Fire on the Wind

by Olivia Drake

  “I’m sorry.” Seizing the piece, he stepped behind her and stared down at the braid of blond hair. He wanted to kiss the tender nape of her neck, to brush his lips over the fine wisps sprinkling her skin. His trembling fingers reached beneath the braid and fastened the locket. “I admit I shouldn’t have talked you into giving me the damned thing,” he said gruffly. “It was wicked of me.”

  “Yes, it was. And you needn’t curse.”

  Her certainty discouraged him. Yet as he came around in front of her, he glimpsed in her eyes a wounded sadness and sensed in her rigid muscles a resistance to his closeness, as if she, too, fought the fires of attraction. “But I recovered the locket, didn’t I?” He touched her cheek, smooth as satin beneath his fingertips. “Don’t be angry at me, Sarah.”

  “I’m not angry. I’d merely like to be alone.”

  “Not yet. Not until I finish what I have to say.” Not until I earn the miracle of your smile again. In desperation, he backed her to the wall and bracketed her with his arms. Her warmth conquered his heart like an invading army.

  Before she could duck away, he said swiftly, “I know I’m not worthy of you, not in the way Reggie is. He would never have used you so shabbily in the temple. Hell, he would never have taken you there in the first place. I’m sorry for the awful things I said to you, Sarah.”

  She regarded him through the golden veil of her eyelashes. “Are you sorry you made love to me?”

  “God, no. But you have every right to hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Damien.”

  His throat caught. “You don’t?”

  “No. Although I do hate the way you behave at times.”

  “What about the other times? How do you feel toward me then?”

  She tilted her head back against the wall and gravely regarded him. “I’ve been frank with you before. But there’ll be no more one-sided candor. It’s your turn to be honest. First you tell me how you feel.”

  Cold sweat dewed his brow. He had to open his heart. She would accept no less. “I want to. I swear I do.”

  “Then you can start by helping me better understand why you push away anyone who tries to get near you.”

  Her statement closed around him like the jaws of a trap. “I just don’t want anyone...or rather, I don’t want you to delude yourself into thinking I’m suitable for a woman like you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. I should like to hear more about your upbringing.”

  He tensed. “Why?”

  “Because that’s where your problems started. That’s when you became afraid to love.”

  The old defensive wall surged inside him. He let his arms drop to his sides. “I already told you about the fire. What more do you want me to say?”

  “Tell me about your father’s death.”

  The urge to run gripped him. He forced himself to stand still. “It’s best left forgotten.”

  She touched his wrist, not with the caress of a lover, but with the commiseration of a friend. “Tell me, Damien. For once in your life, stop closing out the past. Talk to me.”

  He hesitated. She stood waiting, a vision of womanhood, the gold locket gleaming against her softly wrapped breasts. He admired her determination to understand him when he scarcely understood himself. Though he couldn’t give Sarah the security and love she deserved, he could at least give her honesty. For the first time in his life, he could place his trust in another person.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. But only if you promise you’ll not breathe a word of what I say to a living soul.”

  She looked annoyed. “I would never betray your confidence.”

  “I know,” he said quickly. Unable to bear her scrutiny, he walked to the window. A gust of wind cooled his sweaty brow. The lonely hoot of an owl drifted from the mysterious darkness and shrouded him in the shadows of memory. “It happened on a summer night, a balmy night like tonight, when I was eighteen. I’d been staying at our town house in London, but I came back to my father’s estate in Kent because it was Christopher’s nineteenth birthday.

  “I’d brought Christopher a present—a tin drum from the American Revolutionary War. I’d searched it out in a curio shop to add to his collection. You see, even though he was nineteen, he still played with toys.” Guilt rose in him, and he risked a glance at Sarah. She leaned against the wall, and her clear blue eyes and impartial expression encouraged him.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “I...arrived too late for the celebration.” He paused, his throat burning with the bilious memory of the duchess’s glower. “No, that’s not true. Mother hadn’t invited me.”

  Sarah walked toward him. “Why would she be so cruel as to exclude you from a family gathering?”

  Tears stung his eyes. Damien turned to the window lest she spy the weakness. “She couldn’t bear to look at me and remember my cruelty. As soon as I walked in the door, she walked out.”

  “I’d love to speak my mind to her—” Sarah exhaled a loud sigh. “But tell me about your father.”

  “When I came in that evening, he was lolling in a chair in the drawing room. The parlor maid and Bromley—the butler—helped him upstairs. Father had been drinking quite a lot, you see.”

  “Because of the celebration?”

  Damien snorted. “My father didn’t need a celebration to get drunk. The fifth Duke of Lamborough had his first glass of brandy before he got out of bed each morning. On his good days, he only polished off an entire decanter. On his bad days, he was stone drunk by noon. Of course, Christopher and I didn’t see much of him. He spent most of his time at his club.”

  “Perhaps the duchess drove him to drink.”

  “Mother?” The idea astonished Damien. “No, she tolerated his drinking when a lot of wives would have nagged him.”

  “Perhaps he needed nagging. He was neglecting his sons.”

  Damien shrugged away the observation. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then make me understand.”

  “I’m trying. We were alone in the drawing room when Christopher opened his gift.” His brother’s whoop of delight, the joy on his fair face, still haunted Damien.

  “Did he like it?”

  “Yes. He pounded out a quick rhythm—he has a surprising knack for music. Then he ran upstairs to show Mother, but she was dressing. So he went to find Father.”

  Damien breathed in the cool night air, spiced with Sarah’s feminine musk. Oh, God. If only he’d guided his brother away. If only he hadn’t succumbed to the need to indulge Christopher.

  She touched his arm. “What happened then?”

  “He knocked, but no one answered. Before I could stop him, he opened the door and dashed inside. Father wasn’t in his bed, but the balcony doors were open, and Christopher darted outside. I was right behind him.” He paused. “We found Father there, along with the parlor maid. Her skirt was hiked to her waist, and his hand was between her legs.”

  He looked for disgust on Sarah’s face and found only sad perception. “I’m so sorry for you,” she murmured. “No child should have to see his father behave in so vile a manner.”

  Damien swallowed a lump. “It was harder on Christopher than on me. Father could scarcely tolerate his imbecile heir. Thank God my brother never understood why Father ignored him.” Drawing a breath, he gazed down at his clenched fists.

  “Finish the story,” Sarah said gently.

  “Christopher was such an innocent he didn’t even notice the indiscretion going on in front of him. I tried to pull him away, but he started tap-tapping on his drum. Father was drunk and disagreeable, furious at being caught. He shoved Christopher.” The old horror clotted in Damien’s belly. He braced his hands on the window frame and saw the awful scene unfold in his mind like a succession of stark photographs.

  “And then?”

  “Then Christopher impulsively pushed back. He might be a child in his head, but he has a man’s strength. Father toppled over the balcony and fell to the flagstones of the te
rrace. His neck was broken.”

  Tears smarted in Sarah’s eyes. Damien’s head was bowed, and his hands gripped the sill so hard his scars were white as snow. Seized by a pure impulse to comfort him, she pressed herself against his arm, laying her head on his shoulder. He rested his brow against her hair for a too-brief moment.

  “So,” she said, “you’ve suffered the blame all these years, Damien. Why?”

  “To protect Christopher. I was afraid if word got out, his actions might be misconstrued as murder.” He turned fully to her, and his dark eyes glittered. “I was afraid the authorities might toss him into a madhouse.”

  “Surely your mother knew the truth.”

  “No. I told Christopher what to say, that I’d argued with Father and he’d stumbled, that was all. It was simple. He didn’t truly comprehend what had happened, anyway.”

  “But your mother accused you of murder.”

  Harsh shadows played over his face. “Yes. She was hysterical, shaken by Father’s death. Unfortunately some of the servants overheard her, and that’s how the rumor started.”

  The unfairness rankled Sarah. “What about the parlor maid? Didn’t she speak up in your defense?”

  “I paid her to verify my version, that it was a tragic accident. I set her up in a cottage in Cornwall and threatened to break her neck if she so much as uttered my brother’s name.”

  Sarah shivered. From the hardness in his voice, she feared he meant the threat. “Were there no other witnesses?”

  “None. I’ve never told a single soul but you.”

  The magnitude of his trust settled around her like a warm embrace. Hope took wing inside her, but she caged the errant emotion. “What a frightful secret to carry around for so many years.”

  “Perhaps.” His voice lowered to a raspy pitch. “But it was the least I could do for my brother. I made him what he is.”

  Anger at his self-abasement swelled in her. “It’s a gross injustice, that’s what it is. Certainly you needn’t announce it in The London Times, hut at least your mother should hear the real story.”

  “What purpose would that serve? It’s easier for me to take the blame. In her eyes, I couldn’t have sunk any lower than I already had. One more sin on my black soul didn’t matter.”

  Sarah resisted the urge to shake him. “But it’s wrong. How can you simply accept your mother’s denunciation of you?”

  Shrugging, he picked up a bidi from a tray on the desk. After lighting it at the lamp, he propped his elbow on the window frame. “She’s found happiness with me living thousands of miles away. She dotes on Christopher, so I let her go on thinking the best of him.’

  “And what about her second son? You deserved to be nurtured and loved by your mother, Damien. Every child does. She denied you a normal upbringing.”

  He swung toward her, his jaw tight. “I told you before, I ruined her life. And my brother’s.”

  “She ruined her entire family by being cruel and vindictive. And to appease her, you’ve sacrificed your peace of mind, your home in England, not to mention your ability to love.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t read too much into the estrangement, Sarah.”

  “I will, indeed. I have a stake in this, you know. Because of her, you can’t open your heart to me.”

  His dark gaze riveted to hers, and the deep longing there spread like a balm over her battered emotions. The fragrant smoke of his bidi wafted to her. Lifting his hand, he touched her cheek as if in apology. “Perhaps. But I can’t simply forget what I did to my brother.”

  “Of course you can’t. I only want you to forgive the five-year-old boy who made a terrible mistake. If someday Kit were to accidentally set your house on fire or cause injury to someone, would you persecute him? Would you deny him your love for the rest of his life?”

  Damien opened his mouth and then closed it. His brow lowered in thoughtful perplexity. He drew on his bidi and exhaled a puff of smoke that trailed like a gossamer ghost out the window. “You know damned well I wouldn’t.”

  “Precisely my point.”

  He glowered for another moment. Then a grin made him look more youthful and handsome. “You’re quite the debater, Sarah Faulkner. Have you ever thought of writing a newspaper column?”

  His teasing took the sting out of her anger. She smiled back. “I am vexed with you, Damien Coleridge,” she quipped, half in humor and half in true vexation. “I do wish you would stop taking responsibility for your mother’s brutality. It’s her failure, not yours.”

  Was Saran right? A chink opened inside Damien, a crack in the armor around his emotions. Enough to give him the glimpse of light at the end of a cold, lonely tunnel. He ached to move toward the radiance, yet the effort bathed him in sweat. “I wish I could believe you.”

  “You can believe.” Sarah perched her hands on her hips in the guise of a prim nanny. A beautiful nanny he wanted to undress, to spend hours relearning her body, rounded and soft in all the right places. And to hear her murmuring words of love.

  “You have a lot of unfinished business in England,” she went on. “It isn’t fair to cut off Kit from his family. Or to risk his being denied his rightful place as your heir, and heir to the dukedom.”

  The prospect iced Damien’s palms. Oh, God. Did he dare go back? To hide his shaking hands, he crushed the bidi and flung it out the window. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Please do. You’ll never be at peace with yourself until you come to terms with your past. Go home and face your mother. Show her that you’ve become a good man in spite of her poor example.”

  He forced a laugh. “Me, a good man? I’m the one you called a scoundrel and a liar.”

  “You are. But you’re also sensitive and generous. If you’d cease acting so gruff and callous, people would see your better half.”

  Her words filled his empty chest with a surge of hope and gave him the courage to ask the question that had gnawed at him for the past fortnight. “Does that mean you still...care for me?”

  “I thought we agreed you’d tell me your feelings first.”

  Her steady gaze snared him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to find the words to describe his powerful desire for her, his confused swings from elation to despair, the agony of yearning he hid inside emotions so tender they were unmanly.

  She stood watching him, her arms crossed over the gentle mound of her bosom. Her eyes were the blue of an unclouded sky; her teeth worried her lower lip. She reminded him of a wounded bird, valiantly awaiting the strike of the hawk. In a stunning flash, he realized she was as fearful as he, and the knowledge settled in his belly like a sweet ache.

  He wanted to crush her to him and kiss away her questions as he’d done before. Yet he couldn’t. This time, the decision he would put to her must arise from her mind as well as her body.

  Gathering her hands in his, he searched for the right words. “You’re like a fire in my heart, Sarah Faulkner. A fire that scares me so much I tried my damnedest to put it out. All those days I spent in my darkroom, I wasn’t working. I was thinking about you. About how much I want you and need you.”

  “And?” she whispered.

  “And I can’t offer you any pledges. I can’t even offer you security.”

  “What are you saying, Damien?”

  He took a deep, shaky breath and looked straight into her lovely face. “Sarah, I want you to be my mistress.”

  Chapter 19

  Sarah heard his resonant voice through a cloud of yearning so thick she wanted to surrender to the lure of his arms and forget her scruples in the sweet oblivion of physical passion. Every inch of her body felt soft and ready for him, from the ache in her breasts to the pulsations deep in her belly. Yet he only wanted something temporary. He did not offer the permanent commitment that she craved.

  Flustered, she managed to shake her head. “You don’t know what you ask of me,” she said. “I’ve always dreamed about marrying someday. About living in my own home. About having
a husband and a family to love.”

  “I know,” he said heavily. “I can only love you with my body. I don’t know any other way. But I can give you companionship...and the phenomenal pleasure we found in the temple.”

  His candid eyes crumbled her qualms, so that she struggled to remember the pain of loving him. “You pushed me away—”

  “I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t.” His hands tightened around hers, then drifted slowly up her arms, as if he, too, fought the urge to lock her in an embrace. “I need you, Sarah. My body needs you, and my mind does, too.”

  “And your heart?” she couldn’t help murmuring.

  “I haven’t a heart to give.” He touched his warm brow to hers, his hands gently kneading her shoulders. “That’s honest, Sarah. I can’t fulfill your dreams now. I don’t know if I ever can. But we can share moments many people never have.”

  “But what if...I were to become pregnant?”

  “You won’t. I bought something else from Umi.”

  “What?”

  Pulling back, he dug in his pocket and extended his hand to her. In his palm lay an object rather like a sausage casing. “This.”

  Sarah gazed askance at it. “What is it?”

  “A sheath. It catches a man’s seed and keeps the woman’s womb from quickening.”

  She reddened with awareness. The method seemed so cold-blooded. With heart-wrenching perception, she realized that one of the natural gifts of sexual intimacy was a child conceived in love.

  But Damien didn’t offer his love.

  And she wanted him so badly she could think of little save the rapture shining like a star within her reach.

  She reminded herself of all the reasons he was wrong for her. The thought of enduring hateful gossip, of branding herself an outcast by people she respected, probably Reginald, too, made her quake inside. Yet after having survived a bloody mutiny, she knew that life was too short to fret over possible consequences. Her fiancé might be dead, and the British Raj as well. Someday she might return to England and spend the rest of her life caring for other people’s children. Better she should savor this radiant promise of joy while she could. She’d be accused of being Damien’s mistress anyway, so why not reap the benefits?