The Darkest Sin (32 page)

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Authors: Caroline Richards

BOOK: The Darkest Sin
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Faron adjusted his mask. “Hate. Ahh yes, which brings us to Meredith.” He smiled darkly at a memory, his lips a slash against the leather of his face. “How unfortunate you will not be available to ask her yourself. It gives me the greatest pleasure knowing that she has been racked with grief this past year, believing you to be long dead and her remaining ward, Julia, virtually in hiding on another continent with her husband. And all to escape my attentions.” He sneered the last few words.
Rowena stiffened at the cruel twist of his lips. Her shoulder throbbed and was beginning to leak blood again. “You wish to make us suffer,” she said. “Why? I shan't have a chance to ask again. So at least tell me why,” she asked vehemently, on the verge of begging.
A flash of pride was quickly banked in Faron's eyes. “I accused Lord Rushford here of being a sentimental man.” He continued in a distant voice, “Meredith Woolcott was my first love,” he said. “And I hers.”
It was impossible. Repulsive. Rowena felt nausea overcome her.
“But I do not wear this mask without reason, mademoiselle,” Faron continued, his eyes obsidian outlined by leather. “You should well ask what Meredith did to me. Your sister Julia did so. There are wounds that go far beyond the superficialities of the skin and inward to the mind and spirit.”
“Faron.” Rushford's voice interrupted. “You've waited long enough.” He gestured to the crate and the men ready with their metal jacks to pry the lid open. “Talk of the past is useless. If I were you, I'd see that no damage is done to the Stone . . .” He stepped aside.
Faron lifted his gaze from Rowena and turned first to the crate and then to Rushford, something like suspicion in his eyes. “The Baron assured me that you would make good on your promise, Lord Rushford,” he said.
“I'm here, aren't I?” Rushford responded. “Disarmed by your men in a totally unexpected and unnecessary ambush. As the Baron no doubt informed you, I wish only to protect Miss Woolcott.”
“Since you had no success protecting the Duchess,” Faron finished the statement.
Rushford bowed his head slightly. “If you would permit me to at least give some comfort to Miss Woolcott before . . .” He allowed the sentence to drift off.
“And why ever would I do that?”
“Because I believe that I have something that you may covet even more than the Rosetta Stone.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Hear me out first,” Rushford said.
“I could put a bullet through your head this instant,” Faron said coldly.
“You will—but not just yet,” Rushford said, equally cool. “I have a missive. From Meredith Woolcott to you. On the
Brigand.
”
For a moment a thick cloud of mist obscured the Frenchman from Rowena's gaze, and then, when the thickness cleared, she saw Faron give a small nod to one of his men, who proceeded to prod Rushford with a pistol at his back. He moved across the deck and then made a short leap over to the
Brigand
. In several strides, Rushford was at her side. Now there were three men and any number of weapons at their backs. Yet, Rowena felt her muscles relax, the throbbing in her wrists, ankles, and shoulder fading away with Rushford's nearness.
“Where is it?” Faron asked softly.
“Below deck,” Rushford replied. He made no move to touch her, but Rowena could feel his protectiveness enveloping her like a shield. “In the trunk by the bulkhead.”
Faron gave another nod, and two of the men behind Rowena and Rushford disappeared below deck. “In the interim, to prove to you, Lord Rushford, that I am not such a sentimental fool as you appear to be, I shall become reacquainted with the Rosetta Stone. Now that it is mine.” Moving toward the crate, he gestured to the men to begin working the lid from it. Several more metal hammers and jacks appeared, grinding into the wood.
Rowena felt Rushford tense beside her for one moment before she heard a crack of what sounded like thunder. The vibration sent her stumbling back before a billowing cloud of smoke from Faron's sloop obscured her vision. Beside her, Rushford slammed into the man behind them, disarming him in a heartbeat and then running across the deck to secure the door that led to the cabin, trapping the remainder of Faron's men below.
“Get down,” Rushford hissed, dragging her to the floor while he pushed them both over to the wheel of the
Brigand.
The sails caught the wind, and the sloop began to move away from the Frenchman's now burning ship, wreaths of smoke dancing in the air. Rowena crawled to the edge of the deck, her eyes riveted by the sight of Montagu Faron in the churning waters of the channel.
The mask had yet to come loose, but his eyes were wide with the incomprehension of a child being tortured for reasons he cannot fathom. Rowena's wrists were bound, but for a moment she wondered whether she would have reached out to him if she had been able, remembering her own horror, the flow of the river pulling her down inexorably to her death. The explosion still hammered in her ears, her mind numb with shock. And all she could do was watch as Faron floated farther into the channel, his arms stopping their struggle, the icy water having done its work.
Epilogue
Three months later at Montfort
“I
feel decidedly wicked,” Rowena declared. It was past noon and she was still abed with her new husband. It was early autumn, and a fire in the grate gave the room a warm glow. “I don't know how ever to explain this to Aunt Meredith. She's expecting us for tea.”
“Which is at least four hours away,” Rushford growled, sheets pooling around his waist, his torso bared to Rowena's appreciative gaze. A bottle of champagne and a deck of cards lay between them. Rowena had forgotten who had lost the last hand of vingt-et-un. Really they had both won, she thought with a languorous stretch that Rushford did not miss.
“I suppose we have nothing to be embarrassed about,” she mused. “We did exert ourselves this morning with an incredibly energetic ride. So we deserve a nap,” she concluded with effortless logic. “It is wonderful riding Dragon again, although I beg of you to be honest”—She turned to him with a small frown of concern. “Did you allow me to win the race?”
“And cheat?
Never,
” he avowed with a grin. “Your prowess left me in the dust.”
Rowena grinned. “I do ride well, don't I?”
“You do.”
She attempted to look modest. “And you did not allow me to win at cards, either.”
“I believe it was a draw,” he said with a devilish glint in his eyes as they rested on the sheet that had fallen from her breasts. “Besides which, I believe I suddenly have another game in mind, now that we have exhausted cards and riding.”
“Chess? Sparring?” she asked provocatively, sliding closer to him. “You promised to show me how to perfect an upper cut, as I recall.”
“Not even close.” He leaned nearer, his reply a whisper against the warmth of her lips. “I challenge you to guess what I have in mind,” he demanded.
She placed a finger on her lips before allowing it to drag over her mouth. “That should not prove too onerous, Rushford,” she said, desire suffusing her voice. His hands swept down over her bared breasts, lifting them slightly as they swelled under his touch. The heat of his fingers against her skin sent shivers down her body to her core.
It had been that way between them from the beginning, and nothing seemed to have changed. Insatiable need for each other, both physical and mental, filled their every waking and sleeping hour. As Julia and Strathmore had done before them, they had married quietly in the chapel at Montfort, attended only by Archer and Meredith. Both Meredith and Julia had received the news that Rowena still lived with overwhelming joy, and Julia and Strathmore immediately began making their way back to England. Galveston had been sent into exile, half of Rushford's winnings from his estate returned to Lady Galveston, with the other half going to several charities for indigent women and children in London.
“Rushford,” Rowena murmured against his lips. “I just thought of something.”
“Have I told you already that you think too much?”
“You love my mind,” she reminded him pointedly, gently pushing against him. “I can recall at least several occasions when you made mention of it.”
He lifted his head from what he was doing and shifted to pull her gently onto his lap. “So what is it, my charming bride?” he asked, his expression watchful.
“You lied about the letter, didn't you? To Faron, aboard the
Brigand.
I wish I really knew how Meredith feels—about all of this,” she continued carefully. “I do not want to push her, because she's always been so reticent about her past and our beginnings with her here at Montfort.”
Rushford stroked the hair back from her face. “Perhaps it is best not to push her, Rowena. She will tell us when she is ready.”
Rowena shook her head, the memory of the explosion, and of Faron's drowning, still vivid in her mind. She had listened to Rushford's explanation of the black powder contained in the crate, which was so very easily ignited by the spark of a metal hammer hitting a hard surface. “Am I evil in feeling pleasure that Montagu Faron is gone—out of our lives?”
Rushford shook his head, cradling her in his arms. “You were incredibly courageous, Rowena. You have nothing at all to regret.”
“And you?” she asked. “Do you have any regrets?”
“Not one,” he answered swiftly. “Unless it is that I wish I had recognized true love sooner.”
Rowena looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “I know that I loved you first in my dreams, Lord Rushford,” she said softly.
“I asked you to stay with me.”
She tilted her head to one side, devouring her beautiful husband with her gaze. “I remember. And I intend to. For the rest of our lives.”
And Rushford sealed her vow by lowering his head to hers.
Don't miss BODYGUARDS IN BED,
the anthology from Lucy Monroe, Jamie Denton, and
Elisabeth Naughton, coming next month!
 
Turn the page for a preview of Lucy's story . . .
 
 
 
D
anusia wiggled the key in the lock on her brother's apartment door. Darn thing always stuck, but he wouldn't make her another one. Said she didn't come to stay often enough for it to matter.
Yeah, and he wasn't particularly keen for that to change either, obviously. He'd probably gotten the wonky key on purpose. Just like the rest of her older siblings, Roman Chernichenko kept Danusia at a distance.
She knew why he did it at least, though she was pretty sure the others didn't.
Knowing didn't make her feel any better. Even in her family of brainiacs, she was definitely the odd one out. They loved her, just like she loved them, but they were separated by more than the gap in their ages. She was seven years younger than her next youngest sibling. An unexpected baby, though never unwanted—at least according to her mom.
Still, her sister and brothers might love her, but they didn't get her and didn't particularly want her to get them.
Which was why she was coming to stay in Roman's empty apartment rather than go visit one of the others, or heaven forbid, her parents. She did not need another round of lectures on her single status by her
baba
and mom.
The lock finally gave and Danusia pressed the door open, dragging her rolling suitcase full of books and papers behind her. The fact the alarm wasn't armed registered at the same time as a cold cylinder pressed to her temple.
“Roman, I swear on Opa's grave that if you don't get that gun away from me, I'm going to drop it in a vat of sulfuric acid and then pour the whole mess all over the new sofa Mom insisted you get the last time she visited. If it's loaded, I'm going to do it anyway.”
The gun moved away from her temple and she spun around, ready to lecture her brother into an early grave, and help him along the way. “
It is so not okay to pull a gun on your sister. . . .
” Her tirade petered off to a choked breath. “
You!
”
The man standing in front of her was a whole lot sexier than her brother and scarier, which was saying something. Not that she was afraid of him, but
she
wouldn't want him for an enemy.
The rest of the family believed that Roman was a scientist for the military. She knew better. She was a nosy baby sister after all, but this man? Definitely worked with Roman and carried an aura of barely leashed violence. Maxwell Baker was a true warrior.
She shouldn't, absolutely
should not
, find that arousing, but she did.
“You're not my brother,” she said stupidly.
Which was not her usual mode, but the six-foot-five black man, who would make Jesse Jackson, Jr. look like the ugly stepbrother if they were related, turned Danusia's brain to serious mush.
His brows rose in mocking acknowledgment of her obvious words.
“Um
. . .
”
“What are you doing here, Danusia?” Warm as a really good aged whiskey, his voice made her panties wet.
How embarrassing was that? “You know my name?”
Put another mark on the chalkboard for idiocy.
“The wedding wasn't so long ago that I would have forgotten already.” He almost cracked a smile.
She almost swooned.
Max and several of Roman's
associates
had done the security at her sister, Elle's, wedding, which might have been overkill. Or not. Danusia suspected stuff had been going on that neither she nor her parents had known about.
It hadn't helped that she'd been focused on her final project for her masters and that Elle's wedding had been planned faster than Danusia could solve a quadratic equation. She'd figured out that something was going on, but that was about it. This time her siblings had managed to keep their baby sister almost completely in the dark.
A place she really hated being.
Not that her irritation had stopped her from noticing the most freaking gorgeous man she'd ever met. Maxwell Baker. A tall, dark dish of absolute yum.
Once she had seen Max with his strong jaw, defined cheekbones, big and muscular body, not much else at the wedding had even registered. Which might help explain why she hadn't figured out why all the security.
“It's nice to see you again.” There, that sounded somewhat adult. Full points for polite conversation, right?
“What are you doing here?” he asked again, apparently not caring if he got any points for being polite.
She shrugged, shifting her backpack. “My super is doing some repairs on the apartment.”
“What kind of repairs?”
“Man, you're as bad as my brother.” They hadn't even made it out of the entry and she was getting the third-degree.
Really as bad as her brother and maybe taking it up a notch. Roman might have let her get her stuff put out of the way before he started asking the probing questions. Then again, maybe not.
“I'll take that as a compliment.” Then Max just paused, like he had all the time in the world to wait for her answer.
Like it never even occurred to him she might refuse to respond.
Knowing there was no use in attempted prevarication, she sighed. “They're replacing the front door.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?” Sheesh.
He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, muscles bulging everywhere. “I won't know until you tell me.”
“Someone broke it.” She was proud of herself for getting the words out, considering how difficult she was finding the simple process of breathing right now.
This man? Was lethal.
“Who?” he demanded, frown firmly in place.
Oh, crud, even his not-so-happy face was sexy, yummy, heart-palpitatingly delicious. “I don't know.”

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