Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Christopher had fallen asleep in her lap, his little head resting sweetly upon her breast. And she had adored every moment of the embrace. He was such an insightful little boy, full of energy and ambition, and in every word he spoke of his father, his love and admiration were apparent.

  Sarah had found herself viewing Peter through very different eyes—through the eyes of his blind son.

  Christopher didn’t seem particularly concerned about making his father proud. In fact, he seemed to hold little doubt of his father’s esteem.

  How could a man who could make a child feel so special be a murderer?

  Peter Holland was a mystery, to be certain.

  With Mel leading the way now, and lamenting the distance they had yet to go, she and Christopher held hands as they left the park and crossed Fifth Avenue. She listened to Christopher’s exuberant renditions of the afternoon’s concertos and smiled at his natural aptitude for music. Sarah wondered if it had to do with the fact that he seemed to remember entire passages so easily ... He seemed to have incredible hearing and memory capacity. And his sense of smell was uncanny!

  While Christopher had begun the day quite reticently, he was beginning to spiral out of his natural reserve into a rather boisterous little boy. She was so caught up in his enthusiasm, it wasn’t until they reached the Twin Vanderbilt Mansions that she began to feel a sense of unease... as though they were being watched...

  It wasn’t difficult to remain inconspicuous on New York City’s streets.

  With the bustle of activity from Central Park at the end of the concert, Fifth Avenue was a melee. Peter followed his son and two female companions, remaining at a safe distance as they made their way home.

  He hadn’t trusted her alone with his son.

  She might be beautiful as hell, but she was a conniving little witch, and he was bound and determined to discover what it was she was after. Her interest in Christopher had been quite clear from the first—she couldn’t fake that kind of sincerity—but what did she want with him?

  Peter had stood apart from them, watching while they’d enjoyed the concert. With no one about to scrutinize her every move, she hadn’t even attempted to carry on with her pretense, other than that she had retained the use of her dark spectacles. Her attention, however, had been wholly upon Christopher, and her gaze clearly drawn to his son’s every gesture. The way that she watched him, in fact, gave Peter a strange sense of familiarity about her.

  He knew three things for certain after this morning: One, Sarah Hopkins was most definitely not blind. Two, for whatever reason, she cared about his son. And three, he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  God, just watching her walk made him stiff as a cleric’s collar. And the thought of her lying within his bath last night had made him as hard as steel. Christ, he’d sat within his office, considering an investment proposal for a new restaurant akin to Delmonico’s, and unable to concentrate on anything but the workings of his vivid imagination.

  In his mind he had been able to see her lying within his enormous tub. He saw her, as in a dream, rise up from the frothy suds, her hair wet and rivulets of water and soap streaming down her face. He saw those moist lashes open and her blue eyes rivet upon him, and his blood simmered.

  Even here, amid the masses, and though he could but see her at a distance, he found himself aroused by the thought of her.

  But it was more than that.

  The sight of her sitting there in the park with his son, holding him so intimately... had begun to give him insane thoughts. Somehow that gentle image made him yearn for something he’d not dared to yearn for in far too long.

  Only this time he understood the perils of believing in a myth: There were no happily-ever-afters.

  And yet, until now, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of trying again. He had been perfectly content to simply be Christopher’s father.

  He was still content to be Christopher’s father, but suddenly he went to bed at night... and his hand reached into the cold space beside him... and his thoughts drifted to the room next door... and his loins hardened against the bed.

  He never thought of Cile there anymore... in his bed. Nor was it any longer simply a means to satisfy his needs.

  There were new needs he yearned to fill... needs he had never known he possessed... needs he had not even known with Mary.

  Somehow this woman, this stranger in his home, had managed to awaken something within him that he’d never known existed. He’d heard of love but had never given it any credence. He hadn’t believed in love—not with Mary—at least not love such as that lauded by the poets. No, but he had loved Mary... he just hadn’t been in love with her. He had adored so much about her, but she hadn’t invaded his every waking thought.

  Sarah had.

  Damn her to hell.

  He was following too close, he realized suddenly.

  Sarah turned to glance over her shoulder and stared. For an instant he couldn’t tell whether she had caught him, or was simply curious about something occurring behind him. When she turned around once more, dismissing him, he decided it was the latter and waited until they crossed the street before he continued after them.

  They were definitely being followed. And Sarah was furious, though she knew she hadn’t the right to be.

  He didn’t trust her—not that she particularly deserved that trust, but she was angered nonetheless, which didn’t make the least bit of sense.

  Was she hurt that he had somehow judged her and found her guilty?

  Or was she angry with herself for failing?

  What did he know? And why was he following?

  She suddenly couldn’t think. “Take Christopher’s hand, Mel, please.”

  Mel turned and gave her a quizzical look. “Is something the matter, Sarah?”

  Sarah didn’t wish to make a scene. She certainly didn’t wish Christopher to become aware of his father’s presence, and less did she wish Peter to know that she had spied him. “Nothing,” she assured, “I just have a bit of fatigue is all.”

  “Oh, dear... well, it has been quite a long day,” Mel agreed, and took Christopher’s hand in her own. She hesitated before crossing the street and led Christopher along to the next corner.

  Sarah had to force herself not to peer nervously over her shoulder.

  Calm yourself.

  Think, Sarah, you need to think.

  Perhaps he hadn’t intended to follow them at all. Perhaps he had merely spied them together and was curious to see how they fared. He had no reason to suspect her after all. She’d been particularly careful in and out of his presence. There was nothing Sarah could point to that would say this was the instant he would doubt her.

  Had he spied her just a minute ago peering over her shoulder? Had she given herself away with her actions this afternoon? Had he watched them even at the park? Blast him!

  Blast herself for not considering the risks!

  Ahead of her, Christopher rambled on in an excited fashion, eager to tell his father about the afternoon’s diversions. If Sarah hadn’t been so distracted by the rat pursuing them, she would have felt overjoyed by his boyish enthusiasm. It was the first time he’d ever displayed such unbounded energy.

  This was the little boy she had expected to find, not the quiet little sage she’d encountered.

  She stepped into the street behind Mel and Christopher and couldn’t help herself. She turned around to see if he was still following. She didn’t see him. Not anywhere. Perhaps he hadn’t been following them after all. Perhaps he’d simply spied them and out of curiosity had watched them together a moment before carrying on with his affairs. He wasn’t there... not anywhere at all. She searched the passing crowds, hoping that he wasn’t ensconced in some doorway, watching from some hidden perch.

  Sarah was so preoccupied with studying the crowd that she didn’t hear the thunder of approaching hooves... or the deadly clatter of carriage wheels.

  Peter saw it too late.

  He’d
crossed back over Fifth Avenue to watch from a safer distance, and was helpless now to do any more than watch with terror as Sarah stood in the middle of the street. He told himself the driver would spy her—impossible not to—but his speed increased.

  And still she stood there, wholly unaware of the death rattle at her back.

  Christ! Was she deaf?

  “Sarah!” he shouted, and took a panicked step forward.

  He couldn’t reach her in time.

  Impossible!

  God help him, but she didn’t move.

  “Sarah!” She stood oblivious still, and he bolted into a run. “Sarah!”

  Chapter 19

  The impact took the breath from Sarah’s lungs. Her head smacked the street with a thud that echoed in her brain. Daylight faded from light to black as Sarah went flying.

  When next she opened her eyes, a fuzzy pair of blue eyes stared down at her. Her head throbbed painfully. She closed her eyes once more.

  Focusing seemed impossible.

  “You are bound and determined to get yourself killed, aren’t you?” a male voice asked.

  Disoriented still, Sarah tried to open her eyes again. Pain flared, and she closed them, moaning.

  “Did you see that man?” she heard Mel ask furiously. “He didn’t bother to stop! Did you see him?”

  “I did,” Peter answered, and his tone was deadly calm.

  “What,” Sarah stammered, “what happened?”

  “That rotter tried to kill you!” Mel shrieked in outrage.

  “My head hurts.”

  “It isn’t any wonder,” Peter said softly, his tone angry but subdued.

  “He didn’t bother even to slow down!” Mel added angrily. “Rotten bastard!” Peter must have looked at Mel then, because Mel said, “He most certainly is a rotten bastard and I’ll not mince words. He could have killed her!”

  “So I saw,” Peter said.

  “Is she all right, Daddy?” Christopher asked very near her. Sarah tried to open her eyes, and then reminded herself it was best not to.

  She squeezed them shut. “Yes, I’m quite all right, Christopher,” she replied, and with her eyes closed, tried to rise. “Ouch!” she exclaimed.

  “Have you any notion,” Peter asked her, “why someone might wish you harm, Sarah?”

  Whatever was he implying? “No one did,” she replied caustically, “until I met you!”

  He reached out, hooking her beneath her arms. Sarah could smell his musky male scent, and she couldn’t help herself—she let him drag her into his arms as he helped her to her feet, and she buried her nose against his sun-warmed shirt.

  “Are you telling me this is my fault?” His tone told her he was hardly convinced. His hand at her back soothed her.

  “Perhaps you could better tell me,” she countered.

  “What happened, Daddy?” Christopher asked. The poor child was still confused. No one had yet to enlighten him. Not that anyone seemed to have a clue as to what had happened. Sarah had not even spied the approaching carriage until it had been too late.

  “I’m not sure, son,” Peter said, and Sarah could hear the speculation in his voice. “But it seems to me that someone doesn’t like Miss Sarah quite as well as you and I do.”

  He’d steadied her upon her feet only to dizzy her with his words.

  “You like me?” she asked him with some surprise, and hated herself for the silly question. She’d spoken without thought.

  Why did his silly declaration make her belly flutter?

  And why should she care what he thought of her?

  His breath was warm upon her cheek and his hand firm at her back. “Does that surprise you, Sarah?” he murmured.

  Sarah dared not look at him. “I... I suppose that it does a bit.” She hated that her voice sounded suddenly so breathless.

  “Well, I do,” he told her without hesitation. “I like you very, very much.”

  He just didn’t bloody well trust her.

  Sarah Hopkins was after something; Peter just couldn’t figure out what that something was.

  They sat together in the parlor, all of them—he and Ruth and Sarah and Christopher—in an easy atmosphere that reminded Peter of days with his own family, long ago. Before his father had begun to drink so much. Even then Ruth had been a serious young girl, removed from the family despite her presence, and full of her own thoughts. She sat in her chair, quietly assessing the pair sitting on, of all places, the floor of the parlor—Christopher and Sarah—with a general air of disapproval.

  Peter could see that Ruth had not even begun to warm to Sarah’s presence. He thought perhaps it had to do with Sarah’s appearance. She was quite a lovely woman, and Ruth had never been able to accept that as a virtue in others. Peter thought it had to do with their mothers, but he couldn’t be certain. Ruth had often begrudged his mother her beauty, and belittled her for it. Yet she hadn’t particularly embraced her own mother’s lack of it, either. Ruth seemed a woman lost somehow, and while he often regretted the power struggles between them, he also was pleased to give her a home where she felt needed and welcomed. He felt sorry for his half sister. Though she wasn’t precisely unattractive, something about her made a man shrivel to his bones.

  His gaze returned to the woman who had managed to hold his attention from the instant he’d laid eyes upon her. There was something luminous about her—something that drew him—something more alluring than mere beauty.

  “Do you feel the difference, Christopher?” she asked. “Feel them more closely.”

  She had a book of embossed metal sheets between them, and Christopher was feeling the raised dots with extreme care. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Which letter is that?”

  “F,” he said.

  Sarah found his hand and placed her own over it, finding the letter Christopher was examining. She was taking great pains to play the part of a blind woman. “No, darling,” she said. “That is the letter D. They are quite similar except one faces one way, and the other faces another.”

  “I’m sleepy,” Christopher protested suddenly.

  “Try, Christopher,” Peter commanded him.

  Despite his suspicions of Sarah, she was doing Christopher so much good, he could see. And she did seem to know her codes. Which led him to wonder... why would she have bothered to learn it so profoundly... if she weren’t blind?

  Who the hell was she?

  The question plagued him.

  Who was this woman who had taken so much time with his son? Who would sit on the floor with him and teach him the alphabet with such patience?

  Sarah stilled and straightened. “Peter?” she said without looking at him. Damn, she was good, but not good enough. He knew better. He lived with a blind son, knew his every mannerism. He was not fooled.

  “Yes?”

  “If Christopher is tired, I hardly wish to push him.”

  Peter stared at her. Though she didn’t look his way, she clearly knew his gaze was upon her and she straightened her spine, ready to do battle for his son. Why did that make him smile? Why did he not feel more wariness toward her than he did? Why did her pretense intrigue rather than anger him?

  And why the hell couldn’t he quit thinking of those damned beautiful lips of hers?

  From the moment he’d first spied her, with her dark spectacles, his gaze had focused upon that mouth, and he couldn’t seem to dismiss it from his thoughts.

  He gazed down at his son, suddenly ready for Christopher to be abed—suddenly eager to be alone with Sarah. “Are you tired, Christopher?”

  “Yes, Daddy.” He tilted his head sleepily.

  Peter turned to Ruth. “Take him to bed, please.”

  “Peter,” Ruth replied. He knew it would be a protest; and he knew why. He also knew Ruth understood the look in his eyes. She didn’t wish to leave them alone.

  “Take him to bed, please,” he repeated, and his tone brooked no argument.

  “I can take him,” Sarah suggested.

 
; “No,” Peter said quietly but insistently.

  Giving him a disapproving glance, Ruth rose from her chair and took Christopher by the hand. “Good night, son,” Peter said softly.

  “Night, Daddy,” Christopher replied, as Ruth led him away.

  An uneasy silence fell between them once they were alone in the parlor.

  “I don’t think she likes me very well,” Sarah said at last.

  Peter saw no reason to deny the truth. “I think you are quite a perceptive woman.”

  “I have tried to speak with her,” Sarah said, “but she doesn’t seem to appreciate my efforts. I am sorry if I have offended her in some manner. I did not mean to...”

  “You have not,” Peter assured. “My sister is quite protective of her family. Overly so, I’m afraid. Since the death of my wife, Cile is the one person she seems to favor.”

  Sarah’s heart began to race at the turn of their topic. “She must have loved your wife very deeply, then.”

  His voice was low, entirely too silky, as he said, “Mary?”

  “Yes, your wife,” Sarah reiterated.

  “I honestly would not know how Ruth felt about her. My sister was never very vocal with her opinions of the women in my life until after Mary.”

  Sarah lifted her brows.

  “Ruth knows, however... how distraught I was after my wife’s death. It nearly ruined me...” He lapsed into thought. “Nearly ruined us all,” he added sadly.

  As difficult as Sarah found the subject, it was the first time he’d spoken so directly about Mary, and she didn’t dare dissuade him from it. Her heart hammered against her breast as she listened. “I’m certain,” she murmured when he didn’t continue. “You must have loved her deeply.” She sucked in a breath and held it, then released it.

  “I’m not certain I knew what love was,” he confessed, surprising her with the declaration.

  She had to resist the urge to look up into his face, to peer into his eyes. “You didn’t love her?”

  He shrugged. “I did as much as I was capable,” he told her. “Mary was a delightful, bright, charming woman. I thought I could make her happy.”