Authors: Caroline Richards
The Deepest Sin (3 page)
“See here,” she said, her voice deliberately low. Immediately, he dropped her arm and pushed against her, hard enough to send her to the ground. Her head cracked against an unforgiving knot of rock, her vision blurring and then swimming as the sunlight danced overhead. She was in a sprawl on her back, her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Her face was hot, inflamed beyond the heat of the day. Digging her nails into the sand, she tried to ignore the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Struggling to rise, she slid her hand under her leg and close to the pocket of her trousers. Her assailant bent over her again, the cotton of his robes fluttering before her vision. Meredith scuttled backwards like a crab, lashing out with one foot, missing her target entirely. The man seized her ankle, his hard fingers like manacles against her skin and bone.
Her head hit the stone again. Her vision melted away just as her ankle was released and she heard the staccato shots of gunfire.
Chapter 2
M
eredith Woolcott lay still on the ground, enveloped by a screen of dust left in the wake of horses' hooves. Two of the assailants galloped away from the fort and Archer wagered he'd clipped at least one of them. He could have killed both, but that was not his intent, despite the fact he hated loose ends unless they could be tied up in an eventual knot. The men were more useful to him alive, and he would get to them eventually, he thought idly.
eredith Woolcott lay still on the ground, enveloped by a screen of dust left in the wake of horses' hooves. Two of the assailants galloped away from the fort and Archer wagered he'd clipped at least one of them. He could have killed both, but that was not his intent, despite the fact he hated loose ends unless they could be tied up in an eventual knot. The men were more useful to him alive, and he would get to them eventually, he thought idly.
He did not feel particularly generous toward the bastard releasing his hold on Meredith Woolcott's slender ankle. In a blur of movement, Archer grabbed the man from behind, neatly wrenching the pistol from his grasp before hurling him to the other side of the sycamores, where he landed with a grunt followed by silence.
Her face streaked with sand, Meredith was shaken but alive. Fury combined with fear etched her features as she tried to stand, swaying on her feet. Archer made a move towards her, but she held up a palm to stop him. Her eyes flashed with recognition and then widened, her gaze swinging from his toward the copse of trees. “He has another one ... a pistol... .” she said on a ragged breath, pointing towards the tree where her assailant lay tangled in his robes with a weapon still clenched in his hand, his arm raised.
Archer shook his head, anger flushing through him, blood rushing past his ears. He flexed his hands, imagining them around the other man's neck. This rage was unusual for him, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind, as though witnessing the scene from a distance. He watched as the man's arm straightened, the gun steadied. His own arm followed suit, his unerring aim fixed on the target lying beneath the sycamores, coiled like a snake ready to strike.
The crack of a shot broke the silence. The man crumpled without a sound, simply folding in upon himself, the loose fabric of his robes fluttering out, settling around him like a shroud. Archer turned to Meredith, who stood stiffly in the heat, a smoking pistol in her hand and her gray eyes blazing.
“You may put away your weapon now, Lord Archer,” she said in that low voice that he could not have forgotten if he'd tried. She was breathing hard but there was little else to indicate her distress. Taking a last look in the direction of the sycamores, she bent over to straighten a fallen stocking, then bundled the tumble of her hair back into its knot, all with the pistol still gripped in her hand. Unorthodox though it was, Archer had never seen a more feminine sight. Her masculine garb was unable to disguise the swell of her breasts and gentle flare of her hips, the slender ankles just below the hems of her trousers.
Her eyes met his and despite the recent events, she didn't appear pleased to see him. “Don't look at me like that, my lord,” she said, tense as a feral cat, her animosity towards him seemingly unabated. “I have never killed a man before, but I refuse to dissolve into a heap now that the deed is done.”
Archer inclined his head, ever so slightly. “Lady Woolcott. I wish the circumstances were different.”
“Hardly,” she said, “or we'd both be lying dead.”
Archer smothered a grin. Lady Woolcott glanced briefly toward the ruins, her expression guarded. “Why are you here?” she asked, suspicion in her voice. “I shouldn't think that moldering ruins would hold any interest for you.”
“In turn, I shouldn't think you know enough about me to judge, Lady Woolcott. Besides which, you are pale and we should return to the fort, where we may renew our acquaintance, rather than standing here ...” He closed the distance between them, taking her by the elbow, his eyes on the horizon, which seemed to stretch towards infinity.
“Out in the open, you mean,” she finished with her usual directness. Given their proximity Archer did his best to keep his gaze from locking on her mouth. He hadn't forgotten that she was so tall he would have to do no more than bend his head to kiss her, the plumpness of that full lower lip of hers beckoning him, even in the heightened circumstances in which they found themselves.
She didn't move away, but looked pointedly at his waist. “If it isn't too much to ask, I am positively parched... .”
Archer kept his expression neutral as he handed her the flask. Outrageous was what she was. She'd been attacked, had killed a man and now found herself alone with a near stranger in a colonial outpost. Yet she stood next to him with the assurance of a seasoned general. She tucked the pistol into her trousers before taking the flask. Her fingers brushed his, and his body tightened with anticipation, the heavy air around them thickening in the heat.
“I expect you will explain what you are doing here,” she said, taking a drink. It was a demand, not a question.
“There's not much to explain,” he said shortly, releasing her elbow, making a bid to mask both his annoyance and attraction. He shifted his weight to his other leg, ruthlessly ignoring the way her presence pulled at him. It was positively risible that he found himself aroused in the presence of this woman.
“Indeed,” she acknowledged while taking another drink with her eyes closed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a small smile, relief perhaps, flickering across her lips. Most women of her class and background were studies in comportment, stiff and rigid or deliberately louche, every movement designed to attract and ensnare. Meredith Woolcott was something else altogether, although Archer couldn't decide what at the moment.
She turned and walked away from him, taking first small steps and then longer strides, testing her resilience. Glancing at the still body beneath the sycamores, she took another short drink from the silver flask, then strolled back to Archer, her shoulders straightening beneath her riding jacket. Light and shadow played across her skin, the clean line of her collarbones and the hollow of the throat.
Archer made a mental review of all the women he'd known over the years. He was nearing his fourth decade, yet it had been all he could do not to make a fool of himself since he'd first met Lady Woolcott at Montfort. He'd expected a woman of a certain age, if not precisely a dowager, but not this amazon, with her long legs and hair lit by fire and a gaze that refused to look away. He'd tried to charm her at the wedding, at least in the manner he was accustomed to using with women, but it obviously had not worked. Flattery had utterly failed to win her. He'd tried on numerous occasions, in the small medieval chapel, in the banquet hall, in the library with its roaring hearth, to inveigle her in conversation. And all to no avail. He remembered the wedding supper, an ocean of silver and china separating them, his wineglass emptying and refilling as if by magic while he tasted not one drop. He had heard her laugh, low and throaty, drawing the entire table's attention to her. Her dress had been plain and unadorned gray velvet with long, tight sleeves, not designed to call attention, unlike the woman herself. He'd narrowed his eyes, glancing quickly down the gleaming expanse before forcing his attention back to his dinner. And she hadn't come near him, hadn't so much as looked his way that he could tell. As they had passed in the long corridor to the salon for after-dinner drinks, her eyes had met his only once and raked him with cool disregard. He would have preferred annoyance.
Her head high, she had passed him with Julia and Rowena on each arm, her glow incandescent as she bent toward her young wards, in whom she had invested everything she had. She had nearly lost them to Faron and then won them back in a twist of fate. Archer had learned from Rushford and Rowena that the specter of loss had taken almost everything from her.
But it had also brought her here, to the desert, which now began to pulse with the oncoming darkness, the sky purpling like a bruise. Meredith pushed back the hair from her forehead, arching her neck, easing the tension from her muscles. There were far more beautiful women, Archer reminded himself, surveying the boldness of her features, the mouth that was too wide and the cheekbones too sharp, the body a juxtaposition of angles and curves. He took a breath of the rapidly cooling air, then let it out slowly, his gaze roaming over her. No, not a classic society beauty, but striking in the manner of a Greek goddess, elegant and strong, with an allure just as dangerous.
The woman made his brain misfire. All he could think of was how it would be to kiss her. To drag her back to the fortress and take her up against a wall, to engender a response to his own desire and watch it catch fire in those cool gray eyes of hers. She was, after all, hardly the spinster she played at, he thought uncharitably
. Faron's former lover.
. Faron's former lover.
She took another long draught from the flask, swallowing slowly. She sighed and bit her lower lip, thinking, collecting herself. Her eyes were shadowed, almost vacant.
Breaking the silence, he said, “It's getting cooler quickly. As happens in the desert when the sun goes down.”
She looked up and smiled, not so much at him but at something else, somewhere in the far distance. That curve of her lips was not for him, although it had ensnared him months ago, at Montfort, when she'd bestowed it so brilliantly upon Rowena and Rushford, paired as man and wife at the simple chapel altar. The smile was a rarity and he knew then that he would have done anything to see it again.
Her smile faded when she looked at him. “It's a welcome relief, actually, from the heat. I suppose we have no choice but to return to the fort for the night. There's no chance of our getting back to the village before nightfall.” It was as though ice water ran through her veins. No vapors, no remorse, when a corpse lay cooling a few yards away from them.
“Where did you learn to manage a pistol like that?” She was a better shot than any woman had a right to be.
She raised her eyebrows. “I did what I had to do. I didn't think that a fine aim was confined to the male sex. You see, Lord Archer, I wasn't confident that you'd be quick enough.”
That arrogance coming from a man would have been enough to get him killed. But Archer couldn't help being amused. There was something about the way she held herself, her low voice, the fierce intelligence that burned behind the cool gray of her eyes. She was like no other woman, unique, aloof, a splinter under the skin.
To underscore her words, she rested the pistol carefully in her hand, sure and easy, as comfortable with the weapon as most women were with a needle and thread. She blinked several times, obviously irritated by his question. “Do not expect an apology or demurrals from me. And to answer your question, I have learned to look after myself over the years. I am familiar with the sound of a pistol hammer released in the dead of night, I can tell you, and it is as reassuring as an army at my back. You may put your piece away for the time being, Lord Archer. I think the party has fled for the evening. Along with my guide, Murad,” she added dryly.
“His disappearance was nothing short of miraculous. I don't think we can expect either Murad or the remaining pair back again tonight,” he said, deftly sliding his pistol into his belt. “I'm an optimist, but hate to be proven wrong so let's seek shelter at the fort.” Her hand came up to brush away a few remaining grains of sand on her face when his arm snagged her waist, taking her roving hand in his. “Now.”
She glanced up, looking uncomfortable at his touch. “This is entirely unnecessary,” she said, “and highly unsuitable, bundling me off like no more than a sack of coal. The danger, if you haven't already noticed, has long passed.”
“Don't be too sure.” Suddenly more impatient than he'd ever been, he strong-armed her along the rubble-strewn path leading back to the low walls of the fort, half carrying her. An unfamiliar anger built within him with every step, directed at Spencer, at Meredith and, worse still, at himself.
“We should do something about the body... .” she said, trying to pull away. “Lord Archer!” She planted her heels, dragging to a stop. “Please slow down.”
“Never mind the body. I shall deal with it once I have you out of sight.” He jerked her into motion again, using his size to force her along. “We are not slowing down and if you struggle, I shall be compelled to throw you over my shoulder.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she muttered, allowing him to drag her towards the far side of the fort and behind a low wall. He placed her behind him with a firm push, smiling slightly when she yanked her arm from his grasp and stood rubbing it, watching him with her familiar arrogance.
“Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the ground. “We have a long evening ahead of us.” In the corner he had secreted a small bag of supplies.
Her chin shot up and her brows pinched together in displeasure. “During which you will no doubt tell me why you have been shadowing my footsteps, Lord Archer.”
Archer looked her up and down. Tiny bits of sand still clung to her, littering the linen of her jacket. A few specks of blood appeared on her cheek and he fought the urge to wipe them away. Instead, he surveyed their small enclosure, gaze roving around what had once been a storeroom at the fort. Surveying the desert sky overhead turning an inky blue, he removed the pistol from his waistband once again.
“Sit,” he said. This time, she dropped to the ground, hugging her knees, suddenly like a young girl, and Archer fought the urge to pull her into his arms. “I will return shortly. Don't move.” It would help if she looked even a little bit grateful, but she didn't; her lips were set in a firm line. He retraced his steps quickly, intending to bring the corpse in from the night and away from the desert's animal marauders.
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