To Kiss a Thief (13 page)

He tipped his head to the side, considering. He had once said as much to his father, certain Sarah could never be a proper wife for him. But Haverhythe had shown him that, lady or not, she was a strong woman, strong enough to hear what he suddenly found he needed to say.

“It happened early one morning shortly after I had arrived in Antigua.” The words rushed past his lips, eager to taste freedom at last. “I was walking near the docks on my way to my rooms when I heard an uproar and turned to see what was happening. A slave woman was climbing onto the deck railing of a slaver bound for Barbados.”

She faced him again, eyes wide with disbelief. “Climbing
onto
a slave ship? Why on earth would she do such a thing?”

“Her child was aboard the ship,” he answered quietly, another part of him loath to share this nightmare with someone else, knowing the stain it would leave on Sarah's memory would not clear his own soul. “I learned later that her master, the child's father, was selling the boy away—at his wife's insistence. While a crowd gathered to watch, the woman managed to get on board the vessel, find the child, and—and cast him into the harbor.”

Sarah's arm slackened in his grasp.

“There are countless ways for an idle young man to waste time in the islands, and most of the crew of that ship had spent the night in the pub, as I had. They were caught off guard. The men scrambled to get into the water—”

“To rescue the child?” she asked hopefully.

He debated whether to allow her cherish such an illusion. “Yes,” he admitted at last. “Just as they might have attempted to retrieve any other bit of valuable cargo that had happened to fall overboard.”

Although she tried to suppress it, he could feel the shiver that passed through her frame.

“And then, before my eyes, the woman jumped in herself. To no one's surprise, she made no further effort to swim, to save herself or the child. But the crew managed to fish them out and attempted to revive them.”

“And?” Sarah prompted when he paused. He knew she was thinking of Clarissa.

“They were . . . unsuccessful. The crowd broke up and went their separate ways, almost as if nothing had happened.”

She hesitated. “And you?”

“I went back to the pub and—and tried to wash away the memory,” he concluded with a shake of his head.

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he
was
an unfeeling monster. And perhaps that ugly truth was not to be regretted—after all,
feeling
caused nothing but trouble and pain.

“And did you succeed?” she asked.

“No.” The word passed his lips reluctantly. “Try as I might, I never could.” He dropped his hand and turned away, unwilling to hold Sarah's steady gaze.

“It would be worse if you had,” she insisted.

“But I might have
done
something.”

“You did.” She brushed his sleeve with her fingertips and then pulled back again. “You let that woman choose her fate. And then you saved Clarissa with what you learned that day. Let those things wipe away a bit of your guilt.”

“Can guilt ever really be expunged?”

God knew, he had tried. That very day, he had sought out the young Scottish physician with whom he had crossed the Atlantic. Shortly after St. John had boarded the ship bound for Antigua, Murray had offered to stitch up the gash on his face, never asking any questions, and the two men had become friends of a sort. When St. John told him what he had witnessed in the harbor, Murray had introduced him to his employer, Edward Cary, a sugar planter's agent with an unusual reputation for compassion in a cruel place. Under Cary's watchful eye, St. John had served for more than two years, laboring, learning, longing to repay a debt he had never intended to incur.

Her lips quirked in a wry smile. “Once a thief, always a thief?”

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded in agreement. “Something like that.”

“Yes, I believe guilt can be wiped away.” Her gaze traveled toward the window and the dark water beyond. “If you are truly penitent.”

After a long moment, she spoke again. “I saw one once, you know.” She darted a glance toward him, but she did not quite meet his eyes. “A slave ship. In the docks near Papa's office. It was dreadful.”

He wondered how much she knew about her father's business endeavors. When seemingly every ship in Antigua's harbors had had some Bristol connection, St. John had been forced to confront the likely source of his wife's dowry—the sale, if not of human flesh, then certainly of the goods slave labor produced.

Three years in Antigua had forced him to consider how much of his own life—and the lives of almost everyone he knew—had been made possible by the inhuman toil and suffering of others. It had been a most uncomfortable reckoning.

“Papa denied having any hand in the trade himself,” she whispered, more to herself than him. “I suppose I was naïve to have believed him.”

“Not naïve,” he said. “Innocent.”

Somewhere beyond, a branch snapped, underscoring his words like the
crack
of a judge's gavel. Sarah's outward flinch echoed his own inner reaction.

Sarah . . . innocent?
What a preposterous thing to have said!

Wasn't it?

He had come to Devonshire seeking proof of her guilt, intending to force his father to see the error of his ways, hoping for a chance to reclaim his freedom, his life. But what if he never found that proof? What if he were beginning to suspect it had never existed?

Worse, what if he were no longer certain he wanted to find it, even if it had?

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Night air was creeping along the ground and up the cottage's stone walls. “It's getting late. I should see you home.” He pushed away from the window and stepped to the center of the small room, inches away from where she stood, but not quite touching her. Although his eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom, soon it would be too dark to see, too dark to look into the depths of Sarah's eyes and read what was written there.

Perhaps that would be for the best. He did not know whether he could bear to see her suspicion or her disdain. And given their history, it seemed unlikely to be anything more welcoming.

Still, he could not keep from speaking. “Before we go back, though, there's one piece of business we left unfinished.”

He could swear she was holding her breath. Did that kiss haunt her the way it haunted him?

He had kissed her before, of course. Surely he had. It was simply not possible that his lips had not touched hers at some point during their brief courtship or after their marriage. After all, they had made—

No.
He scrupled to claim, even in the privacy of his thoughts, that they had made love. He had seen to it that their marriage was consummated, as duty required. If Sarah's long legs and soft skin had tempted him to linger over the act, he had
not
given in to temptation. And when his father had made it amply clear to him that duty also required he beget an heir, he had gone to Sarah each night and planted his seed, as perfunctorily as possible, feeling almost as if his father had been standing beside the bed, arms folded, watching to see that the deed was done.

The intimacy, the tenderness, of a kiss had not been required.

The last of the daylight shimmered through her thick brown hair, which was knotted with uncharacteristic looseness at the nape of her neck. One tendril had pulled free of its pins entirely, and when she tipped her head in an unspoken question, the soft curl shone invitingly. He reached out and lifted it with his fingertips, his knuckles grazing the turn of her throat.

Days ago he had decided to play at wooing his wife.

When had he ceased acting?

“Oh,” she gasped, backing away toward the window, jerking the lock of hair from his grasp.

He dropped his hand to his side. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”

“It's all right. Foolishness, really.” Trembling fingers traveled absently along her collarbone, and she shivered. “It's just that you reminded me of—of a dream I had.”

Nearby, a cricket chirped, and from somewhere farther beyond, he heard the trill of a nightingale. He hesitated. But there was no mistaking the look in her smoky, heavy-lidded eyes. Sensual awareness rippled through his chest and settled in his loins. “A dream.” He reached up to twist the wayward curl around his finger again. “About me?”

Her chin dipped ever so slightly, the movement almost lost against the twilit landscape framed by the window behind her. A whisper passed her lips as her eyelids fell.

T
he night air whisked the word away. Behind closed eyes, Sarah waited, wondering if he would accept her forward—and undoubtedly foolish—invitation.

She had built a life in Haverhythe. She had friends. She had her child. She had purpose. But none of those things entirely quieted the longing deep inside her, the longing for something she could not quite name.

“Dreams have their pleasures,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm at her ear. “But none to rival flesh and blood.”

Then his mouth found hers, his lips firm and demanding, almost as if there were something of which he hoped to persuade her—or himself. Gone was any pretense of gentleness or uncertainty. He touched her nowhere other than her lips and that loose lock of hair, and when she tried to back away, to retain some measure of control over her actions, if not her heart, the curl he had wrapped around his finger grew taut, drawing her back to him. Her scalp prickled, not with pain, but with the awareness that she was bound to him.

And for the moment, at least, she wished to be nowhere else.

Was it wrong to want him?

Unwise, certainly.

But in this moment, he was a mistake she was willing to make.

He traced the curve of her upper lip with a string of kisses, then nibbled and nipped his way along the lower, drawing its plumpness into his mouth and suckling when she gave a soft gasp of surprise. As if it were the opening he had long awaited, he slipped his tongue between her parted lips, teasing and tickling the soft flesh before setting up a steady rhythm of thrusting, drawing his tongue along the roof of her mouth, evoking another, far more intimate act of penetration.

In that moment Sarah realized that although she was a wife and mother, she was totally, utterly ignorant of what happened—of what
could
happen—between a man and a woman. The kiss they had shared in Primrose Cottage had been the comforting glow of a flickering candle. This was wildfire, licking through the undergrowth, devouring everything in its path.

And with a groan, she kissed him back, matching the slick strokes of his tongue, exploring the corner of his mobile mouth, the sharp edge of his white teeth—tentatively at first, and then with relish—parrying with thrusts of her own, and swallowing the answering groan of pleasure they elicited. St. John lifted his other hand to frame her face, stilling her to his kiss, as if determined to maintain a rein on their passion.

But Sarah, equally determined, slipped the tether, raising her own hands to slide beneath his coats and skate along his shirtfront, feeling the sharp angle of his ribs, the muscled wall of his chest, and the pounding rhythm of his heart.

“Sarah,” he whispered, dragging his mouth away from hers and across her cheek. The scrape of his beard was a pleasant burn, and the heat of his breath in her ear was full of promise. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled deeply, the ticklish flutter through her hair as he exhaled.

“Your scent, Sarah—I have to know what it is. You've been driving me mad with it for nearly a week.”

She might have laughed if she could have spared the breath.

“Bluebells,” she answered. “Or rather, soap infused with bluebells. Mrs. Kittery makes it.”

She felt his shoulders stiffen, felt his fingers tighten along her scalp, as if her explanation were somehow displeasing. Surely he could not disapprove of such a small indulgence?

Then he drew in another hungry breath and nuzzled beneath her ear. “Then I shall have to give her my compliments.”

Sarah meant to offer some mischievous reply. But before she could form the words, St. John's mouth left her ear and began to trace a searing path down her throat, stopping at the edge of her high-necked gown to nip a bit of flesh between his teeth and then soothe the lover's bite with the tip of his tongue.

His hands, meanwhile, journeyed along her shoulders and down her back before coming to rest on her buttocks and pulled her hard against him. His mouth covered hers in another urgent kiss as his fingers fisted in her skirt and inched it higher. She could feel the heat and weight of his erection where it pressed into her belly. Twisting in his embrace, she turned to face the window. This, surely, was the moment to pull away, to give them both time to come to their senses.

Then again, perhaps that moment had already passed.

Although she did not speak, he seemed to sense her uncertainty. “Let me, Sarah,” he urged. “Let me watch the play of moonlight across your skin. Let me touch you. Taste you.” He nipped impatiently at her earlobe. “Let me give you the pleasure I so stubbornly denied you—denied us both—years ago.”

Sarah thought back to the nights following their wedding and released a shivery breath. “There's more?”

A low, knowing laugh. “Much more.”

His right arm encircled her body, drawing her against him, and his hand cupped her left breast. As his thumb stroked across her nipple, which peaked instantly at his touch, the other hand came around and began to unpin her bodice.

In a moment the dress gaped open to her waist and nothing stood between Sarah and the night air but a shift worn thin with age. She chanced a glance at his hand, which continued to stroke and fondle her breast, and she could see the dark shadow of her areola beneath the clinging fabric.

She had not imagined that simple touches—some tender, some firm—could produce such an effect. Her breathing grew shallow, and she was conscious of a slow ache building between her thighs. She fought to keep from thrusting out her chest, from urging herself shamelessly against his artful caress.

At least such tortures could not last long. A moment more, perhaps, and he would do what was necessary to bring things to their swift and inevitable conclusion.

She would always have the memory of his touch, the heat of his palms, the pleasing roughness of his fingertips against the soft fabric of her shift and the softer flesh beneath.

But in a moment, surely, she would be back on familiar ground.

As he turned her slowly to face him, however, her attempts at reassurance skittered away like droplets of water on a hot skillet. His mouth claimed hers in another searching kiss, and she opened to him eagerly, unable to hold back a gasp as he squeezed her nipple between his fingertip and thumb, sending a pulse of electricity through every fiber of her being.

When his mouth at long last left hers, he blazed a trail of kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, and into the valley between her breasts. Pausing only to untie her shift, he snagged one hardened bud between his lips and suckled her, alternating once again between gentle teasing and heated urgency. His tongue traced the puckered edges of her areola, then snaked along the outer curve of her breast, laving it with luscious strokes before turning to the other and beginning the delicious torture anew.

Uncertain what to do with her hands, Sarah curled them around the stone window ledge to steady herself; after a while, St. John found them there, gently coaxed them free, and lifted her arms to encircle his waist.

He backed into the room, drawing her with him in a dance unlike any that had ever graced a ballroom. Her dress hung loose, and impatiently he brushed it over her shoulders. As Sarah followed where he led, the dress slid down her body and over her hips until it pooled around her ankles and she could simply step through it and into his arms, naked but for her shift, stockings, and shoes.

St. John released her only long enough to shuck off his greatcoat.

“Cold?”

At the shake of her head, he turned and spread his coat on the ledge behind him and then scooped her up like the princess in some very naughty fairy tale and laid her atop it.

The coat formed a meager barrier against the damp, chilly stone, but Sarah was oblivious to discomfort. St. John knelt before her and removed her shoes. Then, trailing his fingers along her calves and over her knees, he untied each garter and rolled each dark stocking down her leg and over her foot.

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes as his hands closed around her foot and began to massage it, his knowing touch easing away the inevitable aches caused by scrambling up the bluff. When he'd done the same to the other foot, his fingertips slipped gently along her calf, tracing the contour of lean muscles developed by many such climbs.

“You have such lovely legs, Sarah. Like polished marble. But,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her legs until he reached the hem of her shift, “no sculptor could hope to reproduce these curves.”

As her last remaining garment edged higher, baring her knees, panic and passion flared and mingled in Sarah's chest. She could not possibly let him continue—not because she did not want him to touch her, but because she did. She had survived all these years, missing something she had never really known.

How could she expect to go on surviving once she knew?

The pad of one thumb swept across her thigh, while his other hand stayed at her knee, gently coaxing her legs apart, as if he sensed her hesitation but had no intention of allowing her to deny her own pleasure.

“Sarah?” Although the room was almost dark, she could still see the question in his eyes.

Daring to touch him, she speared her fingers into his hair and drew his head toward hers for another kiss and a wordless plea that he would leave at least a piece of her heart intact after this night.

Less demanding but no less hungry, the kiss, too, urged her to relent. She felt his hands slip beneath her shift, between her legs, ascending slowly until the tips of his fingers brushed the dark triangle of hair at the joining of her thighs.

And she opened to him, fearing and welcoming the madness that would follow.

As he stroked into her secret recesses, she felt unfamiliar wetness there, an ache that built and built. When she gasped into his mouth, he rewarded her with a firmer touch. His thumb nestled against the place that was the center of her pleasure and circled, slowly, until her hips were rising from the cold stone, lifting to meet his hand, begging for something, anything, everything.

Just when she was sure she could stand it no longer, St. John broke their kiss and lowered his head to her lap. His lips brushed the delicate skin of her inner thigh and she felt him inhale.

“Mmmm . . . bluebells.”

The tone was playful. So were his fingers. And his lips, which were nibbling up her leg to join them. Surely he did not mean to kiss her—

When his tongue touched the place where his thumb had been, she jerked back in surprise, nearly sliding off the makeshift bed, scraping one shoulder blade against the rough, damp stone.

One strong arm snaked around her hip, steadying her, holding her captive to a kiss more intimate than she could have imagined. But recognizing her uncertainty, his tongue gentled, moving to explore, to tease, to taste—just as he had promised.

At first it was more than she could bear. And then, as the torment built, it was not enough. She found herself curling her fingers in his hair and shamelessly urging him higher, back to the spot where he had begun. As his tongue stroked and then his lips suckled that secret spot, Sarah felt every muscle in her body contract, straining toward something, climbing to a place where the air was clear and thin. When at last she reached the summit of that uncharted mountain, the peak burst upon her like a sudden summer storm—a lightning strike, sharp and bright, followed by peals of thunder, echoing for miles.

She came back to earth after what seemed an eternity in that heady ether and found herself on his lap, wrapped in his arms, shivering although she was not cold. To her shock, she realized that he was still fully clothed. Surely he meant to take his pleasure in return?

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat, intending to push it over his shoulders, but he reached up his hands to stay her. When she parted her lips to ask why, he laid one finger against them and looked past her, listening.

Once the
thump
of her own heartbeat began to fade from her ears, it was replaced by the sound of someone climbing the mud-slick path. A feeble patch of light bobbed across the ground in time with the careful footsteps.

“Mrs. Fairfax?” called a voice.

Sarah squeaked and jumped off St. John's lap. With guilty fingers, she scrabbled about on the dirt floor for her dress, jerked it over her head, and then fumbled to secure it, the pins having scattered. Wordlessly, St. John rose and wrapped his greatcoat around her, shielding her from the intruder's gaze.

“Mr. Norris,” she exclaimed. “Whatever brings you out on a night like this?”

“Mrs. Potts told me where to find you, Mrs. Fairfax. I've news you must hear,” he said, starting a bit when St. John emerged into the circle of light cast by the lantern. “Oh, Lieutenant, I didn't see you there. Very glad you're here, though. These are bad tidings, indeed, and I hate to have to deliver them.”

“What is it, sir?” Sarah demanded.

“The old earl is dead,” Mr. Norris replied, looking from one face to another for some sign of reaction, oblivious to what he had interrupted.

St. John curved his arm around Sarah's shoulders and shook his head. “A sad day for Haverhythe, I'm sure. But from what my wife has told me, not entirely unexpected.”

“No, no,” the vicar acknowledged with an impatient wave of his hand. “In fact, he's apparently been gone some weeks already. His nephew, Mr. Harold Bessmer, has been invested with the title, and the new Lord and Lady Haverty are expected at the court tonight. But in advance of their arrival, his lordship sent this—”

Mr. Norris thrust a damp letter forward, and Sarah pulled one trembling hand from the depths of the coat to take it from him. With St. John looking over her shoulder, she read: