One Little Sin (14 page)

She looked up at him, blinking back tears. “But I was responsible for taking care of her!” she whispered. “That was my job. My duty as a sister.”

There was a soft sound at the door, and Lydia came in with tray. Wellings, God love him, had sent up a full decanter of whisky and two glasses, as well as a plate of bread, cheese, and cold meat, none of which would ever be eaten.

“Thank you, Lydia,” he murmured. “You may work belowstairs the rest of the evening. Tell Wellings Miss Hamilton is not to be disturbed under any circumstance unless Dr. Reid sends for her.”

Eyes sad, Lydia curtseyed, and went away. “Oh, Alasdair!” Esmée cried when the door was shut. “Oh, what have I done? What if she dies, too? I cannot bear it! I cannot!”

Alasdair knew better than to belittle her fear. He, too, was still terrified. And for Esmée, death was all too real. She had just buried her own mother, a woman who, by all accounts, had apparently been young and vibrant. She had lost a father, and three stepfathers. Now her sister lay still and pale as death. Life no doubt seemed very impermanent to Esmée. He was struck with the strangest urge to pull her into his arms and kiss away her tears. But it seemed wiser to dab them away with his handkerchief, then pour her a whisky, and press it into her hand.

“At least it isn’t frog water,” he said by way of apology. “Drink it.”

“Thank you.” Esmée sipped without hesitation and resumed her pacing. For long moments, she kept it up, pausing only to nurse her whisky. Alasdair considered leaving. Considered ringing for Lydia to come back. But he wanted—no,
needed
—to be with her. So he did neither, and doomed himself.

The sun had vanished from the sky, its rays warming the world beyond the schoolroom windows with shades of dusky rose. Darkness, and the intimacy which it so often brought, was but a moment away. Alasdair drained his glass, set it aside, and sent up yet another silent prayer for Sorcha’s recovery.

“Och, what a soss I’ve made of this!” Esmée’s voice came out of nowhere, thick and husky. “I never really learnt how to take proper care of a child. We were used to a gaggle of servants, Mamma and I. They did
everything.”

“I think you have done a fine job,” he answered.

But she went on as if she had not heard him. “I suspected, of course, that Achanalt would put me out,” she said, her voice taking on a hysterical edge. “But to put out a child? How could he? How? He must have known—oh, God! He must have known I was hopelessly incompetent!” She set down her nearly empty glass with an awkward clatter and let her head fall forward into her hands. “Oh, God, Alasdair! He must have wished for this!”

Alasdair went to her and set an arm about her shoulders. He was no longer certain the whisky had been such a good idea. “You need to sit down, Esmée,” he said, looking impatiently about the room. “Good Lord, haven’t we any normal-sized chairs?”

She lifted her head and looked at the little chairs as if she’d not seen them before. “In here,” she answered, her voice throaty.

He followed her, foolishly, into her bedchamber. There, the canopied bed had already been turned down, and a warm fire burned in the grate. But the other bed, the little bed he’d bought for Sorcha, stood empty. Esmée passed by it and blanched.

Alasdair took her by the elbow and urged her toward a pair of chairs which sat near the hearth. “Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind. I don’t know why I ever suggested otherwise.”

Alasdair looked at her warily. “Even Old Scratch looks better through the bottom of a glass,” he murmured. “Why don’t you sit down, my dear?”

Instead, she slid her hands up and down her arms as if she were cold. “I cannot be still,” she rasped. “I feel as if I might explode.”

He took her gently by the shoulders. “Esmée, Sorcha will be all right,” he soothed. “She
will.”

“Will she?” she cried. “Alasdair, how can you be sure?”

He tightened his grip, and gave her a little shake. “She will, Esmée. I know it. I believe it.”

She sobbed, a deep, bone-shuddering sound, and fell against him, her arms going round his neck. And then he was holding her again, as he’d already done too often this dreadful day. Esmée was sobbing into his shirtfront as if her heart were breaking. Alasdair tightened the embrace and set his lips to her temple. “Whisht now, love,” he whispered. “All’s well. Trust me, Esmée. Just trust me.”

Trust him?
What in God’s name was he thinking?

But instead of pushing him away in disgust, Esmée just swallowed hard and nodded. “When you say it, I believe it,” she whispered.

She was a fool, he knew, to believe in him, the most resolute rotter in Christendom. But in that moment, he wanted her to believe. He wanted to deserve, just for an instant, the abject need he’d seen in Esmée’s eyes. She set her cheek to his chest. “Oh, Alasdair!” Her plea was so soft, he could barely hear it. “Oh, just put your arms round me for a moment. Please.”

So he encircled her in his arms and drew their bodies closer. He crooked his head, meaning to kiss her temple again. But she looked up at him instead, her damp eyes wide and searching. She made a little sound, a sweet, sudden inhalation, and somehow, he dipped his head. Their lips met—by accident, he would have sworn—and she let her weight sag against him, wordlessly pleading for something she’d no business having.

But there was, perhaps, a little sliver of decency yet left in Alasdair. He raised his head, and looked at her questioningly.

“Aye, Alasdair, I can hold my whisky,” she whispered. “I’m not so tosie I don’t know what I’m about.”

Another tear leaked from her left eye, and impulsively, he dipped his head and brushed it away with his lips. Esmée made the small, plaintive sound again, and curled one slender hand behind his neck.

He let his eyes move over the pure ivory of her face, now tear-stained, and somehow convinced himself it would be ungentlemanly to refuse her a moment of consolation. So he let one hand slide from her shoulder down to the gentle sway of her back and spread his fingers wide, then eased his palm soothingly up and down, easing a little of his own fear as he did so. Burying his face in her hair, he drew in Esmée’s sweet essence, that familiar scent of moor and heather. Of home. Of
her.

Impatiently, she rose on her tiptoes and slanted her mouth over his, setting his head to swimming. Somehow, he managed to remember her innocence, and returned the kiss tenderly. But that was not quite what she wanted. Instead, Esmée opened her mouth beneath his, tempting him to take her.

Logic spun away. Alasdair slid inside her mouth, tasting the whisky on her lips. Her breath was like spicy fruit; a ripe persimmon, bittersweet on his tongue. Esmée’s hands began to roam restlessly over him, her touch uncertain yet urgent.

Alasdair understood that sometimes harrowing experiences had an extraordinary effect on people. There was a sense of having been brushed by death, and often, a desire to obliterate the terror with some other—almost
any
other—sensation. But he did not explain this to Esmée, for he could not find the words. Instead, he set his other hand between her shoulder blades and began to pat her back in a gesture he hoped was more avuncular than avaricious.

Apparently, it wasn’t working. She tore her mouth from his. “Alasdair,” she choked. “Don’t leave me tonight.”

Her meaning was clear. “Ah, Esmée,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t do, love. You are distraught. And I am not for you. Remember, you don’t even like me that well.”

Anxiously, she licked her lips. “I was mistaken,” she returned. “You make me afraid of myself, I think.”

He kissed the turn of her jaw. “Be afraid of
me,
love,” he whispered against her ear. “I’m no gentleman.”

She arched her neck, all but begging his mouth to slide down the turn of her throat. “Just stay with me, Alasdair,” she pleaded. “Make me forget this awful day. I can’t be alone. Oh, I can’t bear it. Not tonight.”

Alasdair heard the little catch in her voice. He told himself that she was young and innocent, and that he needed to soothe her fear for Sorcha, without making his desire so bloody apparent. But that was the very trouble he’d been struggling with these last few weeks. Esmée was desirable—so much so that he’d been afraid to sleep alone in his own home. Afraid, really, that he wouldn’t end up alone, for despite their fierce arguments, he had already felt the snap and crackle of passion between them.

Oh, yes, it was all too easy for a practiced rake to seduce an innocent. And it was particularly easy now, when they were both hurting, and afraid of being left alone with their fears. It was up to him to say
no.
But when she brushed her lips over his again, and slid her warm, slender hands round his back, he said
yes,
closing his eyes, and kissing her deeply, until her body came fully against his, and pressed artlessly against the bulge of his trousers.

What a naïve little fool she was! And what a cad he was. Suddenly, cool air breezed up his spine. She had tugged his shirt free. Her small hands were on him, warm and searching as they skimmed up the muscles of his back, setting him to trembling.

“God Almighty, Esmée,” he choked.
“Don’t.”

But Alasdair had no self-discipline, save his ruthless control at the card table. He refused himself nothing he wanted—and what he wanted now was Esmée. Which really wasn’t anything new. So he let her slide the coat from his shoulders. Let her fingers skate round the bearer of his trousers. Let his hand ease down to the luscious curve of her arse. Let everything go to hell in a surge of overwrought fear and suppressed desire.

Esmée no longer kissed like an innocent. Instead, she was meeting his strokes with hers, languorously entwining her tongue with his. Blood began to pound in his temples, drowning out his good intentions. Tearing his mouth from hers, he shoved his fingers into her hair and drew back her head, brushing his lips down the tender flesh of her neck.

Esmée shuddered. “I want…oh, I want…” she whispered.

He knew what she wanted. And Alasdair had never been a saint. He undressed her with the efficiency of a practiced rogue, divesting her of gown and corset, chemise and drawers—everything, even what was left of her hairpins—all without taking his ravening mouth from hers.

Oh, he knew he was going to regret it; knew there was going to be a terrible price to pay. But he drew in her scent again, and let the strange mix of fear and desire swirl in his mind like a shimmering haze, obscuring his reason.

Esmée showed no embarrassment when his hungry eyes raked her bare body. Perhaps it was the whisky. Or perhaps just her earthy nature. He didn’t care; he was mesmerized by the soft alabaster curves of her hips, her thighs, round swell of her breasts. She was small, so fine boned and delicate he feared he might break her. But her cool green eyes held his, as knowing and honest as the day he’d first met her. The heavy brown hair he’d once thought plain hung to her waist in a shimmering curtain which teased at her nipples. He buried his face in it again, drew in her scent of honey and heather, and was lost.

Later, he couldn’t even remember undressing himself, or carrying her to the bed. But he remembered pressing her down into the white softness of the mattress and dragging his weight over her. Her breasts were surprisingly full, and when he set his hands firmly against her shoulders and took one in his mouth, Esmée arched beneath him and cried out his name.

Something hot and frighteningly possessive surged through him then, yet he was but barely aware of the danger. Esmée was all youth and beauty and innocence. And her innocence was his, it seemed, to take.

Esmée felt a sweet, hot heat go curling through her belly the instant his mouth touched her breast. Instinctively, she cried out, her body rising to his in a primordial sign of desire. She was not a total fool; she understood she was offering him something irrevocable. It did not matter. She wished to lose herself in this man’s beauty; to let him ease her pain and obliterate her fear.

“Alasdair.” Her voice was urgent in the gloom. “Alasdair.
Please.”

Instead, he cradled her face between his hands, let his long lashes drop shut, and kissed her slow and deep. Esmée’s head swam. His tantalizing scent—soap and tobacco, sweat and whisky—teased at her nostrils and made her stomach bottom out. She lifted one leg instinctively and curled it over his, drawing their hips together. But he pushed her leg away almost roughly and turned his attention to her other breast, his heavy golden hair falling forward, veiling his eyes.

For long moments, he suckled her, stilling her to his mouth with his powerful arms, and building her blood to a roaring boil. Oh,
this!
Yes, this was what she yearned for. With the weight of his body still sprawled over her, he drew the tip of one breast between his teeth. She gave a cry, soft and urgent, but it wasn’t pain. It was…something better. Something heady and uncontrollable.

Esmée let her head tip back into the pillow, let her fingers curl into her palms, inviting him to do as he pleased as she watched from beneath her lashes. Oh, he was so beautiful, this lover she ought not have! But regret would wait until tomorrow. Right now, she needed to forget. Alasdair’s body was slender and hard, sculpted into lean planes and taut curves. His arms and legs were layered with muscle and dusted with surprisingly dark hair. And the warm, silky weight which she felt between her thighs—oh!

“I want you,” she said, barely realizing she’d said the words aloud.

In response, Alasdair trailed his mouth between her breasts and down her belly, then sat back on his heels. The heavy curtain of hair still hid his eyes, separating them. Novice and teacher. Slave and master. He had enslaved her against her will with his melting brown eyes and infinite beauty. He set his wide, warm hand on her belly, and Esmée trembled. With unhurried motions, his hand slid lower and lower, until his thumb inched into the thatch of curls below her belly. He stroked between the folds of her skin, and Esmée felt a tremor rock the bed.

He made a sound—an anguished groan—and with one knee, urged her thighs wider. Then his hand slid between them, and he touched her again, gliding through her flesh, tormenting her past all bearing. “Ah, Esmée!” He sounded almost regretful. “Such a beautiful, sensual creature.”