The Taste of Innocence (56 page)

Malcolm let a moment pass while they assimilated their position, then spoke to Charlie. “As you’ve no doubt by now realized, there is no way of resolving this impasse other than for me to let Sarah walk off the bridge.”

Slamming a mental door on the devastating panic that threatened to swamp him, and the bleak berserk fury it inspired, Charlie met Malcolm’s gaze. He, too, let a moment pass, remarshaling his wits, ruthlessly focusing his mind, then asked, “What do I need to do to get you to free Sarah?”

Malcolm smiled. “I would say nothing too onerous but…you only have to do two things. The first is to listen.”

Charlie caught Sarah’s eyes, searched them. She was frightened, yes, but not panicking. From her confusion, it seemed she was as much at sea over what Malcolm intended as he. Keeping Malcolm talking while they decided what to do seemed wise.

Raising his gaze to Malcolm’s face, he arched his brows. “To what?”

“To a tale of love…and loss.” Malcolm raised his brows back, faintly challenging. “A familiar tale in some ways, but rather twisted in others.”

Charlie saw the glance Sarah threw Malcolm, and started to wonder if her uncertainty wasn’t due to being unsure of Malcolm’s sanity—something he, too, was starting to question. The scenario seemed increasingly bizarre, but if Malcolm wanted to talk, and wanted him to listen, he was happy enough to oblige. While Malcolm was talking, he wasn’t focused on Sarah, and clearly had no immediate plans to do anything to her. Well and good. Charlie was perfectly capable of listening attentively while simultaneously planning.

With a nod to indicate he was listening, that Malcolm should proceed with what ever tale he wished to tell, Charlie settled on his rock step, feet apart, weight balanced. During negotiations, hands often revealed more than one might think; he slid his into his breeches pockets.

Malcolm smiled, but the gesture didn’t warm his eyes. “Throughout these last weeks, I’ve come to respect your intelligence, your acumen—you are every bit as brilliant as I. But in one area you’re an abject fool. But example always teaches better than exhortations, and as we’re in so many ways alike, let me describe for you how your life might have been. You might, like me, have been born to parents who simply never had time for you. Born into a family with no siblings, no connections to any wider family, you might, as I did, have grown up entirely alone.

“You might, as I did, have polished your mind by immersing it in purely theoretical problems—the sort that one learns to wrestle with at school. Without anyone around you who cared in any way—parents dead, guardian uninterested—you might, as I did, have grown to adulthood knowing only the challenges and triumphs conjured by a brilliant mind, and nothing of the joys so many take for granted—the simple pleasures of human interactions.

“However…” Malcolm paused.

Charlie blinked, thrown entirely off his mental stride by the unexpected direction.

Malcolm’s lips curved, and he went on, “Your life was never like that. You were born into a family who cared—you spent all your formative years surrounded by people who loved and cared about you. And whom you loved and cared about, too. More, as the heir to an earldom, you were conditioned from your earliest years to receive the accolades that brings. The position has responsibilities, yes, but it also has intangibles by way of reward. Not just status, but the knowledge that you’re needed, that you, yourself, make a real difference in people’s lives—a difference they appreciate. You have at your command the power, and the ability to wield it if and as you choose, to influence the lives of many for good. You can bring relief and happiness to others, while I…I’ve only been able to bring darkness and despair.”

Malcolm held Charlie’s eyes, his gaze incisive. “Yet until recently you’ve been reluctant to commit your time and energies to such acts. For your sake, I do hope that’s one thing the affair of the orphanage has permanently changed.”

Charlie’s face felt like stone. “Your legacy?”

Malcolm’s lips lifted; he inclined his head. “If you will. But that—the potential of your position as earl—is the more minor point I wished to address.

“Before I depart, I wanted to tell you—for no one else ever would, and no one else could with quite the same understanding—that you will be a fool beyond reclamation if you don’t reach for and embrace love and all it offers you. If you don’t embrace all that Sarah has from the first offered you.”

Charlie stared at him, nonplussed, frankly stunned.

“Indeed.” Again Malcolm’s lips quirked in self-deprecatory amusement. “Not the usual topic gentlemen discuss. Nevertheless, I will speak, and you will listen.” He caught Charlie’s eyes, his gaze level and unwavering. “Love is what life is about—what gives a man’s life its meaning. Without love, in all its many forms, life is meaningless, no matter how much I and those like me might wish it otherwise. I understand that now. My life has been an empty shell, a husk that once I leave will blow away on the lightest breath of time’s wind.”

His voice remained even, his tone level, but passion and sincerity ran beneath. “I never searched for love, never craved it, because I had no idea what it was, much less what it could mean to me. Watching you—and Sarah—opened my eyes and taught me that truth. That would only have happened with you, because I can’t pretend you’re not like me—that but for fate’s fickle chance, I could be you, and vice versa.”

This time when he paused, Charlie sensed he was looking inward, critically surveying the self he’d confessed to being, then he seemed to shake aside the vision, draw a deeper breath and refocus on Charlie’s eyes.

“The time for me has passed—it’s too late for me to learn a new credo. But for you…you have before you the chance I would, now that I know enough to value it, kill for.” An expression of impatience flitted briefly across Malcolm’s features. “Have you any idea how frustrating it’s been watching you equivocate over accepting love? Your indifference, your rejection of a gift I would kill to have, was…an outright insult. All you’ve had to do is reach out and take it, but no. You’ve hesitated, again and again, over seizing what I would do anything to have someone offer me.”

Eyes narrowed, he seemed to read Charlie’s mind, his reaction; slowly, he shook his head. “Yes, I envy you—all of it—but I know it’s not for me. Sarah and all she offers is not for me, nor any of the rest of it. I’ll willingly hand it all back to you—your life and all its potential—in the hope that now I’ve spoken, you’ll value each and every gift as it deserves.”

In some indefinable way Malcolm seemed to draw himself up, as if mentally stepping back. He hesitated, then continued, “And perhaps, when this is all over, when you remember me, you’ll also remember that Malcolm Sinclair would have been an entirely different man had he been offered half of what life, fate—and so many other people—have lavished on you.”

He held Charlie’s gaze. “Be grateful for your life, accept it, embrace it—and all it holds for you.”

Charlie had every intention of doing exactly that. While he hadn’t needed Malcolm to point out the benefits to him, he couldn’t deny that, except for his already mended relationship with Sarah and they’d concealed that while in Malcolm’s presence, Malcolm had read his earlier equivocal attitude—to love, to the embrace of family and position—faultlessly.

Malcolm had fallen silent. Consulting his own turbulent feelings and gaining some inkling of how exposed Malcolm must feel, how distracted and unsteady on his mental feet, Charlie nodded once to show that he’d understood, then asked, “The second thing I have to do to induce you to let Sarah go—what is it?”

The smile that slowly curved Malcolm’s lips was both eerie and mesmerizing.

“It’s very simple.” His voice was only just strong enough to carry over the crashing of the raging water. “Tell her why I should.”

Charlie looked into Malcolm’s steady hazel eyes, and understood perfectly. But…the peace, almost content he sensed in Malcolm’s gaze made him seriously question—again—the man’s sanity. He licked suddenly dry lips. “Why are you doing this?”

Sarah was still on the bridge, close beside Malcolm—shackled there. She’d listened without a word, carefully following their discussion. On a few occasions she’d been tempted to speak; her lips had parted—to defend him, Charlie had not a doubt—but each time she’d stopped on the brink of speech, and fallen silent. For which he gave abject thanks.

But now her eyes, too, were filled with wariness; no more than he did she know what to make of Malcolm’s direction.

No more than he did she trust it.

Malcolm sighed. “Because you haven’t yet said the words, have you? She needs to hear them—and so do I. My one last request, my price if you will. If you utter the words, I’ll know you’ve come that far at least, however reluctantly.”

He’d already traveled a great deal farther than Malcolm knew along the road to accepting and embracing love, and the full potential of his life. But although he fully intended to say the words, it galled him to think that the first time Sarah heard them, he would be speaking them under duress.

He didn’t want that; he doubted she did, either.

Yet if that would release her, he’d speak them and any other words Malcolm required…if he could be certain that Malcolm was sane. Now that he’d heard Malcolm’s comparison of their lives…he’d admitted to envy, but did resentment fester beneath? If so, how deeply did the poison reach?

How much of his intellect had it affected? How much of his will? His integrity had, by his own admission, never been particularly strong.

Those thoughts and speculations whizzed through Charlie’s mind, alongside the estimations of load and bearing, of impact and reaction, he’d been calculating while dutifully listening to Malcolm’s discourse.

Ultimately everything—Sarah’s life and his—depended on one act, and one reaction. If he admitted his love for Sarah, aloud in words for both Malcolm and Sarah to hear, what would Malcolm do?

Would he adhere to his strange bargain and let Sarah walk off the bridge to safety? And then what?

Alternatively, would he, cold-bloodedly as he’d proved he usually was, let envy rule and strike back at Charlie—by removing the love he’d finally laid claim to in the cruelest possible way?

If Malcolm grabbed Sarah around the waist, he could hoist her and fling her over the rope railing before Charlie could prevent it.

As Malcolm had made a point of noting, certain death waited below.

Regardless of everything, all possibilities and considerations, did Charlie trust in Malcolm’s sanity enough to stake Sarah’s life on it?

Drawing in a deep breath, he met her eyes—and knew she didn’t trust Malcolm that far. Given that…

His hesitation had irritated Malcolm. “Just say the words.” Impatience colored his tone. “This will be my last act before I leave—for once a purely altruistic gesture. But”—his gaze sharpened—“don’t, pray, try to stretch that uncharacteristic emotion too far.” He paused, then said, “It’s time to start talking.”

Charlie drew in another breath, looked at Sarah and saw his own question—what was best?—mirrored in her eyes. There was only one answer he could give. “Trust me.”

He drew his hands from his pockets and jumped down to the bridge.

The shock on Malcolm’s face was entirely unfeigned.

Charlie seized Sarah, wrenched her from Malcolm’s hold, turned, swinging her, and tossed her up onto the slope beside the steps.

The bridge lurched. Charlie grabbed the rope handrail—then realized it was unraveling and about to come free. Feeling the planks beneath him tilting, he flung himself forward, diving for the nearest anchor post.

He got one hand to it—but not far enough around to give him sufficient grip to haul himself to safety.

Behind him he heard Malcolm swear. “You bloody fool!”

The lashed planks tipped and swung—two of the anchoring ropes had pulled free, one at either end. The other two were now under impossible strain. Any second they would give.

Charlie gathered himself, then heaved himself upward, trying to get a better grip on the smoothly rounded pole slick with moisture thrown up from below—and sensed Malcolm close behind him.

Felt strong hands grasp one booted foot, cup it, and hoist him.

He slung an arm around the anchoring post. Sarah, leaning down from above, grabbed his shoulder and sleeve—then her eyes went past him and she screamed.

Charlie glanced back.

And saw a sight he didn’t immediately understand.

With his weight no longer on the twisted, tilting bridge, the last two ropes were under strain, but still holding…

Except that Malcolm had a knife in his hand and was hacking at the one remaining anchor to their bank.

As Charlie stared, the rope parted.

Malcolm’s head flashed up—their eyes met for one instant.

Then the bridge fell, crashing against the opposite rock bank, and Malcolm was gone.

For one instant, Charlie and Sarah both simply stared at the empty space. Straining his ears, Charlie heard not a splash but a hitch in the rhythmic thunder of the water—then the roar continued and the water rushed on.

Above him, Sarah gulped, then latched more firmly onto his coat and tugged. “Come up!”

Before he fell, too.

She’d screamed when she’d seen Malcolm, behind Charlie, pull the knife from his boot—but he hadn’t even glanced at Charlie.