The Taste of Innocence (53 page)

She’d flitted away to test the bathwater; he waited until she returned and seized his arm to tow him to the tub—then he seized her. Deaf to her protests, he bundled her out of her stained and bedraggled gown, dispensed with her petticoats and chemise, sending all to join the growing pile, then he scooped her up in his arms—spent half a second glorying in the sensation of her silken skin against his, her curvaceous weight held against him—then he climbed into the bath and carefully sat, settling her before him.

She humphed, then wriggled around. Grabbing the sponge from the lip where she’d left it, she plunged it into the water, then with determination in her face and a warning in her eyes, set it to his skin and proceeded to wash the soot and grime from his arms and chest.

Lips curving, he leaned back—neck on the lip to prevent his shoulders from touching the tub—and let her. He watched her face while she did; a strange, soothing calm descended and enveloped them.

Held them when he reached out and took the sponge from her, and set to work sponging her ivory limbs. They took turns, cleaning, soothing, caring, washing each other’s hair, until they were both clean.

He stood and reached for the waiting pails, rinsing her off, then using the last on himself. Towels left warming before the fire soon had them dry, then, arms looped about each other’s waist, they propped each other up as far as the bed.

Tiredness was dragging at them both, but Sarah poked and fussed until he sat up and let her tend his scorched skin. Drawing his knees up, he slumped over them so she could reach more easily.

Her fingers lightly brushed, then soothingly spread the cool cream over the heated spots on his shoulders and back.

He closed his eyes and savored her touch; if he’d been a cat he would have purred.

Sometime during her ministrations, he fell asleep.

He woke to find himself slumped on his stomach, with the covers propped across a bolster on one side and Sarah on the other, so the covers wouldn’t weigh on his injuries.

She must have prodded and pulled to get him arranged as he was; the thought—the image it conjured—made him smile.

Eyes closed, one step away from sliding back into his earlier, deeply restful slumber—into a peace he’d never experienced before she’d lain by his side—he let his mind skate over the events of the night, and what waited for them tomorrow.

Despite the horrors of the blaze, a feeling of victory pervaded his recollections; they might have lost the orphanage building but they’d saved the orphanage—the children, the staff. And if anything the commitment to it, both from themselves and the local gentry as well as the surrounding community, had been strengthened through seeing the place threatened, and through its communal defense.

There was something very powerful about joining together to defeat a mutual foe who threatened an institution the community suddenly remembered had real value.

In the wake of the blaze, tomorrow would be filled to overflowing with organizing, coordinating, arranging, and deciding.

He imagined it, envisioned how busy he and Sarah would separately be—and while one part of his mind jibbed that they would have no time to spend together, alone, another part reminded him of the glory of togetherness they now shared. All it needed was a look, a touch, and that glory was there, whether they were in a crowded room or alone.

It was theirs, and now always would be. Embracing it—having the courage to embrace it—had made it forever his. Theirs.

There was, despite all, much to celebrate.

Including the fact that Sarah really was pregnant—he was sure of it. As he’d held her against him, her head slumped on his shoulder, and gently washed her stomach, he’d felt sure it was just a touch more rounded than it had been. He’d been tempted—so tempted—to tell her then and there how much he loved her. It had hardly seemed any great thing, not when their love, his and hers, had been wrapped all around them, an all but tangible force.

He hadn’t found any fancy words—none he deemed appropriate, none he could imagine saying with sincerity, and when he spoke he wanted it clear that what ever words he said came from his heart.

But perhaps fancy words weren’t necessary.

He’d been about to speak, trusting to instinct and her understanding, but she’d raised a hand and delicately smothered a yawn—and he’d realized just how exhausted she, and indeed he, had been. The impulse to speak had faded; when he finally uttered the words, he wanted her to remember them, and not imagine later it was some dream.

But he would tell her soon.

She—and Alathea, Gabriel, and all the others—were right. A marriage based on love was worth fighting for.

Worth any sacrifice he might ever have to make.

While the rest of the world slept and night softly faded with the oncoming dawn, Malcolm Sinclair sat at the desk in his library, quill flying across parchment. Page after page lay stacked by his elbow; he felt no hesitation in writing—no second thoughts.

Dawn was a glimmer on the horizon when he finally sighed, and straightened. With a flourish he signed at the bottom of the last page, then carefully sanded it. Gathering the sheets, he folded them, then lighting a candle, he melted some wax and carefully affixed his seal over the ends.

Then and only then did he pause, pen poised over the front of the packet. Then, lips curving, he fluidly wrote: “To Whom It May Concern.”

Done. He sat back and surveyed the packet; gradually, his gaze grew distant. A frown slowly formed on his austerely handsome face, but then he shook it aside and drew two fresh sheets to him.

The two notes took but a few minutes to pen. He signed and sealed them, then rising, propped the larger packet prominently on the desk. Turning out the lamp, he picked up the two notes, walked to the French doors, and drew aside the curtains. In the faint light he crossed to the small side table that stood beside the armchair before the fire.

Easing open the side-table drawer, he drew out Edith Balmain’s diary. Nudging the drawer closed with one knee, he stood contemplating the book in its silver-plated covers for a silent minute, then turned and, taking the book with him, left the room.

Sarah woke to find herself alone in their bed. Warm and relaxed, she felt curiously content; she stretched, then remembered the events of the night. And realized why.

Out of the bad, something good often came. Her aunt Edith had frequently said so, and she’d been a very wise woman.

Rising, she rang for Gwen, then washed and dressed. Leaving Gwen exclaiming over their discarded clothes, she headed for the breakfast room.

Her orphanage had just burned to the ground, yet she’d never felt more confident and at peace with her lot.

Charlie was seated at the head of the breakfast table, Barnaby on his right. He looked up as she entered and met her eyes; she beamed a glorious smile at him, knowing with just that look that he felt it, too—that he felt as she did.

This morning was the beginning of the rest of their life. Their joint life. If the events of the night had demonstrated anything, they’d demonstrated that.

The future lay before them to make of it what they would, but the successful merging of their lives was already under way.

As Charlie had stated, they’d rebuild—and build better.

Filling her plate, surprised at just how hungry she was, she dispensed with formality and went to sit on Charlie’s left. He was waiting to draw back her chair.

As soon as she was settled, Barnaby spoke. “I’ll be leaving within minutes—I’ve already asked for my horse to be brought around.” He glanced at Charlie, then explained, “We’ve decided that we need to inform the authorities about what’s been happening here. I’ll ride to London and tell Stokes, then come back and continue my search for the agent. He’ll still be here—they’ll expect you to sell, but he’ll likely wait for a few days at least before making his next offer. But with the fire at the orphanage, we have an immediate, investigatable crime, and Stokes and the rest need to know that—that the game truly is afoot, and the dice are being rolled in earnest.”

He mopped up the last of his ham. “It’ll also give me a chance to check with Devil and see if Montague has unearthed any clue.”

Sarah nodded. “We’ll have a great deal to do here, organizing the children and the staff, let alone dealing with the farm.”

Charlie nodded. Reaching for her hand, he closed his around it. “I’ll go to the farm with Kennett. We’ll sort out what has to be done to make the ruin safe. It’ll take days to get it damped down and secure, but we’ll make a start.”

“There’s the animals, too,” Sarah said. “Jim turned them out into the north field. Perhaps Squire Mack would take them for the moment?”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll ask him.”

“Meanwhile…” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to have to write to the bishop. ‘I greatly fear, your lordship, that the orphanage burned down.’ Goodness only knows how I’m going to phrase that.”

“Never mind the bishop—and I’m sure he’d agree,” Charlie said. “Make lists of what the children and staff need—aside from all else, you’re sure to sustain visits from your mother, Mrs. Duncliffe, Alathea and Celia, let alone the other local ladies, all wanting to know what they can do to help. They’ll probably give you a day’s grace, but for your sanity’s sake, you’ll need to have a list of requirements by tomorrow.”

Sarah laughed. He was right. “I’ll manage.”

A chair scraped; smiling, Barnaby set down his napkin and rose. “I’ll leave you two to your endeavors, and get on with mine.” He waved them both back as they started to rise. “I know my way out, and you both need to eat. And I’ll be back before you know it, as soon as I can.” His easy expression faded, hardness replacing it, a predatory glint gleaming in his eyes. “This is one villain whose downfall I don’t want to miss.”

With a nod and a salute, he left them, striding out to the front hall.

As the sounds of his departure faded, Sarah gave her attention to her plate and Charlie did the same. They ate in companionable silence, then, replete, she sighed and sat back.

Charlie was sipping his coffee, his gaze on her face.

She smiled, just for him, letting her happiness show. “It’ll be better, won’t it?”

He held her gaze, then set aside his cup, reached for her hand, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed, his eyes steady on hers, and confirmed, “Much better.” After a moment, he added, “We’ll make it so.”

An hour later, Malcolm Sinclair met his housekeeper—a woman from the village who came in to clean and cook for him—at the front door.

He smiled charmingly. “Mrs. Perkins, I apologize for not mentioning it yesterday but I won’t need you for the next week or so—I’ve been called away and will be leaving later today. If you’ll accept this…” He handed over a plump purse. “Your wages to date plus a retainer. I’ll let you know when I return.”

Mrs. Perkins quickly checked the coins, discovered his “retainer” would cover a full week of her ser vices, and smiled happily. “Of course, sir. It’s been a plea sure doing for you, and I’ll be happy to come again once you get back.”

She bobbed a curtsy and turned back down the path, no doubt already planning what to do with her unexpected free time.

Malcolm remained in the doorway until she’d passed out of the gate and disappeared down the street. Stepping back, he closed the door, then shrugged off his morning coat.

Donning a rough workman’s jacket, then pulling a wide-brimmed felt hat low over his head, covering his distinctive wheat-blond hair, he drew on heavy leather gardener’s gloves before picking up the sack of tools he’d left waiting behind the door. Hefting it, he strode down the corridor, old boots thudding on the polished boards. Going through the library, he let himself out by the French doors to where his horse stood saddled and waiting.

Charlie surveyed the blackened ruins of Quilley Farm. The wings had been reduced to smoldering heaps of charred wood and soot-streaked rubble, but in the main building flames still flickered and flared, working their greedy way through the skeleton of wooden beams buried within the stone walls.

In some places, the stone walls had bulged, then crumbled, heavy blocks tumbling haphazardly to the ground. Sections of wall still stood—liable to crumble without warning.

He pointed. “We’ll need to get grapples and haul them down—we can’t risk them falling on anyone wandering by.”

“Aye.” Beside him, Kennett nodded, grim and set. “We’ll do what we can today, but most likely we’ll have to do it bit by bit, as the fire finishes with each section.”

Charlie considered the unstable walls and the piles of rubble behind the main house. “Let’s leave the stone until later today. We need to spread the debris at the back and make sure what’s left is fully doused.”

He glanced back at the steady stream of men toiling up the slope. Many carried tools on their shoulders. The first had appeared as he and Kennett rode through Crowcombe.

Greeting the men who’d reached them, he led the way around the main house. After pointing out what had to be done, he picked up a rake and set to.

Throughout the morning, he worked alongside the men. Engaged in the relatively mindless chore, they chatted and talked. At first they watched their words around him, but gradually they relaxed, eventually directing queries his way, wondering about his views on the local hunt, on the plan to resurface the road through the valley, and countless other local matters on which he did indeed have both views and influence.