by Lisa Bingham
No, it couldn’t be. He’d been locked in a cramped and barred cell. His captors had treated him like an animal, feeding him only once a day. Sullivan had known his food had been altered somehow when he’d grown disoriented each time he partook of his single meal, but his body had craved the nourishment enough to damn the consequences.
But things had changed.
Wading through a morass of confusion, Sullivan tried to concentrate. Vaguely, he remembered seeing Rupert and Richard.
My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sun …
He remembered donning the costume of a savage.
If lips be red …
He remembered the two Englishmen who had ambushed him on the road. The struggle. The pain.
Then her lips …
He remembered being penned like a wild dog. The sailor’s sneers. The lack of light.
My lover …
Drawing upon the last scraps of coherence he could lay claim to, Sullivan forced his lashes to lift. As he gradually focused on his surroundings, he couldn’t believe what he saw.
He lay within the confines of a four-poster bed. A rain-spattered window set high and thick in the wall revealed a dim patch of daylight while a small table beside him held a branch of squat candles to augment the limited supply of illumination. While in the corner …
A ghost? A vision? Vaguely, he wondered if he were witnessing a tantalizing hallucination. A weak smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. If so, he longed never to wake.
In the mellow pool of firelight, he saw a woman standing with her back toward him. She wore nothing more than a modest cotton chemise and a flounced petticoat. Even with his addled senses, Sullivan surmised that she must have been caught in the grumbling of the storm. The flickering glow from the hearth gilded the sheen of moisture clinging to the naked flesh of her arms and shoulders. Occasionally, the drip-plop of water nudged the quiet as beads of moisture fell from the water-stained hems of her skirt to pool about the delicate shape of her feet. To his cloudy senses, she appeared both illusion and reality. Saint and temptress.
My lover’s eyes …
He fought to understand her words, then determined she wasn’t speaking to him at all but sang under her breath.
Are nothing like the sun …
Her arms lifted in a single graceful motion. Skin as pure and taut as a ripe peach was caressed by the mellow glow of the coals in the grate. One by one, she began to pluck the pins from her hair, rich, waving, golden tresses.
Sullivan’s eyelids drifted shut, their weight becoming too heavy to maintain. When he opened them again, the woman had not vanished as he had feared. She stood before him, the damp locks spilling about her hips like a thick mantle—too curly to appear fashionable, too sensuous to be considered proper.
My lover’s eyes …
In utter fascination, he watched as she reached for a silver hairbrush and stroked the tangles free. Static crackled in the room, tugging at a ribbon of tension that threaded his veins. His lips curved in masculine appreciation. Rather than taming the wild mane, she inadvertently made it curlier. To Sullivan’s utter delight, the waves rippled down her back in a mass of naturally formed ringlets. The kind that would twine around a man’s fingers and spill over his skin like liquid silk.
The seconds slogged past, marked by the grating tick of the clock. The woman seemed unaware of his scrutiny. She continued her ministrations, oblivious to his intense regard.
At any other time, the steady rhythm of her brushing might have soothed him, but his expectancy prevented him from relaxing. He prayed she would turn. He wanted—needed—to see her face. Anticipation settled in his gut like a slow-burning fire.
He attempted to speak, but no sound emerged. Trying once more, he swiped his tongue over dry, cracked lips and groaned.
The woman whirled. The brush clattered to the floor. Wide blue eyes the color of a crystal stream clashed with his.
She was older than he’d expected. Nearing a score-and-five if he guessed correctly. Delicately chiseled features comprised her face—wide brow, slender nose, finely pointed chin. Nothing about her would have stopped a man in midstride. She wasn’t classically pretty. Not in the sense that women of the times were supposed to be—fashionable porcelain dolls with the constitutions of orchids.
No, there was a resiliency to her. A strength. If a man were to catalog her features one by one, he would be disappointed. But when taken all together, she was striking, exotic, aristocratic.
She scrutinized him long and hard, the swift rise and fall of her breasts betraying her agitation. For a moment, he was sure he saw something else settle over her expression. A hint of languor, a taste of stark sensuality. A wistfulness.
Then, to his utter disappointment, the woman recovered her poise and grasped a woolen cape from where it had been flung over the chair behind her. In a moment, she’d covered herself from neck to toe. The temptress vanished, and in her place stood a woman of determination and strict formality. The room dipped slightly. Spun.
“My lord,” he heard her say from a long distance.
My lord?
Richard …
Chelsea gripped the edges of her mantle tightly against her, but she could see that Richard Sutherland had fallen into another drugged sleep.
A trembling began deep in her bones, but she fought the reaction, refusing to give it leave. He was just a man like any other. She had been ogled by far more intimidating sorts than this. There was no reason to become jittery and warm simply because he’d studied her so thoroughly from beneath heavy eyelids.
A knock came at the door, and she bent to retrieve her hairbrush from the ground before crossing the room. “Who’s there?” she called softly.
“Smee, mum. I brought you a cup of broth and a bit of lamb from below.”
Chelsea quickly twisted the key and opened the door.
Smee’s balding pate shimmered with a fine sheen of sweat, and his chubby features radiated with a flush of exertion. Waddling inside, he placed the tray on the dresser, still trying to catch his breath from his climb up the staircase. He spied Richard Sutherland and shook his head. “Poor man, poor man,” he huffed, then offered Chelsea a gap-toothed smile and crossed his arms over his ample middle. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into letting me stay with him, mum? I’d be more than happy to help.”
“Thank you, no, Smee. You need your rest. After yesterday’s debacle at the Hog’s Head Inn, I think I should watch over him personally. We’ve come a long way to reach Albee tonight, and we’ve still a good distance to cover tomorrow to reach Smedlyton.”
“Very good, mum.” He marched into the corridor. “I’ll be ready with the coach at dusk, Miss Chelsea. The rain slowed us down a bit, but I think we can make up the time we’ve lost this evening. If so, we should reach Bellemoore in a day or two.”
“Thank you, Smee.”
Once he’d disappeared, Chelsea twisted the lock. She doubted the flimsy hardware could discourage anyone determined to enter, but at least it offered a measure of privacy from drunken patrons who might stumble up the staircase in search of their beds.
Her attention was drawn back to the man in the four-poster. Visually exploring the peaks and valleys hidden by the coarse linen, she noted the lean lengths of his legs, the narrow box of his hips, the corrugated shape of his torso. Her mouth grew dry. She’d expected to be responsible for the needs of a boy. A boy!
But Richard Sutherland was no boy—not by any stretch of the imagination. His masculine frame crowded the narrow bedstead, and his feet pushed against the covers as if seeking extra space. He was fully grown. Mature.
Wild.
Her pulse began an erratic rhythm. If she’d known he would have shaken off the effects of the laudanum, she wouldn’t have dreamed of changing her clothes. It had been a mistake she wouldn’t likely forget again. When she’d turned from her ablutions to find him looking at her, she’d caught a glimpse of the heathen bur
ied in him. His thorough scrutiny had seemed to strip the clothes from her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. Judging by the flare of interest she’d witnessed, she knew that he had been intrigued, not dissuaded, by what he’d seen.
Chelsea was aware of the risks involved in this unlikely mutual attraction better than anyone. To pursue such an amorous folly could be dangerous—would be dangerous. Especially to a woman like her.
So why couldn’t she relegate him to the long list of reprobates and rakes who had failed to capture her attention in the past? Why couldn’t she seem to erect the formal, professional barriers that had always served her so well?
Although she hated to admit it, this man unlocked a hidden vault deep in her soul. She was flooded with quick snatches of fantasy that had no place in her well-ordered life. She couldn’t seem to stop the odd reaction. It was as if she were being pulled backward in time.
Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the young woman she’d buried so long ago. Papa had despaired of ever teaching her to be a lady. During her childhood, she’d been so wild and filled with a greediness for life that he’d chastised her regularly. When he died, leaving her alone to fend for herself, Nigel Sutherland had taken his place as her provider, having been drawn to her by that very passion, that reckless joie de vivre.
Lord Sutherland hadn’t stifled her natural drives—in fact, he had encouraged them. Beneath his tutelage, she’d become a passionate woman. He’d seen to it that she had every opportunity, money, education. It wasn’t until later that Chelsea realized such gifts would exact a terrible price.
She approached the four-poster as a prisoner might approach the block. But she couldn’t resist. She was drawn to Richard Sutherland as firmly as if pulled to his side by a magic string.
Reckless images came faster, stronger. Bare flesh golden and sun-kissed. Long, waving hair tossed by the wind. And hands. Square, strong, masculine hands.
His hands.
Her hands.
Twining.
Caressing.
How could he do this to her? She didn’t want to feel anything for this man. She wanted to remain cool and aloof.
Chelsea’s bare feet made no sound on the floorboards when she halted next to the bed. So intent was her study of Richard Sutherland that the cape dropped unheeded from her shoulders and pooled around her ankles.
Before this night, she’d never considered herself cheated. She’d never believed herself less fortunate because of her lack of male companionship.
Now she felt empty.
Hungry.
Her palms grew moist. The need to touch him swelled inside her breast.
He lay quietly beneath a single sheet. The opium had snared him in its tenacious embrace. She doubted that he would be able to distinguish his dreams from reality once he regained his wits. He wouldn’t remember this day or what he’d seen. He would never know if she reached out to touch him.
She shouldn’t.
But she wanted to. Her pulse thrummed with the over whelming desire.
Touch him.
Just this once.
Though each gesture seemed to be weighted, Chelsea moved closer, much like a toddler examining a torte she’d been forbidden to taste. Only when she sat beside him, her petticoat lapping against the bed frame and spilling around her icy feet, did she stop.
Her lungs fought the crushing weight of guilt and delight. Her pulse knocked against her throat. Her fingers trembled as they stretched out, hesitantly at first, then with more determination when she realized he showed no signs of consciousness. She had this one opportunity to indulge herself. A single chance.
Chelsea filled her mind with details. Her knuckles skimmed the hair fanning about his shoulders. The brown-black tresses gave way beneath her exploration, then sprang back into place, tickling her palms. The strands were fine-textured. Fascinating. She had never known that a man’s hair could be soft and inviting.
She knew she should stop there, but now that her restraint had been broken, she couldn’t back away. Not yet. Following the feathered hairline, she trailed a path to his cheek, noting the smooth skin below his lashes, then the raspy texture of his jaw. The stubble of his beard abraded her with a delicious friction. A flurry of sparks raced through her body.
Chelsea savored the storm of reaction she inspired. He felt good. Warm. Oh, so male. She wanted to surrender to the strength of his body, the faint musky scent of his skin. She wanted this moment to stretch into eternity until—
His lashes flickered open, and Chelsea issued a gasp of sound.
Golden, green. His eyes pulled at her, drawing her into a vortex of physical awareness. So intense was their power that when he caught her elbows, bringing her closer, she couldn’t resist.
The heat of his body seeped into the dampness of her clothing, warming her, scalding her. Broad hands, callused and strong, cupped her shoulders, molded the gentle flesh. His hold was far from gentle but could never be considered cruel. It contained an urgency, a need, as he dragged her toward him.
Their lips met, parted, met again. Then, as if a match had been touched to a pyre of dried grasses, the hesitancy exploded in a burst of flame. His mouth opened, hers responded. His tongue swept into the honeyed sweetness, hers parried, clashed, challenged.
Passion surged through her body. Never had a man’s caress consumed her so quickly. Never had her reason been swamped so completely. The fantasies she had begrudgingly entertained became reality as she plunged her fingers into his hair and submitted to his seduction.
A loud crash of cutlery from the main hall below caused Chelsea to jerk free. Her lashes sprang open, and propriety rushed over her in icy tides as she noted the heavy-lidded gaze of the man she had embraced so freely. She shouldn’t be doing this! It was wrong. So very, very wrong!
Shocked by the depth of her response, Chelsea wrenched away and retreated to the opposite side of the room.
The man in the bed struggled to prop himself on his elbow and extended his arm to her. But she soon realized it wasn’t merely passion that had caused his pupils to dilate and his limbs to tremble. He wavered, fighting the encroaching tentacles of unconsciousness.
The lingering effects of the opium proved too powerful, and he succumbed, falling back. One last time, he attempted to focus on her face, then he grunted in supreme irritation. Slept.
Even drugged and unconscious, his lax body called to her like a siren’s song. Desperately, Chelsea delved within herself for the poise and control she’d created over the years. She sought to dredge her soul for the stern, dictatorial governess who’d lingered there only minutes before.
The emotions came as soon as she called, but somehow they did not feel as comfortable as they once had. This man made her want things she couldn’t have.
No, Richard Sutherland was not the little boy she had expected. He was a man. An overwhelming, compelling, irresistible man. In many ways, his maturity would make her task easier. She could reason with an adult. She could focus on deportment instead of behavior. But Chelsea rued the fact that she had been torn from the safe misconceptions of a childish Sutherland heir.
A loss filled her chest with the weight of a thousand stones. Because—for the first time in ever so long—Chelsea Wickersham wanted a male to wake and see her, not as a servant or an employee, but as a woman.
But that could never be. Not with this man. Richard Sutherland might intrigue her, he might excite her, but he was out of her reach. She couldn’t have him. Not now. Not ever.
Not without destroying them both.
Chapter 6
Waves crashed against the bow of the Regal Hind, spewing over the railing to cascade onto the slippery deck. A single figure stood in the early-morning gloom, the sharp angles of his face clearly highlighted against a backdrop of swelling iron-gray waves and a sky the color of lead. He leaned against the supports that cradled the carved prow fashioned in the s
hape of a golden-haired mermaid. But he spared no attention for the scantily clad creature. His eyes were turned toward the horizon, where he had been told that “anytime, now, anytime” the faun-colored dunes of Calais would appear.
Another surge of seawater crashed against the swift vessel, and the fizz and burble of thwarted intent filled the man’s ears. But not so much that he missed the uneven gait of another passenger who approached him from behind.
“Come below, Gregory.”
“Where’s Richard?”
“He’s fine. Sleeping peacefully. He seems stronger. I think the sea air has done him a world of good.”
Gregory nodded to show he’d heard, but he continued to search for the elusive coastline.
“All will be well, you’ll see.”
“Will it?” Gregory turned to his brother. “How could you let him do such a foolhardy thing?”
“He meant to make inquiries, nothing more. How were we to know those men would abduct him?”
“You should have anticipated such an action. Father warned us that Nigel Sutherland was not to be trusted. His men have been tracking us for years. What were you thinking, man?”
“We still have no proof they were Sutherland’s men.” Rupert cautiously broached the subject they had avoided for far too long. “What do you intend to do once we reach London? We have no idea where Sully’s been taken or how to find him. We would have better luck finding a rabbit in a forest.”
“Then we’ll search for the hawk first and wait for the rabbit to come to him.”
Sullivan Cane smothered a yawn and pushed back the frayed brocade portieres framing his bedroom window. Grimacing, he looked out at the profusion of flowers beyond. For days, he’d been locked in this room with nothing to do but stare out the window at the same blasted flowers.
Sullivan was not amused.
His predicament was his own fault. How naive he had been to think he could merely talk to the English bloodhounds, convince them of his “savagery,” then twist their nefarious purposes to his own means. He’d not been twenty minutes in their company before they’d crashed a club over his head, trussed him up like a goose, and bundled him onto a ship for Britain. From that day on, Sullivan had been beaten, drugged, and taunted. Trapped in a charade of his own making, he’d been branded a heathen and treated as such.