His Wicked Sins (4 page)

Two
women had died at Burndale Academy.

Died
there.

Had Beth been a crying sort, she might have shed tears then, from fatigue and distress

and dismay.

Pressing her palms flat against her skirt, she steadied her thoughts, willing the darkest

part of her, the desperate, ever-fearful part, back to its dusty corner. She silently

remonstrated herself for allowing her imagination such free rein.

She ought to know better; open the gate just a little and the tugging, black mire would

suck her deep, shrouding her in memories and waking dreams more terrifying than any

nightmare.

She breathed deeply, then exhaled, resting her fingers on the cold gravestone. Yes, 'twas

a sad thing when one died so very young, but perhaps there had been cholera here, or

typhoid fever. Surely there was no sinister implication in the death of the two women

some two years apart.

Despite her silent reasoning, Beth could not help the wariness that scratched at her,

could not dampen the need to glance around the graveyard, suddenly painfully aware of its

isolation … her own isolation…

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With a shudder, she turned away.

Her gaze lit on the road, and she saw a carriage in the distance coming from the same

direction that she herself had traveled earlier, the road from Northallerton.

With her heart tripping, Beth hurried back to her trunk and stood waiting as the

conveyance drew near. She had the impression of fine horses with glossy black coats and

flashing hooves, all moving at a frantic pace. For a fraught moment, she thought the

carriage would not stop, so great was its speed and so disinterested its driver, but at the

last, he drew rein and halted a dozen feet beyond her place.

She glanced down at her travel-rumpled clothes—far dustier now than they had been a

moment past—and then up again at the vehicle. She had expected a dray or a wagon to

fetch her; a simple cart, and so she was startled by the quality of the curricle, sitting high

on two wheels, drawn by two magnificent, perfectly matched horses. All so very sporty.

Her attention shifted from the beasts to the driver. She could see only his broad back

clothed in a dark brown riding coat, a glimpse of one leg in buff-colored cord breeches,

and a booted foot, splattered with dried mud.

"Bloody hell. They'll likely have forgotten you."

The words, spoken in a gruff male tone—the words coarse, the clipped vowels

cultured—gave Beth pause. She froze, one foot before the other, halfway to moving in the

direction of the curricle. With a quick, shuffling step, she retreated. He swung down then,

lithe agility and leashed impatience.

A gentleman,
she thought, and then her gaze met his for the briefest instant, shadowy

and cold as the Thames in winter, and she wondered.
Perhaps not.

He was taller than she by a head, his shoulders broad, his frame lean and hard. His gaze

flicked over her, from her face to her dusty hem and back again. She clenched her fist at

her side, refusing to succumb to the silly urge to reach up and smooth her hair.

A half dozen steps brought him closer, and the sinuous grace of his movements made

her think that he would dance well, this curricle driver. He exhibited innate balance and

masculine elegance. Something about the way he moved made her think of her mother's

stories, of foils and fencing masters, and men who feinted and parried and moved as if in a

deadly dance.

That was the world her mother had been born to.

"Do you fence?" she blurted, thinking surely he must. Then she thought she ought to

have tempered her tongue. She was accustomed to asking question upon question, had

been encouraged by her father to do exactly that. But this was not home, and she would be

wise to guard her words.

He blinked, drew up short at her odd address, and his brows rose as he said, "I do."

His clothes—fine cut, fine cloth—defined his station, but even without them, she would

have known. There was a way he held himself, a steady confidence to his gaze. He looked

… unconquerable … a walled fortress. But there was something else … an impression that

his wall not only held others out, but held himself in.

She shook her head. What an odd notion.

One thing was certain. This man was not a driver sent here to fetch her, and his words

when first he had stopped suggested that no other was coming.

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Her father would be proud to know she noted all these bits of the puzzle. The thought

was misty sad.

"You are
not
sent from Burndale Academy to fetch me," Beth observed.

"No, not sent from Burndale, but willing to fetch you nonetheless."

He walked closer still, studying her with a curious air, frank perusal, the light in his

liquid dark eyes mesmerizing. Her heart did an odd little dance, tripping faster than it

ought.

"I am on my way there now and would be pleased to offer you a ride," he continued.

"May I presume that you are the new teacher?" He raised a brow in question.

So he knew there was a teacher expected. She supposed that was a recommendation of

sorts.

Studying him, she assessed both his appearance and her options. His hair was dark,

wind rumpled and overlong, with a thick hank falling across his brow at the front, and the

ends curling slightly where they brushed the back of his collar. He was close enough now

that she could see that his dark eyes were lit by a shimmer of gold and, when he turned his

head just so, a whisper of green.

Unfamiliar stimulation shimmered in her veins. He was studying her as she studied him,

and something she saw there made her pulse trip over itself with eager glee.

She was startled by such unprecedented and strange excitement.

Well.
He was … beautiful. Like the exotic panther she had seen when her father took

her once to Peddleton's Menagerie. She had felt sick for the panther, locked away in his

cage, had wished for a way to break the bars even as she had recognized that if she did

somehow release him, she would likely be his next meal. And a bloody and screaming one

at that.

This man had that same look, that dangerous, feral look. Only there was no safe cage

around him, save the one he built for himself.

"I am Miss Elizabeth Canham, come to Burndale Academy to teach history and

geography and literature." She waited a moment and, hoping she did not sound forlorn,

asked, "Why will they have forgotten me?"

That hard mouth curved a little. She thought his smile held more darkness than mirth or

amiability. A cynical sensuality that even she, an untutored girl, recognized.

He glanced at the laden sky and said, "The headmistress has a weighty matter to occupy

her afternoon, and Mr. Waters is not known for his remarkable memory. Unless it is

remarkable for its unreliability."

Something in his tone made Beth uncertain if she should step back in unease or smile in

collusion.

"Your name, sir?" she asked boldly, not pausing to wonder how she dared.

He sent her a look she could not read.

"My apologies, Miss Canham. My manners are rusty, indeed. Griffin Fairfax." He

bowed, most gentlemanly, but she had the impression he was somehow mocking her. Or

perhaps himself. He had placed a strange inflection on the word "manners."

"Yours?" he asked, with a gesture toward her luggage. At her nod of assent, he hefted

her trunk as though it weighed nothing and made quick work of tying it to the back of the

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curricle.

Turning to her once more, he held out his hand in open invitation. His features were

purely sculpted and artful, fine enough to be cast in bright polished bronze, carved by a

skilled hand, kissed by the sun.

She studied his hand, hesitating, wondering if accepting a ride with this stranger was

indeed her best course. He was dressed well enough, like a gentleman, and his carriage

was fine. He knew she was the new teacher for Burndale Academy, which likely meant he

was some part of the local community. Did all that recommend him?

To some degree.

He huffed a breath, tapped his foot on the road, while in the distance thunder rumbled.

After a moment, he said, "You do like to mull things over, Miss Canham." He glanced

at the sky. "Might I impose upon you to conclude your ponderings before the storm?"

It was the hint of amusement in his tone that decided it. She lifted her skirt and walked

the few steps to his side. He handed her up onto the seat.

His was a lightly sprung carriage with room only for a driver and passenger, the design

necessitating a closeness that made Beth a little uncomfortable. Once he took his place,

Mr. Fairfax would be shoulder to shoulder with her. Thigh to thigh.

An unfamiliar flutter tickled her belly. Butterflies dancing.

Mortified, she was at a loss to explain her odd reaction. But she was not so mortified

that she denied herself the intriguing sight of his long limbs pacing off the distance as he

strode around to the other side of the carriage.

He did not climb up. Instead, he paused to stare at her in a most unmannerly way, his

gaze lingering on her mouth, her eyes, and finally, longest of all, her hair.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she parted her lips to better draw air.

Instinct bade her raise her hand, smooth her wild curls, apologize for her shabby

appearance. She thought she must look a fright, having sat in the stagecoach for so many

days. Stubbornness and a little pride—both were sins she laid claim to—stayed her actions

and her tongue. Instead, she gazed down at him steadily, her hands folded demurely in her

lap.

His lips thinned. "Flax-pale and curled. They'd have been better to choose a dark girl."

Strange words, without context, and the soft way he said them made her shiver.