Fire at Midnight (4 page)

Snatching her arm and pushing it back under the covers, he seized the other as well, pinning her arms to her sides and holding them there against her feeble efforts at resistance. Her skin was hot, burning, and he was disconcerted by the frailty of the limbs he stilled so effortlessly.

He could hardly solicit the services of a physician without inviting questions he was ill prepared to answer. With a determined twist to his mouth, he left the room and returned moments later, carrying a basin of cold water, a large, soft sponge, and a neat stack of snowy linens.

Sebastién placed the basin atop the bedside commode and rolled up his sleeves as though he was a surgeon about to embark upon a delicate procedure.

The woolen garment she wore was heavy and saturated with moisture. It clung to her, refusing to be pulled free with a single tug, and Sebastién had to grimace at the irony—he usually found the fair sex to be cooperative when he was attempting to remove their clothing.

He managed to ease the sodden fabric up the length of her slender frame by pressing her tightly to him with one arm, while his other arm worked the heavy fabric free, then he guided the gown up and over her head and tossed it blindly. The garment hit the floor a few feet away, and the stench of unwashed female wafted from the gown like a noxious cloud. How long had it been since she had bathed?

Naked beneath the shift, the girl lay fully exposed to Sebastién’s gaze as he swept the cool, wet sponge over her pale, glistening skin. She was slender, not the gangly child he had expected, but a petite woman with rounded, rose-tipped breasts, a narrow waist, and slim hips that tapered into shapely legs.

Sebastién’s hand wavered as his gaze traveled over the girl’s form. Her bare skin was like a firebrand to the touch when he grasped her shoulders to ease her back against the thick bank of pillows. Suddenly, he froze, his sharp intake of breath loud in the small room. Her eyes were open and fixed upon his face.

The blue of her eyes was startling. He had never seen eyes that shade, like the depths of a calm sea. Her lashes were long and spiked with moisture from her fever. She murmured something in a low, musical voice. Sebastién canted his head, still lost within the depths of her eyes.

“Only a laudanum dream,” she repeated breathlessly.

Very young for an opium fiend.
He looked down at her in pity. He had not considered that possibility.

Her circumstances must have been worse than he had thought.

Rachael floated on a haze of opiate. The phantom whose face hovered near hers was a narcotic vision of erotic promise. His eyes were gold-flecked, vivid green, and ringed with dark lashes, lips sensuously full beneath a black mustache, chiseled, masculine face inscrutable and mysterious. Men like that existed only in dreams.

The hallucination was so vivid she imagined his warm breath on her cheek and his cool, strong hands on her body. The image of the saturnine stranger did not waver, however, nor did it fade to shadow as she had heard was usually the case with such dreams.

She was drawn to him, compelled by his heat and potency, but secure in the certainty he was a specter conjured by the laudanum. The sense of being held in an embrace, poised for a kiss, filled her clouded mind, and Rachael abandoned herself to the fantasy, summoning boldness as she lifted her head and tangled her fingers in his thick black hair, urging his head down until his cool mouth met her fevered one.

She felt him stiffen in surprise before she drifted back into oblivion without fully savoring her phantom’s kiss.

Stunned, Sebastién relinquished his grip on the girl, and she fell back against the pillows, lips forming the faint arc of a smile. He touched his fingers to his mouth, recalling with acute clarity the warmth of her lips, the faint, bitter taste of laudanum, and the feel of her fingers tangled in his hair.

Sebastién reached into the basin and groped for the sponge, ignoring the dull patter of water hitting the floor as he stared at the girl. Her skin shimmered like satin in the faint light, the fever giving her flesh a rosy hue.

She lacked the emaciated look of long-term addiction; perhaps the drug was a new vice? Her arms and legs were mottled with bruises. Some of the abrasions looked suspiciously like the marks made by shackles. To judge by her physical condition, she had endured hell, and he braced himself against the sudden rush of pity. No Englishwoman deserved his compassion.

He would never forget the moment she had opened her eyes and her bright azure gaze had held him transfixed. If she had been a snake, he would be stretched on the floor now, his body filled with venom.

Sebastién dwelled on every sensation stirred by the brief kiss, and damn if his body did not quicken at the memory, heating his skin and producing an uncomfortable heaviness in his groin. He finished bathing her with quick, impersonal hands, remembering his promise to Morgan that he would return the girl unmolested. A threat without substance, glibly implied at the time. A promise he might come to regret.

Flinging a cover over the girl, Sebastién sank into the chair beside the bed. She became restless again, mumbling and moaning as she thrashed about. The bath had not calmed her. Well, it certainly had not had a calming effect upon him, either.

He knew no more about her now than he had back at the coaching inn. His purpose in bringing her here had been to get at the truth. If the authorities sought her, it was in his best interest to know it, since he had been made party to her escape.

Sebastién frowned and slid farther down in the chair, pressing his back against the hard wood as he stretched his legs out before him. His gaze remained on the girl, but when watching over her continued to provoke memories of the unbidden kiss, he rose to his feet, deciding to lay his burden in the lap of the Almighty for a few hours. He was exhausted, and the ache in his loins showed no sign of abating.

The girl shifted again and sighed with such anguish that the expulsion of air sounded like a low, plaintive moan. He heard the desolate sound and paused at the door.

Turning to look at her over his shoulder, Sebastién frowned when she began to mumble, her breath coming in gasps. She appeared to be deep in the grasp of a nightmare and was speaking aloud, reciting words as if by rote. He crossed back to the bed and peered at her while she plucked at the covers, as if trying to be free of their weight. When he reached down and pinned her wrists, the action seemed to heighten some element of her nightmare, and she grew more agitated.

“I am sane,” she said. “I am eight and ten.” Her soft voice faltered, and Sebastién leaned downward. “I am called Rachael Penrose.”

S
ebastién stared down at the girl in dumb amazement, and a few seconds passed before he remembered to breathe. He walked the floor with the aimlessness of a sleepwalker, propelled by disbelief.

He had boasted he would wreak vengeance upon Rachael Penrose, whom he had pictured as a plain, plump, spoiled member of the English aristocracy. He had vowed he would punish her. Not this slender, pale, shivering, drug-addled waif.

Rage followed astonishment as Sebastién drew back his hand and punched the wall. Despite his stinging, abraded knuckles, he felt a savage satisfaction as plaster and paint drifted in a cloud to the floor. He raised a booted foot and kicked the chair beside him, and it skittered across the floor, hit the wall, and toppled over.

Just how clever was Rachael Penrose? Had some betrayal resulted in her being there, or had she schemed to be delivered into his hands in such a pitiful condition? His vow of vengeance was known up and down the English coast. When word had drifted back to him that she had disappeared, he had assumed she had gone into hiding.

The memory of the kiss suddenly infuriated him. Had her eyes conveyed awareness? She was isolated, vulnerable, and at his mercy. He could simply open a window and expose the feverish, fragile girl to a chill and his revenge would be complete. But it would be an empty victory visited upon a hapless victim. The idea was repugnant. He did not want to kill her; he wanted to savor meting out her punishment.

He drew back the coverlet, exposing her naked body to his steely gaze and studied her slender form, jaw so tense it ached. Sweeping his hand over her ribs and across her stomach, Sebastién felt the fire of her fevered flesh when he touched her.

She shifted to avoid his probing hand, moaning and tossing as if aware of his touch, and he drew the blanket over her again, brushing his hand against her cheek, fingers splayed at the base of her throat.

“Oui,”
he said in a low voice, “your sleep should be restless,
jeune fille.
Young lady. I have you now.”

“Mr. Falconer!”

He heard the rustle of skirts when his housekeeper entered the room. She stopped in mid-stride when she saw the girl on the bed.

“Your pardon, sir.” She noted the overturned chair, the damaged wall, and looked again at the girl. “I heard noises coming from this room. I was not aware of your return.”

Mrs. Faraday was a study in calm. Under different circumstances, he might have found her composure amusing.

“Information denied you by the depth of your slumber,” he irritably replied.

“It appears I have intruded,” she said, turning to leave.

“Non.”
He beckoned her closer with an impatient sweep of his hand. “You will remain and care for my … guest. As you can see, she is ill. Use the salve from the apothecary for the bruises on her wrists and ankles.”

“She was bound?”

Sebastién scowled at her horrified expression.
“Mon Dieu,
how debauched do you think I am, woman? I found her in this condition. The damage to her skin is consistent with shackles.” He paused. “She is not to leave this house.”

Mrs. Faraday’s jaw dropped. “Mr. Falconer, how can I possibly—?”

“Lock her in her room!” he exploded. “Confine her to a closet! Barricade her in the basement! Just see to it that she remains inside!”

“Is she your guest or your prisoner, then?”

He was silent for a moment. “She is Rachael Penrose.”

Mrs. Faraday’s eyes widened and she cast a furtive glance at the girl on the bed.

“I see,” she said slowly.

He moved to the window and stood watching the rain as it spattered against the pane.

“I will not be able to convince her to stay once she recovers and learns she is your … houseguest.”

Sebastién turned back to face her.

“You will tell
Mademoiselle
Penrose she is a guest in the home of a friend. The name is John Wyatt. Tell her she has been sent here for protection. She knows of the danger she faces; you have only to hint at it.”

“And if she wishes to leave?”

Sebastién shrugged and turned again to look out the window. “I will return before she is well enough to leave.”

“And what will happen to her then?”

The rain pelted the window’s glass in a fresh assault, completely obscuring his view, but Sebastiéen kept his back turned to the housekeeper. “She will be held accountable for her actions.”

Returning to Nag’s Head Inn was something like visiting a landmark in the aftermath of its destruction, although it was he who had nearly been destroyed, not the old inn.