by Lisa Bingham
She was braiding her hair as she returned to the bedroom. Sighing softly to herself, she began to extinguish the candles, one by one by one. A solitary light remained by the bed. Shaking the thick plait over her shoulder, she bent to blow the flame out, then froze.
On the pillow lay a single white rose.
Fear and horror raced through her so quickly, she thought she would shatter. Her chest became encased in ice. Straightening, she whirled to confront the empty room.
Running to the windows, she slammed them closed and bolted the latches, knowing all the while that her precautionary measures had come much too late. He had been here.
Panting, she frantically searched the darkness, wishing she hadn’t extinguished the other lights so hastily. She tried to tell herself that the bloom had been an offering from Smee or Greyson. But her pillow had been bare before she had begun bathing.
Richard had brought it, her mind feebly argued. But there were no white roses on the Bellemoore estates. Biddy was passionate about pink, pink roses, pink hollyhocks, pink petunias. If another color was used, it was a splash of vibrant color—never white.
White.
Purity. Grace. Fidelity.
White.
Ice. Waste. Sterility.
Shivering now, she ran across the room to retrieve the flower, taking it to the bathing room, where she threw it into the coals beneath the kettle. The fragile petals shriveled, writhed, then turned to ash.
She was trapped. Trapped. If she were to leave Bellemoore, Richard would be harmed, she knew he would. She was the only thing that stood between him and his enemies. No one but Chelsea would ever know how she had stumbled upon the knowledge of secret crimes, thereby becoming a pawn. A knowledge for which she had no tangible proof to bring to the authorities.
Sinking to the floor, Chelsea fought back the tears and the panic. She had known Nigel Sutherland would hear she had been in league with Beatrice and helped the true heir to return. She had known she would not escape his fury.
But she had hoped he wouldn’t find her nearly so soon.
Chapter 12
Reginald sighed and continued to wait for his employer to awaken. The rustlings of their guests strolling toward the staircase in search of breakfast had so far failed to rouse the man.
Impatiently, Reggie tapped his foot against the rug but wisely did not consider waking his employer. Lord Sutherland had still not returned by the time his guests had begun to retire. Reginald, who had spent the night talking with the intriguing Mr. Gregory Cane, had grown more and more annoyed as the night progressed. He knew where his employer was. With that woman. Once again, Nigel was neglecting duty, business, and his own impression upon his visitors, for that … that … girl.
Reggie had watched as Mr. Cane surveyed each room, each dignitary, with a keen, hard gaze. He’d seen him grow more tense, his expression more masked with every tick of the clock, and he’d blamed Nigel for it all.
Mr. Cane had refused to be drawn into talking about his business with Nigel, so to keep him from tiring of the wait, Reginald had drawn him into a sporting game of backgammon. To his chagrin, he’d lost thirty pounds to the man in little less than an hour. But at the very least, he’d convinced the stranger to return within the week to meet with Nigel Sutherland.
Reggie shifted in the wingback chair situated in the corner of the master bedchamber and studied Nigel’s sleeping form. Judging by Mr. Cane’s willingness to bet large sums of money on such a game of strategy, Reginald had surmised that he either was very wealthy or felt he had nothing to lose.
Nigel shifted, grunted, and opened his eyes, blinking owlishly at the meager light offered by the cloudy day.
“Well?” Reginald demanded without preamble. “Did you take care of our little problem?”
Nigel scowled at him in annoyance, and Reggie swore. “You didn’t, did you? You went up to that house, found them there together, and didn’t do anything!”
“Shut up, Reggie.” Nigel swept aside the covers and padded naked to the armoire to retrieve his robe.
“Did you even see him? Did you even bother to go that far? To identify the man who intends to destroy you?” He could tell by Nigel’s expression that he hadn’t. Reggie glared at him in disgust. “She has possessed you like a demon for years, but you couldn’t even gather enough control over yourself to eliminate Richard Sutherland. Instead of thinking with your head, you thought with your—”
“Enough! Do not forget your place, Reginald.”
Reggie lapsed into a grudging silence, waiting until Nigel was nearly dressed. “What do you intend to do?”
“I’ve set matters in motion, Reginald. Leave the worrying to me.”
Reginald’s eyes creased in thought. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want her back. You’ve always wanted her back. And you’re going to use Richard Sutherland to do it.”
Nigel merely offered him an enigmatic smile.
“I hope you’ve thought this through.”
“Believe me. I’ve taken care of every last detail.”
As Nigel slipped into his jacket and headed for the door, Reggie felt a brief flashing desire that, just once, things wouldn’t go exactly as Nigel planned. But then, as he stood to follow, Reginald knew it was a wasted thought. Even the Fates themselves wouldn’t dare to challenge this man when he’d decided upon a plan of action.
“Good morning, my boy.”
Sullivan rolled to his back on the narrow bed, abandoning his contemplation of the view outside his window. Frowning, he watched as Smee entered the room and shut the door with a bump of his shoulder.
Sullivan had purposely stayed abed, hoping that his governess would come early to rouse him. After what they’d shared the night before, he knew their first few minutes together might be awkward, even uncomfortable. But he had been sure he would be able to sway Chelsea toward another quick embrace. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was having her ignore him.
Rising, he lunged toward Smee with the intent of demanding that the little man tell him where Chelsea was hiding. But Sullivan had momentarily forgotten that he had spent the last few days playing the savage.
When Smee saw his advance, he gasped, throwing his hands into the air in reflex. The tray fell. Cutlery jangled. Biscuits and tea flew wide as the portly man flattened himself against the wall, his eyes bugging. “Don’t hurt me, please, please, don’t hurt me, please,” he whispered.
His desperate litany took Sullivan completely by surprise, and he stopped in midstride. The poor man looked as if Sullivan were about to pole-ax him.
At the first sign of an aborted attack, Smee offered him a shaky smile in return. “Good boy, good boy.” Then he eyed the litter of the breakfast tray with open dismay. “Oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-dear.”
Sullivan crouched, intending to help pick up the mess, but Smee misconstrued his movements, thinking he meant to eat the soiled fare. “No, no. No, I’ll get you some fresh,” he said, stopping him. Quickly gathering the scattered breakfast things, he scurried from the room, saying, “I’ll be right back with another tray, I will. Don’t you fret.”
As soon as he’d disappeared down the creaky staircase, Sullivan stood. The charade he’d played up to now was beginning to wear on him. There were things he needed to do and information he needed to gather. He was tired of grunting and groveling and playing the fool. He’d done all he could with his current identity. It was time to move on.
But first he had to find his governess.
Once in the hall, he began opening doors. The two chambers next to his own were vacant, the huge pieces of furniture shrouded in linen, dismantled beds propped against the walls. Dust motes danced in the weak sunbeams that managed to wriggle through the slats of the shutters. The murky light only seemed to underscore the abandoned air that lingered in the unoccupied chambers. The house should be filled with people. And the nursery should be filled with children. Sutherland heirs.
That Sulli
van would think of such an idea shocked him a little. He was growing far too possessive of things that didn’t belong to him. This cottage, these rooms. Chelsea.
Opening the last door, Sullivan finally found evidence of an inhabitant. His governess.
Stepping inside, he knew immediately that his hypothesis was correct. The air smelled faintly of lilacs. The bodice she’d worn the night before had been folded over the foot of the tester bed. And a carpet bag …
Sullivan frowned. A carpet bag? A slow-dawning suspicion crept over him. Grasping the tote, his lips tightened in anger when he saw that it was already half full.
He threw the bag to the floor. He’d never thought his governess a coward, but now he wasn’t so sure. There could be only one reason for her abrupt departure. She was running away. From him. From the feelings they’d shared.
This time, Sullivan felt no guilt at their behavior, only outrage. She’d been an equal participant in the previous evening’s activities. She had responded with passion and fervor. And now, it seemed she was about to run from those emotions. To deny that they were unique. Special.
Storming from the room, he jogged down the back staircase into the kitchen. Smee looked up from the tray he was preparing and beamed. “Oh! You’ve come down to eat with us.”
Sullivan acknowledged him absently, then hurried past him into the garden.
Empty. The kitchen, the stables, the rose path. All empty.
“My lord.”
It took a second for Sullivan to realize the low summons was being directed to him. When he met the dour face of the butler, the man asked, “Are you looking for Miss Wickersham? Your governess?”
Richard cocked his head.
“She is in the studio.”
When Sullivan didn’t respond, the gentleman shifted the vase of cut flowers he held and motioned for Sullivan to follow. “This way, please.”
Sullivan trailed meekly behind him, not so much because he was expected to but because he was actually astounded. He hadn’t bothered to look for Chelsea there because he had been quite certain that Miss Wickersham would not hide from him by returning to the location of their last encounter.
Greyson opened the front door to the house, then those leading to the studio. “In here, my lord,” he whispered.
She was sound asleep.
Sullivan came to an abrupt stop halfway through the threshold, seeing the woman bent over the desk, her head cradled in her arms. She looked so serene, so vulnerable, so young. Yet her dreams were not untroubled. A frown creased her brow, and her fingers twitched restlessly.
“Would you like your breakfast in here?” Greyson inquired.
Sullivan didn’t answer. Taking a fuchsia peony from the arrangement of blooms, he padded forward, slowly, silently, so that he wouldn’t wake her.
It amazed him how she grew more beautiful to him each day. Not that her features had changed or her manner of dress. No, it was because he had begun to anticipate her smile, her laughter, even the sparkle of anger that sometimes appeared in her eyes.
Creeping forward, he wondered what it would be like to see her this way, asleep, her head resting on his own pillow. His chest.
A pang of desire struck him at the thought. Not just a physical pang, but an emotional one as well.
Yes, the game had grown wearying. He didn’t know when the rules and objectives had changed, but he needed more—much more—than a pat on the head. He needed to converse with this woman, to uncover every facet of her personality and maddening turn of her intellect. He wanted her views on politics and poetry and art. He wanted to argue and banter and tease.
Most of all, he wanted her to see him as something other than a barbarian.
From the far side of the room, he heard the faint click of the door latch being set into place. Standing slightly behind and to her side, he reached to touch the petals of the flower he held to the dainty curve of her ear.
Chelsea Wickersham jerked awake, startled so completely from her dreams that they scattered before she could properly recollect them. She was left with little more than an unsettled sensation of longing for something but being unable to have it.
Cupping her forehead in her palm, she squeezed her eyes shut again and propped her elbow on the desk. After finding the white rose on her pillow, she’d been unable to sleep in her own room. Chased by fears and memories that refused to die, she’d returned to the studio to clean up the mess that had been made and to work. But upon finding the floor mopped and the candelabra restored to its proper place, her concentration had flagged.
Ignoring the stubby candles which had testified that she’d been there only hours before, she’d forced herself to compose a formal letter to Beatrice Sutherland, informing her of all that had occurred in the last few weeks. Once she’d finished, Chelsea had noted that there were a great many omissions she’d unconsciously made. Such as her growing tendre for this man. The way he infuriated and invigorated her. The way she looked forward to each second in his presence.
Then, just when she was debating how to tell Biddy about the rose, she’d fallen asleep.
A faint prickling at the back of her neck caused Chelsea to stiffen. Opening her eyes, she blinked against the rush of cloud-fuzzed sunlight spilling through the huge French windows that lined one wall. When the velvety touch of a peony petal kissed her cheek, she started, whirling in her seat.
To her infinite consternation, she found the object of her thoughts looking down at her, holding the end of the stem. He didn’t smile right away—that was something she had noticed from the very beginning. Used to students who tried to manipulate her favor through childish grins and playful antics, she was still disconcerted by the intent stare of this man. His eyes, those incredible eyes, were the true test of his emotions, able to change chameleon-like from icy green to a bemusing hazel. But this morning, they seemed at once opaque and fathomless, not giving him away.
“Good morning, Master Richard.” She automatically used the title that would remind him of their proper relationship, then damned the way her greeting emerged in a husky, sleep-tinged voice.
Something within his expression darkened, grew more piercing. Then he lowered himself onto his haunches so that his gaze was level with her own.
Chelsea steeled herself against the way her mind immediately recorded each detail. At times like these, she despaired of ever teaching Richard Sutherland the proper modes of dress. Once again, her charge wore nothing more than that bright orange scrap of fabric over his loins and Smee’s huge shirt.
“Master Richard, a gentleman should always remember to properly clothe himself before emerging from his bedchamber. Especially if he plans to entertain the company of a lady.” The firm instruction was blunted by the whisper of yearning embedded in her tone. She prayed he hadn’t heard it or that, if he had, he hadn’t heeded the hidden message.
As usual, he didn’t speak, didn’t react. Not even so much as the flicker of an eyelid revealed that he’d understood even a scrap of her instructions, let alone the heartache underneath. He waited, his body seemingly relaxed, but still giving the impression of being coiled for action.
Her eyes dropped.
She couldn’t help the action. She knew it was wrong. As a woman of gentility, she should certainly show more self-control. But by confronting her when the wispy cobwebs of sleep still clung to her brain, he had battered down a few of the defenses she had erected so hastily in the predawn hours. She couldn’t remain impervious to the man who knelt beside her chair.
His legs were bare, the skin still retaining the golden cast of a tropical sun. His thighs were lean, the wrapping swell of each muscle clearly defined. The loincloth he wore was so brief it was nearly nonexistent, cupping his sex yet leaving his hips and buttocks nearly naked. His chest and abdomen were smooth, without the tufts of curly hair Chelsea had imagined covered all men’s chests.
Yanking her thoughts and her eyes back to a more appropriate line of fo
cus, Chelsea cleared her throat. “Today we shall begin your lessons in …”
Her train of thought abandoned her entirely. Once again, Richard had lifted the peony to her cheek, trailing it down her jaw, touching the curve of her lips.
He smiled. A slow, potent smile that bashed at the ramparts of her professionalism.
“Flow-er.”
Unconsciously, her jaw dropped and her mouth parted. He’d spoken! In English. His first English word!
“Richard?”
His grin widened, becoming devilish and mischievous. A naughty boy smile that tugged at her heartstrings, and deeper.
“Flower.” This time the word was uttered lowly, a tiger’s purr.
A sinuous tension gathered low in her belly. She tried to ignore it. She tried to tell herself that she would not give in to it. She refused to allow him to affect her this way. She couldn’t afford to settle into the role of a woman trapped in a sensual spell. She had to remain detached. Aloof. Now more than ever.
Fear gripped her, but before she could acknowledge the sensation, the flower teased her again, the dewy petal clinging to the moist flesh near her teeth. Richard followed the progress of that petal with such avid fascination that Chelsea felt as if he’d touched her. Not with the flower, but with his finger. Or his lips.
She tried to turn away; in all honesty, she really tried. But she could no more abandon this tension-fraught encounter than she could fly to the moon.
Character will out, the cautioning voice of reason taunted her, warned her. But the intoxicating thump of her heart and the tingling of her senses overpowered her conscience.
“We really must do something about your hair.” The remark should have been a simple statement of fact, but it was an excuse. A flimsy reason for her to stretch out.