Captive Scoundrel (10 page)

Even if he divorced Catherine, which he would, an unmarried woman could not consort with a divorced man. He nearly laughed. An unmarried woman could not sleep beside a married man either, but Faith did exactly that. Strange circumstances, he told himself, made unusual bed-mates. Still, to avoid society’s censure, when he recovered, he and Faith must part. And with that realization came pain, sharp and stabbing, and Justin groaned.

Faith sat up. “What’s wrong, love?”

She was so foggy, she didn’t realize what she said. Hell, she probably called every mewling kitten, love. As always, when he became ill, she took him into her arms.

Justin held her. He needed her strength until desolation passed. She thought him physically ill, and illness did plague him. Illness of spirit. For suddenly he felt overwhelming grief, as if his struggle had been for naught and he might as well have expired as recovered. There was nothing for him here. He’d lost Beth, and Faith, well, she was nothing more than an aberration, a last favour from above.

“It’s all right. I’m here,” she said, sensing his despair. “You’ve lost so much. It must be difficult to come to terms with all of it.”

Beth’s death? Never. “Terms be damned. I’ll never accept what happened, and I’ll have retribution, make no mistake.”

“Revenge won’t solve anything. And you’ve healing to do before you’re ready to take on the world. Be patient and we’ll do it together. All of it. In time.”

She would stand by him? While he ran his brother through? “You don’t know what you’re saying. Go home to that big, happy family with a mother and father who love you. That’s rare, Faith, a family like yours. You know nothing of fighting.” He looked into her eyes. “You know nothing of losing.”

Faith struggled from his arms and rose. “I know of struggle and loss. I fought for your life, and I fought hard. Perhaps this time I won. But with my grandfather, I did not. And he lost more than I; he lost his life. Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “You’re right. I’m nothing but a useless child.”

“Don’t cry.”

“I never cry.”

Not for herself. But she cried for others. He’d seen her. He couldn’t keep from reaching out, from pulling her down with him. The kiss began tenderly. The taste of her intoxicated him. He teased her lips open with his, then she whimpered as he closed his mouth over hers. She was young, untried. He should stop.

Instead, he settled her across his lap and kissed her again. “You taste like honey.” Her heart beat against his. He pulled her closer and gloried in her compliance. She stroked his nape, sliding her hand beneath his nightshirt before snatching it back.

Heat raced through Faith. She didn’t know if it was shock over her wandering hand, or just plain lust. Likely lust, the kind Jimmy Kennedy told her about when they were twelve.

And she’d thought he was making the whole thing up.

But this was real. She was in Justin’s bed, sitting across his lap, simmering like a pudding in his arms. How could such a gentle touch evoke such heat? And did she alone melt within the inferno? She thought not. Justin breathed hard, as if he’d been running. Under her hand, his heart beat strong and fast.

His kiss gentled; he stroked the side of her breast, and white-hot flames shot through her. If she stood, her knees would buckle, the pulsating surge within her incredibly shocking and remarkably pleasant.

It was bad. It was good. A rapture she never imagined.

When Justin stroked her naked breast, Faith sighed, floated, and opened her eyes to watch, mesmerized, as he encircled the delicate tip with his lips. “Justin!”

He looked up. Confused. As if he burned with fever still.

Faith slid from his lap, to catch her breath.

“Faith I—”

“We have to stop. I never…I mean it was…fascinating. But I….” She craved answers. When had this attraction begun? Where would it end? And would she survive? “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Justin’s laughter resonated with insult. His look changed to anger, disappointment.

Faith’s foolish apology echoed in her head. She really was an ignorant child. Even his narrow-eyed expression mocked her. She looked to where his gaze centred…and nearly expired at the sight of her exposed breast, the nipple hard and aching. She gasped and turned, her haste ridiculous in its tardiness.

Willing her gathering tears not to spill, she pulled her chemise up to cover herself. And with shaking hands, she retied the laces she couldn’t remember coming undone.

Awkwardness plagued her. How she dreaded looking into his eyes. Surely he knew she liked what he did, without her being foolish enough to say so. Fascinating indeed. Did this skill he possessed have any bearing on Justin’s popularity with the ladies?

Suddenly she hated every woman he ever touched. Hated being one of them. She wondered if even a one, including herself, meant any more to him than a moment of stolen pleasure.

Without turning, Faith rose from her side of the bed. Sun rays needled into the room illuminating her in her foolishness. She smoothed her skirts. If only she could leave without facing him, but she needed to go around the bed to get to her door. So she raised her chin and trained her gaze on her goal.

As she passed his side of the bed, Justin caught her about the waist and drew her back. Once she was there, his hands at her waist, his thumbs stroking beneath her breasts, she couldn’t seem to gather the moral strength to move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should not have.” His hands slid down her hips and away.

Silence.

She needn’t have worried about facing him. He lay back, shielding his eyes. “It was no good from the start,” he said.

His words, like a knife, cut her. Had he disliked their intimacy? For her it had been…why she had practically….Her heart quickened just thinking about it. She would have said yes to whatever he’d asked, would have let him do anything.

She should be grateful she displeased him. Her virtue remained intact. Which mattered little, for she wanted him to pull her close and kiss her again, to say how wonderful she made him feel. She was a naive child, and the worldly Justin Devereux had kissed women who knew what they were about, who knew how to please a man.

In her room, she shut the door between, leaned against it, and touched her breast. A tender ache, not pain, not pleasure. Foolish her. She longed for something of which she knew nothing.

Pacing her room, she craved a few moments away. She checked Justin and saw he slept. Ten minutes later, she approached the beach she’d seen from the window. The hair blowing in her eyes gave her a good, solid reason to be annoyed. She pulled her shawl tight against the chill in the September wind. Gulls circled an outcropping of rocks, their cries in sympathy with her plight.

When she reached the shingle, she scooped a handful of pebbles and stepped to the lapping froth. The sea swallowed a smooth bronze stone with barely a ripple. Creeping foam pushed her back. “Beware of forces more powerful than you,” it warned. And she understood, for she could as easily drown in Justin’s kisses.

She walked back up the beach and sat amid ballooning skirts on dry, sun-warmed sand, hugged her knees, and gazed at the horizon.

Her first morning at Killashandra, Justin opened his eyes. Then she’d wanted to see them again. When she did, she wanted his smile, to hear his voice, his laugh.

She’d wanted him to awaken. And he did.

Then she wanted him to get well. And by all appearances, that wish was being granted as well.

Now she wanted him to love her. She drew a heart in the sand, and erased it. Why could she never be satisfied? In those first weeks, had she known the progress Justin would make, she would have been the happiest of women. Which is exactly what she would be…happy…and his nurse.

But she would never, ever, forget what they’d shared today.

Justin would recover and she would go home. Jimmy Kennedy would come down from Oxford. He’d begged her for kisses two years ago. At Christmas, she would see if he still felt the same…if Justin recovered enough for her to leave by then.

After a trek down the beach, Faith climbed the sloped path through shoulder-high oat grass toward the trim lawns and formal gardens of Killashandra.

“Miss Wickham? Wait, please.” Hemsted, Vincent’s man, strode toward her. Then the cat from the library charged, making her lose her footing.

With a shout, her pursuer caught her. She shrieked, and even after he regained his balance, Faith was so shaken, she kept her arms around his neck.

Hemsted grinned. “I confess I wanted to get your attention, but it was not my plan to knock you off your feet.” He carried her up the path. “Though to be honest, I cannot have asked for a more fortuitous outcome.” He set her down and bowed.

Faith couldn’t help smiling. He had an engaging manner. But she must remember to whom his loyalty belonged. “Did you want me, Mr. Hemsted?”

He indicated the path back to the house. “Shall we?”

She nodded and they strolled side by side.

“I wondered how your patient is.” He shook his head. “Rather, I should say that his brother, my employer, wishes to know.”

The sun caught his hair just so and the wind played with a gold lock tossing it against his brow and away. Though he seemed kind and easy to look upon, she must remain wary. “My patient is the same.”

“Has he recovered from the fever? His Grace is anxious to know, as this was a first downward turn since the accident.”

Faith grimaced inwardly. “I can imagine his agitation at the news.” Elation more like.

“Yes,” Hemsted said soberly, hands behind his back, face to the wind.

Faith examined his expression to see if he knew of Vincent’s malevolence, but his look appeared free of guile. Lord, she liked him.

He stepped on uneven ground and caught himself. “Blast.” He examined the grass. “Ah. The culprit.” He retrieved and offered said culprit for her inspection.

With a start, Faith saw the familiar amber vial. They stood beneath the elm, of course, and Justin’s window two floors above. Oh God.

Hemsted measured its weight, tossed it up and caught it. “What could it be? I know. A fairy bottle with three wishes.”

Faith forced a smile. “What shall we wish for, then?”

Hemsted flashed a grin. “I would be no gentleman if I answered. And call me Max.” He unstopped the vial and sniffed. “Ugh.” In a flash he held it away. “Whatever it was, it’s gone brackish.” He dropped the cruet but pocketed the stopper.

Faith’s heart beat so loudly, it was a wonder he didn’t hear. What had they been thinking to throw the things out the window? But her gallant said no more as he walked her to her door. “Might you be free to dine with me tonight?”

Tonight she would be searching in the dark for evidence of Justin’s recovery, every bottle of it. “I’m sorry. My patient will need me. This was the first time I’ve wandered and I’m not likely to do so again. Thank you for your rescue and your company. Good day.”

Faith washed and changed before returning to Justin. He slept like a babe and hadn’t even known she’d gone. She would recover the evidence and see him well. Then she would leave him.

Justin sat by the window, a book in his lap, dusk covering the world in smoky gray, Faith driving him crazy. He wanted his happy, smiling nurse back. He wanted to hear her laugh until he silenced her with his kiss. He ached to court her and wake beside her every morning, to make her cry his name in ecstasy.

He wanted everything he could not have.

Damn it. He did not want her. He did not want any of it.

It mattered not, because, since he broke her heart, when couldn’t respond to her, Justin knew he would never be intimate with a woman again. Never father another child. Faith deserved better. Besides, he had no right to contemplate a future with Faith. Not when Catherine remained his wife.

He regarded her portrait. How angry he’d been at her for having it painted. He had excluded her from the family portrait he commissioned. By her own admission, she wanted no family. Yet out of spite, she’d had her own portrait painted and hung beside him and Beth.