Saving Sarah

by Gail Ranstrom

  “Oh!” Heat swept through her, and a new need sprang to life, a need for more of everything. More pressure, more entry, more movement. She trembled with anticipation and arched her hips to give him better access.

  “Nearly,” Ethan coached her. “Almost.” And his fingers began a rhythmic stroking.

  She was wild when his kisses finally reached the small of her back. Her entire body felt as if it would burst into flames. Her hips twitched and began to match the rhythm he set with his stroking.

  “Yes, Sarah,” he muttered against the curve of her buttock. “You’re close. We’re almost there….” He released her long enough to turn her around again. Abandoning kisses, he trailed his tongue in a little circle around the dip of her navel.

  She shivered and closed her eyes, the better to experience the sensation. And when his mouth went lower still, she was burning for it, no longer shocked by what he might do next.

  By the time his tongue touched the little nubbin, Sarah was panting, literally gasping, for air. Her chest heaved and little keening sounds emitted from somewhere deep in her throat. All sensation was inward now, concentrated in her center. Eyes still closed against unwanted, unneeded distractions, she felt as if she were jumping out of her skin. She could not remain still. Her head thrashed on the pillow, and she arched in instinctive response to his skillful manipulations. She was frantic within minutes.

  She seized a handful of Ethan’s hair and tugged him upward. “Ethan! My god! End it…end it, please.”

  Slowly he slid up the length of her, letting her feel him, accustom herself to his contours. Her knees bent to hold him between them, and then, for one breathless moment when the fear took control, everything stopped as she gulped air, feeling as if she were going to faint.

  “Open your eyes, Sarah,” he demanded in a tightly controlled voice.

  Poised above her, Ethan watched her with somber intensity. His eyes did not reflect her, but seemed to swallow her. She could not look away, nor could she close her eyes again and separate him from what was happening.

  His first probing was tentative, as if seeking, testing, stretching her to his size. Fear stirred with the discomfort and licked at the back of her mind, struggling to come forward and assert itself. But, still lost in Ethan’s eyes, she felt too safe, too cherished, to give them credence.

  He hitched her knees a little higher and slid forward at the same time, deepening his entry in a slow, sure stroke. She let her breath out in a long sigh that was voiced as a moan. She felt swollen, filled with him. There was a thickness inside her, discomfort, but no pain, only an ache for more, for any and all of him that he would give her.

  “Sarah?” he whispered, his muscles straining above her. “Are you with me?”

  She didn’t know what he meant, but she nodded in the affirmative.

  He withdrew barely an inch or two, and then slid into her again. Chill bumps covered her body in response. The sensation was so completely torturous but illogically satisfying that she knew she needed more. She ran her hands down his sides to his narrow hips, then around to his buttocks. She lifted to him awkwardly as he began to withdraw again.

  “No, my love,” he said, a smile curving his lips. He took her hands, one at a time, and laced his fingers through hers. When he pressed them against the pillow on either side of her head, he said, “Let me do the work.”

  That seemed so unfair in view of the fact that he looked as if he were in pain. His breathing was labored and his chest was heaving. “But—”

  “You’ve trusted me so far, Sarah. Trust this, too.”

  “Yes,” she said, anxious to end it. With the pause had come a resurgence of her fears. She closed her eyes to shut them out.

  He began moving again, a slow, shallow rocking against her that brought her back to a fever pitch, and then he lifted, almost to the point of withdrawal and slid back in. She whimpered.

  “Sarah!” he demanded in a hoarse voice. “Open your eyes.”

  Ethan, showing the strain, was searching her face with a desperate look. “It’s me, Sarah. Only me. Say it.”

  “Ethan. Only Ethan,” she murmured. The fears receded.

  He shuddered and began moving again, slowly at first and then faster, and all the while he held her gaze. There was something unutterably intimate about that, as if he were looking into her very soul, seeing things in her that no one else had ever, could ever, see. The pressure that had been building since he had carried her up the stairs was nearly unbearable. She was on fire.

  And, just when she thought there could be no more, Ethan moaned and came into her with one final thrust. Every nerve was zinging, every muscle straining. Suddenly, and without warning, tremors erupted at her core. She arched and cried out as wave after rapturous wave washed over her in devastating completeness. She finished as he rasped her name like a prayer.

  As her heartbeat slowed, she closed her eyes again, swallowed by the petit mort, the little death, as she had heard Madame Marie call it. She was dimly aware that Ethan had separated from her and fallen to her side. He pulled the covers over them, and still she could not drag herself from the delicious lassitude.

  Gentle hands smoothed the hair back from her face and a voice murmured in her ear. “Sarah? Are you there?”

  She gave a breathless laugh. “No, I am somewhere between heaven and earth.”

  “Are you still afraid?” he asked with an anxious catch in his voice.

  “Terrified.”

  There was a long pause before he asked, “Of me?”

  “Yes. Petrified that you will never do that again.”

  He laughed and pulled her over on top of him. “I am at your disposal, madam. Do with me as you please.”

  She rested her cheek against his chest and felt the rumble of his laughter. His laugh! That’s what was different about him. His laugh had always been slightly detached, partly cynical and partly self-deprecating. But since carrying her up the stairs, it had been the laugh of a young man living wholly for the moment. Is that what he had heard in her laugh?

  Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and fell across his broad chest. She liked the sight of it there. She traced a circle around one brownish nipple and watched in fascination as it firmed. He shivered and tightened his arm around her.

  The mantel clock chimed three times and reality came back to her with sobering suddenness. “I…I must go.” She stood and looked around frantically for her clothes.

  “Sarah, come back to bed. ’Tis too late to salvage the situation. I shall go to your brother first thing in the morning, and we will work this out.”

  Her heart sank with a sickening thud. “You are going to tell Reggie? But you will be dead by evening! Every one of my brothers delights in defending the family honor. ’Tis why I had to hide…oh, why must you tell Reggie?”

  “I love you, Sarah.”

  Ethan’s words startled and unnerved her. But she could not just surprise her brother with this news. “R-Reggie does not need to know that, Ethan. I do not want him to know.”

  Ethan went to his wardrobe and tossed her a shirt, trousers and a cap to hide the tangles of her ruined coiffure. “Very well, Sarah. Come to me on the morrow and we shall work this out. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Everywhere Sarah looked, life was more vibrant today and anything seemed possible. Ethan loved her and she loved him. Last night she had been too befuddled to know how to respond to his declaration, but today she knew. She would tell him how she felt tonight.

  She walked along, peeking into stalls offering goods of every kind, amused by the gaudy colors and wares. The hubbub distracted her maid, Sylvie, and Sarah told her to wait by a puppet show while she made her purchases.

  She examined a selection of pralines, candied nuts, sugared plums and dried fruits. Reggie had a sweet tooth. She had left a message for him that she needed to talk to him before he went out that evening. She intended to tell him the truth—that she was not vir
gin, and why, and that she had found a man who did not care, who loved her anyway. And that she thought he might ask her hand. Fearing his objection once he knew the man’s name, she chose the largest tin of his favorites and paid the vendor.

  She caught sight of Mr. Renquist wending his way through the crowds. He stopped at a flower cart and she headed that way, affecting bored indifference. With Sylvie watching the puppet show, Sarah knew she’d be safe for at least ten minutes.

  When she stood beside him inspecting a display of roses and lilies, she murmured, “Has Dicken told you that we have not found a lead on Benjamin?”

  “Aye,” Mr. Renquist said. “The lad at the workhouse was too old. Benjamin is barely more than a babe. I fear we shall have to look for him amongst chimney sweeps and the like, where smallness is a virtue.”

  Sarah’s heart twisted with fear. “Oh, but that is so dangerous, Mr. Renquist! We must find him soon.”

  He lowered his voice and said, “Lady Sarah, the ship I have arranged to, er, take Mr. Whitlock on his tour is scheduled to sail Sunday, just before dawn.”

  Sunday? “But that leaves only tonight, tomorrow and Saturday to find Benjamin! Reggie’s party is tomorrow night. That is not enough time, Mr. Renquist.”

  Mr. Renquist leaned down and pulled a yellow day lily from a flower bucket as if examining it for flaws. “We are doing our best, milady.”

  “I am certain of it, sir, but—”

  “The more I learn, the less I like it. Whitlock is a nasty piece of work. Leave the investigation to me, Lady Sarah, before disaster overtakes you.”

  She shook her head, staring down at a posy of violets. “Pray continue and, time being short, I must do the same.”

  “Give me tonight, Lady Sarah. If I do not come up with little Benjamin’s whereabouts, I will not impede you,” Mr. Renquist conceded with a heavy sigh.

  Sarah nodded her agreement to his terms, but she still needed one more piece of information. Knowing which scandal had tainted Ethan’s reputation had never seemed important before, but now, in view of the news she was about to give her brother, she was desperate to know. “Do you recall introducing me to a man named Ethan Travis?”

  Renquist turned to look at her directly. “I did not introduce you, milady. He introduced himself.”

  “’Tis a fine distinction, I am sure. Either way, we were introduced, and you referred to him as the ‘Demon of Alsatia.’”

  “That is what people call him.”

  “Speak, Mr. Renquist. You cannot shock me, nor can you prevent me from finding out more about the man. Whatever it is, I know him to be a man of character and—”

  “No, milady. You must not trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “He keeps turning up in our investigation. Just when we think we’re closing in on Whitlock, Travis shows up and queers it. It’s almost as if he’s protecting the bastard.”

  Sarah smiled. She really should have warned Mr. Renquist that Ethan had been working with her. “I know it must seem that way, sir, but a week or so after I became involved, he began lending a hand—”

  “No. Travis has been showing up from the first. It was no coincidence—him being at the King’s Head that night. I’ve been running afoul of him ever since you put us on this case, at least a week before.”

  Sarah pressed her temples where a dull throbbing began. Had Ethan contrived their meeting? Had running into him the following night outside the orphanage not been happenstance? Surely not. When she picked Mr. Whitlock out of the crowd at the Swan as their target for following, had that, too, been engineered by Ethan? A sick feeling settled in her stomach.

  “I…I cannot believe it,” she managed to say.

  “He is a criminal. A thief. Like as not, a murderer. ’Tis common knowledge he is a traitor.”

  She suspected Ethan might have skirted the law, but murder? Treason? “You are mistaken, Mr. Renquist.”

  “No, milady.” Renquist shook his head emphatically. “Why, when he first came to these parts, he bought a warehouse. Immediately after, dead bodies started showing up thereabouts.”

  Sarah frowned. “He is an importer?”

  “Importer! That’s a corker! ’Tis just a fancy name for stolen goods. Did you hear me, milady? I said dead bodies!”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Seven of ’em, milady?”

  “Well—” she swallowed “—that does seem excessive, but there must be a logical explanation.”

  “Aye—Travis did not want anyone snooping around his warehouses! He’s got stolen goods in there or my name is not Francis Renquist. For certain, there’s blood on his hands.”

  Ethan’s hands? Those strong, gentle hands that could drive her into a frenzy? How could that be? She glanced over her shoulder, praying they could not be overheard. She trusted Mr. Renquist implicitly. She knew him to be a man of honor. He would not lie about such a thing, nor would he slander another man’s reputation.

  Struggling to comprehend, she seized on the only thing that made no sense. “T-treason? Did you say treason?”

  Mr. Renquist explained. “He gave military secrets to the Moors, Lady Sarah, so they could hide British hostages. The whole operation went for naught. There was no trial. ’Twas whispered they could not get the proof on him. British ships, British sailors, British subjects, sacrificed for naught, because of one man’s betrayal. Travis’s betrayal.”

  She recalled such an engagement shortly after the Wednesday League had uncovered a white slavery scheme. Englishwomen had been kidnapped and sold at auctions held in Algiers and Tunis. The Wednesday League had discussed possible strategies for locating and freeing those women.

  Scant months later they received news of the bombardment of Algiers. The Royal Navy had sailed into the port demanding the release of all Christians and foreign hostages and slaves. Unbeknownst to the British admiral, someone—Ethan?—had alerted the Dey before the engagement. Dutch, German, French, Italian and Spanish hostages had been released, but not a single British man or woman. England had been outraged.

  She had been outraged! “No,” she murmured. “He cannot have had anything to do with that.”

  Not that he was not capable—he was. More than capable—adept. She had not the slightest doubt he could command an army of thieves and deceive the entire constabulary of London. Yes, he was capable of cutting down anyone who got between him and his goal, and she was quite certain he was as dangerous as she’d been warned. But treason—this particular treason?

  “My information is reliable, Lady Sarah.”

  “But, had there been proof, he’d have been charged.”

  “’Twas said he was well-connected, and only his family alliance saved him from public trial.”

  A quick picture of Ethan’s brother and his wife flashed through her mind. Is that why they did not want to acknowledge him? If his own family believed him guilty—heavens! She could have forgiven murder and thievery easier than this particular treason. This treason was personal, almost as if it had been committed against her. Because, in a way, it had. The men who attacked her in Vauxhall Gardens had been kidnappers and suppliers of Englishwomen to the Dey. And Ethan, too, had been in the employ of the Dey—selling not women, but information.

  If he was capable of misleading her about following Mr. Whitlock, then he was capable of almost anything. And if that was true, everything she had believed about him was based on lies and deception! She had trusted her instincts, her heart, when she should have given credence to his reputation and the warnings from Mr. Renquist and Dicken.

  Oh, the villain! He had coaxed kisses from her with no more than a honeyed smile and a lowered head! There were dukes, and yes, even a prince, who had not accomplished as much with considerably more effort. And Ethan had accomplished so much more. She moaned as she recalled lying in his arms, arching to his hand, wrapping her legs around him like a wanton hussy!

  With a crescendo of drum and cymbals, the puppet show ended and Sylvie clapped gleefully. Sh
e whirled and headed in Sarah’s direction, waving as she came. “Lady Sarah, are ye done?”

  Tears stung her eyes. Completely done, she thought. Thank heavens she had never confessed her love to him!

  Once home, Sarah instructed Sylvie to draw a hot bath while she took her flower purchases to the kitchen.

  Reggie appeared in the doorway of the library as she headed down the corridor toward the kitchen. “Ah, here you are,” he said, taking her burden from her and going back into the library. “I’ve been waiting on tenterhooks since reading your note. Have you news for me, Sarah? Who have you chosen?”

  Sarah bit back a curse. She had forgotten the note she’d left her brother. “N-no, Reggie. I have not chosen, but I am narrowing the field.”

  “Who is left?” he asked, laying the bundle on his desk. “I’ve been watching, dearling, and I cannot tell who you favor.”

  Sarah fell into a chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Reggie, you are assuming I could have any man I fancied. That is rather vain, do you not think? It is not as if I have amassed a pile of proposals.”

  “Cedric has asked permission to pay you court, and I have given it. There are three or four others who, with the least encouragement, would make an offer. If you do not want Cedric, encourage them.”

  His face, so handsome and hopeful, was a reproach to her. She should tell him why she would never marry now and end it. But how could she bear to see his disappointment? She stood and retrieved the tin of sweets from the pile on his desk. “Look what I brought you, Reggie.”

  He grinned as he opened the tin and popped a candied nut into his mouth. “I shall miss you, Sarah, when you have your own home. Who will take care of me then?”

  “I will, Reggie.” She sighed deeply. Yes, she would grow old in Hunter Hall, barely tolerated by whatever wife Reggie took, pitied by her nieces and nephews, and ignored by her brothers. “I will take care of you as long as you need me.”