Too Dangerous to Desire (2 page)

He had cursed Adam, the duke. Cursed him to live a life in hell. Adam had dedicated years of his life to dragging his elder brother away from
his wicked pursuits. And in the end, the fraternal goodwill had cost him his dearest Teresa. But for the duke’s immorality, his debauchery, Adam and Tess would still be in Italy, enjoying their wed
ding tour, their married
life
.

Filled with the incoherent ramblings of a fever, Adam vowed, “I will kill you for this, brother.”

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England, 1825

he gray sea churned softly. Adam stared at the rolling waves and lis
tened to the surge of water rush in with the tide, then slowly ebb away.

The beach was deserted, the sand cool and moist between his toes. He looked away from the swell of the water to the letter in his hands. It was from his mother, the epistle. She wrote to him often, bringing him tidings about his an
cestral home, his family . . . what was left of his family.

“It’s your fault she’s gone.” The rage billowed inside Adam. He shook with repressed agony and hatred. “I had to sail home to drag you from your filthy existence. I had to wallow in muck for most of my life
,
lugging you out of whorehouses and gaming hells—and I lost Tess because of it. You.” Adam pointed to his brother with the knife
,
the blade trembling in his shaky hand.

“You’ve destroyed everything good in your life—and mine.”

The steady rush of seawater slightly soothed Adam’s tortured memory. He searched the hori
zon for further comfort.

But it was empty.

When would he stop looking out to sea for Tess?

She was gone, the vast and restless ocean her tomb. And yet he could not bear to part from her. He owned a small cottage by the seashore. He never strayed too far from the ocean—from Tess.

Thunder resounded in the distance; the waves churned with greater passion. A summer tempest was about to ignite. It was time he returned to the cottage to seek shelter indoors.

Adam stuffed the letter into his shirt pocket. He reached for his leggings and boots, had the soft linen and leather in his grip, when a pecu
liar figure intruded upon his barren and familiar surroundings.

He stared at the mountainous cliff some few hundred yards away.

It was a woman.

He could tell by the flicker of her skirt in the stormy breeze. She was alone atop the cliff; her long, dark hair loose and free in the mighty gale.

Adam watched her, curious. She brought her hands to her breasts as though in prayer . . . but not in prayer.

Her fingers moved toward her midriff, button by button. Soon she slipped out of the dress.

Adam lifted a brow.

Perhaps she was undressing for her lover? Adam should go before the other man arrived.

But something compelled him to stay and admire the woman’s artful movements.

Piece by piece, she removed her clothing: shoes, shift, chemise. Stripped to the flesh, she ap
proached the precipice.

Adam bristled.

The woman outstretched her hands; the pounding winds tried to push her back. But she let out a sorrowful sob—and threw herself off the cliff.

“No!
”

Adam dropped his boots and sprinted across the beach. He jumped into the sea, the water chill
ing despite the warm summer air.

He did not feel the nip of the waves, though. Blood throbbed in his heart, driving him onward in a near bout of madness.

In deft strokes he swam toward the base of the cliff, desperate to get to the woman. He was more robust, a skilled swimmer. He had practiced every summer since his late wife’s demise. He would not
let the sea beat him down. Not again. Not the way it had on the night Tess had perished. He would not let the mysterious woman drown—the way Tess had drowned.

“Where are you?” Adam shouted, stroking across the water with fluidity.

But there was no sign of the woman.

The angry sea swelled. He gasped for breath and dove under the swirling waves.

It was dim beneath the surface: a soft, silvery light. Adam struggled against the current, kick
ing, searching. He touched rock, sand.

Where are you?

Adam groped along the rough seabed; there was nothing but sharp rock.

No! You have to be here!

He reached into the cold darkness—and grasped flesh.

Icy flesh.

Adam grabbed the lithe body and pressed it against him. He broke through the thrashing waves, thirsty for air.

The woman was limp, lifeless in his arms.

“Wake up!”

Her head lolled to the side.

Panicked, Adam started for shore, fighting the now battering storm, the hail of rain. He reached the beach and dropped to his knees, hugging the sea nymph in his arms.

“Wake up,” he coaxed, shaking her softly. “Please wake up.”

The rain spit hard.

Adam pushed the dark locks from her eyes.

Something flickered in the very depth of his soul. A familiar, yet long forgotten verve. A kin
ship with another being.

He touched her lips, blue from the frigid sea.

Warm breath.

Faint puffs of air, but she was alive.

Adam struggled to his feet and hurried back to his cottage.

The firelight flickered across the whitewashed cottage walls. A soft rain pattered overhead, the brunt of the storm over.

Adam observed the sea nymph from his wicker chair. She was asleep in his bed. He dared not fetch a physician and leave her unattended. He feared she’d recover while he was away and throw her
self off the cliff once more. Instead he had built a small fire in the hearth to draw out the humidity in the air, and layered thick blankets over her to make her warm.

Wake up.

He willed her survival. He was determined to see her well. The sea would not claim another life; he was adamant.

Adam abandoned his seat and moved closer to
the bed. What hapless circumstance had urged her to try to take her own life? He couldn’t fathom. The world was filled with so much tragedy. It would take very little to make an indigent lass desperate. One so wont to hardship might think there was peace in death. Adam had once believed that, too. But being near the sea had soothed his troubled thoughts, put them to sleep.

There was a scrap of linen saturating in a nearby dish. He picked up the cloth and wrung the water, mixed with a dash of brandy. With gentle taps, he cooled her brow.

So lovely
, he thought.

Adam blinked. He had not considered a woman in such a way since the death of his wife. He was still faithful to Tess. He would always be faithful to Tess. That the sea nymph had inspired such a reflection disturbed him.

Adam placed the linen back in the bowl and re
turned to his seat. The vim in his blood surged, the same burst of energy that had gripped him on the beach. Again he sensed a bond with the castaway maiden. The demons of his past and the demons that had chased her to the cliff today united them in sorrow.

He watched her sleep. She had elfin features, soft and delicate. Aristocratic in length and sym
metry. And that hair, such a shadowy shade of black, it sparkled blue in the light.

He would presume her a lady, but for her hands. Her hands were much too dry and rough to be those of a genteel-bred miss. She worked with her hands. In the soil? It would explain her apparel. Threadbare rags, really.

Adam had risked leaving her alone for a few minutes to collect her clothing from the precipice. The garments were stretched across furniture throughout the cottage, drying. Very poor qual
ity garments, so she must be from a simple home. And yet that necklace.

Adam eyed the jewelry at her throat. It glowed in the firelight. It was the only thing she had not removed before she’d stepped off the cliff. It was a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant, the heart cast in two halves. The sort of piece in
tended to be broken: a half of the heart given to each wearer. She wore both halves, though. To
gether as one.

It was a very delicate ornament, designed with fine filigree. A work of art, really. Much too ex
pensive for a woman of the soil. Was she a thief? Or did the necklace belong to her? If she was wealthy enough to afford it, why was she in such poor attire, and why did she have callused hands? Yet if it did not belong to her, if she had filched it, why had she tossed herself off the cliff? A thief would surely rejoice at such a precious spoil, not attempt suicide.

Adam was stumped. He would just have to ask the woman her identity as soon as she roused.

The bedcovers rustled.

Adam lifted his eyes to meet the sea nymph’s— and stared.

Her eyes!

The rain had stopped, the storm clouds dis
banding. Sunlight pierced the cottage windows through the pockets in the clouds, warming the room . . . lighting her eyes.

Adam had never seen such a striking pair: a heavy blue center surrounded by a soft gray ring. In the light the irises sparkled violet. He very nearly dropped headfirst into her bewitching eyes.

He whispered, “Hello.”

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velyn Waye opened her eyes, confounded by her obscure surroundings. Her thoughts in disorder, she took a moment to reflect. But her only memory was a feeling: a feeling of cold, dark . . . water!

The image came sharp to her mind: heavy winds beat against her naked breast as she ap
proached the precipice and outstretched her arms in search of freedom. Freedom from
him
.

A figure moved beside the window. A voice resounded.

“Hello,” he said again. “My name is Adam.”

Her heart fluttered. She looked from the table to the cupboard to the braided rug by the door. She should be dead. She should be at the bottom of the ocean. What was this place?

Adam slowly approached the bed. “Are you all right?”

She stiffened. He was big. The wide breadth of his shoulders blocked the light coming in through
one of the small windows. She was too dizzy from her fall to see his features clearly, but she could sense the man’s inquisitive gaze. She loathed that look. It always reminded her she was different, cursed.

Adam touched her brow. “Don’t cry.”

The gentle caress disarmed her. She flinched.

He quickly curled his fingers into his palm and retreated from the bed. “I won’t hurt you.”

She trembled, unconvinced. He was a man. Selfish. Cruel. He had stared at her with that
look
. He would hurt her just like . . .
him.

A sob filled her sore lungs.

Adam appeared discomfited. “Are you in pain?”

Yes, she was in pain. She was alive! And that meant
he
was still out there, searching for her. She had not escaped him. She had not found freedom yet. And it was all Adam’s doing. He had pulled her from the sea. She wanted to rail at him for his unwelcome gallantry:
You should have let me die!

“Have you any broken bones?” said Adam.

Evelyn shifted under the warm covers, her mus
cles tender. But no part of her body throbbed with agony to indicate a fractured limb. Not that she voiced the sentiment aloud, too wary to do so.

“That’s a very beautiful necklace,” he said next.

The necklace!

Evelyn reached for her throat, searching for the pendant. Her palm quickly gripped the heart, the gold warming between her fingers.

Oh, thank God! She still had the necklace, if nothing else.

“What is your name?” he said softly.

Evelyn eyed the stranger with scrutiny. It was still too difficult for her to see him clearly, but she appraised the low and steady sound of his voice. It filled the small space with its commanding pres
ence. And for some reason the deep timbre put her frazzled nerves to rest.

Yet she still ignored his question about her name. She didn’t trust the man. Instead she looked around the room and noticed her garments draped across the furniture.

Adam guessed her intent. He reached out and touched the hem of her dress, stretched over a chair. “It’s still damp. Are you sure you want to wear it?”

Evelyn continued to stare at the dress.

He sighed. “Why don’t I step outside and give you some privacy?”

He moved away from the window and opened the door. He left the cottage and closed the barrier behind him.

Evelyn stared at the door, waiting to see if the stranger would come back inside the room. It would not surprise her if he did. Men were
so disreputable, always looking to abuse a
woman.

She had to get away. But how?

She eyed the window above her head. It faced the rear of the cottage. If Adam was still stand
ing by the front door, she could crawl out the back and disappear . . . return to the cliff.

Evelyn dropped the covers and snatched her clothes from various spots around the room. The garments were still damp, as Adam had said, but she didn’t care. She shimmied into the shift and chemise, the frock and boots, then clambered up onto the bed.

The window had no clasp. She lifted the pane of framed glass and stuck her head and shoulders through the opening. She was still a bit dizzy, but there was no reason for her to recuperate. She would do it right this time; she would end her life with no witnesses—and finally be free of
him
.

Evelyn’s posterior was next—and she rolled out the window, feet over head. She landed in a patch of strawberries.

Having struck the ground with a hard thump, she blinked. But soon her wits returned and she scrambled to her feet.

She tiptoed around the cottage to avoid the stranger, then took off running.

A set of brawny limbs clinched her waist.

She let out a cry of vexation and thrashed.

“Hold still!” Adam barked. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Let me go!”

“So you can talk?” came the dry inquiry. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Evelyn struck back with her fists, but she was too weak to do the big brute damage. Not that she could have done him much harm if she’d had all her strength; he was that heavily built.

“Be still, woman! I said I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“But
he
will!”

Adam set her on the ground. He maintained a firm hold on her waist, but turned her around to face him. “Who will hurt you?”

Evelyn opened her mouth to protest his jostling, but words deserted her. She was confronted by a set of strong features: sharp lines across a hard and masculine face. He had a straight nose and square jaw, dusted with the shadow of a beard. Firm lips came together to demonstrate his dis
pleasure over her attempted flight.

He was virile. Robust. She was even more wary to be in his presence, for he emitted a thrumming energy, a potent strength that frightened her. The sort of strength that could hurt her, crush her if she wasn’t careful.

A crisp, dark curl dropped over his eye.

Evelyn dismissed the anxiety in her belly for a moment, rapt by the stunning expression in his
eyes. She delved deep into the set of blue pools, as sad as hers.

He was filled with grief, she reckoned. And she suddenly sensed a kindred spirit in the man.

Evelyn stilled in his embrace.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now who is going to hurt you?”

She pinched her lips.

Adam sighed. “No one will harm you. I promise.”

She shook her head. “You can’t make such a promise.”

“I can,” he said with curt confidence. “And I will. No one will trouble you here. I live at the edge of the world.” He nodded toward the sea. “You are safe here.”

Evelyn had not been safe in years. Thin hairs spiked on the back of her neck in trepidation. This stranger could not offer her sanctuary. Nothing could offer her that—but death.

“I want to go back to the cliff,” she said.

Adam bristled, the straight cut of his jaw rigid. “You will
not
go back to the cliff. Do you hear me?” Stormy eyes pegged her. “I will protect you. You can live here with me. I won’t tell anyone that you’re here.”

Evelyn took in a shaky breath. She didn’t know what to do. To trust the stranger? She couldn’t do
that. She didn’t dare. She trusted no one but her self. She had been alone for so long . . .

“Don’t cry,” Adam said softly, and touched the tear at her cheek. “Tell me your name?”

She sniffed. “Evelyn.”

She would not tell him her last name. She feared he might recognize her; that he might still betray her. He was only a poor fisherman, but still, he might be familiar with her name. He might seek a reward for her return . . .

“You are safe with me, Evelyn.”

She was unsure of his words. But his eyes. That look in his eyes was almost honest. It had been so long since she’d seen such an expression. Not since the last time she’d been with her beloved sister more than three years ago.

Evelyn glanced around the property, to the cot
tage first. It was a quaint home with a thatched roof. Ivy crawled and covered the rear of the shady abode.

Her eyes drifted to the rain barrel and rose bushes, the hollyhocks and sweet peas. There was a small garden to the north, trimmed with hedges, filled with cabbages, potatoes, onions, and pars
nips. Pear and apple trees dotted the grounds. A woodshed in the rear was piled with chopped and neatly stacked logs, and laundry flapped in the breeze, stretched across a simple clothesline.

Her eyes returned to Adam. He maintained
the property. It was pretty. Peaceful, even. If he treated the trees and the flowers and the root veg etables with such care, maybe he wasn’t like all the others?

“I can mend that.” She pointed to the tear in his sleeve. “I can cook, too.”

Evelyn didn’t want charity. She would work for her board . . . for her life.

It appeared death would have to wait another day for her. At least one more day. She would accept the stranger’s offer of help. There was just something about him—his eyes—that inspired her to take the chance.

Adam nodded. “Fair enough. But you must promise me one thing, Evelyn.”

“Evie.” She sniffed, then quietly said, “My sister used to call me Evie.”

Adam’s features softened, but his words stayed firm. “You must promise me, Evie, not to go near the cliff.”

Evelyn took in a deep breath, a near gasp. There was so much pressure on her chest, as if she had not breathed in years.

Stay away from the cliff? From death? For today. Perhaps for tomorrow, too. If the stranger’s words came true: that
he
would not find her here.

She nodded. “I promise.”