Her Dearest Sin

by Gayle Wilson

  HER DEAREST SIN

  Gayle Wilson

  HARLEQUIN(R)

  ISBN 0-373-29207-4

  Copyright (c) 2002 by Mona Gay Thomas

  *Dedication *

  To Melissa, with my admiration and affection Acknowledgment A multitude of thanks to Olivia Ouijano for answering innumerable questions concerning names and titles for this book. Any mistakes are mine or were deliberately written to be made by my English-speaking characters. Olivia, I love you!

  HER DEAREST SIN

  Gayle Wilson

  Prologue

  Spain, 1813

  “Did you say bathe?” Lord Wetherly drawled, never stirring from his comfortable occupancy of his host’s only chair. His booted feet, dusty of course, but elegantly crossed at the ankle, were propped on the edge of the cot, the other major furnishing of the tent.

  “Bathe,” Captain the Honorable Sebastian Sinclair reiterated. “As in to become clean again.”

  “I think you’ve had too much sun, my dear. Likely prove fatal to venture out in your condition. Best lie down and rest until the fit passes.”

  “Would you care to be seen in London in our present state?”

  “The thing of it is, Sin, we ain’t in London,” the viscount remonstrated with a grin. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Sinclair said shortly.

  With his knee, he pushed Wetherly’s boots off the cot to allow himself passage across the tent. Once there Sebastian began to rummage in the trunk he’d brought out from England two years ago.

  “Frankly, it’s damned impossible not to notice,” Sinclair went on, “when one is forced to sit down to dinner with gentlemen who haven’t had more than a rudimentary spit and polish in months. And in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a perfectly good river within a quarter mile of camp. I see no reason not to avail ourselves of the opportunity.”

  “The Beau’s orders seem reason enough for me,” the viscount said mildly, watching his friend lay clean clothes on the end of the cot. “The presence of a few bands of French deserters and the occasional Spanish bandit in the area might provide another. Not that I expect either to make the slightest difference to your plans, of course.”

  “Good,” Sinclair said, lifting the breeches of his spare uniform out of the trunk and holding them up for inspection. “What the hell did they clean these with?” he muttered. “Mud, do you suppose?”

  Wetherly recognized the observation as rhetorical and not requiring an answer.

  “Boredom,” the viscount said instead. “That’s all that’s wrong with you. Our collective stench hasn’t bothered you before. Now, all of a sudden things have quieted down, no Frenchies to kill, and you damn well can’t stand it. So you plan this little adventure into enemy territory—”

  “The enemy is a dozen miles away,” Sinclair said absently, brushing at the suspicious brown smear on the otherwise spotless white linen. “The rabble that’s out there…” He gestured outside the tent with a tilt of his head. “They want nothing to do with soldiers. Attacking old men and girls is more their style.”

  “If you’re taken, and they demand ransom, Wellington won’t pay it,” Wetherly warned. “Not after that last harebrained episode he was forced to extricate you from. And if no one pays the ransom, Sin, my lad, you’ll be sold to the highest bidder. Probably end up in a harem somewhere. Spend the rest of your days as a rich old woman’s lapdog.”

  The famous Sinclair eyes, deep blue and surrounded by a sweep of long black lashes, lifted from their consideration of the uniform.

  “Do you think so?” Sinclair asked. For the first time he seemed genuinely interested in his friend’s opinion. “How exciting. Of course, Dare would be displeased to have me disappear into Spain. Family feeling and all that. Never forgive me, I suspect. Or the Beau.”

  Despite the seeming arrogance of that last phrase, everyone in camp was aware that Sebastian Sinclair, who had been affectionately and rather accurately known as Sin since his school days, never sought to trade on Wellington’s well-known friendship with his oldest brother. And because the viscount knew him so well, he understood that Sebastian would never dream of doing so. To Sinclair that would be a far worse offense than sneaking off for a dip in the nearby river.

  After all, Wellington’s order hadn’t applied to his officers. They were simply charged with seeing that it was carried out. In leaving camp Sebastian would not be disobeying the letter of his commander’s directive, only its spirit. That was exactly the kind of moral hair-splitting at which the youngest Sinclair had always excelled.

  “Oh, yes. Lapdog or a harem. I have it on the best authority,” Wetherly said solemnly. “And if your reputation with the ladies has in the least preceded you, I can guarantee there will be a spirited bidding for your services.”

  Laughing, Sinclair aimed one of his extra pair of boots at his friend, who warded it off with a practiced twist of his wrist.

  “There are, I suppose, worse fates than becoming a love slave,” Sebastian said.

  “I’m not sure. Have you seen the women in the market?”

  The long war had caused endless deprivations among the civilian populations of the Peninsula. The Spanish were as determined as the English to free their country from the domination of the French puppet who occupied the throne. Unhappily, however, it was the women and children who had seemingly borne the brunt of those efforts.

  “Poor creatures,” Sebastian agreed. “However, they don’t represent the aristocratic women of this country. Anyone capable of joining in your ‘spirited bidding’ would surely be one of those. Beautifully pampered and cosseted.”

  “Thank God,” Wetherly said. And then, his tone changing from the familiar raillery in which they had been conversing, he added, “Still have to say you’re making a mistake, Sin. Too dangerous, my boy, even for you.”

  “You may be right, Harry, but at least I shall meet my fate smelling like a man and not a horse.”

  “Is that what that is? Been trying to identify exactly what it is you smell like for a month or more. Glad to have the riddle solved.”

  The other boot followed, thrown over Sebastian’s shoulder at a target he could not see. It was characteristic of Sinclair’s luck that this careless toss accomplished what the first had not. In spite of the viscount’s belated attempt to knock it away, the boot landed squarely on top of Wetherly’s head.

  Laughing, he threw it back, striking his friend on the shoulder. Sinclair ignored the blow, continuing to arrange his selected change of clothing into a neat bundle.

  On his way to the opening of the tent, he bent to pick up both boots, rolling the supple leather of their high tops around the clothes. When he reached the tent flap, he stopped to sketch the viscount a quick salute.

  “Tell my brothers I not only died bravely, but cleanly. More than any of you will be able to say.”

  “Never had any desire to become a love slave,” Wetherly retorted. “You run along now, Sin, and have your bath. But if you get into trouble out there, don’t expect any gallant rescues. Quite beyond my skills. You’re the damned dashing one.”

  “If I go missing, just send for the cavalry. They never met a fight they didn’t like.”

  “Now if that don’t sound familiar,” Wetherly said. “Always wondered why you wasn’t cavalry.”

  “Dare couldn’t afford the commission,” Sinclair said cheerfully.

  Which, as the viscount was certainly aware, was blatantly ridiculous. There were few fortunes in England larger than that of the Sinclairs. And despite the long war, the present earl had, unlike so many of his fellow peers, managed to increase the vast sums he had inherited.

  “Saving it for the ransom?” the viscount suggested.

&
nbsp; “No doubt. See that Dare pays up, will you? While I may be perfectly willing to bleed in the service of my country—”

  The rest was cut off as Sinclair let the flap of the tent fall. Left alone and still smiling, Viscount Wetherly rose, the movement characteristically languid, and walked over to the opening. He lifted the edge of the canvas and watched the figure of his friend cross the compound.

  His were not the only eyes that followed the captain’s progress through camp. Sinclair’s dark good looks were compelling enough that they always garnered attention. Among the troops, however, it was his reputation for a reckless and selfless bravery that had won their admiration. More than one trooper’s eyes also lifted to watch the passage of the most popular officer on Wellington’s staff.

  As was his custom, Sin stopped to exchange greetings with those who spoke to him. Although the distance between them was now too great for Wetherly to be sure, perhaps he even chose to disclose to a few his destination.

  What was certain was that none of those who watched that charming and graceful progression through camp could possibly imagine how this day’s adventure would irrevocably, and forever, change the man they had grown to love.

  Sebastian Sinclair had already finished his bath. He had even managed to coax enough lather from the sliver of lye soap he’d bought from one of the women in the village to allow him to wash his hair. Now he was floating lazily on his back, enjoying the warmth of the water and remembering long summer days back in the peaceful England of his boyhood.

  Then, in the midst of those pleasant daydreams, he felt an indefinable prickle of unease along the back of his neck. Too long accustomed to living with danger to ignore such a premonition, he raised his head, slowly allowing his feet to sink until they touched the sandy bottom.

  His eyes scanned the rock-cluttered slope he had descended. Finding nothing there to alarm him, he turned to consider the opposite bank of the river, the slope there far steeper and more treacherous than the side held by the English.

  There were a dozen places among its ledges and escarpments where someone might hide. Given the loose rock, he believed he would surely have heard them moving into position. His gaze traveled the length of the ridge overlooking the river before he turned his head, again focusing on the English-held side. There was nothing there. No movement. No noise. And yet…

  Moving carefully so that no telltale splash would be created by his passage, Sinclair began to make his way back to the spot where he had laid his clothing and his weapons. He could see the small pile they made, its color darker than the tans and yellows of the surrounding rocks.

  He had hidden his pistol at the bottom of the stack of garments, but he had placed his sword in the open beside his boots. And he would feel infinitely better when one—or both—was in his hands.

  He stepped onto the bank, water streaming down his calves and ankles from the knit drawers he wore. He had debated taking them off during his bath, but in the end he had decided he would feel too vulnerable if completely nude. He was perfectly willing to fight his way out of any manner of tricky situations, but he preferred to do so at least partially clothed.

  Which was why, as soon as he reached the heap of clothing, the first thing he reached for was the clean pair of breeches he had taken from the trunk. As his fingers closed around them, something sharp was pressed against the side of his throat, right above the pulsing artery.

  Obeying that unspoken command, Sinclair froze. Bent forward in order to reach for his clothing, he was in the perfect position to examine his possessions—the ones that were where he had left them. As well as the one that wasn’t.

  It took him less than a fraction of a second to conclude that he was being held captive with his own sword. Out of the corner of his eye, he followed the length of it to the hand on the hilt. And beyond that—

  “Stand back, if you please.”

  The voice was soft. And it was unmistakably feminine. Although the English in which the order had been given was impeccable, it was also accented.

  Sebastian hesitated a heartbeat, wondering what would happen if he allowed his hand to close around the blade and tried to wrest it away from his throat. Since he was aware how fine an edge the tempered steel held, he understood what the immediate consequence of that action would be. If his assailant were quick enough, and courageous enough, that particular consequence might well be followed by other, more serious ones.

  Besides, Harry was right. He was bored. And this attempt to rob him—for he had no doubt that’s what was afoot—was less dangerous than the other scenarios that had been running through his brain when he’d left the water.

  Despite the fact that the woman was pressing the point of his sword against his throat, he believed that at any time he chose he could take the weapon away from her. And, more important, that he could do it before she managed to inflict any lasting harm.

  The desire to see how this played out, or perhaps the urge to get a look at the face that went with that intriguing voice, won out over his first inclination. Moving very slowly, he began to straighten.

  The blade followed. As it did, the woman who held it moved in front of him, so that by the time Sebastian was upright, the point of the sword was firmly lodged against his larynx. The line it had traced over his skin burned as if his valet had shaved him too closely.

  Face-to-face with his captor, awareness of that discomfort faded to a secondary consideration. Extremely secondary.

  In spite of the unusual timbre of her voice, he could never have imagined anyone like the girl—for she seemed little more than that—who stood before him. She was dressed very simply, in the same garments worn by every peasant woman he had encountered in the district. On her, their effect was nothing short of remarkable.

  The tail of the dark skirt had been caught up in its own waistband, revealing a froth of embroidered petticoats, two slender ankles covered with white stockings and neat black slippers. An embroidery pattern, which matched that on the petticoats, had been stitched along the neckline of her off-the-shoulder blouse, its fabric only a shade or two lighter than the cream of her skin. Its paleness was in marked contrast to the midnight hair, held away from an oval face by two silver combs.

  Her eyes were as black as the curls that tangled over her shoulders. And they were deadly serious.

  “In fairness I should warn you that my comrades are just beyond that hill,” Sebastian began.

  “But your comrades don’t bathe. You would have been wiser had you followed their example.”

  Sebastian controlled his amusement, meeting the dark eyes steadily. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of value.”

  She made a quick downward survey. The point of the blade, pressed hard against his throat, never wavered. When her eyes lifted again, they were amused.

  “So I see,” she said.

  As his gaze followed hers, Sebastian discovered that the wet knit underdrawers clung revealingly to his anatomy, exposing his body as clearly as if he had been wearing nothing at all. And incredibly, Sebastian Sinclair, who had bedded more than his share of opera dancers and actresses, felt a rush of blood stain his cheeks.

  The women he knew would have been embarrassed by his state of undress. Or they would have pretended to be. Certainly none of them would have been able to deliver that set-down with such poise.

  “Don’t worry,” she went on. “I’m interested only in your clothes.”

  “My clothes,” he repeated, feeling at a distinct disadvantage as the exchange unfolded.

  “The clean ones,” she clarified. “If you would be so kind as to lay them out for me in a separate stack…”

  “Perhaps you believe that I have an unlimited wardrobe,” he said, thinking that this demand was outside of enough.

  She was welcome to his money, but he’d be damned if he’d hand over his only decent change of clothing. Even as he reached that decision, he acknowledged that his reluctance to do so was probably as much a matter of pride as necessity.


  “But I assure you I do not,” he continued before she had a chance to speak. “Everything that has not been lost to swollen rivers, thieves or bloodstains during the last two years lies before you.”

  “And I wish it to be in a separate stack, if you please,” she said again, obviously unmoved by that recital of disaster.

  It seemed to Sebastian that as she said it, the point of the blade bit more deeply into the small dimpled depression it was creating at the base of his throat.

  “I assure you,” she went on, “that I have more need of them than you. If you will give me your name and your regiment, perhaps I can arrange to have them returned to you when I have finished with them. Would that be satisfactory?”

  He was struck again by her command of the language. Despite the accent, the words themselves might have been exchanged in any London drawing room. If one were to divorce them, of course, from the highly unusual nature of the subject they were discussing.

  “I believe I prefer to keep them with me. It’s so difficult to know where one will be in…?” He hesitated, inviting her confidence about when she believed she would be finished with his clothing.

  The smile that had almost broken through her control before twitched again at her lips. “Perhaps you are right. My plans are unsettled as well, so I should not lead you to expect the return of your garments. And now, if you please…”

  There was no doubt about the increased pressure of the point this time. He felt the tip pierce the skin of his throat. Warm blood trickled downward over flesh chilled by his recent immersion in the water.

  Clearly that prick was a warning. One he stubbornly didn’t heed. For several long seconds they continued to stand, frozen in their adversarial positions, eyes locked in challenge, each refusing to give in.

  And then, the sound distinct above the rush of the river, they heard the ring of horses’ hooves on the rocks high above them. She glanced up, her eyes widening. Whether from shock or by design, the point of the sword was moved back a fraction of an inch. Away from his throat. Freed from its imprisonment, he turned his head, moving very slowly so as not to provoke retaliation.