His Wicked Sins

by Eve Silver

  “Go, Beth. Run now. I have no wish for you to see what will come.” He did not look at her, his attention focused wholly on Moorecroft, who said nothing, but shifted a step to the right, and another, with Griffin matching each move.

  She would not leave. She would stay and see the end of this, the end of the horror that had begun so many years past.

  A part of her believed in him with everything she was. Believed that he would emerge victorious, and that she would have a chance to tell him of the emotion welling in her heart. But a part of her was still the terrified little girl, hiding in a box. The little girl who had never had a chance to tell her parents she loved them one last time before they were taken by the plague. Never had the chance to tell her grandparents of her love before a monster ripped them from her life.

  She needed Griffin to know, to carry her love with him, a shield. She dared much, dared all, and whispered, “My love.”

  He heard. She saw it in the tiny smile that quirked his lips, but he kept his attention firmly fixed on Moorecroft who was circling, slowly, so slowly.

  It was a terrible place and time to share such emotion, to reveal the depths of their hearts, and yet, somehow, with all that had passed before, it was the right place.

  Griffin had come for her. She was not alone in the dark.

  He wanted her to run, to spare her the sight of this battle. But she could not leave him. But nor did she want to distract him. So she backed up until she stood in the shadows where he would not see her.

  Trembling she watched the two male forms, both crouching and moving as though skilled in this act. She shuddered. Griffin clearly knew of the way of things, but Moorecroft was a madman who liked to kill. Did that offer him a horrific advantage?

  If Griffin knew she watched, he did not show it in any way, did not tell her again to flee. Maybe he had such confidence that his knife would be the one to taste blood, that he would be the victor. Dear heaven, how was she to think of that? What was she to think of herself that it gave her comfort to know he could do this, could stab a man, could kill him if he must? If he wished.

  How many times had Griffin told her he was a villain?

  And here, in the dark wood, with the faint moonlight glinting off two blades, she was glad of that, fiercely glad. Whatever villainy he carried was both a gift and a blessing if it meant he would live through this fight.

  The sound of harsh breathing carried to her as they shifted in a ghastly dance. She wanted to scream, to sob, but she did neither, terrified to distract Griffin even the slightest bit.

  Bodies shifted between the shadows and beams of pale, cool light.

  The scuffle of feet. The chuffing of rapid breaths.

  A lunge. A retreat. Griffin jerked his torso back and away as Moorecroft slashed at him. Beth lost her breath, her heart pounding so hard she felt sick with it.

  Circling. Circling. And every now and again, the moonlight danced off the deadly edge of a blade.

  Trembling, Beth sank her teeth into her lower lip and pressed her back hard against the tree trunk.

  Now both lunged, a collision of bodies. The two men were shades cast in a macabre tableau, tight up against each other, and Beth could see nothing of their hands. A sharp snap, the crack of a dry branch underfoot, made her gasp.

  She could not say what she expected—an arm upraised, a wicked slash—but there was none of that. Both men kept their hands low and close to their bodies, each movement careful and guarded.

  Clutching the branch before her, her bound hands unwieldy, she crept forward. The moon slid behind a cloud and all around her were shades of black.

  There was a grunt and a hiss of breath from between clenched teeth, a rapid slash, and one man—which one?—slumped forward on a sharp exhalation, as though he’d been punched hard in the gut.

  “Griffin.” His name was a plea, a prayer. She no longer crept, but lurched toward the two, her makeshift weapon raised, her pulse pounding a mad tattoo.

  A dull thud, and she saw the glint of metal on the ground. One of them had dropped his knife.

  She felt weak, sick, filled with horror and despair.

  “Griffin,” she whispered again as, breathing hard, both men fell back a pace and sank to their knees.

  Close enough now to see their faces, she cried out as, with a hissing exhalation, Moorecroft listed to one side, weaving where he knelt, then falling hard to the ground.

  Griffin stayed as he was, balancing on his knees, breathing heavily.

  For a frozen second Beth hung between hope and horror, the moonlight dappling his hair, sparking off the blood-stained edge of his blade. She could not see if he was cut, could not be certain.

  She stumbled forward, dropped to the ground by Griffin’s side. Was she to lose him now, when she had only just found him? Oh God, she could not bear it.

  On a harsh exhalation, Griffin grabbed the branch she yet held, tossed it aside. He caught her bound wrists, brought his blade up to slice her free, and dragged her against him.

  “My brave, brilliant Beth. I see you got yourself free and found a weapon,” he said, the catch in his voice undermining the effort he made at a light tone. Then he touched her cheek. “Do not cry, love. Do not cry.”

  “You could have died.” She could barely breathe, barely speak, the lump in her throat so heavy and thick. She buried her face in his shoulder.

  After a moment, he spoke. “I would not die unless I saved you first.”

  There was a faint thread of humor in his tone.

  A strangled sound escaped her, half laugh, half sob. She could not stop them, the silent tears that streaked her cheeks, had no wish to stop them. They were tears of healing. Tears of hope.

  He shook his head, drew her closer against him. “Cry, then, my Beth. And I will kiss your tears away. But first, you have a choice to make.”

  “A choice?” She raised her head from his shoulder.

  “Vengenace or justice. You must decide.” He drew back a little, enough that she could see the hard glint in his eyes, and he gestured at Moorecroft, who lay on the ground where he had fallen, moaning, his hands pressed to his belly. Then Griffin lifted his knife, as though offering a toast. “Vengeance or justice, Beth. The choice is yours.”

  o0o

  Three nights later, Beth stood by the window in Griffin’s chamber, looking out at the perfectly trimmed expanse of lawn, bathed in moonlight. Each day since the horror of Moorecroft’s attack, they had walked and dined and sat by the fire with Isobel, listening to the marvelous sound of her chatter. A miracle. Each night, Beth had slept in the caring shelter of Griffin’s arms. Each night, he kept a candle in the wall sconce burning to chase away the darkness.

  And still she dreamed and jolted from sleep to sit panting and wide eyed in the center of his bed as he rubbed gentle circles on her back. The nightmares and fears that had dogged her for so many years were not gone—might never be gone—but with Griffin by her side, she felt better able to brazen them out.

  A sound made her turn, and she saw Griffin in the doorway, robed in shadow. The sight called to mind another night when she had stood in the drafty, echoing corridor of Burndale Academy, holding the bloodstained handkerchief in her hand, and the fraught moment when she had been almost certain that she saw Griffin standing in a darkened niche.

  “Were you there that night, in the hallway at Burndale?” she asked as she stepped away from the window. “Or did I imagine your presence?”

  The shadows and moonlight played across his features, hollowing his cheeks, accenting the line of his jaw.

  “I was there.” He made a faint grimace. “And I apologize now for frightening you then. ‘Twas not my intent, my love. I should have spoken, should have reassured you.” He offered a lopsided smile. “But I can’t say who was more startled, you to find me outside your door, or me to have the woman of my fantasies appear before me.”

  She shook her head. “I thought I had conjured you from my darkest dreams, or perhaps summoned you
r image to act as a sentinel.”

  “I was there as a sentinel of sorts. More than once on my visits to the school to see Isobel, I spied Richard Parsons lurking in the shadows. What was I to think but that he was up to no good? I was of the mind that he would sneak in and steal the teachers blind while they slumbered.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “So I went hunting. Thought to catch him in the act and send him on his way with a bit of fear in his heart.”

  Crossing to the window, Griffin cast her a glance, then drew the curtains, blocking out the moonlight, closing in the space.

  Beth took a slow, calming breath. She was accustomed to this chamber now. It was large and spacious. There were no tight walls here, no choking space.

  “Still... why did you not make yourself known to me? Why did you leave me pondering my own sanity?”

  He laughed then, a low, rich sound. “I thought you came out only to fetch a handkerchief that you had dropped in the hall. I had no idea that you espied me. In fact, I hoped you had not. How was I to explain my presence outside your chamber door at such an hour of the night?”

  How indeed? Whatever explanation he might have offered, she would not have been in a frame of mind to believe him.

  “I did not drop the handkerchief. I believe someone dropped it there for me to find. A threat.”

  “The threat is gone now.”

  “Yes.”

  Griffin turned away from the window and crossed to the wall sconce. He lifted a brow in question.

  He wanted to snuff the light. She knew that. They had discussed it, and agreed. A part of her wanted him to. She wanted to step past what Moorecroft had done to her, to step past the constraints his actions had chained her with for so many years.

  But she was afraid.

  “Beth?”

  “Go on,” she whispered, her trust in Griffin greater than her fear of the dark or the confines of a room or even the nightmares that might chase her.

  He hesitated only a moment, then snuffed the candle flame, letting the darkness fall about them, heavy and absolute.

  Beth gasped.

  “I am here, love,” Griffin said. “You can face the darkness. I am here with you.”

  A soft shush heralded Griffin’s movement, his feet shifting on the floor as he came toward her. She remained where she was, frozen in place. She was afraid. Afraid of the dark as she had been for as long as she could recall. But there was something else, too, a burgeoning pride and a different sort of excitement that thrummed in her veins as Griffin dragged his fingertips along her collarbone.

  With her sight stolen, she could only hear and touch and smell. Each breath she took filled her with secret knowledge. The subtle, masculine scent of him, spice and musk and man. The feel of his strong fingers working her laces and buttons, drawing pieces of clothing from her body until she was naked in the cool night air. Naked in the dark.

  Another breath. In then out. A rise and fall of her breasts, her nipples aching though he had yet to touch her there.

  “Beth,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. She moaned as he kissed her neck, her shoulder, leaning against his warmth, his strength. A mixed slurry of emotion touched her, anxiety, fear, excitement. Anticipation.

  He kissed the side of her breast, her waist, dipping his tongue into her navel, and she wove her fingers through the silky strands of his hair.

  Trailing his tongue down her belly, he kissed below her navel, and lower, until she gave a sharp exhalation and an equally sharp tug on his hair.

  He held her still, closing his hands about her hips. He kissed her there, between her thighs, his tongue sliding between her lips to kiss her as he would kiss her mouth.

  “What—” She closed her eyes, laughed, a jittery, staccato burst, and made to pull away.

  “Be still,” he commanded, tightening his hold on her hips. She obeyed, and after a moment, she forgot why she had thought to fight him.

  What he did was lovely. It was wicked.

  She could not breathe, could not think, so shocked, so...lustful.

  Opening her eyes, she was confronted by impenetrable darkness, and again she felt the surge of mixed emotion, a nervous edge tagging on to her pleasure. Her heart hammered and her limbs trembled. She could see nothing. She could only feel.

  “I have no liking for the dark,” she said.

  “I know. And that is why I sought it. To replace the memories you have with sweeter ones. To show you that the darkness can be welcoming,” Griffin said, the sound of his voice soothing. Thrilling. “Trust me, love. I will keep you safe.” He made a hushed laugh, the sound incredibly arousing. “Or perhaps I should say, we will keep each other safe.”

  With his hands still at her hips, he guided her back until she felt something press against the backs of her knees.

  Trust me. She did. With her heart. With her life.

  “I will catch you, love.”

  He would. She knew that. And if her nightmares, her memories, came for her, he would stand by her side to chase them away.

  As she would stand by his to battle his own dark demons.

  “I love you, Beth,” he whispered, the words so wonderful, so special, warming her heart, shining like a thousand candles. He kissed her again, there, in her most private place, the thrill of it making her quake. “Let yourself go. Trust me. There can be no love without trust.”

  “Then I give you my love,” she said, the words soft and filled with emotion. “And my trust.”

  Falling back in the darkness, she gave herself up to him. Trusted him.

  Knowing that together they were far stronger and better than either was alone.

  o0o

  A week later, Beth stood in the churchyard, three small posies of wildflowers held in her hand. She had collected them herself from the last of the fall flowers and tied ribbons about the stems. They were chalice-shaped and pretty, with heart-shaped leaves and ivory white petals and distinctive glistening yellow centers.

  There was a chill wind today carrying the promise of a storm, and she drew her dark cloak close about her as she glanced to the heavens. The sky was a blanket of dreary gray and the scent of rain flavored the air. Clouds gathered on the horizon, pewter and ash, charcoal limned, ready to burst.

  She hoped the rain would hold off just a little longer, at least until after the service.

  Looking to the stonebuilt church with its peaked roof and squared tower, she was reminded of her arrival at Burndale. She had expected that the church would be in the hub of activity, the center of the village. She had not expected it to be an isolated place surrounded by rolling hills, and she certainly had not expected to be left, forgotten, at the crossroads.

  Bittersweet memory touched her as she recalled her very first sight of Griffin Fairfax, so handsome, so masculine, a bit frightening. She had fallen a little in love with him that day.

  Turning, she studied the road, looking to each direction for a span of seconds.

  Choices. The crossroads offered choices, as life offered choices. One need merely pick a direction to explore.

  She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and made her way between the gravestones, stopping first to place one of the three small bouquets at the base of the stone that marked the grave of Katherine Anne Stillwell. Next she moved to the headstone of Helen Bodie-Stuart, and put flowers there, as well.

  The third posy was the largest of the three. She fussed with the ribbon she had used to bind the stems, fixing the bow so it lay neat and flat.

  Walking on, she approached the drystone wall. There sat Isobel, holding a small bouquet of her own, her feet kicking back and forth, her dark hair tumbling down her back. Beth had brushed it that morning, and fastened a section with a blue ribbon.

  As though sensing her regard, Isobel turned to look at her, then clambered off the wall and ran to her side.

  “Will they be here soon? Will they come before the rain?” she asked, her brow furrowed with worry.

  Beth smiled and smoothed her palm
along Isobel’s hair.

  “Very soon,” she replied, and as though to prove her right, the sound of a carriage approaching at a grave and sedate pace drew their attention. It was a closed carriage, gleaming black, sleek and well-sprung, drawn by four matched horses.

  Resting her hand on Isobel’s shoulder, Beth watched as the conveyance drew to a halt before the gravel path that led to the church doors. The footman opened the carriage door and two people emerged: Miss Percy and a dark haired man of middle years.

  Miss Percy saw Isobel and Beth, and she made her way toward them, her face a little pale as she accepted the bouquet that Beth handed her.

  The dark haired man turned back to face the open carriage door. “I told you it was an affair of the heart, and you scoffed,” he said. “I trust you believe me now.”

  “I shall believe you when the deed is done,” came the reply. Griffin stepped down from the carriage, his gaze slipping directly to Beth.

  Though she had seen him less than an hour past, her heart clutched and her spirits soared to see him now, so dashing in his buff breeches and blue coat. His dark hair fell across his brow, sleek and shiny, and his eyes held hints of mischief and amusement as they met her own.

  “Daddy,” Isobel cried, and ran to him to be swept up and spun about then set down on her feet once more, slightly rumpled but very happy.

  Beth did not even try to hold back her smile as she approached at a more decorous pace.

  “Your arrival is timely,” she said with a glance at the sky.

  “I am always timely,” Griffin replied with a grin. He caught her wrist and dragged her close, ignoring her half-hearted murmur of protest, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.

  “Christ, I love you so damned much,” he muttered, and she could not help but laugh at his aggrieved tone, as though loving her was more than he could bear. Which made him laugh, the sound wonderful and deep and wicked.

  “Come along,” Griffin said, clapping a hand to his friend’s shoulder even as he cast a wink in Beth’s direction. “Let us get you wed, Richard.”