His Wicked Sins (11 page)

The man flustered her to the extreme.

"Forgive me, Miss Canham. Do I intrude?" he asked.

She stared at him a moment, struck by the way the dying sun touched his dark hair, a

bright halo, leaving his face in shadow. She dropped her gaze, anxious and uneasy, not in

the way of fear, but in the way of …
excitement.

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The realization was disconcerting. Never had she experienced the like, but she was not

so green as to play ignorance at the cause.

She turned her face away, having no wish for her heated—and surely reddened—cheeks

to betray her thoughts. She
knew
what it was, this feeling. She had seen girls turn silly

over it, laughing and twittering behind their hands as a handsome youth swaggered past.

But she had never been prey to such herself. Until now. Mr. Fairfax had her blushing,

but he would
not
have her sighing like a lovesick girl.

"There is no intrusion, Mr. Fairfax." She knew she sounded breathless. She could only

hope that he attributed it to exertion.

"I believe this belongs to you," he said, and offered a small ecru linen reticule that she

knew well. "You left it behind in my carriage."

Oh, the sweet joy that flooded her at the sight.

"You have my gratitude, Mr. Fairfax. With a heavy heart, I discovered the bag's loss

this morning." She smiled at him, wanting to throw her arms about him and hug him for

this, for the return of the bag's contents, the gift for her mother. Realizing she had half

raised her hands to hug him in truth, she dropped them to her side, abashed.

He cast her a quizzical look, raising his straight, dark brows.

When he said nothing, merely looked at her in that intent way, as though he saw her

right to the very core, she felt the awkwardness of the moment with piercing intensity.

"You are most gallant, sir," she said in a rush.

"Yes, I am the quintessence of gallant," he muttered, his gaze dropping to her mouth

and lingering there. "Actually, I am not gallant at all." His tone grew warm, intimate, and

he asked with deliberate care, "Shall I name my reward?"

"Reward?" A little tremor shimmered through her.

Stepping close, so his legs brushed the folds of her skirt, he studied her with a half-

lidded look that made her heart race.

She had ascertained at their earliest meeting that Mr. Fairfax was an odd blend of

gentleman and … something else. Now, the way he looked at her, his gaze gone hard and

sharp, told her that the gentleman had gone into hiding.

Restlessness stirred inside her, something impatient and curious and eager. She could

not think that these feelings portended anything good. She ought to step back, step away,

perhaps even run away.

The scent of him carried to her, warm, a little musky, and … spicy. Like a dish she

would like to sample. Lovely, lovely smells that tickled her senses and made her wish for

more.

She held herself perfectly still, not daring to breathe, not trusting herself lest she

succumb to the urge to lean close and press her nose to his coat. To breathe deep and full

the scent of his skin.

Oh, what madness had taken hold of her?

With a soft sound, she stumbled back a step, searching for safety in physical distance,

but finding only confusion.

The part of her that craved order, solutions, answers, felt overwhelmed.

Reaching out, Mr. Fairfax lifted a stray curl from her shoulder, slid the length of the

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strand slowly between his fingers. Her hair was pale and bright against his sun-bronzed

skin. She gasped, raised her gaze, found him watching her with a hooded look.

Beth recovered both her common sense and her voice then. She batted his hand away

and said with firm conviction, "I should be getting back. I do thank you for the return of

my property, Mr. Fairfax."

He smiled a little, a dark curving of his lips that made her shiver, and she thought he

would ask again for his reward.

She held up her hand, palm forward, forestalling him. "But though I have no desire to

disappoint you, I am afraid that my words of gratitude will have to suffice as your prize."

"That
does
disappoint me." He gave a low laugh, making her breath catch in her throat.

"But perhaps my reward will come at a future date. I am a patient man. Some things are

meant to be savored."

The words were innocuous, but his tone was low and rough and intimate. Her skin

tingled and sparked, as though he had touched her. Drawing a shaky breath, she rubbed

her palms along her upper arms.

With a flourish, he offered her ecru bag. She murmured her thanks as she took it from

him, then snatched her hand back as their fingers brushed. Even through her glove she felt

the heat of that touch.

"I really must be on my way," she whispered, confused by the strong emotions he

engendered. And he knew that he flustered her. She could sense that.

Determined to gather her wayward emotions, Beth spun away and began to walk. Mr.

Fairfax fell into step beside her, close enough that on one occasion his shoulder brushed

her own. She swallowed, thoroughly unsettled, not so much by the contact, but by her

peculiar, disconcerted reaction to it.

She actually
ached
to reach out and touch him, to know the soft feel of the cloth of his

coat over the hard bulge of muscle that defined his arms and shoulders. She wanted to rub

the thick strands of his hair between her fingers, to relish the texture, to lean close and

know again the lush smell of him.

What lunacy had overtaken her?

Girlish whimsy had never been her natural inclination. Her nature was solemn and—for

the most part—calm. Because she
willed
it so,
made
it so by sheer obstinacy and resolve.

She liked everything neat and tidy, everything ordered, but the way Griffin Fairfax made

her heart pound and her skin tingle was not tidy or ordered or even sane.

It was … it was …
absurd!

Keeping her gaze locked on the ground before her and her fingers curled tight in the

cloth of her bag, she walked on. She longed for him to leave her, to let her walk on alone,

and in the same contrary instant, she hoped he stayed exactly where he was, by her side,

matching each step to her own.

She cut him a glance through her lashes. Looked away.

Then lured by the hard, clean line of his profile, and the curl at the ends of his dark,

dark hair, and the rather disreputable stubble that darkened his cheek and jaw, she wet her

lips and looked again.

Was it soft, his beard? Rough?

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What would it feel like under her fingers if she reached out right now and touched him?

Her mouth felt dry as sand, and her thoughts were an unwieldy and frightening

mélange, so out of character.

"I have met your daughter, sir," she said. His expression grew closed and hard at her

words, drawing forth memories of Isobel's haunted gaze.

He made no answer, and the silence stretched, seeming longer than minutes. Seeming

like hours.

Well, that had certainly squelched her untoward fascination, Beth thought with a

modicum of self-directed humor.

At length, Mr. Fairfax huffed a sigh and observed, "You prefer a brisk pace, Miss

Canham."

"I do," she replied, and walked a little faster.

"Why?"

Such a simple question. Such a difficult answer.

Almost did she manage to hold her tongue and say nothing, but in the end she said far

too much.

"When I was a child, Mrs. Arthur, the woman who lived next door, lost her husband.

She ran screaming down the street when they told her. They dragged her back, and all the

while she moaned and cried for them to let her run."

She glanced at him again, at the harsh and lovely profile of his nose, his cheek, his jaw,

and then lower to where his hands were loose and relaxed at his sides. Strong hands, with

squared fingers. She raised her eyes to find him watching her with quiet expectation,

waiting for her to go on.

"My mother and I went to the widow's home every day for months to offer what help

and comfort we could." She paused. "Mrs. Arthur never ran like that again. Instead, she

took drops from a brown bottle until she could barely walk, or even sit. She would only lie

on the chaise for hours, stroking the old, worn coat of a dead man and talking softly to his

ghost."

Mr. Fairfax stopped cold, and Beth turned to look at him, her heart racing as their gazes

collided and locked.

Her words had set loose something inside him, or if not set it loose, at least prodded it

to life. His eyes, grown dark as a moonless night, reflected heartbreak and pain.

Or perhaps she saw only a mirror of her own torments.

"That is precisely the point of the brown bottle," he said, his voice a hard-edged rasp.

"To drain away the restlessness, leaving a hollow-eyed shell behind."

Beth nodded. "In the end, Mrs. Arthur drank too many drops. They called it an accident

and buried her next to her husband, but sometimes I do wonder…"

His expression chilled, and she fumbled for words, wondering what it was she had said

that had brought such desolation to his eyes.

"I think it better to feel even dreadful things," she rushed on, the words tumbling free.

"To feel even fear and pain, than to feel nothing at all."

His lips twisted in a cynic's smile, and a deep crease formed in his cheek.

"Do you? And what do you know of fear and pain, Miss Canham? What do you know

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of dreadful things?" he asked, his words almost a whisper. Intimate. Inviting her

confidences. She thought he might charm souls from the devil if he had a mind to.

She shivered. The way he asked about dreadful things made her think again of Alice

and her terrible intimations and accusations.

"Nothing," she mumbled when the silence had grown heavier than she could bear. "I

know nothing at all." She spun away and began to walk, her blood rushing through her

veins at a dizzying rate.

Oh, she knew far too much of fear, and quite enough about all manner of horrors. And

she was wise enough not to say it.

Her fingers closed convulsively around the linen embroidery bag as she walked on,

doubling her pace. She thought he would leave her, but instead, he matched his stride to

her own.

Faster, dear heart. Walk until you are free of the terrors that chase you.
Her mother's

words came to her. So many times had her mother seen Beth's agitation, sensed her

restless soul and bid her walk,
walk
until her heart pounded not with edginess, but with

exertion, until finally she ran to exhaustion the secret fiends that gnawed at her.

There were days that to be still was a torment. Less often now. She had been far worse

as a child.

Now she could pass weeks, even months, calm, serene, but eventually, from nowhere

would come the memories, the terror, and she would feel the choking sludge closing her

throat.

Her mother had understood, had found a way to channel off the fear.

Walk, dear heart. Walk faster.

Beth glanced at Mr. Fairfax. With a look in her direction that made her blood heat and a

thousand questions race through her mind, he cast her a quiet, knowing smile. Then he

quickened his pace and walked faster by her side.