If I Fall (27 page)

“If you don’t think you can do it, tell me and I’ll find another way,” he declared in a rush, his hands coming to grasp her arms. Was it a challenge or a plea?

“I can do it,” she rushed to assure. Then feeling bolder than she had any right to, Sarah took a deep breath and held her ground. Close, so close to him.

And suddenly, Sarah felt a rush of
something
. Something that made her—who had always done everything right, everything she had ever been told to do, whether it be by her mother, her father, or Phillippa—want to do something she knew was
wrong
.

To give in to gravity’s pull.

She looked up into his eyes, defiant.

“I’ll do this for you—if you grant me a boon in return.”

He cocked his head to one side. “What?”

She hesitated just the barest of moments before she managed her voice.

“Tell me your name.”

T
ELL
me your name
.

The words echoed in Jack’s ears, hollow, like a distant yearning. Tell her his name? He almost laughed aloud. He would love to. It would end this farce. It would free him from having to entangle her in this mess with the Comte de Le Bon and the Worth brothers. It would free him to tell her…

It would free him.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t give up the lie.

How he had managed for this long to pull the proverbial wool over Sarah’s eyes was a complete mystery to him. Maybe it was the clothes, the false moustache, or the whispers in candlelight, but something had overcome him and he … transformed.

He transformed himself into the man that he knew Sarah wished him to be. The Blue Raven. The one from old newspaper articles—roguish and rakish, from a time when she did not know what roguish or rakish
really
meant. He acted as the Blue Raven would act, said what the Blue Raven would say. (Admittedly, he might have thrown in a dash of Byrne Worth to the mix—he was, after all, the original.)

And she was pert and flirtatious and in awe.

She looked at him like he was a god.

Tell me your name
.

He paused in his movements when those words came out of her mouth, just a breath, floating past like a prayer. He was a fraction away from her then, leaning over her, against the edge of the girlish dressing table. He had been expecting—hoping, dreading—that she would ask him for a kiss. But instead what she wanted from him was so much more frightening.

“You know I cannot tell you that,” he whispered, hopefully keeping the panicked laughter out of his voice.

She quirked up an eyebrow. “Haven’t I proven that I am worthy of your trust? That I can keep your secret?”

Well, given that she had not only involved her sister in trying to solve the gibberish equation he had written to befuddle her,
and
she had blurted out to Phillippa Worth the details of their encounter, which landed him in this current mess, Jack would have to say that no, Sarah had not proven that she could keep his secret. But he wasn’t about to say so out loud. Instead, he just shook his head.

To which she responded with a coy tilt of her own. “Well then, I suppose you don’t want me to get the Comte to throw a dinner party. My, my, you are terribly ambivalent about your quest.”

“Ask me anything else. But you must know—for your own safety”—brilliant line, that!—“that I cannot let you know my name.”

Her face fell, becoming broken with vulnerability. “I just want to know something true about you. Something that the newspapers and … and any other women do not know.” Her hand came to rest gently on his.

“I hate salted pork,” he answered automatically.

She looked askance at him. “I’m being quite serious.”

“As am I. Salted pork is disgusting.” He smiled at her. But her expression remained still.

“Please,” was all she said. All she really had to say.

He let out his breath slowly. Leaned back and regarded her, the plea in her eyes. The resolution.

“All right,” he conceded. “But you have to close your eyes.”

“Why?” she replied, distrustful.

“Because it’s easier,” he countered. “Please.”

She relented, her lids coming down, making her as vulnerable to him as he was about to become to her.

It was truth she asked for, and truth he intended to say.

“I was a little boy once,” he began, and was gratified by the corners of her mouth pressing into a smile.

“That’s hard to imagine.”

“But true—everyone was young at one time or another. But when I was a lad … I lived near a little girl. And she had a way about her that made the stars seem dim in comparison. I used to count down the days in between getting to visit her. Because no matter how terrible things would seem, or how unhappy I was, she would always find a way to make it better.

“We both grew up, and our lives led us in separate directions. But I think that, in a way, I’ve spent my life looking for the spark that she had. The light that made the stars dim.”

“Oh,” Sarah breathed. Her eyes remaining tightly shut. Then, after a moment’s hesitation … “Have … have you ever found it? That spark?”

“I might just have,” Jack replied, his voice barely louder than the slight breeze from the window. And then, because the moment called for it, he leaned forward to lay the lightest of kisses upon her cheek.

He would have let that be the end of their moment. He would have let the breeze from the window carry him away from her, so that when her eyelids finally fluttered open, he would be gone—the only trace of him the packet that still rested in her hand, and the remembrance of a
chaste
caress.

That’s what he would have done.

But that, unfortunately, is not what happened. Because Sarah did not open her eyes
after
he kissed her. She opened them before. And in doing so, read his intent … and adjusted accordingly.

She turned her head in the split second before his lips met her cheek, and instead captured his mouth with hers.

And that was it. He was gone.

Because that thing that he had been hoping for, that thing he had been dreading since Marcus and Byrne told him of their plan for Sarah, it was happening now, and all he wanted was
more
.

He caught her head with his hand, held her steady as he took her deeper. She steadied herself against the dressing table, but it wasn’t enough. She let her hands, shaking as they were, wind around his neck and found her balance by pulling him closer. All the while, never relenting in that sweet pressure against his mouth.

Who had taught her to kiss?
The thought went wildly through his brain. He wanted to kill whomever it was, because she was doing just splendidly. But what if … what if he took it just a step further?

He pressed his free hand to the small of her back, forcing her body in alignment with his. He knew the moment she felt his full, rigid length straining against the skintight trousers, because she opened her mouth in a gasp of surprise. Which was exactly what he wanted.

He plundered, he stole. He took what lay just beyond his reach and did so gleefully. She hesitated, but then, something inside of her must have shifted, because she chucked aside caution, and began to dance those ancient steps with him.

Somehow, Sarah ended up sitting on the dressing table. Somehow, his hand had found a way to the tie of her robe, and quickly worked the knot open. Somehow, her naked legs began to open, and snake their way up to his flanks. Somehow, his reaction to that feeling was extreme enough to send the candelabrum flying from its position atop the dressing table, crashing to the floor in a bloody racket, and plunging them into total darkness.

The crash did not deter them. The dark only spurred them further, falling deeper into the abyss. It allowed their hands to roam without the constraints of propriety. And roam they did. He felt the soft skin of her calf, her thigh, pulling her legs all the tighter around him. She apparently decided that he must be much too warm, and needed freedom from his shirt, as she began to work at the buttons.

Her hand pressed against his bare chest, her fingers intertwining with the light sprinkling of curls that lived there. His hand came up in reply, his moves a mirror to hers, as he let the backs of his hands dance across the pointed tips of her breasts.

“Oh,” she said, sucking in her breath. Then, her voice a
quaver of flirt mired in vulnerability: “You do know how to persuade a lady, don’t you?”

He froze.

God damn it, Jack chastised himself immediately. He had let himself—hell, been eager to, even—get carried away.

“What is it?” she asked, all flirtatiousness gone. Now she was raw, exposed. And so very young.

He backed away violently, crossed the length of the room, using the distance to gather himself.

“Did I do something wrong?” Her voice was small, but oddly, wonderfully defiant.

He felt like laughing. Wrong? Didn’t she have any idea of just how completely, thoroughly she had picked the locks of his resolve?

“No,” he rasped. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Then, what has happened?”

He turned then, but kept the length of the room between them. Lit only by moonlight, she looked like a goddess—an oddly prim one. She had straightened herself, her robe, and was sitting on the dressing table with perfect posture and her ankles crossed. As if ten seconds ago she hadn’t been in the most wanton, provocative position imaginable. And he could imagine. He could imagine quite a bit.

For instance, he could imagine her reaction when she found out…

“One day, very soon, you are going to be made to hate me.” His felt the truth of it down to his toes, rooting him to the floor. “But when that happens, I want you to remember that at least I am not the worst kind of thief.”

She came lightly to her feet, and took two steps toward him, but he waved her back before she could get any closer.

“I won’t ever hate you,” she promised. “Please, just … I’ll do what you’ve asked. Just don’t—”

But her pleas were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Sarah?” It was Bridget. Of course it was—her rooms were just next door—on the other side of the wall from the dressing table. “Are you all right? I heard a crash and … something like a moan.”

Sarah moved quickly to him, and held a finger to his lips. “Please don’t leave. I’ll get rid of her, just don’t leave.” She
commanded with her eyes, and he nodded in acquiescence. She trotted over to the door.

“I’m fine, Bridge,” she said, on a yawn. “I, ah … I fell asleep at my table and knocked the candlestick over.”

“The candlestick!” Bridget cried, alarmed. “Are you singed? Is there a fire? Let me in!” She began banging heavily on the door.

“Bridge, I’m fine! And there is no fire!” Sarah cried at the door. She turned to give an exasperated look to him—but found that he was already gone.

With nothing more than a breeze and the remembrance of a caress to indicate he had ever been there.

“You were gone awhile.” Byrne worth smiled at him as soon as he landed roughly in the alley, a few blocks away.

Jack shot him a dirty look.

“Longer than expected.” Byrne Worth was apparently impervious to dirty looks. “Did Miss Forrester require persuasion?”

Jack decided that the most articulate answer was a short one, two words, seven letters, and as one would say, with his sailor showing through.

But Byrne’s smile just grew wider. “Not me, surely.” Then with a seriousness that belied any mirth … “I bet you managed to get under her skin this time.”

Jack would wager that he did, as well.

And it scared the hell out of him.

S
ARAH
was humming to herself when Jack walked into the breakfast room the next day, neither of them apparently the worse for wear from the previous night’s activities. Jack’s first instinct was to avoid Sarah, to grab some food and turn tail and run, lest she see on his face the memory of their shared evening. But truth be told, he was too tired. He was too tired of meddling in her life, and then trying to remove himself from it. He was too tired to worry about whether or not she maintained her cross stance with him. And he was too tired from his utter lack of sleep.

Because once he had returned to number sixteen as himself, there was no possible way for him to sleep.

“Good morning,” Jack said, gathering a plate of food from the sideboard.

“Good afternoon is more like it,” Sarah replied with a smile, but her expression remained somber. “You’re getting to be worse than me.”

Jack looked dazedly at the mantle clock. “Is that why we’re all alone?”

Sarah nodded. “Father is already at the Historical Society, Bridget is at her piano lessons—although what else she
has to learn is anyone’s guess—and mother took Amanda to the modiste. She outgrew her last day dress. Again.” Then she tilted her head, in the exact same manner that she had the previous evening when she was being pert. His mind flashed back to that moment so vividly that he missed what she was saying.

“What was that?”