A Touch of Sin (17 page)

"The Clouards
knew
I was coming to Paris?"

"We felt it our duty to inform them." The second sister smiled as she spoke, a hateful, rancorous tightening of her lips.

So Langelier hadn't accidentally appeared at the solicitor's that day, Trixi thought, a chill running down her spine. He had been playing both sides, appropriating money from the Clouards and from her as well, should she win her case. And if not for his murder, she might still be his prisoner. "You must be frustrated at my return," she softly said, forewarned now of her opponents' alliance.

"We
were
surprised," Harry coolly noted. "But since you have returned, we're here to inform you that the Clouards have taken action against you in the French courts. If you ever enter France again, you'll be arrested."

Astonished, she blurted out, "On what charge?"

"I have no idea." Harry Grosvenor's smile, so much like his brother's, was wickedly depraved. "Their solicitor no doubt has found a reasonable solution to your unwanted demands."

"Despite Theo's will?" Trixi contended, less frightened on discovering they carried no immediate threat to Chris. "It's legitimate."

"While your son is not," Cecilia Grosvenor snapped, bristling and testy, her scrawny form rigid with spleen.

"At least he's not George's son," Trixi ascerbically replied. "For which I'm grateful. Now if you'll excuse me, I prefer not exchanging insults." She turned to go.

"We can take the boy, you know," Harry coolly said, watching her like a viper.

Swiveling back, she paled before their eyes.

"He should be put in foster care," Lady Lydia purred, her gaze cold as the grave, "with other unwanted children. He should have been put there years ago."

"Why are you doing this?" Trixi breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "I've never harmed you, never asked for anything…"

"Your son represents a potential problem for us. More so after your foolish escapade in Paris." Harry Grosvenor sat on the sofa, a small gnomish man, his sisters lesser versions from the same mold, all three seated in a row, black-garbed as though for a funeral, naked hatred in their eyes.

They could take Chris from her if they chose to call him George's son, Trixi knew. The law was clear. She couldn't afford to challenge them. "You have my word," she murmured, her voice constrained by a suffocating fear. "I'll not contact you or the Clouards again."

"As if the word of a slut can be trusted," Lady Lydia sneered.

The drawing room door flew open, smashed against the wall, the tinkle of splintered plaster striking the floor suddenly loud in the hush. "This visit is over," Pasha barked, his large form filling the door frame. "
No one
will be taking Christopher from his mother," he decreed as the three Grosvenors stared bug-eyed at the huge apparition on the threshold. "Now leave," he growled, stepping into the room, "or I'll throw you out."

Assured of his importance in this small corner of Kent, Harry Grosvenor was not long overcome with shock. "How dare you," he blustered, coming to his feet. "Do you know who we are?"

"You're miserable scum trying to frighten a lady. Now
get
the hell out."

"Please, Pasha," Trixi intervened, fearful for her son's safety.

"Your newest swain is making a profound mistake," Lady Lydia warned, her cold gaze flickering from Pasha to Trixi. Rising to stand beside her brother, she briskly shook out her skirts. "We have consequence in this world!"

"Perhaps in Kent," Pasha coolly said, "but not in the
world
, I assure you. In the way of a personal warning, I
do
have consequence in the world, and you and your accomplices would be wise to heed me."

"Tell him he can't do this, Harry," Cecilia hotly said, jumping to her feet. She looked at her brother, a peevish pout twisting her thin lips. "Tell him we're Grosvenors!"

"I don't care if you're the King of Siam," Pasha snarled. Emperors trembled before his father's sword, and courage and boldness were a family trait. "I'm telling you to leave Lady Grosvenor and her son alone."

Pasha couldn't protect her from them. How
could
he? Trixi nervously reflected, charmed by his chivalry but realistic about the duration of his visit.

"You'll rue this day," Harry Grosvenor murmured, his gaze on Trixi. "Mark my words."

Pasha swiftly advanced, closing the distance between them in three long strides. Grabbing a handful of Harry's frock coat, he hoisted him off the floor as if he were weightless. Raising him to flinty eye level, Pasha said in the merest whisper, "Apologize to the lady."

Harry Grosvenor hesitated, his eyes flitting from left to right, searching for help.

"No one's going to save you. And I can crush your puny body without breaking a sweat," Pasha silkily murmured. "Now make that apology with feeling." Swinging the small man around to face Trixi, he nodded peremptorily.

"I apologize," Harry muttered.

Pasha shook him once with a hard snap of his wrist. "Louder. The lady can't hear you."

"I apologize," the dangling man rasped, his face turning beet red, his frock coat and shirt collar a tightening ligature around his neck.

Pasha tipped his head in mild inquiry, "Is that the best you can do?"

Using the little remaining air in his lungs, Harry shrieked, "Forgive me!"

"That's better," Pasha murmured, dropping him as if he smelled. "Now get the hell out."

Gasping for breath, Harry scrambled up from the floor and stumbled from the room. Bonnets bobbing, his sisters scurried after him.

"You shouldn't have, but thank you," Trixi said, smiling broadly at the delicious retaliation. The Grosvenors' comeuppance was so long in coming. "I'll savor the moment."

"You're going to need more than my threats to keep them away." Pasha moved to the window, watching Trixi's odious neighbors clamber into their carriage.

"Eventually," she replied, joining him to watch the Grosvenors' retreat. "But let me bask in the present pleasure. You were wonderful."

"What will it take for them to leave you alone?"

"Fear certainly doesn't hurt." She smiled up at him, although her expression immediately sobered when she considered the crux of the issue. "Chris will always remain a problem for them."

"Do they have money? Is that what they're protecting?"

"Not a great deal. They're a cadet branch of the family, their fortune modest by London standards. Perhaps that's why they fear losing any of it. Although I've told them countless times I don't want their money."

"You do need some funds though."

"My problems aren't your problems, Pasha," she quietly said. "I'm fine. We can survive on the stipend my father left—it's not your concern. You're on holiday. Actually,
I'm
on holiday, if I recall, so the devil take the Grosvenors," she finished, grinning. "Now are you up to playing with kittens again? Because Chris will be waiting."

"Of course."

She searched his face, her brows faintly drawn. "What?"

"Nothing."

"I know that look."

"What look?" An innocent gaze suddenly met hers.

"The one that blatantly offers sex from under those ludicrously long lashes. Women would kill for those lashes, you know."

He lowered his desirable lashes marginally.

She cocked her head and grinned. "Are you asking?"

"If you think there's time."

"After the kittens," she murmured.

He smiled, a slow, luscious upturning of his mouth, no flash, just flagrant heat. "And then I'll have some sweet pussy of my own," he whispered.

But a messenger from Pasha's solicitor arrived when they were still at the playhouse, altering their schedule, and the courier and Pasha were closeted for some time in the library. When Pasha finally emerged, he found Trixi in the kitchen office and said only that Charles had sent some additional information on Gustave's condition.

"How is he?" she inquired, trying to read his expression as he stood in the doorway.

"As well as can be expected." His voice was cautious, controlled, and she knew.

"Will you be leaving?" she asked.

He shook his head, but a worry line creased his brows. "I came to see if you could have Ordie ready a. room for the courier? He'll be staying overnight. And have her bring some food into the library when she has time. Come and join us if you like," he graciously offered. "It's taking longer than I thought."

When Ordie had been given instructions and Trixi returned to the library with a tray for the messenger, she found the two men deep in conversation, a map opened between them.

"Jean-Paul is updating me on the events in Greece," Pasha said, introducing the young man to Trixi. He turned out to be an assistant to Charles, further indication of the seriousness of his mission.

But Pasha turned the conversation to innocuous subjects while Jean-Paul ate his lunch, and then escorted the young man upstairs to his room for much-needed sleep. He'd been without rest for two days.

"Are you going to tell me?" Trixi inquired when Pasha returned to the library.

He sat down before he answered, stretched his trousered legs out before him, and contemplated the polished toes of his boots for a moment. "What do you want to know?"

"That man didn't travel this distance to simply update you on events."

He shrugged. "There's not a lot that can be done about the problem."

"Tell me anyway."

"Gustave's been moved to a prison in Preveza," he gruffly said.

"Will it be more difficult now to gain his freedom?"

Pasha sighed, ran his fingers through his thick hair, his discomfort obvious. "Fevers are rampant in those dungeons. Charles is trying to get him moved. But our information is at least ten days old by the time we receive it.
Merde
," he swore. "God only knows if he's still alive."

"Does Charles want your help?"

"No," he muttered. "He can do as much as I.
More
, probably, with his diplomatic contacts. He was just letting me know."

But Pasha was restless the remainder of the day and evening, distracted, on edge, and when Jean-Paul woke at nine, Pasha closeted himself in the library with him again. He didn't come to bed until two.

"Is this really just about Gustave?" Trixi murmured, making room for him as he climbed into bed.

He gently kissed her and then rolled on his back, tucked his arms under his head, and stared at the ceiling, not sure he could sleep after hearing Jean-Paul's reports. "The Turks are on the offensive again," he said, his voice troubled. "They've landed thirty thousand troops since February. Modon fell two weeks ago, Jean-Paul tells me. Neokastron is sure to go next."

"And you fee! a need to help?" The Greek straggle for independence had fired the imagination of much of Europe. She understood.

"A lot of my friends are there," Pasha quietly replied, "and—"

"You were planning on going again—until… the night at Langelier's," she softly finished.

"Yes." It was just a matter of time until he sailed for Greece again. Only the beautiful Trixi Grosvenor curtailed that impulse.

"And I'm keeping you."

He turned his head and smiled at her, the moonlight washing his fine-boned face and matchless beauty. "I'm keeping myself."

"I want you to stay forever, you know."

"And I want to stay forever."

Her own smile was winsome. "If reality didn't intrude."

His lashes lowered faintly in acknowledgment. "Except for that slight problem."

"I'll always remember these days with great fondness. When I'm old and gray and—"

"Hush." He touched her mouth with the pad of his finger, not wanting to think of the future, of tomorrow, of all the endless tomorrows without her. No more than he wanted to think of permanence in his life.

"Kiss me," she said, soft and low. "And hold me."

He did.

And she kissed him back and held him tightly. And told herself not to think of tomorrow. Only the soft warm bed existed tonight, and Pasha's strong arms and body pressed hard against hers.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he whispered.

"I am damned wonderful," she impudently returned, nibbling at his lower lip.

She felt his chuckle.

"And modest, too," he teased.

It set the tone. She didn't want tears and sadness. She'd had enough of that in her life. But never with Pasha. And she meant to keep it that way—a glorious memory, pure and untarnished, full of joy. They made love with a special tenderness, both conscious of the brevity of their time together. She wanted to remember every sensation, each minute degree of emotion—the sound of his voice, the feel of his kisses, the exquisite heated passions he'd awakened in her. Her intense joy.

He'd not thought it possible to experience such sadness at leaving a woman, and he struggled to understand the unusual feelings she engendered. Although Trixi was beautiful, beautiful women were a constant in his life; something more than her physical comeliness affected him. But he couldn't stay, he knew, regardless his feelings; his commitment to his friends in Greece far outweighed any personal pleasures. He'd already stayed much longer than he should.

Emotion didn't so easily succumb to logic, though, and he held Trixi in his arms once she fell asleep, his thoughts in disarray. The word marriage entered his consciousness that night as he lay awake, her scent sweet in his nostrils, her warm body curled against his, the possibility of keeping her appealing. But his natural antipathy to the curbs of matrimony discouraged further contemplation, as did force of habit. Marriage had never been an option in his life.

Refusing to dwell on his curious sense of loss and the even more curious reflections on marriage, he kissed Trixi awake instead and distracted himself from the unpleasantness of parting by reminding them both of the exquisite pleasures they shared.