Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (20 page)

He was too much for her, too capable and shrewd, too skilled at artifice and seduction. How would she ever save herself? Why would she
want
to save herself?

“It’s late,”he said, “and I’m sure you’re tired. Let’s get you back to your room.”

“My…room?” She frowned.

She’d been certain he’d demand she stay, and she’d been braced to repel any suggestion that they take their affair to the next level. The fact that he didn’t wish to, that he wasn’t interested, was surprising and annoying.

Had she upset him? Had he changed his mind about her? If so, she should have been celebrating, but she wasn’t. She was so confused!

“Why did we stop?”

“You’ve had a long few days,”he kindly advised. “You must be weary.”

“I am.”

He studied her, looking like the cat that had spotted the canary.

“When I finally make you mine,”he said, “it will be because you want it to happen.”

“I’ll never want it to happen.”

“We’ll see,
chérie
. We’ll find out what you truly want—and what you don’t.”

He led her to the door in his private quarters. If it had been locked previously by Mr. Thompson, it wasn’t locked now. Mr. Sinclair opened it, and his turbaned servant was there.

“Escort Miss Teasdale to her bedchamber,”Mr. Sinclair commanded.

The man bowed, but didn’t reply. He gestured for Sarah to proceed down the stairs.

She should have started off, but she was ragged with emotion. She’d been kidnapped from all that was familiar, whisked across the ocean to a foreign land where she didn’t speak the language. Alone and afraid and completely at his mercy, she was totally flustered by what they’d just done.

Yet he was very calm, very composed, as if their strident kissing had had no effect on him at all. How could he be so unmoved? How could he be so indifferent?

“Goodnight, Sarah.”

“Goodnight, John. Will I…see you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

She nodded, anxious to say more, to explain that she was distressed and perplexed and scared, that she needed things from him she didn’t understand.

If she could clarify what she needed, would he give it to her? She thought he might, and the notion was terrifying and thrilling.

She spun and hurried away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Leave me be.”

John glowered at Akmed, his turbaned valet, but the man wouldn’t be deterred. He’d arrived to help John prepare for bed, but John wasn’t in the mood to be pampered.

It was always the same when he returned from a journey. His servants fell all over themselves, trying to please him.

“Go,”he said, motioning to the door.

Akmed shot a fierce glare of disapproval, then huffed out. He had no tongue—it had been cut out by his slave master when he was a boy—so he couldn’t verbally complain. But he was very good at getting his point across nonetheless.

The silence settled, John’s sense of isolation feeling particularly extreme.

He poured a glass of wine and went out onto the balcony to stare at the harbor. The sight usually soothed him, usually reminded him of how lucky he was, how far he’d come, how successful he’d been.

When he’d first taken ownership of the castle, it had been rundown and decrepit, but he’d eagerly spent the money to make it his home. He’d acquired the property after a rigged card game from a very bad gambler who shouldn’t have been playing, but then, most men shouldn’t ever have bet against John.

He didn’t lose. He won fair and square or he cheated. Either way, he got what he wanted.

He hadn’t cared about the castle until he’d seen it. It was a real fortress, built to withstand attack, the ocean acting as a natural moat during high tide and a muddy bog during low tide. The harbor was easily accessible by his ships, the village filled with capable craftsmen who kept him fed and supplied. Considering his line of work, it was a perfect location.

Typically, he enjoyed tarrying on the ramparts like a petty king, gazing over his domain. Yet for once, the vista brought no solace.

His trip to England, where he’d been forced to mingle with his aunt and his cousin, had been incredibly draining. The encounter had stirred old hurts and slights. He was adept at pretending the past didn’t bother him, that he’d moved on, but it wasn’t true. The past still had the power to wound, to cripple with fury and rage.

The visit had him reflecting on his mother. She’d been so imprudent and stupidly naïve. She’d believed she could desert her aristocratic husband and there would be no consequences. She’d believed that she could involve herself with Charles Sinclair and make him love her when, by all accounts, Charles had never loved anyone.

In that, John and his father were very much alike.

Florence had been exasperatingly sure that Charles would abandon his wife and come back to them, that they’d be a family and live happily ever after.

Then, as her health had begun to deteriorate, she’d started to imagine her husband, the Earl of Westwood, would forgive her. He’d never divorced her, and she’d convinced herself that she could show up in England—with her bastard son by her side—and resume her prior life.

In the decade John had known her, she’d embraced a series of awful decisions that had catapulted them to the bottom of society’s ladder until, when she’d died, John had been standing all by himself.

He couldn’t figure out if his mother had been a fool or if she’d simply been mad. Perhaps it was a combination of the two: She’d been foolishly mad. Of course he was viewing their experiences through the eyes of a child.

Who could guess why Florence had made so many ridiculous choices? Who could guess at the pressures that had weighed her down? Her husband had been a violent drunkard, and she’d been wed to him at sixteen. As she’d fled to Paris three years later, who could comprehend what she’d endured? Who could blame her for leaving?

The one constant had been her love for John. She’d repeatedly advised him that he’d be a leader of men, that he would take the world by storm and rise to the position his high ancestry demanded. He smiled a grim smile. For all her faults and foibles, she had been very moralistic and decent, teaching him to never lie or cheat or steal.

He scoffed with disgust. When she’d sworn he’d rise in the world, he didn’t suppose she meant what had actually occurred.

Memories were eating at him, and he couldn’t bear to be alone. Most nights, when he was assailed by doubts or ugly reminiscence, Raven was around to chase off the demons. But Raven was in England, and the only other person on the premises who could distract or entertain him was Sarah. Hours earlier, he’d sent her away because, during their brief supper, he’d been too fascinated, too curious as to what she’d look like without her clothes

He’d told her that he would deflower her when
she
agreed, when
she
was ready, but he didn’t think he was patient enough to wait for her to acquiesce. So what were his options?

He could walk down a short flight of stairs and be in her room. It was his castle, and he was lord and master. She couldn’t deny him entrance. Yet if he visited her, what was his plan?

Seduction, yes. But more than that? How much more?

She was hardly prepared for a rough copulation. She was still too angry to grasp that an alliance with John was the best ending for her. But apparently, he couldn’t allow her time to come to terms with her new situation.

He wanted to physically bond with her, but it seemed he wanted something else, as well. For reasons he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain, he needed her to care about him, to like him, to soothe him. He was desperate to know that he could go to her, that she would say just the right comment, that she would smile or scold, and he would feel better merely from being with her.

It was a strange and frightening insight. He consorted with trollops like Annalise so he could have raw, raucous sex, and he’d never seen any other purpose for feminine fraternization.

Evidently, with Sarah, he craved things other women couldn’t supply, things he hadn’t
wanted
them to supply.

He downed his wine, poured a second glass and downed that, too. Without giving himself opportunity to reflect, he hurried across the balcony and down the stairs. They led to a lower balcony, to the French windows in her suite.

He stepped inside—without announcing his arrival, without asking permission.

The space was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight flooding in. In her bedchamber, a single candle burned on the table by the bed, but she wasn’t in it. The blankets and pillows were tidy, the covers not yet pulled back.

In the room beyond—her dressing room—another candle burned, and he could smell warm water and bath salts.

As he realized she must be bathing, that she must be naked and lounged in one of his pretty silver tubs, he was overcome by such a powerful rush of lust that he was dizzy and had to lean against the doorframe to steady himself.

Though he was behaving like the worst bully, like the worst boor, he marched over and entered.

She saw him immediately, and for a moment, she froze. Then she squealed with alarm and dipped down so just her face was visible.

“Go away,”she commanded.

“No.”

“You can’t be in here.”

“I can.”

Her hair was piled high, combs jammed in various spots to keep the auburn mass balanced. A few wayward strands caressed her shoulders. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes very, very blue.

He approached the tub, his thighs pressed to the edge, her slender torso barely visible under the soap’s bubbles.

“Are you here to ravish me?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I’m debating.”

She blanched with dismay. “I thought an affair was up to
me
. You said so at supper.”

“I changed my mind. I never let women decide anything, and I’m not about to start with you.”

“John! Listen to how you’re talking. You’re scaring me.”

Not half as much as he was scaring himself.

She was so delectable, so compelling, and he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He was crazed with his need for her, which had him wondering if he hadn’t inherited some of his mother’s lunacy. He’d often suspected that he had.

That was likely the true reason Charles Sinclair had left them in Paris. He’d probably noticed that Florence and John were mad as hatters.

“You have to get out of the water,”he said. “You have to get out!”

“Why?”

“Just get out!”

If she didn’t dry and cover herself , he couldn’t predict what he might do.

He grabbed a towel and laid it over the tub. Then he wrapped her in it and dragged her to her feet, lifting her over the rim, her weight throwing him off balance. They staggered awkwardly as he tried to maintain his hold and she tried to keep the towel firmly in place.

“You are insane,”she fumed.

“Yes, yes, I already told you I was.”

“I should be safe in your home,”she ridiculously stated.

“Safe? In my home? Now who’s insane?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Everything.”

“Aren’t there rules about how you have to treat me?”

“No.”

“Don’t you have to at least pretend to be a gentleman?”

“No.”

He gaped about, saw her robe flung over a nearby chair. He draped it over her shoulders and shoved her arms in the sleeves, the wet towel falling away as she yanked at the lapels and furiously tied the belt in a tight knot.

She glared up at him, her ire on a slow boil. She was so lovely and aggrieved. His heart raced faster than it ever had during a sea battle. He was flustered and out of control, desperate to receive boons from her he couldn’t begin to name.

Struggling for calm, he took a deep breath, then another. When he could speak in an even tone, he murmured, “Ah,
chérie,
I’ve made you angry.”

“Of course you’ve made me angry, you arrogant oaf.”

“You’re so beautiful, Sarah. I can’t resist you.”

“Don’t think you can earn forgiveness by tossing around a few compliments.”

“I don’t want forgiveness.”

“What do you want?”

“Just you. Only you.”

His fingertips brushing her cheeks, he leaned down and kissed her.

She was always surprised by his advances so she never protested. She tasted so good and smelled so good, and she intrigued him as no other female ever had. She was innocent and defenseless and all alone in the world. Her vulnerability called to him and ignited his masculine instincts so he was eager to protect and cherish and revere.

Where would it lead? Where would it end?

He picked her up and carried her into the bedchamber. He dropped her on her bed and followed her down, his body pressing her into the soft mattress. He could feel her breasts and thighs, her mons crushed to his phallus. The sole barrier between them was the paltry fabric of her robe and the flap on his trousers, which was no barrier at all.

He gentled the kiss and drew away to find her studying him as if he was a strange scientific specimen. She was taking his measure, trying to figure out what drove him, what made him tick.

Normally, he would have shielded himself from such an avid inspection, but apparently, he was more troubled than he’d realized.

“You’re upset,”she said.

“No, I’m not,”he lied.

“You are. You can tell me what it is.”

Her voice was a balm that had him anxious to talk about details he never talked about. He yearned to tell her of his past so she would comprehend his motives, so she would commiserate and empathize.

But it could never happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.

“Nothing is wrong.” His mask fell into place, his emotions once again controlled and concealed.

She frowned. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You were so distraught—it was clearly written on your face—but you hid it.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“No, I’m not. It’s like a magician’s trick. You can take your feelings and stuff them in your pocket where no one can see them.”

A slither of disquiet slid down his spine. She was too astute, and he didn’t like her heightened perception. It was important that he be an enigma. If she could so easily sense his moods, what else might she sense that she oughtn’t to know?