Bound by Your Touch (23 page)

His light eyes touched hers. "Is it so important for you to have my faith, then?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "If we are to be friends," she said steadily, "faith is a requirement."

He smiled a little. "Hammer away, then. But do recall whose skull was broken the first time Athena swung her mallet."

"I also recall that her father was a great rogue," she said dryly, "and no doubt deserving of the bashing." She raised the hammer. But her grip faltered, and she was forced to lower it hastily, lest she drop it.

Ridiculous to feel a stir of nerves. It was crucial to show a confident face to him.

"Do you want me to do this?" he asked.

"No," she said firmly. "I will do it."

As he settled back, she lifted the hammer again. "Shield your face." Then, screwing her
eyes
shut, she brought down the tool.

A small piece of the forgery flew off, smacking against the railing. Nothing. Only stone. She felt herself smile. "Do you see?"

"I see," he murmured.

More confident now of the technique, she slammed the tool down, so the crack of steel against stone echoed off the garden walls like a gunshot. When she opened her eyes, relief swept through her, and immediately on its footsteps, a sense of shock at herself. "Only stone," she said, but shame made her voice unsteady, and she did not try to smile again.

"No jewels," he agreed, but his voice sounded thoughtful, and he was studying her face, not the stela. She did not like that.

"Don't look at me," she said sharply. "Look at the stela."

Another blow now. The rock was stubborn, jealous of its integrity; at this rate it would take an hour to destroy. At her third strike, he caught her wrist, saying, "Enough." She shook her head. She could not stop until she had destroyed the thing, and proved her point very clearly—not to him, God forgive her, but to herself, and the little doubting demon in her brain that she would also like to pound to bits; she wanted no truck with it, she did not recognize it as part of who she was.

Her anger gave her strength: again and again she hammered, until tiny splinters and chunks of rock lay scattered about them, and her arms were aching. She sat back, breathing heavily. "Another minute," she managed. It was not Sanburne's fault, any of this; but the patient way he watched her was infuriating. How dare he look so uninterested in the outcome of this task. She had started it for him, would not have done it otherwise, would never have had to experience this horrible revelation. "Another minute," she repeated in withering tones, "and then you'll see for sure, won't you."

He rose to his knees and moved behind her. She gave her shoulders an angry jerk as his chest pressed into her back, but he made a low, soothing noise—
springer spaniel, calm the puppy
—and his hands slid slowly down her arms, until his long, tanned fingers braided through her own. The sight silenced something in her, like the sudden muffling of sound upon a dive into deep water. His rings felt cold against her skin. Such gaudy glitter he used to disguise himself. "We'll do it together," he murmured. He spoke low into her ear, the way he would to a child trembling from nightmares in the dark. "That makes sense, doesn't it? Doing it together, in the manner of friends." He laughed softly; for a brief, deliberate moment, his cheek, rough with stubble, pressed against hers.

"Yes," she whispered. That laughter confused her a little. She did not know what to make of it. No matter. It made things inside her go liquid. Had it only been a few hours ago that they'd stood on the roof? How had she forgotten that, even for a second?

She pulled back the hammer. His fingers tightened and his arms banded around hers, so the hammer plummeted with great force. The force of the explosion made her flinch.

"Done," he said. A kiss pressed into her neck. "And not a diamond to be seen. You are quite avenged, Miss Boyce."

She opened her eyes. Rubble covered the small patio. Her triumph lay in this detritus. How strange. Stranger yet to feel a weird sympathy with the broken bits of stone. She had imagined herself as Papa's rock, unwaveringly loyal. To discover otherwise left her feeling shaken and unwholesome. Less than whole, certainly.

She shivered, and Sanburne's arms tightened around her. He knew. Somehow he knew. Thank God he didn't say anything.

I
could blame him,
she thought. For putting bugs in her brain. But—
you don't need to do this,
he'd said. And perhaps what he'd meant, but could not say (for she would not have understood or believed him) was,
You shouldn't do this.
After all, he knew a few things about love that she didn't. He knew what it felt like to fail someone precious to you. Maybe he'd wanted to spare her that.

A weird feeling swarmed up in her—melancholy and gratitude and elation, all in one. She had not been wrong to trust him, had she? On impulse, she turned on her knees to face him. She laid her hand to his cheek, her thumb to his lovely mouth, her index finger pressing the corner of his clear gray eyes. A stranger would never guess at the darkness behind them. But she was not a stranger to him now. I
could love him,
she thought. But what she said was, "Thank you," and then she kissed him.

He was startled. It took him a moment to kiss her back. Then he made a murmur of approval and slid his hand around her nape. His mouth still tasted faintly of gin, but through some strange alchemy, it now seemed delicious. She rubbed her tongue against his, making a little noise as he broke away to kiss her chin, her throat, the crook of her shoulder.
The servants,
she thought dimly, and permitted herself one last moment of pleasure before pulling away. When he reached for her, she said, "We'll be seen."

She half-expected him to dismiss this worry. But he hesitated, and then nodded, casting a concerned glance toward the door as he rose. This sudden care for propriety unsettled her. Well. It seemed Souther-ton's house warranted more care than a rooftop. And why not? If caught kissing her here, he might be pressured to offer for her.

As she ushered him into the hall, disturbed by her own displeasure, it occurred to her for the first time to wonder why he wasn't married. She had looked him up in Debrett's (ridiculing herself all the while); he was already thirty, and the earldom would need an heir—

But that was precisely the reason, she had no doubt of it. With his bachelorhood, he'd found another way to strike at his father. As they passed the long mirror at the foot of the stairs, she spied a bitter smile on her lips. Building castles in the air, indeed. Sanburne had been very honest with her. He not only lacked a steady foundation, he'd taken pains to smash his cornerstones. Like the task of earning her respect, they, too, would ruin his whole routine. The rumors of his engagement to Mrs. Chudderley must prove as convenient for him as they did for the lady.

At the door, as he put on his hat and gloves, she thanked him again for his help. He opened his mouth to reply, and then, with a look toward the butler, appeared to change his mind. With a bow and some empty, mannerly phrase, he took his leave.

As she watched him retreat, she remembered his behavior in the hallway of his father s house. He had nor cared then who might see them. Why, he must like her very much, now, to want to avoid being put into a position where he would be forced to reject her publicly.

For there could be no other choice for him.
My father thinks you very sensible.
Perhaps if she'd been a common trollop, she would have had a chance.

As she started up the stairs, she marveled at the oddness of it. A month ago, she could not have imagined that learning to understand and like a man would be her best defense against letting herself fall in love with him.

Chapter Eleven

The crowd at the Empire was not feeling very patriotic. When a pretty young blonde took the stage to sing "Hats off to Empire," a wave of hissing drowned her out. Someone's mug spattered against the crimson draperies behind her. Blushing and bowing, she backed toward the curtains, then ducked inside. The orchestra, belatedly realizing that it had no one to accompany, sputtered to a stop.

Muttering rose from the pit. The electric lights glared down on a mass of milling patrons. James was seated in one of the private boxes that ran, in a horseshoe shape, along the fourth story. From his perch, he spotted a young man vomiting behind a marble column. Others were clambering onto friends' shoulders to yell for the next act. The cream and gold seats would bear more than a few shoeprints before the night was over.

He glanced to the far end of his box, where Phin, not an hour ago, had been knocking back whiskey like a man bound for battle. Now he was lounging low in his seat, chin collapsed to chest. "Is he dead?" Dalton asked.

James reached over and shook Phin's shoulder. "Here's fun," he said, to no response. "Phin. We're about to have a riot."

Dalton's soft gut pressed into his shoulder. He leaned over James to bellow, "Look lively, man!"

"By God!" Wincing, James elbowed him back a pace. "That's my ear, Dalton, not a speaking trumpet!"

"Well, why the deuce did he come, if all he wanted was a nap?" Dalton sat down with a huff. "Poor show. What did I ask for? A celebration, that's all. Not every day a man comes into money." He leaned past James again. "It's a party, Ashmore!"

Phin yawned. Dalton turned to complain to Tilney. One of Phin's eyes cracked open; he offered James a slight smile before lapsing back into the appearance of sleep.

Right, James thought. It should be amusing to see Dalton fussing like a schoolgirl, but he did not feel like laughing. What the hell was Phin on about? The role of the hapless ne'er-do-well did not suit him. And if he'd decided to reinvent himself, he could at least show some ingenuity, come up with an original part. James was already too sick of himself to take on an understudy.

He leaned toward Phin, intending to speak quietly. But from this new proximity, he detected something else: a faint, sickly sweet odor. Opium again. Christ. Was the man in thrall to this poison? "Even gin would prove a kinder master," he murmured. "Arsenic would be gentler on your brain."

For a brief moment, it seemed Phin would not reply. And then he said, "True enough. You needn't worry for me."

"The hell I don't. This needs to stop."

"I can't discuss it right now."

"I can. Since you've come into the title—"

Phin's eyes opened. "Have you a mirror, James?"

Touche.

He sat back. Once, he might have pushed on. He might have said,
Yes, come to think of it, I've made a jolly good hash of it myself
He might have pressed for answers of his own. Once, they had been closer than brothers. Then their paths had diverged, and necessity had forced Phin into reticence. So James had assumed. But now it seemed damned clear that Phin
chose
to maintain this remoteness. Rather than speak around the requisite silences, he built on them. His unknown reasons. His bloody choice. And James was not going to give trust where he no longer received it. He was done with attempts to close this distance.

On stage, the curtains flew back to reveal Mr. Campbell. A fat man with a jolly air, he scanned the pit with a vague smile, nodding once to acknowledge the hoots of his admirers. Then, with little ado, he launched into a rousing song about the depredations of the aristocracy.

Behind James, Dalton let out a curse. Four floors did not provide enough distance for his comfort; he began to strip his wrists of his diamond-studded cuff links. "Should never have come straight from that dinner," he muttered. "Uncomfortable night to show up in tails."

"Ha! Scared of a few Irishmen?" This from Tilney, who was stretched out in the seat beyond Dalton, his boots propped on the balcony railing. A redheaded ballet dancer he'd found wandering the promenade during intermission was tucked under his arm. Her large brown eyes fastened on the diamonds.

James shouldered Dalton and lifted his chin toward the girl.

"How they glitter," she said softly.

"You like them, darling?" Dalton dumped them into her cupped palms. To James, he said, "Where is that waiter? I could use another glass."

"I'll go," James replied. He'd been drinking steadily since dinner, but his spirits felt flat and uncreative, and his vision had not yet blurred. Might as well try harder, then.

"There's making yourself useful," said Dalton approvingly. "Take note, Ash more."

James ducked out, past Phin's immobile form, into the stuffy little corridor that led around the dress circle. The walls here were lined in maroon velvet, and lanterns, set every few paces along the wall, offered small pools of illumination. The owners had boasted that the new building was fireproof. But in the cloistered space, the air smelled burnt, as if the electrical wires had gotten crossed.

He intended to make a quick trip down to the foyer, where holders of the cheaper tickets purchased their gin. But he found himself standing stock still, his palms pressed to the soft nap of the walls on either side of him, his
eyes
fixed on the spot where the corridor curved into darkness. In contrast to the gaudy Moorish architecture of the theater proper, in which every available space glittered with gilt and mirrors to draw the eye, there was something appealing about this space. Its lack of options, its silence, pulled something from him. A calmness—a sort of
blankness,
he supposed. Here was a proper spot for boredom. And God, he was bored.