Fire at Midnight (21 page)

Sebastién feigned incomprehension. “And allow the bathwater to grow cold,
ma chérie?”

“I’ll heat fresh.”

“The rainwater from the cistern is precious. What you suggest is wasteful. We cannot draw fresh for every bath. I meant for us to share this one.”

“That much is obvious!”

“I do not intend to lug bucketfuls of water from the oven to the tub simply to indulge your whim when two can bathe just as easily as one. It isn’t as if you have a need to be modest with me,” he reminded her.

“A fine example of French chivalry. The Frenchman heats water for his
own
bath, the lady be damned.”

“A fine example of English
priggishness
,” he shot back. His expression said he was willing to elaborate if she had failed to comprehend his meaning. He followed the insult with a devilish smile and arched one brow in a challenge.

Rachael locked eyes with him the moment she accepted the dare. Incensed, she began removing her wet clothing, and they continued to stare at each other as she flung the wet articles over the side of the wooden tub. An audible
thwack!
was heard as each article of clothing hit the floor.

Her bare skin glowed pink with a flush caused by the warmth of the water and the intensity of Sebastién’s darkened, heated gaze.

“Will you scrub my back?” she asked, with a regal tilt of her head and an aura of nonchalance she did not feel.

Sebastién silently settled her in front of him in the tub, her bottom meeting the hard column of his thigh. She trembled as his hand moved over her back in a sweeping motion. The silky soapiness of the warm water was a balm, and she sighed at the sheer pleasure of it.

His touch was exquisitely gentle; Rachael felt his breath against her ear as he leaned forward, intent on the task. His right hand moved over her rib cage, swept the indentation of her waist, and crept slowly upward to cup her breast.

“That is not my back.”

“Oui,” he acknowledged, voice low.

As his finger traced her nipple, the heat of her response supplanted the silky heat of the soapy water. Sebastién’s left hand found her other breast, and she leaned back against him as he dropped a kiss on her neck. His fingertips massaged both nipples until they became ecstatic peaks and she felt an ache begin to build.

“You’re wicked,” she said with a sigh.

“Merci.
I try.”

“You said we were going to bathe.”

“We
are
bathing, my beautiful English girl.”

The warm water and his skillful hands were a sensual combination, and she closed her eyes and nestled against him.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” she asked. “When I thought you were someone else?” She recalled the argument regarding her nightly walks that had escalated into unexpected passion. She had found him intimidating then, but at the same time attractive beyond her wildest imaginings.

Sebastién trailed his fingers along her forearm, idly stroking her skin. “That was not our first kiss.”

She swung her head toward him, lips parted in surprise. “You never mentioned … I was not sure it was real. When I saw you for the first time after I recovered, I felt I knew you, but thought I had dreamed it.”

“And I thought the recognition in your eyes was a sign of your guilt,” he admitted. Sebastién leaned his head against hers and locked his arms around her. “The thought of what I might have done—” He did not finish.

While she had been in London, Rachael had heard tales of his obsession with finding and punishing her. It was hard to believe that the man who now held her in his arms could have such a deep capacity for revenge.

“Sebastién?”

“Oui?”

She turned and pressed an impulsive kiss against his throat. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

“C’est mon plaisir. My very great pleasure.”

The water had cooled, and Rachael shivered as she stretched against him. He lifted her out of the tepid water and moved toward the stairs, leading to the state room. His black hair glistened with the damp, and a tingling radiated through her as his slick, damp flesh rubbed intimately against her bare skin.

A glowing fire had warmed the chamber until it was dry and comfortable. Sebastién drew back the sheets and slid Rachael onto the bed. She waited while he stoked the fire, breathing shallow with anticipation, senses filled with his presence. She noted the play of muscle across his back, his rounded, firm buttocks, and the muscular strength of his legs. His broad torso tapered into slim hips. Standing still, he reminded her of an ancient statue. He carried himself with feline grace when he moved, and he was a creature of such physical beauty that she could not help but view him with open admiration.

When Sebastién had finished with the fire, he turned and made his way to the bed, a smile playing about his lips when he saw that Rachael studied him.

She had almost overcome her shyness with him, and she felt strangely powerful as his eyes lit with appreciation and carnal hunger when they roamed possessively over her body.

“Priggish young ladies close their eyes and hide beneath the covers,” he admonished and chuckled when she drew a hand across her eyes and pulled the sheet up over her head. “Come here, my beautiful English girl,” he murmured as he slid into the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms.

Sebastién kissed Rachael deeply, tongue probing her mouth as his hands roamed her body, kneading her breasts and stirring her with a featherlike touch across her belly and thighs. Her timid caresses began to explore the mysteries of his body, attempting to work the same deft magic upon him he used so effortlessly on her as she began to learn what gave him pleasure.

“Touch me,” he encouraged in a ragged voice raw with passion. His hand guided hers and tutored her movement until she gasped as she felt him grow and harden. She could not tell whether she brought him pleasure or pain until she heard a groan of satisfaction escape him. He shifted, pinning her to the bed with his weight, and nudged her legs apart with one knee.

Rachael felt she could not bear the intense yearning even a moment longer. She gasped with relief and a pleasure bordering on torment when he slowly entered her, staking his claim to the depths of her soul.

Sebastién withdrew and plunged again, Rachael’s cry of pleasure lost as he claimed her mouth in a fevered kiss.

Possessed of him, she felt filled, completed, unaware that beyond the initial sensation of pleasure there awaited a shattering; an explosion of feeling that he had only begun to guide her toward. She arched against him, the sensation so pure it was almost unbearable as he slowly taught her his rhythm. Her breath caught in her throat as the feeling intensified and she felt her body seize his as they both reached the apex. A sensation of warmth flooded her, and she cried out and clung to him, exhausted and sated as the aftershocks of passion rippled through her body.

R
achael smiled at the sound of the deep, even breathing that every so often erupted into a snore. She savored Sebastién’s warmth beside her, along with his strength and power, even in repose. “
Mademoiselle Penrose is under my protection
,” he had told the men at the cottage. Yes, she felt that. She felt safe, protected, cherished.
Loved.

She could not pinpoint the exact moment she had fallen in love with him, but everything about him seemed significant to her now. Despite his bluster, he was a good man, with an innate sense of decency, even if he did not believe it of himself.

Were his intentions limited to righting a wrong where she was concerned, or did his feelings for her run deeper? There was the undeniable physical attraction between them, but her heart had become entangled as well. Rachael could not separate her emotional response from the physical. More than that, she trusted him, and trust no longer came easily for her. She did not worry whether or not James was safe in his keeping, although she was still unclear about which one of the Falconer brothers had actually taken the child.

Now that they had the means to render Victor harmless and bring him to justice, she would insist that she be taken to her brother. Then perhaps she and Sebastién could begin again, as she had once suggested. Rachael nestled against him with a sigh of contentment and reached down to join her hand with his.

Sebastién stood behind the shuttered windows of the state room, bathed in horizontal bands of fading gold light. He watched as Rachael stirred and stretched, a languid, seductive pose that caused heated blood to rush to his groin and an ache to settle in the region of his heart.

There was still the matter of her brother, James. He had believed that she would be more malleable if she thought he held James hostage. But he no longer needed power over her; she trusted him. It was a fragile thing, this truce of trust between them. He was afraid his confession would shatter their tenuous bond. He was becoming a coward.

“I will hate to leave this place,” Rachael said.

Sebastién turned to her and lounged against the wall, studying her face, unsmiling.

“I have not been honest with you.” He hesitated when he saw a jumble of emotions flicker across her face, but forced himself to cross to the bed and sink down beside her.

Rachael reached up to smooth the hair from Sebastién’s face with a loving hand, and her caress flayed the wild animal his guilt had become. He grabbed her wrist, guided her hand to the bed, and held it there.

Sebastién took a rattled breath, but just as he was about to speak, Rachael reached out with her free hand and touched two fingers to his lips.

“Not here. If you have a confession to make, wait until we leave this place.” Her eyes pleaded. “This is our sanctuary, Sebastién. We do not know what awaits us beyond these walls. Here we are friends, allies, and lovers. I want at least this much.”

“What remains unsaid will harm us,” Sebastién warned. “We must speak of it, Rachael.”

“We shall, but not here.”

He reluctantly yielded. A few hours would make no difference. Besides, he wasn’t eager for her look of adoration to turn to one of hatred. He reclined next to her on the bed, trying to divert his thoughts from her brother’s whereabouts.

“So, why did the designer of this great tower entrust you with a key?” Sebastién asked. He felt, rather than saw, the faint lift of her shoulders when she shrugged.

“Winstanley is a friend of Tarry’s. We met for the first time after I escaped you.”

He winced at her words, remembering the rage that had consumed him when he had discovered her gone. “Why is it you never mentioned this place when we were wandering the moors half frozen?”

“You forget the lighthouse was meant as a place for me to hide from you. It is only recently that I have come to care about your comfort.”

His laugh was genuine, prompted by her brutal honesty. “Ah, so you denied yourself comfort so that I would suffer as well?”

“So that you would suffer
in particular
.”

“If only your uncle knew what a ruthless adversary he has in you,” Sebastién teased.

“My uncle has few fears,” Rachael replied. “Poverty. Imprisonment.” She thought for a moment. “And the sea. He has a morbid fear of the sea.”

He remembered stories he had heard of the “wrecker with dry feet.” When he had observed Brightmore on the beach, it had seemed odd that the leader conducted his men from the shore.

“That is why I feel safe here,” she said.

“He could always send someone,” Sebastién pointed out. Her face fell, and he quickly added, “although he might not trust another man to recover evidence that could hang him.”

He had hidden the letters and ledger while she slept and she had not inquired where.

A low, keening howl filled the silence. Rachael’s face paled at the peculiar sound, and Sebastién sprang from the bed, blocking the window as he scanned the surrounding seas.

“The wind,” he said over his shoulder. It rose again in a low moan as it swept the edifice. “I do not like the look of the sea.” He turned to face her. “Yesterday was a lull from weeks of gales. I think the worst is yet to come. If we do not wish to be trapped here by violent seas, we should leave now.”

“But the wind—”

“There is still enough time to return safely to shore. A greater danger faces us if your uncle hears a rumor about this tower and sends men to investigate.” He was aware that Paxton had a reputation as a gossip, but he did not share the information out of fear that he would alarm her.

“What about the light?”

“The light will burn tonight. Paxton or Winstanley will be here tomorrow.”

The glassy, false calm of the sea followed by the slowly mounting wind were portents of things to come. Sebastién doubted that the Eddystone Light would be needed during the coming night because no ships would be venturing out in these waters unless fools captained them.

“I will ready the light while you prepare to leave,” he said.

“I must have a proper bath first,” Rachael pleaded. “I’ll heat my own water.”

The corners of Sebastién’s mouth drew down, and he shrugged. “Be ready to leave within an hour.”