Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (19 page)

When she didn’t move, he repeated, “Come to me,
chérie
.”

She hesitated, suddenly shy, but he simply drew out the other chair and held it for her like the most gallant gentleman. She should have spun away and huffed out, but instead, she stumbled over, unable to ignore his allure, unable to behave as rudely as she ought.

Once she was seated, he shifted nearer so his legs were touching hers, their feet tangled together. He shoved on the sleeve of her dress and kissed the inside of her wrist, his lips lingering on her skin, sending goose bumps down her arm.

She pulled away, hoping to look scolding, but the effect was lost on him. He was fully aware of how thoroughly he overwhelmed her, and he enjoyed it.

“Thank you for joining me,”he said.

“Did I have a choice?”

He considered for a moment, then claimed, “You could have refused, but then you would have missed the splendid meal my chef has prepared for us.”

“Could I have demanded that a tray be delivered to my room? Would you have allowed me to dine alone?”

“Yes, but you would have missed my charming company. And I would have missed yours. There’s no point to our quarreling, is there?”

She thought there was an enormous
point
to it, but she’d already blistered his ears a dozen times over. Talking to him was like talking to a log. He only listened to comments he felt like hearing.

Needing to distract herself, she tried a sip of wine. It was lush and fruity, better than anything she’d ever tasted and a further example of how wealthy he was, how he surrounded himself with pleasures.

“You’re French again,”she said, the remark sounding like an accusation.

“I always have been French.”

“But you can seem as English as I am—when you wish to be.”

“I can.”

“Why is that?”

“Why do you ask? Are you dying to know more about me?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

A footman brought a plate of several kinds of food, fish in buttery sauces, mushrooms and other vegetables she didn’t recognize.

Mr. Sinclair took a fork, speared a bite of fish and held it out to her. She could have declined, but she was starving and everything smelled delicious.

“Oh, my,”she murmured as flavors exploded on her tongue.

“Good,
non
?”he inquired.

“Good, yes.”

He chuckled and fed her again, offering her different configurations until she pushed him away.

“Is this the first course?”she asked.

“Yes.”

“I have to pace myself, or I’ll never keep up with you.”

“We’ll eat slowly. We can take all night—unless we decide we’d like to amuse ourselves in other ways.”

There was no question as to what he referred, and his gaze was so open and inviting that her feminine parts seemed to be melting. How was she supposed to resist him? She felt like Eve in the Garden, being tempted by the snake.

“I’ve heard,”she said, “that the French are adamant about their food.”

“They are, but I am especially interested.”

“Why is that?”

“I was often hungry when I was young. I constantly told myself that I would grow up to be very, very rich so I could eat whatever I liked whenever I liked.”

“You were poor as a boy?”

“Extremely poor. It wasn’t so bad while my mother was still alive, but after she died, well, it was a bit dire.”

It was very possibly the only true thing he’d ever said to her. A bleak expression crossed his face, but it was quickly masked. Would she ever be allowed another glimpse at his genuine self?

“How old were you when she passed away?”

“Ten.”

“Where was your father?”

“Back in England.”

“Your father was British?”

“Yes.”

“And your mother was French?”

“No, she was British, too.”

“So your parents were British, but you were raised in France.”

“Mostly in Paris.”

“That’s why you’re a chameleon. You can change nationalities to suit your mood or situation.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps.”

She observed him, baffled by his statements. He was an expert at fabrication, and he threw out facts, but she had no ability to judge his veracity.

He’d once claimed his mother was Florence Harcourt, but then he’d denied it. Were his parents British? Was his mother deceased? Had he even
had
parents? He seemed so exotic. Maybe he’d been reared by wolves.

“After your mother died, your father provided no support?”

“He was…busy.”

“Too busy to support his son?”

“It was no matter.” He shrugged again. “My friend, Raven, helped me to survive. I was fine.”

His use of the word
survive
rattled her, and she didn’t like the images it conjured. It made her worry over his past, made her feel sorry for him when he deserved no sympathy.

Her father had never been wealthy, but Bramble Bay had been prosperous, and they’d always had plenty. What would it be like to be alone in the world, to be orphaned and fretting over your next meal?

She envisioned him as he must have been at ten, with no mother or father, and Mr. Hook his savior. With that history, was it any wonder he was mysterious and mystifying?

“You’ve definitely thrived.” She gestured to the balcony, indicating his servants, his castle, his life.

“I have.”

“How have you grown so affluent? It must be a fascinating tale.”

The servants froze, and an eerie silence fell, as if the Earth had stopped spinning so everyone could listen to his reply.

He grinned. “I might tell you someday.”

“Tell me now. Are you in…shipping?”

“You could say that. And salvage. I occasionally retrieve cargo from vessels that are sinking.”

A footman bit down a snort, which Mr. Sinclair ignored.

“Are you a smuggler?”she baldly inquired.

“Me? Do I look like a criminal to you?”

“No, but you act like one.”

He laughed. “How could a brigand accumulate so much wealth?”

“I don’t know. How could he?”

He didn’t respond, but motioned to the footmen, and they bustled into action, clearing plates, pouring more wine. She was already sated, and she had to remember to restrain herself, to moderate her intake of alcohol. She wasn’t a drinker and could rapidly find her inhibitions lowered to a dangerous level.

“Where were you today?” She was much too curious about him and still irked that he’d brought her to his home only to disregard her presence entirely.

“Why? Did you miss me?”

“No.”

He laughed again. “Oh,
chérie,
I am so charmed by you.”

“I’m glad to be of service.”

He pointed to the harbor, to where his ship sat at anchor. “When I travel, even for a short time, many tasks await me when I return.”

“You were working?”

“Always. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be so rich, would I?”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“I apologize for leaving you alone. I thought you’d enjoy being pampered.”

“I enjoyed it very much,”she admitted. The experience had been relaxing and soothing. She wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

“I’ll behave better toward you tomorrow,”he stated like a threat. “You can have all my attention.”

“
All
your attention?”she hastily said. “I don’t believe I’ll need quite that much.”

“How much of it would you like then? I can spare whatever amount you feel you require.”

There was heat in his gaze and innuendo in his words. He was much too sophisticated for her, and she had no idea how to spar with him. She was desperate to change the subject, to focus him on topics other than her pending ruination.

“Tell me why you came to Bramble Bay,”she said.

“You know why. To gamble with Hedley.”

“Why him specifically? What did he do to you?”

“Hedley? He did nothing.”

“So…it was Mildred? I realize she can be exasperating, but how has she spurred your animosity? I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been living with her for twenty-three years—all of them unpleasant. Yet I’m hardly seething with malice.”

“You should be.”

“Because she let Hedley give me away?”

“Yes. She was fully complicit and happy to be shed of you.”

“All right, she was hideous to me, and I’m livid. Now what’s your excuse?”

He took her hand again, and he started rubbing his thumb across her wrist, over and over on the spot where her pulse pounded under her skin.

“You ask so many questions,
chérie
.”

“You never answer any of them. Is Mildred your aunt? Was Florence your mother?”

“What if she was?”

“You’re surrounded by people, but you seem to be a very solitary person. Why shun your family? Why torment your aunt?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t be flip. This quarrel you have with Mildred has wrecked my life, and I think I deserve to know what’s driving you.”

“My
quarrel
wrecked your life? I beg to differ. Your life wasn’t so grand as you recall. There wasn’t much to wreck.”

“It was
my
life. It was
mine
. Can I go home?”

As was typical when he didn’t want to supply information, he nodded to the footmen. Quickly, the table was cleared, just the wine glasses remaining. When she glanced up, the servants had slipped away. The balcony was empty except for the two of them.

“You can’t keep me prisoner, Mr. Sinclair.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“What am I then?”

“My very special guest, and you’re to call me John when we’re alone.”

“Not Jean Pierre as your mistress does?”

At her crude reference, he didn’t bat an eye. “I’ll be British for you. You may call me by my British name.”

Her temper flared, and she pushed her chair away and went to the balcony railing. She yearned to stomp out, but she couldn’t forget the locked door. It would be too humiliating to make a huffed exit, only to find herself trapped. He’d get too much enjoyment out of watching her yank on the knob.

She stared out at the harbor. The sky was a deep indigo, the last vestiges of twilight flickering on the horizon.

Candles were being lit down in the village. Lamps on the ships were lit too, their flames twinkling on the water. She was dressed like a queen, being cosseted like a rich heiress and fawned over by the most handsome, most compelling man she would ever meet.

A perception flashed—that she was a princess in a fairytale, that an evil prince had her imprisoned in his tower. But in fairytales, the evil princes turned out to be heroes in the end.

Who would Mr. Sinclair be at their conclusion?

He came up behind her, his large, warm body pressing into hers. She could feel his chest and stomach, his hard thighs against her bottom and legs. It was so intimately decadent, and she should have elbowed him in the ribs to force him to step away so there was space between them, but to her eternal disgust, she didn’t.

When he touched her, he ignited the wildest swings of sensation. Sparks seemed to crackle, the air charged with a new and vibrant energy.

He was so masculine, so strong and powerful, and she relished the feelings he generated. Back at Bramble Bay, when Mildred had pestered her to wed Sheldon, Sarah had ultimately decided she couldn’t because she had a romantic heart.

She’d
wanted
a man like John Sinclair to sweep her away. She’d wanted passion and amour and all those silly, feminine things that women craved. Yet he had naught but illicit intentions toward her.

What would it be like to give herself to John Sinclair? Women ruined themselves all the time for love—without the promise of marriage. Why should she be any different? If she seized an immoral solution for herself, she had no family who cared. Who would notice or protest?

He rested his hands on her waist and drew her nearer. The naughty positioning rattled her, sent butterflies careening in her stomach.

He bent down and nibbled at her nape, and she groaned with pleasure, but with dismay, too. She twisted around and looked up at him—and it was a mistake. He was observing her, his attention so fixed that he literally took her breath away.

“Welcome to my home, Sarah,”he murmured.

“You can’t keep me here, John.”

“I can, Sarah. I will.”

“It’s not right.”

“You belong with me,”he insisted. “Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel that it was meant to be?”

“There’s no destiny at work.”

“There
is
.”

“You’re wrong.”

He scoffed as if she was a fool.

“You must learn one very important detail about me.”

“What is it?”she asked.

“I am never wrong.”

“Never?”

“No. Most especially not about this. Not about you.”

He dipped down and captured her lips in a torrid kiss.

As had transpired every other moment she’d spent with him, she should have shoved him away, should have refused to participate, but she couldn’t pretend to hate his advances.

It was impossible to decline what he offered, and she didn’t want to decline. He mesmerized and enticed, steadily wearing down her defenses until there was nothing left of her temper and outrage.

The embrace was all she’d ever dreamed kissing could be. His tongue was in her mouth, his hands in her hair. She was trapped between him and the balcony railing, every inch of his muscular torso crushed to her own.

He roamed freely, caressing her everywhere. With each stroke of his fingers, each glide of his palms, daggers of titillation flitted through her. Desire swirled in her belly, then rampaged out to her extremities.

She was inundated, goaded beyond any manageable place where she could tell him
no
about anything. They’d sailed into a tempest, and the storm was tossing her in every direction. She couldn’t fight it or swim to shore. She could only hold on and hope for the best.

Gradually, the onslaught abated. He loosened his grip and drew away, his lips separating from hers.

He peered down at her as if he’d realized secrets about himself that he hadn’t fathomed, his concentration potently unnerving. She felt beautiful and unique and beloved, and she had no ability to deflect such a deliberate, calculated assault.