Seduced by a Stranger (10 page)

Assessing the situation, she contemplated how much to reveal. She had learned that when mixed with truth, falsehoods were swallowed with ease. A measure of truth it would be, then, a stone skipping along the surface of her lies. She had no wish for anyone to look deeper, least of all a perceptive, predatory man with a blatant interest in her secrets.

“Mrs. Northrop was involved in charitable work, and so I was involved, as well. Our time at Bart’s passed without difficulty, but when she turned her attention to the newly formed Society for the Care and Reform of Women and Girls, our differences surfaced. She was appalled and outraged when I behaved in a manner most unseemly.”

The interest in his gaze sparked and grew.

“Did you?” he murmured. “In what way?”

“I had a”—she hesitated on the word
friendship
, for it implied depth of emotion and shared history, and she did not wish him to know of those, so she said instead—“an acquaintance with a woman she deemed unsuitable. A young woman I knew fleetingly in childhood, now a widow fallen on the hardest of times. She runs a school of sorts in a room in St. Giles.” And at night, she whored, because teaching in a stinking, crowded schoolroom in St. Giles did not put a candle on the table or food in one’s belly. But Catherine had no intention of telling him that. “We corresponded on occasion. Mrs. Northrop found out and questioned my moral fiber. In her opinion, it was one thing to offer charity to those ‘poor unfortunates,’ as she called them. Quite another to view them as individuals of value. It marked the end of my employment, and she declined to provide a reference, for she deemed me morally corrupt.”

Ah, if Mrs. Northrop had only known the true depth of her moral corruption. The thought was darkly amusing. “Madeline’s invitation came that same day.”

He offered a single nod, his attention focused on her face in close scrutiny. “But you would have come to her regardless,” he observed softly, the words precise and so true they made her ache. “Even if it had cost you your position, you would have left Mrs. Northrop at Madeline’s summons.” He reached out and touched the single strand of pearls at her neck—her mother’s pearls. Only by dint of will did she manage not to flinch away. “You would have sold an heirloom or something else of value to procure funds, and you would have found a way. You would have come because that is who you are.”

She felt violated by the accuracy of his observations. He had spent a handful of moments in her company the day of her arrival and again this morning, yet he was so perceptive that he divined that truth. Or perhaps he merely guessed at it and waited for her to reveal all.

“Yes, I would have come,” she acknowledged, a safe enough admission, given that he already knew she had come.

“Because you honor your debts.”

She stared at him, unable to fathom how he understood so much about her after such brief acquaintanceship. She did not feel that she could claim such depth of knowledge of him, and that was dangerous.
He
was dangerous.

“What is the debt that you owe my cousin, Miss Weston?”

“She never told you?”

“No. Enlighten me.” He bared his teeth in a smile that was neither nice nor comforting.

Catherine raised her chin and told him in the briefest possible terms exactly what had transpired that long-ago day. She left out the heart-pounding terror, the press of the earth on her chest, the certainty she would die. Instead, she used only the most simple and direct of terms to paint a picture of a child in distress and another who ran to summon help. To share more than that with this cold, enigmatic man went beyond her comfort.

“She saved you, and so you rushed to her bedside with the intent to save her.” Stepping forward, he laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. A gentle touch, all the power and dominance of his nature held in rigid constraint. His action was improper, imposing, too intimate for her comfort. She wondered if he was always so controlled, if there was ever a time he let loose the rigid hold he maintained. The mere fact that she devoted thought and curiosity to that left her confused and cautious.

“You cannot save her,” he continued, and she wanted to ask why, to demand that he offer explanation for his assertion. But her mouth was dry, her tongue thick, the feel of his fingers on her skin too intimate to be borne.

With a sharp exhalation, she reared back, only there was nowhere for her to go. One of the two gnarled trees was directly at her back. She had trapped herself without realizing it. Her heart fluttered and raced, and she looked about for an avenue of escape.

As though he understood her anxiety, St. Aubyn dropped his hand and took a step away, offering her enough space to let her breathe, but not enough to allow her to bolt. She resented that he could read her emotions when she had no inkling of his. She resented it doubly that he seemed to outmaneuver her at every turn. In truth, she was not even certain of the layout of the game board or what pieces were in play.

“I brought you a gift,” he said, abruptly steering the conversation in an entirely unexpected direction.

“A gift? That is very…”

“Kind?” he supplied with an ironic smile.

She shook her head. “I was going to say improper. I hardly know you.”

“Well”—he slanted her an unreadable glance—“it is a small gift.”

Pressing her lips together, she stared at him, waiting.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an odd tin, oval at the top, long and narrow. The tin was painted red with a gold crest on the front. When he placed it in her hand, she studied it curiously.

“How…interesting.”

“So polite. But you have no idea what it is.”

“No.” She shook her head, tracing her index finger over the crest. “What is it?”

“The tin is incidental. It is what lies within that will capture your interest. I saw it my first day in London and bought it out of curiosity after watching its inventor carry out a fascinating demonstration. But by the time I was ready to begin my journey home, I had determined that it could belong to no one but you.” He paused, and she knew he was watching her reaction as he said, “It is a fire-making device, Miss Weston.”

Her breath left her in a rush and something deep within her chest twisted in a tight knot. A fire-making device.

Dear God. He knew.

He had somehow ferreted out her secrets. How? Her limbs felt heavy, frozen, her thoughts muddy.

…by the time I was ready to begin my journey home, I had determined that it could belong to no one but you.

She examined his words for hidden implications and found none. Calm settled over her. She was overreacting. He had been in London. He had heard the gossip. That was all he knew. Nothing more. Not the truth. He determined to give her this device merely to unsettle her, to tell her he had heard about the fire. Of course, everyone knew of it. It was in fact old and tired news.

She was both alarmed and surprised that he had bothered to make inquiries about her. Their initial encounter had left her with the impression that she was almost beneath his notice—a circumstance she would have preferred.

In knowledge lay power, and she had little knowledge of him. The scales were far from balanced.

Careful not to betray her panic, she forced a reply, her tone flat. “How interesting.”

“So you have said already,” he murmured and stepped closer to take the tin from her hands. She had not brought her gloves down to breakfast, not having anticipated a need for them, and so her skin was bare as his long, beautiful fingers brushed her own. His were hot. Hers felt like ice.

“You see,” he said, carefully prying up the lid to reveal the strange contents, “inside each spill—”

“Spill?” she asked, unfamiliar with the term.

“These twists of paper.” He slid one free to demonstrate. “Inside the paper is a tiny glass vesicle that contains a drop of vitriol. The paper wrapped about it is primed with chlorate of potash, gum Arabic, and sugar. When you wish to have fire, you use these”—he withdrew a tiny pair of pliers from the tin—“to nip off the end and break the vesicle.” He did exactly as he described and Catherine gasped as fire bloomed.

Fire. In a tin.

Her vision narrowed until all she saw, all she knew was the red tin in his hand with its yellow-gold crest and the fire that danced at the end of the paper twist.

He huffed a breath and the flame snuffed. She wanted to snatch the tin from his hand and snip the end of another match herself with the tiny pliers, to see if indeed each one had this wonderful capacity to burn with spontaneous beauty.

“Why do you give me this?” she whispered, wondering anew exactly how much he had managed to discern of her secrets and how he had ferreted them out.

“Because Mrs. Bell forgot your fire the first night you came to us.” He paused. “This tin makes you mistress of your own comfort.”

Mistress of her own comfort. His motivations for even considering such a thing were difficult to comprehend. Her head jerked up. He was too close, his dark gold eyes intent upon her. And she knew he lied. His reasons were other than he claimed.

“May I?” he asked in the quietest of tones, but she had no idea what it was he wanted.

Then he moved closer still. Her breath caught, her heart tripped. Her head tipped back and she stared up at him, so close, the scent of his skin purely delicious, beckoning her to lean close and inhale. The intensity of his perusal seared her.

“The first time I saw you, a curl had escaped your pins and lay across your shoulder”—he brushed his fingers along the curve of her collarbone—“here.” Slowly, he traced his fingers up the side of her neck to the base of her skull where she had pinned the mass of hair in a loose knot. “May I?” he asked again.

She was beguiled. Every rational thought bid her step away, decline his request, flee this graveyard and not look back. Instead, she nodded, closing her eyes as his warm fingers slid free one of her pins and drew a lock of hair from the knot.

Heat licked at her, and her breath came in sharp, shallow rasps. She opened her eyes to see him before her, head bowed, her hair lying flat on his fingers, his thumb stroking the gently curled end. Feeling as though someone unfamiliar inhabited her skin, she stood there, allowing him to pet her, wariness, perhaps even fear, leaving her light-headed.

But, no, that was a lie.

If she would be honest with no one else, she ought to at least be honest with herself. It was not fear that left her dizzy, but his nearness, the faintly citrus scent of his skin, the way he tipped his head to look at her. She was light-headed because he touched her with his beautiful hands. Because she knew exactly what pleasure a man’s touch could bring and it had been so long, so very long.

But more than that, it was because St. Aubyn—Gabriel—was elementally and wholly attractive to her, his cold shell making him intriguing, making her wonder what warmth might lurk beneath the surface. And because sometimes, when he looked at her, he was not cold at all. What sort of lover would such a man be? Would passion free the sinuous beast that prowled just beneath his skin?

If she was afraid of anything in this moment, it was her own unacceptable reaction to him. The breeze made her shiver. Or perhaps it was the way he looked at her as he raised his head.

She was no stranger to a man’s lust, nor was she a stranger to her own. But dangerously perceptive and intractable as he was, Gabriel St. Aubyn was the last man on earth she should feel hunger for. Perhaps that was exactly why she did. The knowledge horrified her. She had thought never to feel such a thing, never again to know physical yearning. How could she? What sort of monster did it make her that after all that had passed, she would want a man,
this
man especially, with his cold heart and perfect, chiseled beauty?

If she took a lover, she ought to take a weak man, a man she could control. Not a man such as St. Aubyn, dangerous and enigmatic and rapier sharp.

Tension held her in place, her skin humming from the charge in the air.

“Your hair is very thick,” he murmured. For an instant, she did not understand what he meant by such an observation. And then she did. He meant it as a compliment, the way another man might tell a woman she was beautiful.

“I must go.” She delved deep for the calm demeanor that was her norm as she pulled her hair from his grasp and deftly twined it back into place. Sidling away, she detoured the tree at her back and the man that faced her, ending up behind a teetering gravestone. She shook out her skirt as an excuse to look away, to gather herself into the woman she habitually let others see.

But not for a moment did she delude herself into believing it was what
he
saw. No, he was too astute to easily accept the image she conveyed. To think otherwise would be a strategic error.

“Take the tin, Miss Weston.” He held it out to her. “It was meant for you.”

“And here I thought you said you purchased it on a whim,” she replied, deliberately misunderstanding his meaning. Still, she accepted the tin, lured despite her better judgment, the metal cool and smooth in her hand.

She moved toward the hedge and the path there, shaking her head when he stepped forward to escort her. “Do not let me waylay you from your morning’s pursuits, Sir Gabriel. I can find my way perfectly well.”

She was already at the mouth of the overgrown maze when he replied. “Of that I have no doubt, Miss Weston. It is part of your appeal.”

And that, more than any flowery words, was a compliment that warmed her to her core.

Lifting her skirt, she hurried off, confident in the certainty that she would have been far better off if Gabriel St. Aubyn had never imagined she held any appeal at all.

“Miss Weston,” he called from behind her. She paused, but did not turn. “Tacking ‘Sir’ before my name will not create distance anywhere but in your imagination.”

Of course, he was correct. And what was she to say to that?

The way was dim and dark, the stone stairs slick, even on this fine and sunny day. Gabriel carried no lantern, no candle, his feet shaping the familiar path that would pose no challenge even if he closed his eyes and saw nothing at all. As a child, this had been his private place. As a man grown and shaped by the events of his past, he had forced himself to reclaim it. On either side, the stone walls drew close, barely wider than the span of his shoulders, and the stairs turned and twisted as he climbed. There were no windows, which left the air stale and dank, though he had left the iron-girded wooden door at the foot of the stairs open behind him.

He took care not to breathe too deeply, not to think of the narrowness of the passage as he ascended the spiraling stairs that wended to the crumbling tower. Behaviors honed in an eternity of captivity slowed his breathing and moderated his steps. He tolerated no weakness in himself.

Finally, he reached the top, the dark staircase opening into a vast, empty space. He took a deep breath then, letting the air fill his lungs, smelling stone and tallow and mildew.

It made him long for the scent of Catherine’s skin, of her hair. Roses and—he paused, considered, and after a moment it came to him—buttered toast.

No wonder he had wanted to touch his tongue to the place her pulse beat in her neck and lick his way along her vein. The urge had startled him then, as the recollection of it confounded him now. He was not a fanciful man. What was it about her that almost succeeded in making him one?

He had erred in the graveyard. He should not have touched her, stroked the silky length of her hair, conversed with her. It felt too much like a connection. What was he thinking to foster that? To join her at breakfast and encourage discourse? He was not capable of any sort of relationship, least of all one with a woman who would—justifiably—expect some permanent commitment as befitted her station.

That was an impossibility. He would never marry. Never sire an heir. These were inviolable facts.

She was a woman who, despite her current genteel poverty, had been raised to expect all the things he would never offer. Did he imagine he could have her at his whim, on his terms? He did not. He only knew that he wanted her. Naked and panting. Legs wrapped about his waist. Fingers curled, nails digging into his back.

Had he no honor at all left that he entertained such thoughts about her?

No, none at all.

And what was it about her that called to him? He knew better than to try and dissect his attraction into parts of the whole. It was only the sum total that mattered. He wanted her, and in the years since his escape from hell, he had made a habit to take what he wanted. To deny himself nothing in recompense for the time that had been stolen from him, the time where he had been denied everything, even his basic dignity.

Oddly, he rarely wanted anything more than a cloudy day, a good book, a decent meal, and a hot bath. Simple needs. He supposed he had never learned to yearn for anything complicated.

So why did he hesitate? Why did he woo with gentle care what he might have by other means? He had noted the change in her breathing, the darkening of her eyes, the parting of her lips when he was near. He could have her if he pushed just a little. Or perhaps more than a little.

But, somehow, he preferred that she come to him.

The thought drew a dark smile. She was already wary of him, mistrustful, and he suspected his actions this morning had not warmed her to his cause. But he knew no other way to be than the way he was. He was nothing other than the vessel his experiences had shaped, coupled with the efforts he had made to learn what it was that made a man similar to his peers.

Those efforts, though considerable, had yielded paltry results. Shallow results.

Annoyance surged. Enough introspection. He had spent more time on it today than he normally would in a year.

He did not turn and draw the heavy wooden door at the top of the stairs—a twin to the one at the bottom—shut behind him. He had no need to. No one would dare trespass here.

And he had no wish to be confined. Closed doors were for captives, held against their will or desire, not for his home, the place he could roam where he liked.

He crossed to the large mahogany desk by the windows. Taking a leather thong from about his neck, he withdrew the two keys that hung on it from beneath his shirt. He inserted one in the lock of the drawer on the right side of the desk and drew forth a metal box. It, too, was locked.

The second key slid into the lock, and turned with a faint click. Lifting the lid, he stared down at the contents: three leather-bound journals and a packet of letters tied with a string, each addressed to Geoffrey St. Aubyn, Hanham House.

The letters were all sent by his cousin, Sebastian, who had spent his life roaming to all manner of interesting places with his guardian.

Gabriel’s hand did not tremble as he lifted the packet. He would not permit it to tremble.

Carefully, he rifled through the corners of the stack with his index finger, then set it aside. The letter he wanted was from an earlier time. He removed a second, smaller packet, these addressed to Gabriel St. Aubyn, Cairncroft Abbey. He slid one letter free of the group, unfolded it, scanned to the bit he wanted and read the words penned there in a neat, childish hand. Sebastian had been so young when he wrote these, and Gabriel even younger.

I have heard talk that a mummy is to be sent home to England to be unwrapped before an audience of physicians. I should like to be there when they do, to see for myself the places they made the cuts in order to remove the lungs, liver, intestine, and stomach. These the ancient Egyptians stored in jars made of stone or ceramic or even wood. If only you could see them, carved and decorated. You would think them wondrous things of fascination, I am sure. I find them mysterious. I wonder at the purpose of such deliberate dissection. I wonder, too, that the heart, they did not take. Gabriel, it would be wonderful if you were here. Perhaps we could even try to make a mummy ourselves using a dead bird or other small creature
.

 

Folding the letter once more, Gabriel slid it back in place, set both bundles in the metal box, locked it, and placed the box in the drawer. He locked that as well, then tucked the keys away beneath his shirt once more.

Sebastian was back on English soil. Gabriel had managed to confirm that much but, so far, his efforts to track his cousin had failed. He had Newton’s and Pratt’s assertions, and a dozen others, but wherever Sebastian had got to, Gabriel was a step behind.

Memories squirmed and wriggled, but he held them at bay, refusing to set them free. Instead, he crossed to the far wall where tall, narrow panes of leaded glass were set among the stones. They overlooked the path that meandered by the lake. He should have been surprised to see Catherine there. Was he to believe it coincidence that she chose to walk exactly where he looked?

Coincidence or not, there she was.

She walked with Madeline by her side, their arms linked, their heads bowed close together. Slowly, they made their way to a stone bench and settled there, overlooking the lake. The scenery was unlovely, the lake covered in green slime.

For some moments he watched them, then leaned closer to the glass as Catherine drew forth something red and gold, the colors catching the sun. Slowly, she slid the lid free and drew out a single spill, then the tiny pliers. Pleasure warmed him to see his gift in her hands.

Madeline turned on the bench so she was looking full at Catherine.

He could not see either woman’s face, could not hear what they said, but as Catherine snipped the tip off the paper spill and watched the fire flare, he had no trouble reading her delight. It was there in every line of her lovely, lush form, and in the faint sound of her laughter that carried up and up until it came to him through the glass.

Closing his eyes, he savored the sound, and for a single shimmering second, he thought that this must be joy.

St. Aubyn’s return changed little in Catherine’s routine. She attempted to avoid him at breakfast the following day, waking exceptionally early, hoping he would sleep exceptionally late. She was not so fortunate, and ended up in his company for the morning meal. As it turned out, she enjoyed their discussion, though she admitted that only to herself.

The day was gloomy, and Madeline’s mood, once she roused at noon, matched the heavy, cloud-laden sky. She was petulant and cranky, but Catherine coaxed her into a game of chess and made certain Madeline won. After that, her mood improved.

It was late in the day when, seeking something to read, Catherine wandered to the library. She had been there only once before, and the way was not easy to retrace. She ended up at the rear of the house, near a narrow, dark staircase—the servants’ stairs.

She was lost. There was nothing to do but go back the way she had come. She turned and took but a single step, when the sound of voices drifted up the stairs. One masculine and low, and after a long moment, a higher feminine one, thick with tears.

She recognized the first voice. It was Gabriel St. Aubyn. Again he spoke, his tone firm, the inflection suggesting that he questioned someone. But she could not clearly make out the words.

The only reply he received was a muffled sob.

His business was none of hers, yet curiosity surged and she wondered to whom he spoke and what he did that elicited the woman’s tears.

Slowly, she crept down the stairs, placing her foot with care. One step, the next, and another, until she was not careful enough and, beneath her toes, a stair creaked. She froze, aware that what she did was beyond acceptable behavior. She took the servants’ stairs to spy on the master of Cairncroft. It was a reckless act, doubly so because she could not imagine that Gabriel St. Aubyn would be pleased to know that anyone spied upon him, least of all a woman whose place in his home was tenuous at best. Almost did she turn back, when the woman gave a sharp cry, cut off as though she slapped a palm across her lips—or someone else did.

A shiver crawled along Catherine’s spine.

The next step was silent, and the next, and slowly she made her way down one flight, then a second, where she froze. Though the stairwell was dark, she could see a little of the passage below, for a lit sconce, or perhaps a lamp, threw dancing shadows and flickering light across the form of a woman huddled at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed all in gray with a white cap on her head, her brown hair tied in a single plait that snaked over her shoulder.

She knelt on the floor, choking back sobs, her body curled forward as though she protected something.

And towering over her was Gabriel St. Aubyn.

Catherine shrank back against the wall, clutched by horror, all manner of terrible possibilities running through her mind. Her own experiences shaped her suspicions. She knew that. Yet she could not imagine this frightening tableau could be anything other than what it appeared: a man misusing his position of power. Her thoughts whirled as she tried to decide how best to proceed, what to do to help this poor girl.

“Please,” the maid whispered, the word coiling through Catherine’s veins like a poison. How many times had Catherine begged, at times on her knees as this woman was? How many times had she whispered that tearstained plea, to no avail?

Her belly churned, and she drew a shuddering breath.

“Stand up,” St. Aubyn said, his tone void of any emotion. He did not touch the maid, did not take even a single step toward her, but the command in his tone was impossible to disobey.

Reaching out to press her palm against the wall, the girl pushed herself to her feet, her head bowed, and Catherine saw then that her other hand was cradled against her belly, the fingers swollen and twisted. She stood there, sobbing and weaving side to side.

Had he done this? Had St. Aubyn hurt her?

Horror congealed in Catherine’s gut as she mentally tallied the last of her limited funds. Was there enough to see that this woman received care for her hand, and enough to travel? Enough for her to escape this terrible place?

But then what would Catherine have left for herself?

A confusion of possible outcomes flashed through her mind as she inched down yet another stair, summoning her courage and determination to stand up for this maid as she had never dared stand up for herself. She felt chilled to the bone, her limbs rubbery, her own horrific past colliding with her present.

She was not that terrified girl anymore. She was not.

She recognized that her own experiences were shadowing her ability to judge the situation before her, and she measured her reactions, holding herself back from leaping into the fray before she truly knew what the battle was.

Of course, the maid might have stumbled, hand outstretched, and injured herself. But somehow, Catherine did not think so. Her imagination conjured a horrific scenario of a booted heel hammering on tender flesh, or a brutal hand twisting muscle and bone.

With a shudder, she pressed her palms against the wall and slunk down another stair, intent on speaking up, whatever the personal consequence. A loud scuffling and an angry male voice came from a distant part of the passage, the interruption stilling her movements and interfering with her intent. A moment later, two footmen arrived, and between them swaggered a stocky man dressed in fine clothes, worn at the elbows and knees. A gentleman down on his luck, Catherine suspected.

The maid cried out and shrank back against the wall, her eyes wide with terror.

That terror acted as the catalyst for Catherine’s courage. She hurried down the last of the stairs to step forward and speak in her coldest tone. “What is going on here?”

St. Aubyn did not so much as glance her way, though she felt the eyes of everyone else there fix upon her.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he said. “Stay, or go. But do not interfere.”

His tone was quiet, the words laced with steel.