this school. He was a trustee. His donations were essential to the school’s continued good work. She could not imagine he would see her cast out, allow her to be cast out, even if the events of this night—her gaze dipped to the bed, then away—proved to be just a passing interest on his part. He had shown himself to be honorable enough, that she did not fear losing his support for her position at Burndale.

  No, her fear of dismissal was gone now. Burndale Academy had as much need of her as she had of it.

  She opened her eyes then and studied the window, searched for the moon, the stars. But she saw only Griffin’s reflection in the glass, behind her and slightly to one side, his eyes dark and shadowed as he watched her.

  Patient man.

  He moved then, his feet shushing across the carpet, and in the glass she watched him draw near, patient no longer.

  “The girl...” she whispered, and let her voice trail away, unable to finish her question.

  “Her name was Sarah Ashton.” His voice was cool, devoid of inflection, and in the night-hued panes she saw that his expression was as dispassionate as his tone. A mask, hiding much. His fists, clenched tight at his sides, belied his detached demeanor. “She was the niece of my housekeeper’s husband, and she is returned to her family now.”

  “For me, there is no comfort in that.” Beth pressed her lips together, shook her head. “And I suspect little enough comfort for them. She is not returned to her family, only her empty shell.”

  No comfort. Only sadness. Such a terrible waste. She reached out to splay her fingers against the window. Cool, smooth glass.

  Hesitating, she watched his reflection, quiet and still, and then words slid free, sentiments and certainties that were pulled from the depth of her soul. “He has done this before. Will do it again. He likes it more each time. He likes to kill.”

  She wondered what Griffin would think of those words, think of her and her knowledge of such things. She had shared more of herself with him than she ever had with anyone else.

  “Yes,” Griffin agreed, and she said nothing more for he knew it as well as she. A monster walked in the night, or perhaps in the light of day. A human beast with a taste for human blood. The thought left her cold and shaken. Sarah Ashton was not the first and she would not be the last. Not unless he was caught.

  Griffin stepped closer. She could feel him now at her back, the heat of him, the rise and fall of his chest, barely touching her. His slow exhalation ruffling her hair.

  “When I heard you scream,” he said, bending his head so his breath fanned her skin. “I thought”—he paused—”I felt... concern.”

  ‘Twas not what he said that made her heart leap, but what he left unspoken. Concern. Such a mild word, but for a man such as he to say it seemed monumental somehow.

  He lowered his head a little more and ran his lips across the swell of her shoulder.

  Slowly, he gathered the damp curls that tumbled down her back, swept them to one side. Warm fingers brushing her naked skin. She inhaled sharply, and the fine hairs on her arms prickled and rose.

  Reaching around her, he caught the edge of the curtain, drew it closed, blocking out the night. Beth held her breath, waiting for the tide of nervous dismay, the horribly familiar sensation of being locked in a box. But it did not come. Perhaps it was the size of this chamber—large enough to accommodate six beds—that held her fear at bay.

  Or perhaps it was Griffin, the way he made her feel. Safe. She let her head fall back until it touched his shoulder. Safe.

  The thought shimmered through her, and with it a realization. Faint. Hazy. What? It slid away, smoke in the night, and she let it go.

  Griffin brought his face to the nape of her neck, inhaled slow and deep. Then his tongue traced her skin, a warm, damp trail. Her knees gave way beneath her.

  Wrapping one arm about her waist, he caught her tight against him, her back sealed to his front. He held her upright, his forearm pressed to her belly, his lips on her skin, and then his teeth.

  The breath left her in a rush, a sob, and his free hand closed about hers, drawing her fingers from where she clutched the sheet to her breast. The cloth glided away with a susurrus of sound, whispering as it slithered down to pool at her feet, white as snow. She was appalled and awkward and secretly thrilled to be naked before him with his hands on her skin.

  “You are beautiful, Beth.” A low murmur. “So beautiful.”

  Shy, she made to lift her arms, to shield herself.

  “Do not,” he murmured. “I will look at you.”

  And she let her arms fall to her sides, both aroused and appalled to be standing thus for his perusal. She moaned as he brushed his hand along her buttocks, up the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. He traced the puckered scar at her side, and she froze, but he only outlined the shape of it with the tip of one finger and moved on to skim the side of her breast.

  There was a sinful pleasure to this, to standing naked in his arms while he was fully clothed, to reveling in the feel of his hand on her body.

  A shiver took her, working through her until it grew and changed, leaving sharp anticipation and a kind of inundation, a hot, dark throb that spread through her blood and filled her lungs, her veins, her heart.

  It was terrible and terrifying and wonderful all at once, to want him so.

  He was right behind her, his chest to her back, close enough that she could feel the press of his waistcoat buttons, cool and hard against her skin, and lower, the feel of his trousers and the heavy ridge of his erection butting against the curve of her bottom. Cupping her chin, he turned her face to the side so he could kiss her lips, deep and wet, his mouth open, his tongue pushing inside of her until she trembled and gasped.

  The taste of him was foreign and fine, like wine or chocolate... or both at the same time. It left her dizzy and giddy, and hungry for more. She followed his tongue as he withdrew, sucking on him, earning a low, rumbling groan for her efforts.

  That touched her, touched something deep inside her and made it flip over and over, an endless spiral.

  Turning, she brought her hands to his shoulders, feeling muscle and strength, and the soft cloth of his shirt beneath her fingers. He was so... hard... like supple stone, his chest, his shoulders, his arms, all hewn and solid and firm, so different than her.

  “Beth.” He caught her wrists and held them trapped as he brought his mouth to her jaw, her ear, her throat. She liked that, all of it, even her trapped wrists, and she couldn’t understand why that should be so. Then he kissed her lips and she didn’t care to understand. “Let me tell you what to expect,” he said against her mouth. “I want you to understand—”

  She rubbed her lips across his, then kissed him deep and poured all she was into him.

  “I do understand,” she whispered against his lips. “My mother is a most unusual woman. She explained all to me long ago.”

  That admission earned her a startled huff of laughter.

  “A conversation for another time,” he murmured, there was a smile there in his words, and something else, something tense and urgent.

  He kissed her neck, nudging her head to the side so she was arched away, exposed, held up only by his strength. His lips and tongue and teeth burned a trail along the column of her throat, her collarbone, the rise of her breast, to her nipple. His mouth closed around her, a gentle tug, and she cried out, astounded, shocked. Ensorcelled.

  Panting, she twined her fingers in his hair, believing she meant to drag him away, but instead she pulled him close, wanting more, needing more. She could never have imagined this, the feel of his mouth on her breast, sucking, pulling, nipping the sensitive flesh until she gasped and arched and felt the hot storm of desire swirl up, stronger and stronger.

  With a sound of pleasure, he lifted his head from her breast. In the firelight, she saw that her nipple glistened, swollen and wet.

  Scooping her in his arms, he crossed to the bed and laid her there. The
mattress was soft at her back, an embrace of feather-stuffed cloth. The sheet that had covered her was left in a puddle on the floor. She glanced at it, murmured a protest, “Let me fold it.”

  Her words earned her a hushed laugh and the press of his palm against her breastbone, holding her in place.

  A thrill chased through her, his action both arousing and slightly distressing.

  Griffin stood over her, his eyes never leaving hers, and slowly, slowly, he slid the buttons of his waistcoat through the holes and shrugged off the garment, tossing it aside to land where it would. More clothes followed, neckcloth, shirt, stockings, trousers. Tossed about. Haphazard. Chaos.

  Embarrassed, she looked away from the sight of him, gloriously unclad. Then she looked back, enticed.

  He wore only his smallclothes now, nearly as naked as she, but his nakedness was different than her own. Shoulders so wide and hips so narrow. Muscled legs and forearms. Hair on his chest, dark, crisp, arrowing down the center of his taut, flat belly in a neat, tapered line.

  The sight was unsettling and appealing. Beautiful. He was so beautiful. She wanted to touch him, with her fingers. With her tongue.

  To lick the planes of his chest and his nipples, as he had licked hers.

  The thought made her shudder.

  A three-quarter turn to the side and he tugged off his smallclothes. She had only a glimpse of his penis, thick, heavy, jutting out from a dark nest of hair at his groin, the tip rounded and smooth. The sight of him interested her, aroused her, made her a little wary.

  He came down on her then, down from above, heat and solid weight, pressing her into the bed. She had never known a sensation like that. She was surrounded by him, held by him, his arms on either side, his body above.

  Barely breathing, she waited for it, for the feeling of terror, the need to wriggle free.

  A heartbeat, two, but it never came.

  There was only his warmth around her, and deep, deep inside her a glowing heat that swam outward, tendrils of pleasure through her belly, her limbs.

  She liked it, the weight of him upon her, the way he held her trapped.

  Because she knew in her heart that if she made even the smallest sound of distress, he would open his hand and she would fly free, unharmed.