Don’t think of it, she told herself.
She shook her head, watching them from the doorway.
This room had suffered minimal damage but for the right wall, which separated the nursery from the adjoining room. It was partially destroyed, and the unicorn’s face was no longer entirely visible. One eye peered through the soot-damaged wall, and the shelves that had once held the toy soldiers and blocks so neatly had collapsed on one side, spilling little wooden men into a common grave upon the carpet. The smell of smoke permeated the room. Other than that, the structure seemed sound enough, and the room relatively unscathed.
Father and son sat on the carpeted floor, surrounded by little piles of damaged and dirty toys, while the sounds of reconstruction echoed from the other room. Peter’s jacket was off. It lay on one of the small chairs that had been dragged away from the little table. His shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned as well.
Sarah tried not to notice.
They still hadn’t acknowledged her as yet, so she watched them unheeded, taking these few moments to study them without the encumbrance of their scrutiny.
As she watched, Peter lifted up a little toy soldier and with the tail of his shirt began to buff it clean. It was only then that she realized how filthy his shirt was already, and the pile of cleaner toys that sat between him and Christopher.
Something like shock pummeled through her.
He was repairing his son’s toys.
Those were not the actions of a man who had no heart.
Not at all.
She blinked, mesmerized by the sight of them.
It was becoming apparent to Sarah that he did indeed love his son. She didn’t know many fathers who would take a day from their work to sit and polish little toy soldiers with such painstaking care. The two of them spoke in low tones, and Christopher giggled easily at something his father said.
Peter smiled, and Sarah’s heart tripped a bit at the sight of it.
He had a brilliant smile, one that was filled with as much wicked masculinity as it was with little-boy charm.
She watched as he pressed a newly polished toy soldier into his son’s hand, and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible as she strained to listen to their discourse...
“This one is blue, Daddy?” Christopher asked of the toy soldier in his hand.
“It was blue,” Peter corrected him. “Now it is more black. We’ll have to paint him a new face, I think.”
“All right,” Christopher replied. And then asked, “Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“What is blue, Daddy?”
The question took Peter slightly by surprise.
He had to think about his reply an instant, because he didn’t think he’d ever quite considered blue a what.
“Blue is...” He closed his eyes and thought hard about blue.
To answer simply that it was the color of the sky and sea seemed inappropriate. He wanted to express it so his son could comprehend. Christopher’s world was one of scents and sounds and tastes and touch. “Blue is... tranquility,” he replied, opening his eyes and peering down at his son, and was satisfied with that definition. “Like the feeling you get,” he elaborated, “when you are lying in a meadow in the sun on a warm day... and the sun is striking you upon the face... and the birds are chirping in the treetops.”
Christopher seemed to accept that answer. He nodded. “What about black?” his son asked, still examining the toy soldier with his pudgy little fingers.
“Hmmm,” Peter said. “Let’s see... black is a tricky one, I think, because black can be empty... like a clean slate...”
Christopher’s face screwed with confusion. “Clean slate?”
“No, arggh... that’s not a good way to say it. Black is like...” He tried to think of something that had very definite boundaries... something his son had experienced... something that wasn’t scary. “It’s like the feeling you have when you are sitting in a big empty bathtub and the water is not yet running... understand?”
“Think so,” Christopher answered, but his little face didn’t express any measure of certainty.
“And then black can be frightening, too, at times, I think. Like—”
“Oh, yeah,” Christopher interjected, though he was somewhat preoccupied with the toy soldier in his hand. “Sometimes I feel black,” he said, and continued to inspect the toy soldier.
Peter looked down at his son, frowning. “You do?” he asked. “Explain, son.”
“Well...” Christopher paused at his task a moment. “I think maybe it is the feeling like when I am standing someplace I don’t know—like when Aunt Ruth takes me to the park—and I don’t know where she is and I’m afraid to move.” He went back to his toy soldier. “I think that might be black.” He thought about his interpretation and then wrinkled his nose. “Is that black, Daddy?”
Peter considered his son’s description an instant, thinking it was much better than his own, and then he scowled as he peered down at Christopher. “Yes, like that, I think.”
Christopher sat silently beside him, and Peter suddenly had a strange feeling about his son’s revelation. “Christopher,” he asked, “do you always feel black at the park?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Christopher answered, and shook his head. “Only when Aunt Ruth takes me, I do.”
“Only when Aunt Ruth takes you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you think that’s so?”
Christopher shrugged. “Dunno, Daddy.”
Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that came over him suddenly. Christopher had never given him the first clue that he had ever been uncomfortable in Ruth’s presence, but suddenly he found himself concerned. “Does she leave you alone, Christopher?”
“I dunno, Daddy... sometimes she’s quiet and tells me to stay and I get afraid she will go away.”
Did Ruth walk away and leave him at times? Or did she simply lapse into silence? In either case, it obviously bothered Christopher, and he would have to take measures to remedy that.
“Well, I think I’ll have a talk with Aunt Ruth and see how we can make it so you don’t feel black when she takes you to the park anymore. I’m certain she doesn’t realize.”
Christopher nodded, his attention returned to his toy soldier. “Daddy?” he said again.
“Yes, son?”
“What color am I?”
Peter had plucked up another toy soldier and had begun to clean it with the tail of his shirt, but he paused at the question. “What color are you?” he repeated, and tried not to laugh.
“Yes, sir,” Christopher replied.
“Well, yellow,” Peter said without hesitation.
Christopher’s brows lifted. “Yellow?”
“Yep,” Peter replied, a smile in his voice. “Bright, like the sunshine,” he said.
Christopher’s little brows drew together in confusion. “I thought you said that was blue Daddy.”
Peter chuckled once more. This wasn’t working quite as he’d hoped.
“I did, now, didn’t I? But it’s not quite the same as blue, son. Yellow is like... well... a room fully lit, every nook and cranny brightened by the light.”
His little face twisted once more in confusion, and his tone reflected it as well. “I am yellow, Daddy?”
“Yep,” Peter maintained.
“But I cannot see the light,” he protested, and still the avowal was totally devoid of self-pity. His son was simply stating a fact. A multitude of emotions overwhelmed Peter.
Guilt, for one...
Had he not been so bloody drunk that night...drowning his anger and loneliness in a bottle, feeling sorry for himself... well... maybe his son would not be blind today.
“That,” Peter told him, his voice softening, “is because you are the light!”
Christopher digested that particular bit of information, and didn’t seem quite able to grasp the concept. “Daddy?” he prompted once more. “What color is Miss Hopkins?” he a
sked. “Is she blue, Daddy? She makes me feel like blue sometimes.”
Peter considered his son’s revelation. “Does she?” The truth was, she made him feel like blue too, Peter acknowledged, but not the sort of blue he’d described to his son, rather like the blue of an intense flame.
She made him burn.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see... Miss Hopkins is...”
He had to think about it a long moment, and still no answer seemed apparent. She was peachy cream, when he thought of the color of her skin... and deep rose, when he thought about the shade of her lovely lips... and cerulean blue, when he thought about her eyes. “I think she’s red,” he answered, finally.
The color of passion.
If there was one thing he sensed about Sarah, it was that she was passionate. He had heard her passion in her speech to him that first day, heard it in her snappy tone, not to mention he had witnessed the flush of her skin as she’d stared at him while he’d sat half naked upon her bed.
“Red, Daddy?”
Peter changed his mind suddenly as he considered her bloody lies. “No... she’s black,” he said with more certainty.
“Black? Daddy!” Christopher protested. “I don’t think she is black!”
“Black!” Sarah chimed in, and came forward into the room to offer her own protest. “You think I am black?”
Peter lifted a brow at her timely appearance. “Yes. Black... like an empty bathtub... or a clean slate,” he told her, and watched her expression.
“Miss Sarah!” his son exclaimed, and Peter couldn’t help but note the genuine enthusiasm in his son’s tone.
Nor did he miss her smile as she acknowledged it.
She tapped her cane before her upon the carpeted floor as she entered. Peter watched her with dark amusement.
“I’m not certain I like that. Or even comprehend it!” she said.
“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “It is merely my perception.”
She stopped before him and he caught a glimpse of her delicate ankles as she lifted her skirt just a little. Christ, but he wanted nothing more than to slide his hand beneath her dress, up those lovely legs...
He willed himself not to think of it, though his breath quickened slightly. “How long have you been standing there listening, Sarah?”
She gave him a wry smile, and admitted, “Long enough to feel quite ashamed for my eavesdropping.”
At least she had the decency not to lie about that. “What color do you think my daddy is, Miss Sarah?”
Chapter 16
Sarah blinked at the question.
“Well... I-I’m not certain.”
“Is he black, too?”
Strangely enough, Sarah thought as she peered at him out of the corner of her eye... he wasn’t any longer.
Like the toy soldier in Christopher’s hand, Peter Holland’s layer of soot was beginning to fade. She refused to play, however, refused to say so. “I am certain I don’t know your daddy well enough to say,” she told him. “Neither does he know me well enough to call me black!” she objected, pretending affront.
He was smiling up at her, Peter was, with that strange smile he had given her earlier, and Sarah’s breath caught at the sight of it.
Unbidden, the memory of what she had done the night before came back to taunt her.
Resisting the urge to flee his presence, she shoved it at once out of her mind, lest she be too mortified to stand in his presence ever again.
“May I join you?”
“Certainly,” Peter answered, watching her still.
Sarah ignored him as best she could and lifted her skirt a little to sit with them. “So... what are we doing?”
“Cleaning my toys,” Christopher replied matter-of-factly. “My daddy says he’ll have to paint this one’s face again.” His own face fell then, and his expression saddened a bit. “I wish I could see it.” The surface was flat, Sarah realized, the features lost within the polished wood, but Christopher’s little hands continued to explore it determinedly.
Her heart wrenched for him.
And yet... this was the first time she had ever heard him utter a single lamentation. His father was right. Christopher was yellow. The little boy sitting before her had as much to teach them about dealing with life as any adult could. Sarah had earned herself a lifetime of woe by not accepting so much, and here this child had been dealt a terrible hand, and he accepted it without complaint.
“Would you like to know what I look like, Christopher?” she asked him suddenly, feeling a bit bold.
“But I can’t see, Miss Sarah.”
“Why, of course you can!” Sarah assured him. “And you already know how!”
She reached out, groping for him, still very aware of his father’s scrutiny, and then pretending to find him, scooted closer. Peter watched her now without a word, as though he were studying her every action with undivided interest. Sarah reached out her hand to touch Christopher on the shoulder and then slid her fingers down to his tiny hand, lifting it to her face. “Go on,” she urged him. “See me with your hands.”
Christopher hesitated, confused, and Sarah was certain her touch was as alien to him as the concept of light itself. She had watched father and son together, and the lack of physical intimacy between them was more than apparent. Neither did she think, judging by Christopher’s comments about his aunt, that Ruth was overly affectionate either. She couldn’t help but wonder why Christopher had implied to his father that he felt abandoned when he was with her. Could it be that she just walked away and left him alone? Feeling lost? Or did she simply not speak with him and thus he felt the lack of her presence? She wasn’t the warmest person Sarah had ever met. She might love and protect Christopher fiercely, but she didn’t seem to know how to show her affection.
“Go on,” she urged him once more, when still he hesitated.
He did as she bade him this time, and Sarah closed her eyes, feeling his sweet little hand move against her cheek, her lips, her forehead... seeing her. He accidentally stuck a finger up her nose and she gasped softly and then giggled. He didn’t apologize, but neither did he seem to realize what he’d done, and then he drew away suddenly. He was quite obviously not entirely comfortable with the exercise, but she could scarcely blame him. He didn’t know her so well.
“Now, what did you see?” Sarah asked.
“A mouth and a nose,” he declared matter-of- factly.
“Yes, indeed,” Sarah agreed, and laughed softly. “One of each!”
Christopher responded with an infectious little giggle.
“Have you never done that before, Christopher?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, why ever not? Now it’s your father’s turn. Go look at his face, Christopher,” she directed.
Christopher got on his hands and knees almost at once. His father gave her a somewhat protesting glance, but Sarah forced herself to ignore it.
She could scarcely respond to what she was not supposed to see, after all.
This time Christopher didn’t need a second prompting. He fell upon his father’s face, quite literally, drawing laughter from Peter’s lips. He explored his father’s face with careful precision, noting everything from his lips to the lobes of his ears. He even went so far as to pull at the hair of his father’s brow.
“Ouch!” Peter exclaimed, but Sarah could hear the smile in his voice.
Her heart warmed at the sight of them together. She laughed softly.
“Shame on you, Peter Holland!” she declared suddenly. It was obvious that, indeed, this was the first time Christopher had ever looked at his father’s face. “Men!” she exclaimed. “I shall never understand the lot of you. Afraid of a little touch!”
“Oh?” Peter replied, holding still for the onslaught of his son’s tiny hands. “And you are not?”
“Hardly!” Sarah assured, feeling quite superior at the instant. “Women are not nearly so afraid of intimacy, you see.”
; “Then perhaps you should like a turn, as well?”
Sarah’s heart tripped at the challenge.
The thought of touching him left her breathless.
“No, I think not.” Sarah refused him outright. “I hardly think that would be appropriate, Mr. Holland.”
“So we are back to calling me Mr. Holland?” His brows lifted.
“Miss Sarah’s nose is smaller than yours,” Christopher announced, moving away from his father and returning to his toy soldier. “He has no nose...”
Sarah’s heart began to pound against her breast.
“Tell me... why is it that you seem to need to retain a measure of distance, Miss Hopkins? Does it make you so uncomfortable to address me as Peter?”
Sarah swallowed.
Was she so obvious?
She wasn’t very good at this pretense, it seemed.
Whatever had made her feel she could manage this scheme?
Did he know?
Something about the look in his eyes gave her a sense of unease. And then she calmed herself, forcing herself to reason. He was hardly confronting her about anything at all. He was merely offering her the opportunity to see his face... as his son had done to him... as she had suggested. And her derogatory comment about men had been challenge enough in itself. He was not the sort of man, she reminded herself, to leave a gauntlet lying at his feet.
“What are you afraid of?”
Sarah frowned. “I am hardly afraid of anything,” she assured him, with more certainty than she felt at the moment.
“Go on, then,” he urged her. “I give you my word I’ll not bite.”
His eyes held a mischievous twinkle that provoked her ire. The cad! He was enjoying this a little too much, she thought.
“Very well,” she relented, and hated that it sounded so much like a pout. Peter might not be a murderer, but he was certainly a rake, and he had stolen Mary’s heart entirely too easily.
She didn’t wish to do this.
God help her, the last thing she wanted this moment was to touch him. After last night... after what she had done... she could scarcely bear the thought of looking at him, much less touching... those lips... that jaw...
He was waiting expectantly.
Three Redeemable Rogues Page 64