Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (2 page)

She pointed down the lane. “This way.”

“Is it far?” “No, not far.”

His horse began to walk—though she couldn’t discern that he’d given it any visible command—and they continued on in a strained silence. Each clop of the horse’s hooves shifted her about so she kept bumping into him. Her shoulder and arm were in intimate contact with his chest. She’d lurch away and stiffen her spine, but immediately be thrown into him again. Separation was impossible.

“Relax,
chérie,”
he murmured. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I didn’t imagine you would.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t bite.”

“You might.”

“You’re too pretty,”he said. “I would hate to leave any marks.”

She was flustered by his flattery.

He’s French,
she told herself.
He probably spews compliments like candy
. Yet she couldn’t stop the rush of delight that swept through her.

Her father had always claimed she was pretty, and her fiancé Patrick had thought so, too. But Mildred insisted she wasn’t, and Mildred’s cutting insults had been hurled for so many years that it was difficult to discount them.

Secretly, Sarah knew Mildred was wrong, that she was jealous. Mildred was very plain and unexceptional, while Sarah resembled her mother who had been renowned as a great beauty. She’d inherited her mother’s lush auburn hair, her bright blue eyes, merry dimples, and curvaceous shape. She looked fetching and smart—at least when she was attired in a halfway decent gown—and she wasn’t vain in her assessment.

She had a mirror in her bedchamber and could clearly see herself in it. Her father’s opinion had been the correct one. Not Mildred’s, and it was refreshing to be reminded of the truth by a very handsome, very dashing stranger—even if he likely said the same to every female he encountered.

“What is your name,
chérie?
”he asked.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I am a very friendly person, and I’m making friendly conversation.”

For an eternity, she considered his request, trying to decide if she should oblige him. Ultimately, she couldn’t think of a reason
not
to reveal her identity.

“I am Miss Sarah Teasdale.”

Oddly, her name riveted him so thoroughly that even his horse seemed to freeze in mid-stride.

“Teasdale?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

She shifted to peer up at him, which was a mistake. He was very captivating, very mesmerizing, and she was sitting much too close. Quickly, she glanced away.

“You must be related to Bernard and Mildred Teasdale,”he mused, more to himself than to her.

“Bernard was my father, and Mildred is my stepmother.”

“And Hedley?”

“Hedley is my half-brother.” She scowled. “How do you know my family?”

“Oh, I don’t,”he casually said. “I’ve just heard of them.”

She was positive he was lying but as to what facts?

“Why are you out alone?” His tone was scolding. “Why don’t you have a driver and carriage?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time to listen to it.”

“It’s easier if I walk.” She shrugged, acting as if Mildred’s refusal to allow her use of the gig wasn’t worth mentioning. “I don’t like to fuss over trivialities, and it’s a lovely day to be outside.”

“Yes, it is.”

She stared up at him again, and he was evaluating her so meticulously that she bristled with apprehension. He was very shrewd, very astute, and she felt as if he could delve down into the forlorn parts of her being, that he could view all the petty hurts and sad yearnings she kept concealed from the world.

She didn’t want him to see so much, didn’t want him to understand so much about her.

“Why are you in the area, Mr…?”

She paused, waiting for him to explain, to introduce himself. He hesitated, then said, “My name is John…Sinclair.”

It took him forever to settle on a surname, so he had to be lying about that, too.

“What’s wrong?”she chided. “Are you suffering from amnesia? Have you forgotten who you are?”

“No, I have several names. I was simply debating which to provide.”

“Well, that certainly sounds sinister.”

“I have French relations, but English ones, too. I always have to pick who I’m claiming as my own.”

“I bet you have an interesting family tree.”

“You have no idea,
chérie
.”

They arrived at the gates of Bramble Bay, and she gazed down the orchard-lined drive to the manor house at the end. The afternoon sun shone on the bricks so they were a warm peach shade. The glass in the windows sparkled, the roses adding splashes of color. Beyond the mansion, the manicured lawns sloped to the ocean, the waves lapping on the rocky shore.

She practically sighed with pleasure.

It was such a beautiful spot, like a perfectly painted landscape, and she never grew tired of looking at it. How long would she be permitted to stay? How long would she have the right to call it her own? Would Mildred kick her out someday in a flurry of temper? Would Sarah become too dispirited and leave before she was tossed out?

Mildred was pressuring her to marry their neighbor, Sheldon Fishburn, but he was thirty years older than Sarah, and he was Patrick’s father, had been her own father’s best friend. Would she eventually be so discouraged that she would agree to the match?

She fought off a shudder. She’d rather sell herself into slavery than marry Patrick’s stodgy, boring father. She hadn’t had many lucky breaks in her life, but when she wed, it would be for love. If there was a bit of passion thrown into the mix, she’d take that, too.

What she wouldn’t accept was a tedious, cold union where both parties were miserable—as Bernard and Mildred had been miserable—and that’s what she’d have with Sheldon.

Sarah peered up at Mr. Sinclair.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re in the neighborhood.”

“No, I haven’t.” He was being deliberately elusive and mysterious.

“Is it a secret?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You’re very nosy.”

“I like to think I’m being protective. You appear to know all about my family, but I know nothing about you. Are you a criminal? Are you a robber? Should we be locking the silverware at night?”

“You have silverware that’s worth stealing?” He studied the house with a keen eye as if he might rush in and pilfer their valuables.

“Very funny,”she snorted.

He urged his horse onward, and they started down the drive.

“I’m scouting…property.”

There was another hesitation in his response. Why was she sure he was a complete fraud? But even as the thought unnerved her, she suffered a thrill that he might move to a nearby estate.

“Scouting for yourself? Or for someone else?”

“Maybe for myself. Maybe for someone else,”he furtively replied.

“We might be neighbors?” She tried to keep her query light and casual.

“Perhaps.”

“So we might cross paths again?”

“We might.”

He continued on to the manor, circled the fountain and halted at the grand stairs that led up to the ornate front doors. Fortunately, the butler hadn’t noted her approach, and no servants were lurking, so no one witnessed her scandalous return.

Without dismounting, he lifted her down and set her on her feet.

“Can you make it inside on your own?”he asked.

“Yes.”

She smiled up at him, his kerchief wadded in her hand so he wouldn’t notice it and expect her to give it back. She wondered if she’d ever see him again, and it occurred to her that it would be a very sad thing if she didn’t.

His golden hair gleamed in the bright sun, his emerald eyes reflecting the grass and trees. He was charismatic and charming and fascinating, and she would be sorry to have him leave.

There were a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to invite him to keep in touch, to visit whenever he was in the area, to arrive unannounced and cheer her with his captivating presence.

Of course any such comments would be too forward and totally inappropriate, so she swallowed them down.

“Thank you for coming to my aid,”she courteously said. “Thank you for the ride.”

“You’re welcome, my little damsel in distress. Have a care.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye,
chérie
.”

He grinned and cantered off.

She stood frozen in her spot, watching until he vanished from sight. She was positive he’d turn around and wave, but he didn’t.

She wrenched away and hobbled up the stairs.

* * * *

John Harcourt Sinclair—also known as Jean Pierre,
Le Terreur Français—
sat on his horse, staring at Bramble Bay Manor. He was out on the road, the main chimney and slated roof just visible through the woods.

He was the most notorious pirate in the world, the kingdom’s most wanted criminal. For years, he’d disrupted British shipping lanes, had attacked and scuttled British ships, had plundered and pillaged and created mayhem wherever he went.

No one could figure out what drove him or how to thwart him, and there were hundreds of bounties on his head, posted in port towns from Rome to Jamaica.

He’d grown up in Paris, so he spoke fluent French and had the air and style of a Frenchman. So it was assumed he was French, and the authorities in particular were searching for a Frenchman, but his mother had been a British countess, his father a British earl, so he was as British as a man could be.

He peered over at his best and only friend, Raven Hook. Raven served as First Mate on his ships and participated in his schemes and anarchy. He was brave and dangerous and loyal to a fault, and John couldn’t imagine a finer partner.

From the day they’d met, when John had been a starving street urchin who’d botched his first attempt to steal food, Raven had watched over him.

John had been ten, and Raven a much older and wiser fifteen. He’d been kind and shrewd, had taught John how to survive, how to cheat and fight and win. He’d tamped down John’s worst urges, had tempered his worst ideas and plans, had guarded his back when John couldn’t be dissuaded from folly.

Their life of crime had left them obscenely rich. As opposed to their difficult beginnings, they could now buy anything, have anything, do anything, but that didn’t mean they were ready to halt their mischief. John hadn’t yet destroyed all the enemies on his list, and there was still too much revenge to be had. Mildred and Hedley Teasdale were next.

“Was it wise to ride up to the house?”Raven asked.

They conversed in English, practicing it, having to remember that deception was paramount.

“I wasn’t noticed by anyone,”John insisted, “and if I was, how can it matter? People see what they want to see. I’m merely a passing stranger, assisting Miss Teasdale after she’d twisted her ankle. They’d never connect me with the man who’s about to arrive.”

“What if that little worm, Hedley, had strolled by? He’d have recognized you.”

“But what could he have done?”

“You shouldn’t tip your hand.”

“I haven’t.”

John stared at Bramble Bay Manor again.

He’d been waiting so long for this moment, had plotted and conspired and schemed, and he was so close to the end. He was anxious to finish it.

“When the front parlor is mine,”he said, “how grand will I look, sitting on the sofa by the fire?”

“You plan to sit on the sofa by the fire? I thought the idea was to take ownership, then let it go to ruin.”

John nodded. “It’s still the plan, but I certainly intend to wallow in my spoils before I wreck the place.”

“What will happen to Mildred and Hedley when you’re through with them?”

“Who cares what happens?”

“It’s what I like about you, John. You’re the most heartless bastard I’ve ever met, which means I’m not the biggest brute who ever lived. There’s always someone worse than me. That would be you.”

“I’m happy to be of service.”

They scrutinized the house, the grounds, John thinking about the sweetness of vengeance. There was such satisfaction in knowing that Mildred would be sorry, that none of her dreams for Hedley would ever come true.

“What about Miss Teasdale?”Raven asked. “Did you realize Hedley had a sister?”

“No.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s a tiny sprite. Pretty. Amusing, but foolish—like all women.”

“Too bad for her to be caught in all this.”

“Yes, too bad.”

When he’d stumbled on Sarah Teasdale on the side of the road, he’d been greatly humored by her.

Though she’d been injured and alone, she hadn’t been afraid of him, and she’d exhibited an enormous amount of pluck. She was fetching and funny and refreshing, and he’d enjoyed their chat much more than he should have.

His world was a jumble of sailors and ports and perilous, daring sea assaults that often left him physically wounded. He frequently consorted with females, but they were jaded trollops, the only sort available to a man in his position. His current mistress, Annalise, was typical. She was beautiful, but cunning and treacherous, and she never misconstrued her role.

He kept her because she looked stunning on his arm, because she would engage in any decadent, salacious act he requested without grumbling or nagging.

So he never encountered the likes of Sarah Teasdale, and he wondered about her past, her circumstances. She was probably the girl his mother could have been—sheltered, adored, pampered—if Fate had pushed his mother down a wiser, better path.

He was absurdly eager to see Miss Teasdale again. As he waltzed into the foyer at Bramble Bay, like a king on summer progress, she’d likely faint.

“What will become of Miss Teasdale when you’re through?”Raven asked. “I know you’re not concerned about Hedley or Mildred, but Miss Teasdale is innocent.”

John grinned. “I might have mercy on her and take on another mistress.”

“Annalise might have a few choice words to say about that.”

“No, she won’t.”

“I can’t imagine Miss Teasdale would consent to an indecent arrangement. From your description of her, she seems to be very British. If you mentioned a lewd liaison, you’d drive her into a swoon.”