Fire at Midnight (10 page)

He kneaded her flesh with skill, tracing a feathertip pattern over her heated skin, causing an ache to build. Her senses had sharpened to an unbearable pitch, and when his mouth closed over her breast, she arched against him, reveling in the moist heat radiating from his lips and tongue.

Rachael closed her eyes against the delicious shock of sensation. A low moan escaped her throat and her eyes flew open at the plaintive need evident in her voice.

His face was so near that she was stunned. Every bit of stubble, every faint line, every pore beckoned inspection. When he looked down at her, she found meeting his gaze carried as much intimacy as the feel of his warm, possessive hands on her body. His eyes followed the line of her jaw and touched her lips in an almost tangible perusal, then he lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers in a kiss that seemed designed to extract her very soul from her body.

Sebastién swept her thin chemise aside, and she became aware of the warmth emanating from him, a strange heat that kept her warm as no covering could. Unclothed, he was an ideal of taut flesh and sinew, his bronzed, muscled torso covered by a thatch of short, curly black hair.

Strong arms pressed her down, burrowing her into the wealth of pillows as Sebastién positioned one long leg over her, his knee thrust with casual intimacy between her thighs. An agony of sensation radiated through her stomach, and lower, at the contact, sending burning signals to her nerve ends as his touch continued to coax her senses to life.

Rachael spiraled toward the unknown and could only cling to Sebastién and marvel at the feeling building inside her, a steady, blooming rapture. He pushed her legs farther apart, and she shifted, trying to accommodate the press of his weight upon her. Then he poised above her for an instant, and she arched beneath him, crying out in surprise and pain as his body merged with hers, driving her down with the full thrust of his weight as he broke through the barrier of her innocence and filled her.

An unmistakable look of surprise flickered across his face as she held herself rigid, waiting for the pain to return. When it did not, she exhaled the breath she had drawn at the moment of his entry. The full implication of what had happened became the counterweight to exquisite sensation, and she stiffened.

Sebastién murmured in a voice so low she could not tell whether the words were French or English then lifted his hand and pushed the pale hair back from her face. He did it with such tenderness, she looked away and stared at the wall, unable to meet his eyes.

Rachael clung to Sebastién when he began to move, gaze fastening on his powerful arms as she sought distraction from the overwhelming intimacy of the act and the unexpected tremor of pleasure that was beginning to build.

Suddenly he gave a hoarse cry, then relaxed and rolled onto his back.

Rachael stole a sideways glance, observing the sculpted jaw and shock of straight hair that fell negligently over his brow. With his jet hair, mustache, and cat-green eyes, he had the look of a demon made pleasing to the eye so that he might accomplish evil on the earth more readily.

His eyes were closed and he had raised one arm, the elbow crooked, with the back of his hand resting across his forehead.

A small dark emblem on the underside of his arm caught her eye, and she lifted her head to examine it. It was a body painting of a
fleur-de-lis.

Rachael stared, fascinated. No one she knew sported such fashion, and it only made him seem all the more exotic and dangerous. She closed her eyes at the thought. Had they just shared an act of passion or of revenge? Would he let her go now?

Sebastién rolled onto his side and looked down at Rachael. She felt the movement and turned her face away, hands worrying the mussed sheets.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“Wasn’t that your intention?”

He sighed and turned her toward him with gentle hands.
“Non,”
he said earnestly, with a frown that cleaved a line across his forehead. “You will not have pain the next time.”

“There will be no next time!” She clutched the sheet to her chest and leaned over the bed, searching for her gown.

He rested against the bank of pillows and continued to study her. “Do not deceive yourself. There was a strong attraction between us. Sometimes it happens, even among enemies.”

She could not decide which was worse, his reference to their attraction as a thing of the past, or being referred to as his enemy. She remembered with acute embarrassment that when he had been “John Wyatt,” she had all but begged him to take her. She would not deny that she had wanted him. He already believed she was a liar.

“I do not know what you expect in the way of a reply, Mr. Falconer.”

He laughed outright at her stilted manner of address. “Surely the use of my Christian name is appropriate?”

“You once intended to kill me, did you not? I would find it awkward to call you by your given name.”

“It will become less awkward with practice.”

The self-assured amusement in his voice rankled. She paused in retrieving her gown from the floor long enough to glare at him. “Oh? Which name do you prefer? Sebastién or John?”

His smile soured, and then vanished. “Perhaps I would prefer
Monsieur
Falconer’ from your lips,” he gritted. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his breeches, jerky movements betraying his anger.

“You cry foul because you had feelings for ‘John’ and ‘Sebastién’ took his place. What you will not admit is that both are the same man. You begged to be seduced,
ma chère.
I simply obliged you.”

When he had finished dressing, he reached for the gown she held in her lap. “You are not as likely to att0065mpt escape with only a bedsheet to cover you.”

His face remained shuttered as she hurled the gown at him, covering his head in yards of blue silk.

F
aint, furtive noises awakened Rachael. At first it was the scrape of a chair, then the creak of a floorboard, followed by the sound of footfalls in the hallway. Sebastién would lumber through the place with no thought for those he might awaken, so when the door eased open, she remained quiet.

Mrs. Faraday padded barefoot into the room, wide gray eyes pleading for silence as she crept across the floor, wincing at every sound she made.

“I’ve been looking all over the cottage for you. I never expected to find you in Mr. Falconer’s room.” The housekeeper didn’t say anything about having found her in his
bed.

“I never expected to
be
in Mr. Falconer’s room.” She could not believe she had drifted off to sleep after he had taken her gown and stormed from the room. When he had not returned, she had remained, afraid to venture out and risk another confrontation with him.

“He’s broken tradition for you. This chamber is his sanctuary. He never brings his women here.”

“I could have done without that honor,” Rachael harrumphed. She didn’t want to hear about the accommodations he provided for other women he brought to his home, or be reminded that there would be other women after her. She had been infatuated with a man who had used her affection as a way to punish her.

“He was in a fine temper earlier,” Mrs. Faraday said. “Did you argue?” When Rachael did not reply, she came closer and pushed a cloak into her hands. “I added a sleeping powder to his wine, but his sleep is fitful, even with the drug. You must leave at once.”

“If you help me escape, he will turn his anger on you. He is certain I have acted against him and he is determined to punish me for it.”

“He will not harm me. But where you are concerned, he does not know what to believe, or what to do.”

She allowed the woman to pull the cloak over her shoulders and fasten the trail of heavy, flat buttons.

“Do not go to your own village. They believe you are a Customs informer; you will find no help there.”

“Why do you believe I am innocent when your employer does not?”

Mrs. Faraday shook her head, eyes gone to slate, face pale and creased. “Perhaps I am a better judge of character. I have a friend who lives in Littlebury who can aid you. Do you know the place?”

“Near Audley End?”

Mrs. Faraday nodded. “Ask anyone there to direct you to Henry Winstanley’s home. Mr. Winstanley will see you safely out of Cornwall. He is acquainted with your friend Tarry.”

“You should leave as well,” Rachael urged. “It is not safe here for you.”

Mrs. Faraday shook her head. “You do not know Mr. Falconer, Rachael. He is a good man, but he is the product of a difficult life. If he believes someone betrayed him—”

“I did not betray him!”

“But
he
does not know that. He is usually quite practical, but loses all ability to reason where you are concerned.” She moved to the door, motioning for Rachael to follow.

Rachael slipped from the cottage and inched her way parallel to the beach, skirting the steep path. Her footprints would not be as visible there as they would be across the white sand of the shore, nor could a rider as easily follow her on horseback. She would have a few hours to make good her escape before Sebastién awakened from his drugged sleep and discovered what had transpired during his nap.

A low fence with a narrow turnstile in place of a gate framed Henry Winstanley’s home. A copper cock perched to one side of the front entrance, while an ornate weatherglass rested on the opposite side. A large lantern upon which stood a weather vane crowned the roof.

Rachael could hear the rush of churning water, the source of which turned out to be a functional windmill in the back garden. A small but elaborate placard at the edge of the property promoted “
Winstanley’s House of Wonders,”
and declared an admission price of one shilling.

Her hesitant rap on the door drew noise from within, and she heard the deep rumble of a man’s voice just before the door was thrown open. A man with a warm smile and astigmatic, almond-shaped eyes greeted her.

“Mr. Winstanley?” she asked.

“And you must be Rachael!” Winstanley clapped his hands in delight and beckoned her inside with a wave of his hand. “I adore reunions!” he exclaimed with an infectious burst of laughter as he propelled her toward a beaming Tarry Morgan.

Tarry held his arms wide and Rachael bounded into them with an exclamation of joy. She clutched him to her breast as if she feared he might disappear.

“Rachael,” Tarry protested, laughing, “I cannot breathe.”

He pulled back, gripped her hands, and held her at arm’s length. “I had come to seek Mr. Winstanley’s aid in rescuing you—how did you manage to escape?”

“The housekeeper,” Rachael said. “She drugged his wine.”

“Bravo! Clever woman,” Winstanley chirruped in approval.

He stepped between them and guided Rachael to a seat. “I fashioned this piece myself,” he said with pride, tossing a wink at Tarry as he motioned Rachael into the chair.

She had no sooner leaned back against the polished oak when the armrests snapped downward in a deft, mechanized movement with a hollow groan of metal. She was pinned behind a sturdy bar of solid wood, imprisoned in the chair. Her mouth went dry, and her heart hammered in reaction.

“Tarry!” Rachael cried. She bit back a scream in response to the sensation so reminiscent of the restraints she had endured at Bedlam.

Tarry shouted at Winstanley to release her, and he acted at once, profuse with apology as he hurried to liberate her. She staggered free and whirled to face the chair, afraid it would spring after her like some beast from a nightmare.

“Oh, my dear, forgive me,” Winstanley said. “This chair is one of my latest inventions. Tarry was amused by it. I had expected the same reaction from you.”

“Amusement? I’ve been bound in chains and kept behind locked doors. Such hospitality will rob me of what remains of my sanity.” She continued to stare at the prank chair, gripped by the terror it had evoked.

Winstanley dragged the offending chair from the room, and returned with an offer to help her select a “less talented” chair. She was aware of Tarry’s eyes on her as she eased down upon a simple, armless stool. She met his gaze with a look of misery.

“I am going to challenge Victor Brightmore first, and then I will call Falconer out after him,” Tarry announced.

“No, you aren’t,” Winstanley told Tarry, giving a sharp look. “You and Rachael are to take refuge among your father’s friends at court. There is no need to risk further danger now that Rachael’s brother is safe.”

Rachael’s mouth opened in surprise, and Tarry beamed.

“After I was unable to free you from Falconer, I followed the shore and caught up with Victor and his men. I spied on them as Victor ordered where each parcel would be taken. Rachael, they’ve hidden their plunder all over Cornwall—”

“Tarry, please,” Rachael insisted, “what of James?”

“I saw one of the men carrying a bundle, and I could hear the squall of a babe. At first, I thought it came from the ship—”

“There were no survivors,” Rachael interjected in a dull voice.

“I overheard your uncle say to the man, ‘Hide him well, that brat is the key to my inheritance'!” Tarry smiled when Rachael perked at his words. “Your uncle suspects you are alive and seeks to keep James out of your reach by juggling him as he would a hard apple. I followed your uncle’s henchman and told him that Victor’s plan had changed and that the babe was to be handed over to me.”