His Wicked Sins (18 page)

where he yet held an apple core, his fingers long and dark against the remains of white

flesh. That had been the sound she had heard, not the crunch of gravel, but the faint noise

of his teeth breaking the skin of the apple.

She could not imagine why the thought of that made her mouth feel so dry.

"You are most observant, Miss Canham." He lobbed the apple core over the wall.

Turning back to her, he raised a brow and smiled a little, enough to flash bright teeth

against the stubble that shadowed his jaw. It was not a wide smile, or an open one. Not a

nice smile.

That smile was for
her
. Her alone. Hinting at secret thoughts and private entertainment.

It made her shiver, made her wonder about forbidden things.

Dangerous things.

Her fingers dug into the material of her skirt, crushing and releasing in an alternating

pattern. The silence pricked her like an itch she was desperate to scratch. Words tumbled

out to fill the void.

"I suspected there was someone there … in the tree." Had she said that already? "I

assumed … given that I have seen you at Burndale Academy at least once each day … that

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is…" Her voice trailed away as she realized that her disjointed observation implied that

she had watched for him each day.

She
had
, from the upstairs window or a shadowed doorway, and once from beside the

privy where the nettles grew thick. Each time the sight of him had sent an odd little thrill

through her veins, and she was mortified that because of her loose tongue, he
knew
it.

"Do you watch for me, Miss Canham?" he asked, the words smooth and soft as satin.

No reply came to her. What to say? That each day she waited for some glimpse of him?

That each night when she walked on the road, she watched for him? She shook her head,

glanced away, but her gaze was drawn back to him like metal shavings to a magnet.

A peculiar and foreign euphoria rushed through her, like that she had felt when they had

walked side by side on the road. She was hot inside, butter melted in a skillet, warm and

liquid and finally, sizzling. She looked away, torn by the strange emotion.

What was it about this man that she found so fascinating?

She thought of their conversation on the road, when they had spoken of the widow,

Mrs. Arthur, and her little brown glass bottle of laudanum. Mr. Fairfax had understood

exactly where her thoughts lay. They knew each other not at all, yet he appeared to

understand her as well as anyone ever had.

With sardonic humor, she wondered what he thought of close spaces and crowded

places and the deepest, darkest hours of the night.

Unnerved by the direction of her thoughts, she glanced at the girls. Neither Lucy nor

Isobel paid them any heed; they were busy still. Though they needed no supervision, Beth

continued to watch them, her heart beating too quickly. She was afraid to look at Mr.

Fairfax once more, at the thick, long lashes that made his eyes so extraordinary, at the high

curve of his cheeks, the hard line of his jaw. The tiny white scar that she knew marked the

right corner of his mouth.

She thought she would like to lay her fingertips against that scar. To ask him how it had

come to be.

She made herself look at him then, determined to see only a man, to feel none of the

cascading emotion that had drowned her each time she encountered him.

But determination, however strong, was not strong enough.

There it was again, the warmth and the heady rush of elation, the ache that was not an

ache.

He was watching her with a taut, hard expression that only fueled her heated thoughts.

Common sense bade her look away, run away, but some abominable perversity made her

choose to stay.

A huff of air escaped her and she dropped her gaze to his mouth. What would it feel like

to have those hard lips on hers? She had never before kissed a man. Never been kissed.

She wondered…

With a jerk of her head, she looked away, appalled by her imaginings, but stimulated by

them, too. There was a riot in her belly that felt like a thousand butterflies fluttering for

freedom.

Did he know her secret yearning?

She thought he might.

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She thought he
must
.

That in itself was enough to make her flushed and dizzy.

The faint scent of turned earth reached her, and the smell of autumn in the air. Leaves

swirled about her feet, caught by the wind, their chorus a dry, crackling sound. She

glanced down and frowned, remembering another day in this very garden when dead,

brown leaves had danced at her feet.

A day when someone had watched her, veiled from sight.

Apprehension skittered across her skin and through her veins, to lodge like a lump of

clay in her belly. Her gaze shot to the man before her once more. He was no longer

looking at her; instead, his attention had turned to his daughter.

The trees rustled as the leaves caught in the strengthening wind. Beth tensed. She was

certain that a week past there had been someone watching her from those trees, and she

thought it had been so every day since.

Today, that someone had been Mr. Fairfax.

She pressed her lips together and frowned.

Suddenly, she thought that standing alone with him in this garden, with only two little

girls as chaperone, was reckless and imprudent. Though she had not even considered it a

moment past, now she wondered if she ought to be afraid of him. She knew next to

nothing of this man, save that he had a pleasing face and form, a silent, sad daughter, and

a haze of monstrous rumors that hung about his head.

Alice's accusations tumbled through her mind. The maid believed Mr. Fairfax capable

of murder … no, not just
capable
. Alice believed he had done murder.

Whose?

Questions. Questions.

Had it been Mr. Fairfax watching her on those other occasions? Had he been outside her

window, a shadowy figure standing in the rain? Had he watched her that day on the road

and again here in this garden?

Perhaps. But if so, why?

Queries and uncertainties circled her thoughts, crows after carrion. Now there was a

lovely image.

With a little breath that was more sigh than mere exhalation, she looked at Mr. Fairfax

once more.

She chose her words with care. "Do you sit in that tree and spy upon us very often, sir?"

"Every day," he replied, sardonic.

"In truth?" Beth blurted, aghast.

He merely shot her a closed look and said no more.

The sunlight touched him, and he was incredibly handsome, so dark against the bright

glow of it. She was … attracted to him. A bee to pollen.

Oh, dear. Her cheeks heated at the thought and at the fact that he was now watching her

once more with perfect concentration, his eyes warmed with a light that spoke to

something deep inside her and made it roar to life.

She let the first words that came to her mind trip from her tongue. "Why do you spy?

Why do you not simply play with Isobel? Talk to her?"

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"I know little of children's games." He paused, grim, then added in a low, rough tone,

"She never speaks."

He sounded … sad. Beth could summon no rejoinder.

"She never laughs. She never plays." He shrugged, the blithe action out of synchrony

with the intensity of his tone and the sudden starkness of his expression. "And I have none

but myself to blame."

Then he blinked and his mouth tensed, as though he was surprised—and perhaps none

too pleased—that his words revealed so much.

"Why do you say that?" Beth asked, her heart pounding a hard beat. "Why is the blame

yours to bear?"

For a moment, she thought—
prayed
—he would answer, would share some secret. She

could not think why he should entrust his confidences to her; she only knew that she

wanted them, that in this frozen moment, she
coveted
his secrets, his trust.

She, who could trust no one.

She held his gaze, noting that in this light his night-dark eyes were rimmed by a rich

and verdant green. Noting, too, that he suddenly looked severe and remote and cold.

Despite the sunshine and the shawl that draped her shoulders, Beth felt chilled.

"That is a tale for another day," Mr. Fairfax said shortly, then he slanted a sidelong look

at the looming back wall of Burndale Academy. "Or perhaps you have already heard hints

of it."

"I—" What to say? That she had heard he was a killer, a murderer? Alice's whispered

accusations could have no possible basis in truth, could they? If, in fact, Mr. Fairfax had

actually killed someone, surely he would have been brought to justice.

As though he read her thoughts, he said, "So you
have
heard something." Then he

laughed, the sound soft and smooth … and infinitely appealing despite the tinge of

darkness.

"Yes, I have," Beth replied after a long moment. She cast a warning look toward the

girls. Lucy, the farther of the two, was at a great enough distance that she could not likely

hear their exchange. Closer to them, Isobel stared at nothing, her fingers buried in the dirt,

quiet and still.

When Beth turned her face to Griffin Fairfax once more, she found him staring at his

daughter with contemplative longing. For a moment, she just watched him,
saw
him, and

felt something inside her shift.

Mr. Fairfax was a man faced with an odd, eccentric daughter, a girl who was fey and

wan and eerily quiet. Most would have simply seen her confined to a madhouse.

What did it mean about this man's character that he did not pursue that very avenue?

And why did it please her so very much that he did not?

Walk, dear heart. Walk faster.

Beth's heart gave a sharp, quick twist.

It pleased her because she knew very well what it meant to be a fey, wan, eerily silent

child.