His Wicked Sins (19 page)

HIS WICKED SINS

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Chapter 11

G
riffin watched the play of emotion that crossed Beth's face. Clearly, she knew not what

to make of him. As she walked a few steps away and went to stand by Lucy and Isobel, he

had the thought that at the moment he knew not what to make of himself or his

inexplicably strong attraction to her.

He had thought her merely pretty. He remembered that as he stared at her now. Her hair

was tumbling loose in a half dozen places, curling moon-pale tendrils that escaped and fell

free of the plaits she had twined, light against the dark cloth of her bodice.

She glanced at him, and away. Dusty blue eyes rimmed in dark lashes.

Not coy. Wary.

Wise girl.

He found her smart and intriguing and far more than merely pretty. Lovely. Fascinating.

Full of contradictions, and strengths and vulnerabilities that combined in a heady mix.

He found it interesting that she had deduced his presence in the tree. She was an

exceptionally observant individual.

"Watch the wasps," he said, stepping forward to bat one away from Isobel's cheek.

"They can be aggressive at this time of year. The threat of the coming winter drives them

to a frenzy."

Not a flicker of emotion altered Isobel's bland expression. He had expected nothing

else, but hope and expectation were not the same thing.

"Lucy, Isobel, time to wash your hands," Beth said, the sound of her voice calm and

even.

Isobel glanced at her and nodded.
Nodded!
Elizabeth Canham had reached past the

broken places that tormented his daughter, the first person to do so in three endless years.

Elizabeth.
Beth
. He wanted to whisper her name, to watch her eyes widen and her lips

part as he said it. He wanted to touch her calm center and ruffle her a bit.

More than a bit. He wanted to bring a flush to her cheeks and a darkening to her eyes.

She had her back to him as she watched Isobel and Lucy gather their gardening tools.

Her hand lifted, and with a languid movement, she shooed away a wasp. The sun caught

her hair, bright, dazzling. A nimbus.

"You mention the threat of the coming winter," she said, her gaze meeting his, open and

frank. "Do you see winter that way? As a threat?"

"Not at all," he replied, smiling a little at her tone. And that surprised him. He thought

he had not smiled so much in three years as he had smiled since meeting Elizabeth

Canham. A poor reflection on his life, or a wonderful reflection on her. Either way, he was

nonplussed. "I have a fondness for winter, for a crisp, sunny day. For a fresh fall of snow."

As he said the words, he recalled the stain of dark crimson against a blanket of white

snow. He folded the image away. That memory had no place in this sun-dappled garden.

Beth nodded, a graceful tip and tilt of her head.

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He tried to determine what it was about her that so piqued his interest. Her face. Her

form. Her bright-as-the-moon hair. She
was
lovely, with her delicate features and her

wide, lush mouth. When she smiled, she was truly beautiful.

Her physical attributes tempted him. Of course. All those feminine things drew a man,

and he was perhaps more base than most.

The truth of it was, as he looked at her sweet round bottom outlined by the black cloth

of her dress, and the tempting swell of her breasts where they pushed against her bodice,

he wanted to touch her, stroke her, pull his knife from his boot and slit her wretchedly

ugly dress straight down the front, baring her smooth, soft skin to his touch.

Bloody hell.

But there was something else, something more. A different connection. He frowned,

pondered, caught an idea. It was that she
saw
to the heart of the matter. That each time

they met, spoke, she said something that left him feeling as though she saw him,
knew

him, and found his company pleasing nonetheless.

In turn, he knew things about her. He knew she was intelligent, observant. She was

acquainted with fear, but chose to face it rather than cower. That made her both wise and

brave.

He knew she could not bear to be still, to be confined. He had sensed a nervous edge in

the way she stalked along the road and set her gaze to the horizon, the way she put stitches

in her handkerchief, then ripped them out, again and again.

He knew she had suffered.

Or perhaps he only painted her with attributes and quirks where none dwelled in truth.

Perhaps. But he thought not.

"Come along now, Isobel," Lucy said, her tone mimicking a schoolmistress's as she

took Isobel's hand. "We must wash our hands."

Isobel allowed herself to be led away by the other girl, docile, looking neither to the

right nor the left. Then, as she passed Griffin, she reached out and touched the hem of his

coat. Just touched it with the very tips of her fingers, before she moved on.

He stared after her, astonished.

A long moment passed. Slowly, he turned his head and met Beth's gaze.

She had seen it. Seen Isobel's touch, the first that had been granted him voluntarily in

the years since his daughter had witnessed his darkest sin.

And she understood.

He wanted to shout to the heavens. He wanted to grab Beth and drag her close and kiss

her, revel in the hope and exultation that rocked him.

Her eyes widened as she held his gaze, and her breath hitched, a soft, sensual sound that

reached inside him and made him think of other sounds he'd like to draw from her lips.

Cries. Moans.

A surge of fierce, hot longing twisted him tight.

Christ.

He stepped forward, close enough that she was forced to let her head fall back in order

to meet his gaze. Her lashes were not very long, but they were thick and curled and dark

for one so fair.

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Inches separated them. Mere inches.

He could smell the scent of her hair, subtle, faintly floral. And the scent of her skin.

Feminine. Arousing.

"What do you want of me?" she whispered.

Sweet innocent. It made him smile.

She was breathing quickly, the swell of her breasts rising and falling and he wanted to

touch her, taste her,
take
what he wanted of her in silent answer to her query.

Almost did he reach for her.

Trembling, she stumbled back a step, jerked her gaze away to look down the now-

empty path. She meant to flee, to follow the children. Griffin sensed it in the distant,

close-lipped smile she cast his way and the angling of her body to shift around him. When

he failed to move from her path, she frowned.

"Please let me pass, Mr. Fairfax," she murmured, her chin raised high, her tone almost

steady.

Of course, a nice man would not have accosted her so in the first place. A
gentleman

would step to the side and offer a bow or doff his hat and politely let her go on her way.

He did neither, but rather shifted his weight to more completely block her escape.

"Sir," she said, her voice quite calm. "I must go."

In her words and tone he discerned the clear expectation that he would let her, and the

faint tremor that belied her pretense of control.

A dark smile twisted his lips.

"Beth." He spoke her name like a caress.
Beth
. His Beth, with her delicate appearance

and her core of forged metal. "You must realize by now that I make no claim to politesse.

I barely graduated from short pants when I wandered onto the path of villainy, and though

I now find myself back in the guise of an upstanding fellow, highborn, well-bred, the

image is deceiving." He shifted closer, their chests almost touching.

She stared at him, eyes wide and dark with emotion. A pulse beat swift and hard in her

neck. He wanted to lean in and press his lips to the spot, feel the tempo of her lifeblood,

know the taste of her skin.

"I am neither a nice man nor a gentleman," he whispered, a clarification lest she had

misunderstood his meaning. A simple truth. No matter the clothes he wore or the fine,

pretty facade he conjured, he had long ago acknowledged that he was no scion of chivalry,

that his was a heart of darkness. Or perhaps no heart at all.

"You are a villain, then?" she asked, low and breathy.

"I am."

She nodded, unsurprised. Studied him. A disconcerting thing, the way she looked at

him, as though she could delve deep and see parts of him that even he did not know

"A villain who issues pretty warnings," she observed, making no move to look away.

He remained as he was, blocking her path, far too close for their interaction to be

deemed appropriate, breathing in the scent of her hair, unapologetic. Hot lust ground

through him, and images of wants and needs. He wanted to drag her against him, push her

thighs apart with his knee, feel her writhe as he pressed his fingers deep into the softness

of her buttocks and held her tight against him—

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On a sharp exhale, he stepped back.

"What—" She pressed her lips together, shook her head, her confusion apparent, as was

her attraction to him. She was innocent, yet he had little doubt that she knew what he

thought, what he wanted.

What he meant to have … eventually.

His gaze slid to her hair, pale as flax. The wisps that had come loose from her plaits, so

sweetly curled, made him ache to drag out all the pins, to let the whole of the curling mass

tumble free, to dig his fingers in and weave them through the silky strands.

With a desperate little gasp, she edged to one side.

He had no desire to let her go, but he realized with a bolt of clarity that he had no wish

to frighten her, either. He merely wanted to …
to what?

Be with her. Listen to her voice.

So he did the unacceptable and closed his fingers on her wrist, not tight or hurtful, but

enough to stay her impending departure. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth.

With actions instinctive and swift, he drew her wrist up, breathed deep. She gasped and

twitched but did not pull away.

Pressing his mouth to the soft skin on the inside, he ran his tongue along the crease,

tasting her.
So sweet. Christ, so sweet
.

She froze, trembling in her place. He could feel the pulse at her wrist pounding wildly.

"Mr. Fairfax," she whispered. "You overstep the bounds of polite company."

Without raising his head, he cut her glance through his lashes and swirled his tongue

over her skin, a luscious taste of her, before offering his reply against her skin.

"Yes, I do overstep. You see, I have little care for the bounds of polite company. Make

no mistake about the sort of man I am, Miss Canham."

"No." The word was less than a whisper.

With care, he licked along her wrist, sank his teeth into the fleshy part at the base of her

thumb, a gentle bite. She made a sound, of shock, of pleasure, a sharp exhalation that sank

through his gut straight to his groin.

"Please," she gasped, and tugged briskly once, then again, harder.

Dropping his gaze, he studied her slender wrist, her skin pale against his own where he

held her. Then he looked up once more.

Brows high, eyes wide, the dusty blue color darkened to purple, she stared at him for a

tense moment, holding his gaze, never wavering.

Brave, but not unafraid. A woman of valor, or perhaps a woman who had known—and

faced—her share of fears.

She took a step back, pulling on her wrist once more, and this time he freed her with a

slow, lazy uncurling of his fingers and a lingering caress to the back of her hand.

She looked down, her lashes veiling her eyes, her head bowed as she stared at her wrist,

and the seconds trooped one after the next like a line of ants. At length, she raised her

head.

"Is it your intent to distress me?" she asked, her eyes narrowed now, sparking blue fire,

her successful withdrawal leaving her anger stronger than her fear, and her passion lacing

both.

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She took another half-step around him.

Studying her face, reading the nuances of her expression, he let her sidle away. Her lips,

full and lush, were drawn taut at the corners.

She was an intriguing enigma, strength and fragility. He noted that she had asked only

if he meant to distress her, not if he meant to harm her. Was she such an innocent that she

did not realize that he might well do just that? They were alone here in the garden and he

held her back from escape.

Anger roared through him, at himself for his precipitous actions, at her for not

screaming and running. He had warned her, and still she did not seem to grasp exactly

what he was.

A villain. A monster.

He was grateful that she did not see it; he was furious that she did not see it.

Unreasoning anger, as usual.

He mastered it quickly. Long years of practice had taught him the way of it.

She took a deep breath, and he thought she would flay him with her words. Instead, she