Fire at Midnight (17 page)

“My reason for taking you to Helston is to confront your uncle. I may doubt your guilt, but I must have proof. You must try to trust me, Rachael.” Sebastién extended a hand. “We need to find shelter and dry clothing. Will you come away from there?”

A sudden blast of wind cut through Rachael’s soggy clothing, and she resisted the driving force of it. A stone rolled under her patten, and she pitched backward, plowing the ground with the effort to remain on her feet.

Sebastién shouted and broke into a run as the shelf under Rachael’s feet began to give way.

She felt the foundation crumble and she teetered, searching blindly for a foothold. There was nothing she could grab on to and she felt herself sliding feet first down the slanted, craggy cliff face.

The sharp stones tugged at the buttons of her riding suit and the brush scraped her palms and gouged her exposed limbs. Rachael screamed, unaware it was Sebastién’s name she cried as she fell.

R
achael sat up by slow degrees, her head pounding in protest when she moved. A fire blazed nearby, the warmth a welcome sensation. She rested on a bed of fine, clean white sand near a pool of sparkling emerald green. Though she knew the southern coast well, this place was unfamiliar. It was something out of local legend; a secluded natural lagoon bordered by towering cliffs fronted by a storm beach.

“Beautiful,” she murmured in appreciation.

Sebastién strolled into sight and dropped down beside her. “You are lucky to be alive,” he scolded. “What if you had landed on rocks instead of sand?”

As it was, the skin on her hands and legs had been scraped raw by the rough bramble. When Sebastién’s bright gaze swept over her, she was suddenly aware that she wore nothing beneath the garment spread over her like a blanket. With a gasp, Rachael dragged the heavy cloth up to her chin, dismayed by the realization that he had undressed her.

His mouth drew down at the corners as he rose and turned to the fire, idly rubbing his hands as if to warm them. His shoulders shook as if with suppressed laughter. Rachael glared at his back.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked casually. “I can make a bigger fire—”

“I would be warmer with my clothes on,” she informed him, feeling exposed and vulnerable.
He
was fully clothed, she noted. “I do not appreciate your undressing me without my permission.”

“Your clothes are not dry yet. I forgive you for your lack of gratitude,” he said. His teeth flashed in a wide smile.

“I thought you had an aversion to touching English whores.” “I won’t say I’m sorry I slapped you.”

Sebastién shrugged. “Perhaps the slap was deserved.”

Was that an apology? “Why aren’t you strutting around naked? Your clothes were as wet as mine.”

Sebastién raised a brow. Within the space of a moment, he had divested himself of his shirt. While she looked on with widening eyes, he began to unfasten the tiny buttons at the side of each knee of his breeches.

“What are you doing?”

His hands froze and he looked at her, all innocence.

“I am going to dry my clothes, as you suggested.” The pause was theatrical. “I await your instruction.”

“Why don’t you dry your cloak first and wrap yourself in that?”

He hesitated before reaching down and locking his fingers on the bulky garment that covered her. As the cloak slid away, Rachael gasped and grabbed the makeshift blanket with both hands. They engaged in a brief tug-of-war, but her hold was so tenacious that he could not wrest the garment from her without tearing the fabric.

“I see you’ve changed your mind,” he said, surrendering the cloak. “I dried it first out of deference to your sense of modesty.”

“Give me back my clothes and I will return your cloak,” she offered.

“When your clothes are dry.” His tone sounded elaborate with patience, as if he spoke to a child.

“You’re likely to become ill from wandering around in those wet clothes,” she warned.

“I won’t expect you to nurse me if I fall ill.”

“I should hope not.”

Rachael drew the cloak around her and watched as Sebastién draped her riding suit over a low boulder near the fire then he gathered up her chemise and blue-flowered silk petticoat, fingers gliding over the filmy material, a curiously intimate gesture that made heat pool low inside her.

“These are dry,” he announced, tossing them to her.

The petticoat caught her shoulder and slid to the sand. Rachael held the edges of the cloak together while she reached for the chemise. She rose to her knees, but when she tried to stand, her legs were shaky, and she noticed her right foot was swollen.

Sebastién dropped to the sand beside her and took her foot in his hand. He made a gentle inspection. “A sprain,” he said. “You can soak your foot in the pool to ease the swelling.” His hand continued to cradle her foot.

Rachael clutched the frail undergarments to her, even more acutely aware that she wore nothing underneath the cloak. “Please turn your back,” she primly requested. Sebastién’s hand dropped, and he moved away, presenting his back to her.

The underthings did not add much in the way of warmth or cover. The thin chemise was a transparent wisp of fabric that revealed more than it concealed. Rachael looked down at the display with a pang of dismay, and wrapped the cloak around her again. She selected a large flat stone near the fire and hobbled to it, sitting down with a groan.

Lowering herself to the carpet of white sand, Rachael curled on her side. She was too exhausted to remain on guard, and sensed a truce between them, if only a temporary one. She snuggled against the soft fabric, breathing in Sebastién’s oddly comforting, familiar scent.

When Rachael awoke, night had fallen again. The temperature had dropped, and the roaring fire was now a muted glow. There was no sign of Sebastién.

The last observation filled her with panic. She would have been on her feet in an instant if an arm had not suddenly dropped down over her. The arm was corded with powerful muscle, and sprinkled with coarse black hair. There was no doubt to whom it belonged. Her improvised bed now harbored an intruder. She rolled to her knees and gave him a hard shove.

Sebastién awoke with a snort and the well-honed reflexes of a warrior. He grabbed Rachael, rolled, and pinned her beneath him, expression fierce, teeth bared in a snarl.

“Is this a new tactic to get a woman into your bed—sneak under the covers while she sleeps?”

He relaxed his grip and smiled at the indignation in her voice. “Is that how you speak to the man who holds the key to your heart?”

His hand stole under the cloak and Sebastién dangled the key Winstanley had given her to the Eddystone Lighthouse. The length of blue ribbon formed an absurdly delicate collar around his muscular neck. He feigned distress when she glared at him. “Oh, so this is not the key to your heart?”

“It is the key to a safe place,” she gritted.

“A place of refuge?” Sebastién looked at the key with new respect. “From what, or should I say, from whom? From me?” When she nodded, he let the key fall from his fingers, and it bounced against Rachael’s chest. “I will guard it for you.”

She squirmed beneath him, but he did not move a muscle, save those required to form a wolfish grin. “I cannot believe I ever mistook you for a gentleman.”

His eyes sparkled. “Chivalry is dead,
n’est ce pas?
”

“If it is, I’m sure you’re the one responsible.”

Sebastién laughed, and her heart did a curious little leap at the sound. He looked down at her without the guarded expression he usually wore.

“Have you no sense of propriety?” The earnest expression on his face was disarming. Rachael had to resist the urge to smile.

“Of course. I felt it was proper to share the warmth of my body with you.”

Although his explanation drew a snicker from Rachael, she could hardly blame him for seeking shelter beneath his own cloak, and his nearness created a restive ache within her. The warmth emanating from him was a languid pleasure, and she suddenly recalled what it was like to be kissed by him, with such acute clarity that her breath caught in her throat and her lips tingled as if in anticipation of his touch.

Rachael shifted, and Sebastién shuddered and gazed down at her, eyes bright with awakening desire.

“Mon Dieu,
have you no mercy, woman?”

Rachael lay caught beneath him, staring up into his handsome face. Her right arm was wedged in the folds of the cloak, and when she struggled to loosen the binding, he eased his weight from the fabric and gently extracted her hand.

He squeezed the delicately boned hand resting in his, and then raised it, pressing his lips against her inner wrist. His gaze fastened on the abrasions she had suffered in the fall. These, too, he kissed then brought her hand up and cradled it against his cheek.

Rachael withdrew her hand and raised her fingers to Sebastién’s face, sweeping the hair back from his forehead. Then she traced the line of his jaw, touching the sensitive tips of her fingers against the strong planes of his face and feathering a delicate touch over his neck and across his collarbone.

Sebastién inhaled sharply as Rachael made her slow, tactile exploration. His eyes moved over her face although he refrained from touching her. She was so beautiful and so fragile, and after he had seduced her at the cottage, she had felt betrayed by him and had fled. He would never force her or betray her again.

Rachael cupped the back of his neck and drew his head down, planting a clumsy kiss on his lips, as if testing his response.

The tender buss tantalized Sebastién with the hidden promise of passion, and he reached for her and pulled her to him with exquisite anticipation of the ardor he sensed lurked behind the chaste kiss.

Rachael clasped her hands behind his neck as their mouths fused in a searching, impassioned quest. Her lips were warm and petal soft beneath his; they parted at his gentle probing and the kiss deepened. His fingers tangled in her hair as he drank of a heady sweetness more potent than wine and infinitely more intoxicating. He could feel his heart pound as his body tuned to hers.

They broke apart, both breathless, and Rachael ran her fingers over Sebastién’s chest, exploring the network of musculature that formed his torso, hands trembling. She seemed shy, and he was charmed by her bashfulness. Sebastién worked her chemise free and swept it aside. The silk petticoat followed. He had cherished her warmth these last few hours and now savored her desire for him as a remarkable, precious gift.

He lowered his head and kissed her again, harnessing the urgent desire that threatened to overtake him, wanting her passion to rise and match his own. Rachael shifted and moaned softly as his lips left a fiery trail of moist kisses over the slender column of her throat. His warm hands smoothed feathery circles over her skin, willing her inexperienced body into a raging wakefulness. Her eyes opened and she stared into his, as if trying to glimpse the workings of his mind.

“Do you intend to take advantage of me, Frenchman?” she asked. Her voice was low and husky with desire.

He smoothed the hair back from her face and gazed down at her through a haze of burgeoning desire. “If you insist.”

She murmured his name and he molded her to him, loosening the tight binding of the cloak so that it covered them but did not hold them separate. Her skin caught the light reflected by the pool, illuminating her. She looked like a fanciful creature, a nymph inhabiting an enchanted cove. The smooth, pale beauty of her flesh entranced him, and he moved his hand slowly over her bare skin, reveling in the pleasure of the sensation. Her skin was soft, supple, and warm, like the finest grade of satin.

Sebastién’s heated gaze swept over Rachael, his touch mindful of the scrapes and bruises that marked her fall. She stirred, trembling, body flushed to a rosy glow from some inner fire, eyes luminous with need. Her lips parted as her body arched against him with irrepressible yearning.

Sebastién’s need became a sweet agony, the ache in his loins shouted to be eased; he was stiff and ready. The night seemed to draw close enough to whisper in his ear, demanding that he complete this most ancient and sacred of rites. Instinct demanded that he possess the woman while intellect and emotion demanded that he shelter the waif.