Fire at Midnight (7 page)

“A curious predicament,” Sebastién commented finally.

Her imagination has not been idle during my absence.
Yet there was the niggling doubt certain details invited, such as the fading abrasions on her limbs that told of iron restraints, the injury Morgan had received, and the destruction of the Morgan estate. Someone had abused her before she fell into his hands, but an informer would incur the wrath of many. It did not necessarily follow that her story was the truth.

Sebastién kept his plan of interrogation uppermost in his mind. No doubt this hoyden made deliberate use of her physical allure. She had taken pains with her appearance. She was a beautiful woman made more so by the gossamer haze of candlelight. He was not about to become a besotted fool and allow her to emerge victorious in their match of wits, no matter how damned attractive he found her.

“You must be disappointed that Tarry has not visited,” he said.

“It is safer for us all if he keeps his distance. Victor is likely to have him followed. The longer I remain here, the greater the risk that Victor will find me.”

Was she about to broach the subject of her departure? He was just as determined to deflect any discussion on the topic.

“My friend Tarry would never forgive me if I allowed you to risk your safety,” he said.

“How did you and Tarry become acquainted? I wasn’t aware that he had any friends from across the Channel.”

“Are you acquainted with
all
his friends, then?” he asked. He did not allow his faint smile to lessen the challenge in his tone. It was better to keep her on the defensive; it increased the likelihood that she would trip herself up.

“Tarry has friends at court I have never met,” she replied. “He may have mentioned you by name, but I would not have expected a Frenchman. Is it John, or Jean?”

“Call me whatever you like,” he responded in a dry tone. “I am actually part English, but schooled in France.” That much of the truth suited him. He marveled at her skillful attempt to draw information out of him. “Penrose is a common name in Cornwall, is it not?”

“Yes. I am a Cornish Penrose.” She lifted her brow at the question.

“Then why not remain here? You are safer here than you would be in your own village.”

“If I remain here, my presence will endanger you, and my brother will not be safe. I am fortunate that Tarry has a gallant, courageous friend who was willing to come to my aid, but I’ve already imposed upon you enough.”

“You give me too much credit,
mademoiselle,”
he said with a dismissive wave. “The Cornish coast is no place for a young woman to travel alone without benefit of a guardian.”

“I grew up here. This place holds no danger for me.”

“Have you no fear of the fairtraders who roam the coast?” He watched her face for a reaction. Surely she knew she was a pariah among her own kinsmen? Her ingenuous manner was disturbing.

“I have no fear of fairtraders. Fairtrading is a way of life on the coast. Why shouldn’t a Bodmin shopkeeper be able to afford tea when a Customs official drinks it with every meal simply because his purse is better suited to pay the duty? I don’t view the fairtrade as a criminal enterprise. I know many who participate in the trade.”

“Such knowledge would make you popular with Customs.” He resisted the urge to frame it as an accusation.

“The fairtraders are my friends and neighbors. I would never inform on them.”

“What happens to those who turn informant?”

“I shouldn’t like to think about it—a wise informer would never return to the coast.”

Her complexion had pinkened; she either felt guilty or passionate about the subject. She frowned at him as if perplexed by the turn their conversation had taken.

“It seems the risk would far outweigh the gain.”

Rachael nodded. “You need have no fear on my behalf with regard to fairtraders. It is unlikely I would be mistaken for a Customs agent.” She smiled at him as if the thought amused her.

Was the woman composed of stone? She did not seek to avoid his steady gaze. There was no detectable tic or tremor in her face or hands. She breathed easily. No sheen of perspiration marred the fair, smooth skin of her brow. She remained calm, even smiling while he hinted at the truth. He felt his frustration grow with each verbal parry.

Perhaps she already knew who he was and was enjoying watching him stalk the perimeter of his verbal cage. He was tempted to reveal his identity to her, if only to see her reaction. She was wily, infuriating, and intriguing, and Sebastién was actually enjoying their little game of cat and mouse.

How could he prevent her departure without making a prisoner of her? He noted the high color at her cheeks and the limpid blue pools of her eyes. The fact that she did not seem to find him unattractive was an advantage he might put to good use. After all, this was war and he had to use whatever weapons were available to him.

“Your presence here makes me realize how empty my home will be after you have gone,” he said, shifting strategy. “I will regret the departure of such a lovely guest.”

Rachael blushed as if she had no experience with flattery. Could a woman fake a blush as a stratagem? He had not seen that done before. Still, she was in an elite league among liars, so anything was possible.

“I only hope you have felt safe in my home, and that you feel I can be trusted.”

“Of course.”

Her politic response sent a prickle of exasperation through him. It was clear she did not trust him enough to opt for honesty.

“I fear Tarry will view it as a lapse on my part when he arrives and finds you gone.”

“You expect Tarry soon?” Her expression brightened and she flashed a winsome smile.

“Oui.
At any moment.” He had been expecting Morgan to charge through the door and attempt to rescue her for the last several hours. He should have sent the young fool directions to the cottage via courier.

“Perhaps I
should
wait for Tarry to arrive.”

“It would mean a great deal to me to witness your reunion,” he said, meaning it.

If she agreed to stay until Morgan arrived, he would have additional time to wear down her reserve. Failing that, they would have it out when Morgan attempted to rescue her.

He rose from his chair and moved to look out through the salt-framed windowpane. Bright moonlight dispelled the darkness outside, bathing the distant shoreline in a shimmering silver glow.

“What a magnificent view of the sea,” she remarked. He was unaware that she had followed him, and she took a step back when he whirled around to her in surprise. “Can this cottage be seen from the beach?”

“Why do you ask?”

He glanced down, noting the way the candlelight caught the gold of her hair and transformed it into gleaming filigree, tempting him to touch the gilded strands. The mantua outlined her graceful curves with the familiarity of a glove, the open bodice drawing his eye to the gentle swell of her breasts. As Mrs. Faraday had predicted, the delicate blue shade of the fabric lent a gemlike quality to her extraordinary eyes.

Sebastién blinked and drew an unsteady breath as a treacherous ache spread through him. Her appearance was a calculated assault upon his senses, as was the shy façade she used as a ploy to avoid his questions.

“It seems to me that if I were to look in this direction from the beach, I would see a thick grove of trees and a scattering of wild of primroses, but nothing of the cottage.”

“Those at sea may glimpse the cottage on a clear day, but a crew working to avoid the Eddystone rocks has little time to scan the hills. Only the orchard can be seen from the beach.”

“Suitable quarters for a pirate king,” she said lightly.

As he weighed her comment for a confession, she looked closely at his face and promptly took a step backward.

“I did not mean to offend,” she said.

“You did not offend. It merely seemed a curious thing to say.”

“I only mentioned it because I am fond of strolling the orchard path, and I feel quite invisible—”

She gasped when he muttered an oath and grasped her upper arms, hauling her up to face him, his greater height forcing her onto her toes.

“Who gave you permission to stroll through the orchard?” Mrs. Faraday. She allows the girl to wander about while Morgan combs the area searching for her. “Foolish damn woman!”

“There is no need to be insulting,” Rachael admonished. She tugged against his grip.

“You are to stay inside,” he instructed.
“Inside,”
he repeated, shaking her for emphasis when she continued to struggle. Her mouth opened then closed. “Test me on this, and you will find your door bolted from the outside.”

“Then I will have exchanged one form of imprisonment for another. Perhaps I should depart in the morning and leave you to give my regrets to Tarry.”

Rachael tried to shake free of his hold, but his grip on her arms only tightened. He shifted his stance and swept her up against his solid strength, her back braced by his powerful arm. She felt every hard line of him from chest to thigh. Her breasts were crushed against his broad expanse. A pleasant warmth emanated from him, and the suggestion of lithe power, leashed, but deadly.

Staring at the elaborate brocade coat, Rachael was appalled by the unexpected flash of pleasure she felt at being held by him. She breathed in his scent, an aromatic mixture of exotic spices as mysterious as the man himself, and could feel the drumming of her heart when his hand brushed her cheek, smoothing the hair back from her face. Though he had seemed angry, his touch was exquisite in its gentleness.

This was madness. She barely knew him, and yet her heart leapt in reaction to his touch. She felt the tumult of her blood coursing through her veins, and was filled with a sharp, blind ache that begged to be eased. She could not blame her reaction on the wine; she hadn’t drunk any.

“How can you leave?” Rachael heard him ask. She looked up at him in bewilderment when he whispered, “How can I let you leave?”

She did not need to see his face to know he was going to kiss her. She felt the rough grasp of his fingers when he cupped her chin, and she lifted her head, driven to meet the hungry passion of his kiss with a sweet fervor of her own.

Who would condemn her for seeking protection or even love? There were enemies on all sides of her. She had felt helpless and without hope, but Wyatt made her feel safeguarded and desirable in ways she had never known.

Sebastién touched the sensitive area in the hollow of Rachael’s throat, his fingers gliding over her skin. She shuddered and moaned at the sensation as a fulsome yearning grew within her, a nameless intensity that quickened her pulse and chased away all thought of caution or propriety.

Sighing as his kiss grew demanding and possessive, her lips burned from the heat and depth of the kiss as he tested the resistance of her teeth and urged her lips to part for a fuller invasion. Her arms were locked between their bodies, but she yearned to touch him as he was touching her, with a slow appreciation that was ascending into urgency. Gently born and reared, she was unaccustomed to the riotous tumult of the senses.

Inflamed beyond all manner of thought or calculation, Sebastién moved in to kiss her hungrily, savoring her honeyed taste. It was a treacherous, damned inconvenient desire. The moonlight on her hair, the glowing promise in her dark blue eyes, and her pale, cool beauty had all conspired against him.

He felt her tongue touch his in an unexpected, curiously inexperienced graze that nearly undid him. He nuzzled her neck, lips tracing a trail along her creamy white skin as he moved on a downward path, mouth and hands savoring the bounty of her fragrant, silky flesh. His hand slid the gown up her leg as he caressed her silken thigh. Her skin was like porcelain in the candlelight, fragile and delicate, yet smooth and heated to his touch.

Her fierce, almost desperate response made him pause, and he fought to marshal restraint, unwilling to trust either himself or her. Holding her slightly away from him, Sebastién scrutinized her face. He could have her; that much was obvious. Her ivory skin had flushed a delicate rose, her eyes were dark with passion, and her bruised lips trembled. There was no sly manipulation in her guileless expression, only earnest, painful desire.

“Rachael,” he murmured, his accent softening her name to a sensual caress, “Rachael, you must promise me that you will not leave me.”

When she murmured his name in response, it was as if he had received a vicious blow to his midsection. Ego and ardor were simultaneously deflated, and the heated blood humming through his veins chilled and turned to sludge.

Yet what other name could she have called him but “John"? Sebastién released her and backed away, hands trembling as he straightened his clothes.

“Did I say—or do—something wrong?” she asked.

“Non,”
he rasped. “I must not divide your loyalties now,” he said, forming an excuse that would still allow him to play her hero. “If I make love to you, I will not be able to let you go.” That much, he realized with a reaction bordering on dismay, was true. If he gave in to his desire now, she might go unpunished. He could not allow that to happen.