His Wicked Sins (23 page)

walls gray and mauve.

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Her footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space, the sound ricocheting back and

forth, until she began to wonder if it was merely the residual noise of her own steps that

followed her, or something else entirely.

She froze, spun, her heart thudding against her ribs. The sound of a shuffling step

carried to her, unmistakable. Frightening. The suspicion that someone followed her shifted

to certainty.

"Hello? Who is there?" She could not help but think of the man who had stood in the

back garden, watching her window. A man she suspected had been in her room, touched

her things. The thought horrified her, terrified her. "Is anyone there?"

A thin, shallow reflection of her voice bounced back at her. Then, into the silence came

the scrape of a footstep.

Chilling tendrils wove about her heart, and her gaze darted along the hallway, pausing

at every shadow. She was
not
alone. She felt the icy certainty of that close about her chest

and squeeze tight.

She spun, looked behind her. To the right. To the left.

How far to the refectory?

Even as the question formed, she recognized her folly in allowing her distress to cloud

her thoughts.

She recognized the pattern from multitudinous episodes in her past, the episodes her

mother labeled attacks of dismay.

She was amplifying the danger, stoking the flames of her fears, feeding them with the

truth of dark memories and the distress over her present circumstance. She was

succumbing to hysteria, though the rational part of her knew her reaction was overblown.

It was early morning. There were people about. Teachers. Students. Maids. Perhaps it

was one of them she had heard, and even if it was not, even if someone
did
follow her

along this corridor, surely someone else would hear her and come if she screamed.

A sharp sigh escaped her, and she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, angry at

herself for how far she had allowed this to devolve.

Dropping her hand to her side, she looked about, getting her bearings. The passages and

rooms were a dim maze.

Her thoughts in turmoil, she began to walk down the corridor, her heart racing, her

heels tapping out a rapid pace. She fought the urge to glance back over her shoulder to

make certain she was alone.

Walk, dear heart. Walk faster
. And she did, her pace quickening with each step until

she was running, her hand fisted tight in her skirt, her hem held high.

A part of her recognized that she was unreasonable, her reaction extreme. She tried to

slow her gait, to measure her tread, but she felt as though her skin would burst, as though

needles and pins poked her and gouged her. Her heart twisted with a sharp and bright pain,

as though a mighty fist reached deep inside her and crushed the palpitating organ.

She tried all the tricks she had taught herself over the years: counting her breaths;

counting her steps; slowing each breath by force of will.

To no avail. Her heart pounded like a smith's hammer.

Oh, this would not do. Not at all—

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"Miss Canham!" Mr. Fairfax caught her as she slammed against him, steadying her as

she stumbled and swayed.

She stared at him, trembling, her heart racing. She wondered if she had conjured a

mirage, or if he stood here in truth.

"Beth," he said gently, his gaze locked on hers, his hands about her arms. "Beth," he

said again, stronger, and she felt a hard lump choking her, a lump of tears and fear and

humiliation.

Confusion buffeted her. What was he doing here at such an hour? What happenstance

had brought him to this hallway at exactly this time? Or was it happenstance at all? Did he

follow her, watch her, hunt her?

She jerked, but he held her arms, though his grip lightened.

"The color is gone from your face," he said. "What is it, Beth? What has frightened you

so?"

Mute, she shook her head rapidly from side to side. What was she to say? She dared not

trust him, his convenient presence here, or the possibility that it was he who tormented

her.

She found she could not bear it, not the confines of the passage, or the grip of his hands

on her arms. She needed to run, she needed to breathe—

Catching her wrist, he drew her hand up, turned her palm forward. With no concern for

propriety, he pushed her fingers inside his coat and his vest, against the thin linen of his

shirt. Against his heart.

Warmth flooded her, the heat of his body. The heat of his gaze, so focused, so intent.

"Feel my heart, Beth. Feel the beat of it. Let my heart beat in time with your own."

He
knew
. He knew what she thought, what she felt. But how? How?

He pressed her palm tighter against him, and she did feel it, the steady, steady beat.

Strong, slow, even. A metronome setting the pace for her own pulse.

Rocked by confusion and dismay she stood, battling the inappropriate urge to fling

herself against the warm, solid strength of him.

"Trust me, Beth," he said, a low murmur that lured and beguiled. "Let me be your

anchor."

She exhaled sharply, and was left deflated and confused. Trust him? She could trust no

one.

For a long moment, he studied her, his eyes narrowed in contemplation, his pupils

dilated, leaving his gaze dark and unfathomable. Then he smiled, a faint curve of his lips,

enough to offer a glimpse of the crease that carved his cheek.

"Better?" he asked.

Oddly, she did feel marginally better. Like phantoms, her worries and secret fears

shadowed her every thought, her every breath, but somehow, they felt distant now.

Bearable.

Lowering her lashes, she studied her hand where it disappeared inside his coat. She

could feel his heartbeat. Feel his warmth. She ought to draw away. It was the proper thing

to do. But for this frozen moment, she only wanted to pull what small comfort she could

from him, to steal just a little of his calm demeanor and drag it about her like a cloak.

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She raised her gaze to his and nodded, and he winked at her then. Not as though to

make light of her, but as though they were in collusion, as though he understood.

Because he did. She knew that. Griffin Fairfax boxed his emotions up so neat and tidy,

held them back behind a solid reserve.

They
were
in collusion. He
did
understand.

She knew what demons she battled, what horrors tormented her soul. She knew exactly

why she must fight to hold them back. Which left her wondering… What monsters ate at

his?

* * *

stack of correspondence, and scrutinized his books before riding to the village of Burndale

on a small errand. The day was fine, the dawn chill giving way to a milder morning.

He knocked at the Widow Gormley's door and was greeted cordially, if slightly warily.

Mrs. Gormley, like most of the villagers, regarded him with a modicum of concern and

suspicion. With just cause. The circumstances of Amelia's death were ugly and twisted as

sin, and the telling and retelling of it over the years, the story whispered behind cupped

palms, had made the thing uglier still.

Patiently, he waited as Mrs. Gormley folded his shirts—she had darned the hem of one,

and replaced the buttons on the other two—wrapped them in waxed paper, then bound the

whole with string. As the widow tied a neat knot, Griffin looked around the shabby parlor

of her small cottage, enjoying the scent of fresh-baked bread that flavored the air.

They had food, then, he thought. She and her younger son, Elliot, were not going

hungry. Smooth relief settled over him.

Though he barely knew her, the woman's dire straits had caught his attention last fall

when her husband had dropped dead for no reason at all and left her a widow with two

young children. Before the man's death, Mrs. Gormley had often been seen with her face

beaten black and blue, her lip split, her eye swollen shut. Once, in Griffin's hearing, the

chandler had wondered aloud if perhaps Mrs. Gormley's widowhood had been hastened

into being by a dose of poison. For some inexplicable reason, Griffin had found himself

compelled to engage in discourse with the man out back of his shop, and that rumor had

died a timely death.

He could not say what touched him about the woman's circumstance. Kindness was a

virtue he laid no claim to. But Mrs. Gormley's plight
did
touch him. He thought it might

be because of her sons, because of the way she looked at them and cared for them and

stood in front of them to take their father's blows. Or perhaps it was because she reminded

him of himself in a time long past, weak and small and forced to endure, determined to

survive nonetheless.

Or perhaps it was merely a whim.
That
explanation sat best with him.

Accepting the package from her, he thanked her for her fine stitches. Mrs. Gormley

made a small smile in that shy way she had, with her chin dipped low and her face turned

a little away.

He could not help but think of Beth Canham, her direct gaze, the way she met

everything head-on. Even her fears. She was a mystery. And she drew him as no one had

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in a very long time.

Thinking of her, the way she had looked in the dim passage the previous morning, pale

and fearful, her breath coming in rapid little pants, made him wonder about her all the

more. He wanted to peel away her layers, peel away her secrets.

"I thank you for bringing the work to me," Mrs. Gormley said, and he glanced at her,

drawn back to the moment.

Her words elicited a rising discomfort. Bloody hell. He had enough money to buy the

entire village if he'd been of a mind to. An easy enough matter to share a small measure

with this woman.

He had originally offered charity, arriving on Mrs. Gormley's doorstep with a little bag

of coins three days after her husband was buried. That offer was immediately and firmly

rebuffed. He had been wise enough never to repeat it. So he took her elder boy, Thomas, a

lad of twelve, to Wickham Hall to work at the stables. And he found ways for Mrs.

Gormley to earn a little extra, as well.

In return, he had clothes that were always in the finest repair.

"'Tis I who thank you, for unless I wish to purchase a new shirt each time I lose a

button, I see no way around it."

Her gaze flicked to his, then skittered away. "There are a dozen maids at Wickham Hall

you might have set to the chore, Mr. Fairfax," she said.

With a nod, Griffin passed her the payment for her sewing.

"True enough," he replied, then lowered his voice, sharing a confidence. "But the maids

at Wickham never seem to put the buttons exactly where I want them."

Her dark, finely arched brows rose and she shook her head, clearly unconvinced. She

might have been beautiful once, before her husband's fists left her nose twisted and her

right cheek lower than her left.

"Can they not match the buttons to the holes?" Her fleeting smile flashed again, then

disappeared. "A daunting task, that."

He nodded gravely. "Precisely."

A soft huff of air escaped her.

She was right, of course. Any maid—one of an army of servants he had to see to his

needs—might have darned his shirts. He was used to having servants. As a child, he had

known a life of riches. But there had been a time between childhood and manhood when

he had had only himself to see to his needs, when he had known far too intimately the

twisting ache of an empty belly, the worry and fear over where the next meal was coming

from, or if there would even be a next meal.

Was it that kinship, that empathy, that motivated his largesse?

The possibility appalled him. He chose to tell himself otherwise, that it was because

Mrs. Gormley's stitchery was unsurpassed.

He glanced at her then, noted the thimble on her finger. The sight of it summoned a

recollection of Beth sitting on the stone bench in the back garden, her head bowed, her

needle flashing. She had made a sad hash of her embroidery, but with tenacious

determination she had picked out the stitches and put them in again and again.

He thought of walking with her on the road, and their meeting in Burndale's back

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garden. The taste of her skin. The catch of her breath when he kissed her wrist. It was

more than attraction. He enjoyed her company, her wit, her intelligence. He valued the

way she cared for his daughter. He valued
her
. A disconcerting realization.

"Mr. Fairfax!" Mrs. Gormley's tone, laced with surprise, pricked the bubble of his

imaginings. "Oh, I'm sorry … I never meant … it's just that I have never seen you smile