Samantha James (8 page)

“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Lewis”—though her tone was sweet, it cut like a blade—“I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes flickered like lightning, warning her she’d hit a nerve. But Heather cared not, for by now she had warmed to her ire.

“What, Mr. Lewis. Nothing to say? Well, I’ve plenty to say. I’m furious that you dare to criticize me, when it’s because of you this happened. Bea is quite taken with you. Surely you’ve noticed.”

He sighed, a sound of indulgence. “Of course I did. But she’s also very young—”

“Young, yes. And beautiful. And tempting, Mr. Lewis?”

His jaw clamped shut. She sensed he restrained his temper with difficulty. But then he smiled, a crooked smile that lifted one side of his mouth. “Your imagination is quite vivid,” he said easily. “I assure you, I’m not one to rob the cradle. As for your sister, ’tis my belief she was merely testing her charms.”

So now he would ridicule her? Heather’s nails dug into her palms. “You find it amusing, do you, Mr. Lewis? Well, I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have you encouraging her!”

His smile vanished. “I’m quite aware of your sister’s feelings. But unlike you, I feel a bit of diplomacy is in order. I have no interest in her, save that she is a charming young girl who will no doubt catch the fancy of some handsome young buck one day. But rather than crush her like a bug, I think it better to let her down gently.”

“Gently?” It was an outright scoff. “By lavishing your attention on her, Mr. Lewis?”

He bristled. “I showed her how to waltz, Miss
Duval, and she enjoyed it immensely. Yet you make it sound as if we committed some grievous offense. One might almost believe you were envious of her.”

Heather glared at him. Why must he sound so blasted logical?

White teeth flashed in that tanned face. “But it occurs to me that you never allow yourself to laugh and savor those lighthearted times which come our way, Miss Duval. And perhaps because
you
do not, you don’t want your sister to enjoy herself, either.”

All at once the battle had shifted to different ground. He made her sound like a shrew from the furthest reaches of hell. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t…
or was she?

Guilt arrowed straight to her heart. She’d made Bea cry. Never in her life had she made anyone cry. And Bea was her sister—no matter Bea’s angry denial. They were still sisters….

But who was he to criticize her like this? A smoldering resentment simmered in her veins. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Lewis. You don’t know
me—
”

“On the contrary, Miss Duval. You’re a bitter young woman who feels sorry for herself. You’re a coward who shields herself from life. You hide here at Lockhaven rather than face the world head-on.”

His arrogant half-smile was maddening. She longed to slap his face.

But all at once there was a huge lump in her throat. Her control was fragile, though she’d be
damned if she’d let him know it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her…

…of knowing he was right.

“That’s not true,” she denied. “I lead a full, rewarding life, and I’m immensely content with it.”

But she wasn’t. Not since
he
had come into it….

“Are you? I’ve seen your paintings, Miss Duval, and not all are tranquil and serene. What about the one in your study, the hunchback with no face? He stands upon a hilltop, surrounded by masses of black, roiling clouds.”

It was frightening…
he
was frightening, for it was as if he had seen into her very soul.

“Stop it,” she cried. “Stop it!” Her cane fell to the ground. She clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the sound of his voice.

He wouldn’t allow it. He dragged her hands back to her sides and held them there.

“Do you think I don’t see it? The hunchback is alone, Heather, as you are alone. Disfigured…”

She groped for anger—for pride—and could find neither. Desperate, she was convinced that retreat was her only hope. She struggled against his hold, to no avail. The hands around her wrists were like manacles.

“Let me go!” she nearly screamed. “I want to leave!”

“What! Will you run away again?” Mocking gray eyes glittered down at her. “Well, not yet, Heather. Not just yet.”

She managed to wrench free. Then it happened. He snared her elbow and spun her around…

Straight into his arms.

One single, startled breath was all she drew…and then his mouth came down on hers, swallowing her cry of surprise.

It happened so fast…. She caught a mind-teetering glimpse of his eyes—ah, but what she saw there nearly made her cry out. His gaze was blistering, a reflection of the storm that raged between them.

A tremor of shock went through her. Yet for all the fierceness of his expression, he didn’t hurt her. His hold was demanding, yet not rough. His arms were hard about her back; drawn full and tight against him, there was no part of him she couldn’t feel! She was searingly conscious of the breadth of his chest against the softness of her breasts. His thighs were like pillars of rock forged against her own.

Her fanciful daydreams had ill prepared her. In all her days, she’d never imagined a kiss would be like this. He did not plunder, but took posses
sion of her mouth with a stark, bold mastery that left no room for denial.

And yet…God above, that was the last thing on Heather’s mind. His lips were hotly passionate, utterly persuasive, sweet beyond reason…beyond all measure. There was a vague, distant pounding in her ears—her heart, she realized. Seized by a strange, inner trembling, her lips parted instinctively. A jolt shook her as the tip of his tongue touched hers, yet she didn’t retreat. Instead, she let him explore as he would…as, indeed, he did….

The very earth seemed to move beneath her feet. His breath was a warm rush in the back of her throat. Odd, but she didn’t feel his kiss only against her lips. It flamed all through her, to parts she’d never imagined. She could feel the slight roughness of his beard against her own silken smoothness. The touch of his hands on her waist was like a heated brand; it was as if it burned through her clothing to her skin. Even as her breath grew quick and ragged, her limbs grew weak, like melted butter. Her hands crept upward. Her fingers uncurled in the folds of his shirt.

Damien nearly groaned aloud. She’d never been kissed before. He’d never been more certain of anything in his life. Always before, he’d been a man who preferred a woman with experience, who could pleasure him as he pleasured her.

Yet Heather was different. She was untouched, wholly and completely, and the knowledge went through him like wildfire. He yearned to turn her
cool innocence into fiery awakening. Lord, why bother to lie to himself? In truth, this was but an excuse to do what he’d been longing to do all along. She had stirred his temper, aye—and heated his blood to a raging boil. Blood gathered between his thighs, swelling his manhood to an almost painful erectness. It was all he could do not to lay her down, strip away the confining strictures of their clothing and plunge deep within her satin cleft.

His fingers dug almost convulsively into the narrow curve of her waist. For a moment he swung perilously between heaven and hell. He thought blackly that he was damned no matter which he chose….

But it seemed the choice was not his at all, for at that very instant Heather wrenched herself free. She stumbled back, nearly losing her balance. She caught herself just in time.

She swallowed. Her gaze trekked slowly up the strong, corded column of his neck, past lips that all at once seemed hard as stone, to collide with his gaze, which was dark and unreadable. He betrayed no hint of expression, neither pleasure nor displeasure. As always, his thoughts were a mystery.

Slowly she raised a trembling hand to touch her mouth. She confronted him, her voice both accusing and confused. “You—you’re mad!” she whispered. She sought very hard to keep her voice from shaking.

One broad shoulder lifted in an indolent shrug. “Perhaps.”

“I—I could dismiss you!”

And probably should
, he thought. His gaze wandered downward, back up to tremulous lips. Desire cut through him, so intense it was a physical pain. Christ, her mouth was incredible. Soft and pink, still dewy-wet from the eager glide of his tongue….

Two bright spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. Her eyes were huge. “Wh-why are you staring at me like that?”

Caution flared high and bright within him. He dismissed the idea just as quickly. With soft deliberation he said, “Because I’m thinking I’d very much like to kiss you again, Miss Heather Duval.”

Did he mock her? Her thoughts—her very emotions—were a wild scramble in her breast. She didn’t know. Indeed, she scarcely knew her own name at this instant.

He moved so abruptly she jumped. But he merely bent to retrieve her cane from the pathway. He extended it toward her, a wordless challenge inherent in his features until she gingerly stretched out a hand to accept it.

Only then did he deign to speak. “But you needn’t worry. Though it will cost me dearly, I will restrain myself.”

Now she knew for certain that he mocked her. Though she longed for some ready retort, none sprang to her lips. She could only watch as he turned and strode from the terrace, whistling a merry tune as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It passed through her mind that she had just experienced the most exhilarating, wondrous moment of her life…

Yet it was also the most despairing.

She’d finally discovered what it was like to be held close in strong male arms. To be kissed…

And now she knew what she’d been missing.

Heather arose rather late the next morning. She had slept little, if at all. All through the night, she’d relived that scene in the garden with Damien. She resented him fiercely for what he had done—oh, it wasn’t that he had kissed her. But he had turned her inside out. She was uncertain of herself as she’d not been in a long, long time, and she despised him for it…though she despised herself no less for her weakness.

Nor could she forget…he’d called her Heather. Never before had he done so, and it made what had passed between them all the more intimate.

Then there was that awful business with Bea. She’d been a hypocrite to accuse Bea of being smitten. Indeed, that very same phrase might well apply to herself…she would have to go see her, and soon. This evening, she decided.

Though she was not one to laze abed, she was sorely tempted to remain there the rest of the day. But he had accused her of hiding from the world, and she’d not give him the satisfaction.

Still, throughout the morning, she stayed in the house. Not until afternoon did she garner the courage to venture without. She had tea with the vicar every Thursday afternoon, and she vowed that this particular afternoon would be no different. So it was that she spent an unremarkable hour or so with the vicar and his wife. Yet all the
way to and from the village, she prayed she wouldn’t encounter Damien Lewis.

Once she was home, she considered going to the conservatory to paint, but her nerves were too unsettled. And she couldn’t help but think of what he’d said about her paintings.

Yet another reminder she could have done without.

At home she struggled up the stairs, feeling as if she were one hundred and twenty-five instead of twenty-five. One day, she thought absently, she would establish her bedchamber on the lower floor.

Upstairs in her room, she dropped her bonnet next to her jewel case. As she had a hundred times before, she stopped to trace the word engraved on the lid—
Beloved
. Usually, the ritual act evoked comfort in her breast at those times she chanced to need it, yet it eluded her this day. With a sigh she dropped her hand to her side and moved over to the bed to sit.

There was a light rap upon the door. Before Heather could respond, it opened.

Beatrice stepped inside.

Heather had no time to rise. Startled, she stared at Bea, whose eyes were as wide and wary as surely her own must be.

Linked before her waist, Bea’s fingers pulled at each other. “May I come in, Heather?”

Her voice was uncharacteristically tenuous. Heather’s heart went out to her. Wordlessly she patted the space beside her.

Bea didn’t hesitate, but closed the door behind
her. Once she was seated on the bed, Heather slanted her a faint smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, Bea. You spared me a trip to Lyndermere this evening to see you.”

“You were coming to see me?”

Heather’s features were grave, her voice very gentle. “I have no desire to leave things as they were when last we saw each other, Bea.”

“I—I know,” the younger girl said quickly. “That’s why I’m here.” She gazed down at her knotted hands. “Oh, Heather,” she burst out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were right—I shouldn’t have been so forward with Mr. Lewis. But I—I didn’t mean what I said, truly! I should never have said you weren’t my sister.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I knew I had, as soon as it was out. And then I was so afraid you’d be angry with me forever.”

Heather’s arm had slid around her shoulders. “Shhh, Bea,” she soothed, drawing her close. “We all do things we regret, love. I was horrid, too. I made you cry, and then I felt terrible for being so mean.”

Bea sniffed and raised her face. “Then you’ll forgive me?”

“If you’ll forgive me, love.” She brushed a damp blond tendril from Bea’s cheek. “We’re sisters in every way that matters, Bea. That’s all that’s important.”

Bea’s smile was watery. “That’s what Mama said, too.”

Heather gave a dry chuckle. “A wise woman, our mother,” she teased. She tipped her head to the side. “Do you think it’s something she eats?”

They were both still laughing when Bea left a short while later. Heather felt as if a very great weight had been lifted from her shoulders—and her heart. She was even humming a little as she entered her study.

But someone was already there. A figure was bent over her desk—Damien. The fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his back, clearly outlining every muscle. The artist in her leaped to the fore—how she would love to capture that lean male form in primal, naked glory.

She would have fled without a sound, had she possessed the ability to do so. As it was, he’d already discerned her presence. Straightening, he turned to face her. All at once her mouth was as dry as dust.

“Miss Duval. Marcus told me you were with your sister and I didn’t want to interrupt, so I was just leaving you a note.”

Miss Duval
. Heather inwardly cringed. That sounded so icily remote after what had happened between them last night. But his expression was calm, his manner utterly indifferent. It might never have happened. No doubt he’d put it from his mind. Forgotten it completely.

But she wouldn’t forget. She would
never
forget.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it against her ribs. Nervously she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Was there something you wished to discuss with me?”

“Yes. I was out near the Tucker farm this morning. The pilings on the bridge over the stream there have begun to rot. Should the
waters chance to rise with a heavy rain, I suspect it may wash out. I wondered if you wished to have it repaired now.”

Her nod was jerky. “I see no point in waiting until it’s too late. If the bridge washed out, the Tuckers would be isolated.”

“Good. I’ll see to it, then.” He closed the distance between them as he spoke. But he didn’t exit the study, as she thought he would. Instead he stopped before her.

Her gaze climbed high…higher still. Lord, but he was tall! He made her feel small and helpless, and she liked it not a whit!

“I also wanted to make certain you’d not changed your mind about our trip to Cumberland tomorrow.”

Cumberland. With all the uproar of the last twenty-four hours, it had slipped from her mind like water through a sieve. But she wasn’t about to let him know it.

She raised her chin slightly. “I cannot think why,” she stated succinctly.

“Nor can I, Miss Duval. Nor can I.” His gaze dropped fleetingly to her lips. His smile was a thin disguise. “Shall we meet at the stables in the morning at…?” His brows rose as he waited for her to finish.

“Eight o’clock will be fine, Mr. Lewis.” Their eyes locked. Had she not been so furious, she might have recognized a glimmer of admiration in his. As it was, her gaze drilled into his back as he left.

More than anything, she’d have liked to cancel their trip. But he would have called her a coward
again. Indeed, she thought angrily, he’d expected her to wilt like a fallen blossom, and she wasn’t about to prove him right. He’d called her bluff—and won, damn his hide!

Slowly she released a long, uneven sigh. She was most definitely not looking forward to this journey.

Smoke curled eerily upward into the dead of the London night. It was well after midnight, and few were about at such an hour. An old crone, huddled into a niche in the chipped stone wall, half rose and stretched out a scrawny, gnarled hand.

“Please, sir,” she called in a scratchy, quavering voice. “Have ye a coin for an old woman?”

A knotted fist sliced through the air. The blow knocked the woman off her feet and sent her sprawling headlong on the muddied ground.

“Away with ye, bitch!” came the angry mutter.

The tall, burly figure crossed the cobbled streets and into a dark alley behind the public house. His footsteps trod heavily on the wooden beams as he made his way up the back staircase and into a tiny room directly above the taproom.

There James Elliot lit the remains of a stubby candle, then began to empty his pockets of the night’s work. Several gold rings rolled in wobbly circles. Two fat purses stuffed with coin dropped onto the table. His eyes gleamed as he dangled a highly polished pocket watch suspended on a fancy, glittering chain. On impulse he stuffed it back into his pocket. He’d taken a fancy to the piece—perhaps he would keep it.

Grabbing a dirt-crusted bottle from the table, he tipped it to his lips. He gulped the whole of its contents and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze swung around the room, to the straw mattress humped in the corner, the chair propped against a yellowed wall. His lodgings were dingy and crude. After twenty years in Newgate, he’d merely exchanged one hellhole for another.

His mood was suddenly vile. He swung the bottle to the table with a force that nearly snapped the flimsy wooden table in two. What did it matter that he was free? Twenty years he’d waited patiently. Planning. Scheming. Dreaming of the day he’d be free…the day he’d be rich. It was all that had sustained him during those infernal years in prison.