Fire at Midnight (6 page)

Sebastién paused at the bottom of the steep ascent. He felt his horse surge toward the familiar path, sweat from the vigorous ride rising from its flanks in a vapor.

Rider and mount sprang into fluid motion, the beast’s hooves churning up clods of damp earth as the horse propelled them toward his hideaway. He was pleased that he could disappear at will into the wilds of the rocky Cornish coast. The remote location suited his need for discretion and seclusion.

He lifted his head and glanced toward the tall, narrow cottage, his thoughts centered on the girl he harbored within. A movement at the window on the upper level caught his eye and he slowed the horse.

A striking young woman with flaxen hair and huge eyes set against a fair, delicately formed face sat watching him. The layer of sea salt rimming the outermost edges of the window added a wraithlike quality to her appearance.

Rachael Penrose, on display in the window. If he had instructed she not be allowed outdoors, did it not also follow that she be kept away from the damned windows?

A moment later, he stormed into the cottage, slamming doors and mouthing curses as he sought out Mrs. Faraday. When he failed to find his housekeeper, he opted to deal with the matter himself. He found the room the girl occupied, grasped the latch handle firmly, and burst inside.

“Do not stand in front of the window!” Too late, he realized he had shouted, his displeasure no doubt evident in his tone and expression.

“I did not hear you knock, sir.” The soft, mellifluous voice carried a hint of rebuke.

Rachael stared at the intruder, finding him remarkable. It was just as well she’d spoken before getting a better look at him. All coherent thought had fled the moment she looked into his darkly lashed green eyes. They were an arresting contradiction of ice and the candle-spark of a strong will.

His long glossy hair, black as a raven’s wing, was tied in a queue at the nape of his neck. A mustache framed his upper lip. Without it, he would look younger, yet the hard glint in his eyes belied youth. His face conveyed wariness and keen intelligence. A strong, square jaw framed his generous lower lip. He did not smile or attempt to ease the severity of his expression.

He stood tall, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and an impression of compelling strength.
He looks like a warlord from an antique painting.
Rachael drew a shallow, hitched breath as recognition dawned. This man was the sensual phantom from her fever dream. Had she actually kissed him? Her heart skipped a beat and hastened its pace at the thought. Warmth flooded her cheeks as mortification set in. She wasn’t certain which was worse: the possibility she
had
kissed him, or the fact she could not remember it in greater detail.

“I am not accustomed to knocking in my own home,” he finally replied to her mild reproach.

His voice stunned her. It was deep, resonant, and unexpectedly harsh. A tremor of confusion passed through her as she registered the accented tones of his speech. Surely her host was English?

“This is your home?”

He nodded, dark brows vivid slashes above his wide-set eyes. Unsmiling, he continued to study her.

Rachael took a hesitant step in her host’s direction, smiling as she extended one elegant hand. “You must be John Wyatt. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.” Her slim fingers gently pressed his hand. “I can never fully repay my debt to you.”

Sebastién shrugged, using the slight movement to shake off her hand. He could not help but gawk at her.

The purplish craters beneath her eyes had disappeared, and her skin was exquisite in its fairness, framed by a glorious mane of golden hair that tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded down her back.

She looks like a porcelain doll, like she would crush easily. He frowned, ill at ease with his own musings.

Rachael remained standing where she was, wide blue eyes fixed upon him, and he found he needed a moment to frame a reply to her remark.

“You owe me nothing,” he said finally. Goaded by an irrational urge to flee the room, he crossed to the door then paused to recover himself before turning back to her. Sebastién smiled slightly, the affectation making his jaw flex. “Except, perhaps, your companionship this evening.”

He reached the foot of the stairs just as Mrs. Faraday entered the house. She glanced down at the parcel she carried before greeting him.

“It pleases me to see you have returned,” she said.

“Why, when you are free to disregard my instructions in my absence?”

“What do you mean?”

“You left my ‘guest’ unattended.”

“I saw no harm in it. She knows she must not leave the house.”

“With no one around to convince her otherwise, she is likely to stray outdoors.”

“I must go to market if we’re to eat.”

“
Touché,”
he conceded. “She has fared well enough in your care.”

“You’ve seen her, then?” Her mouth faded into a white line.

“Oui.”
He saw her swift, apprehensive glance at the staircase and grunted. “She was alive when I left her. Be wary of her,” he warned. “You do not know the depth of her villainy.”

“She’s no more than a child. What if you take revenge upon an innocent girl? You do not seem a man without a conscience.” She flinched. “Your pardon, sir, it was not my place to comment on your character.”

“What have you told her?” he asked.

“That she is staying at the home of a friend.”

“What has she told you?”

“Nothing. She seems reluctant to speak about herself.”

“A reticence she will soon shed,” he predicted ominously. He noticed the parcel she held. “What have you there?”

Mrs. Faraday hesitated. “It was bought with my own wages.”

He frowned. “I asked you what you have there, not how you paid for it.”

“I fancied a new gown.” She turned to go. “With your leave—”

“Non.”
He pivoted, catching her arm as she moved to sweep past him. “You will show me your new gown. Perhaps I will make you a gift of it.”

“That is not necessary,” she assured him, visibly flustered when he reached out and snatched the parcel.

Her words of protest trailed away as he unwrapped the package and withdrew a richly tailored mantua of patterned silk. The gown spilled over his arms in a waterfall of muted blue fabric.

“A costly bit of fluff,” he remarked. He held it out, pausing to look askance at her. “Have current fashions changed so much during my absence?”

“What do you mean, sir?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“This gown will fall no lower than …” he lifted one booted foot to illustrate, “here,” he concluded, pointing to mid-calf. “Not that I object to the sight of a shapely leg …”

She reached for the gown, but he dodged her, holding the dress aloft. “I am afraid the seamstress has made other miscalculations as well,” he observed. “The gown will suit a woman of a more petite stature, non?”

“Perhaps someone of Rachael’s size?” she suggested, a little too hastily.

“The gown is your property, do with it as you wish,” Sebastién said. Tiring of the game, he handed the gown back to her. “Take the cost from the household account.”

“It should look quite lovely on her. This shade of blue will enhance the unusual color of her eyes—”

“I have said you may do with it as you wish!” he snapped. Sebastién waited until she had reached the top of the landing before he called out to her, “Did you think I would not have the decency to clothe her?”

Mrs. Faraday stepped back from the railing as if to avoid his gaze. “Do you want the truth?” she asked.

“If you are capable of it.”

“I feared the only garment you would purchase for her would be a shroud.”

Rachael felt her composure waver as she sat with her striking host in the modest parlor. While she shared the sordid account of her incarceration at Bedlam, she occupied her hands with smoothing the skirt of the beautiful gown Mrs. Faraday had given her.

She shuddered as she recounted the chain of events that had begun with her discovery of Victor’s plan to introduce poison into her infant brother’s formula in trace amounts.

Her hastily scrawled letter to Tarry Morgan had kept Victor from killing her outright, but he had viciously attacked her. The arrival of Dr. Elliot Macaulay had stopped her uncle’s assault, but the doctor had drugged her, and when she had awakened sometime later, it had been to the horror of Bedlam.

Now that she had escaped from Bedlam, she speculated to Mr. Wyatt that Victor would be forced to move with caution. He would not dare harm James until he had determined what fate had befallen her.

The expression on Wyatt’s face gave away nothing of his thoughts as she related her misadventure. To make matters worse, she was plagued by the haunting recollection of their shared kiss. The warmth of a telltale blush crept up her neck and over her cheeks at the thought, and his proximity made her think of the kiss much too often.

Was it a memory or just a dream? The fact that he did not mention it made it easier to believe it had never happened. His decorous conduct did not stray beyond basic propriety. If anything, his manner was almost surly. He was preoccupied with his wine, turning his glass this way and that, holding the vessel up to the light, inhaling the bouquet, but rarely taking a sip.

Rachael concluded her story and fidgeted in the chair, waiting for some comment from him. The delightful evening of repartee she had anticipated had instead been an awkward, one-sided conversation. She felt foolish for having been so concerned with her appearance. Why had it seemed so important to look nice this evening? Certainly not for him. She hardly knew him.

He had abandoned his interest in his wine and sat staring at her with an intensity Rachael found unnerving.

She felt like a small bird under the rapt scrutiny of a cat with a voracious appetite.