Perfect in My Sight (10 page)

What did he want?

“They are... absolutely... beautiful,” she stammered, and brought them closer to inhale
their delicate scent.

He seemed to go suddenly still at her declaration. He was looking at her curiously,
and Sarah’s heart slammed against her breast when she realized what she’d said.

“The scent of them,” she amended quickly, hoping to divert him. Her heart hammered.
“They smell so beautiful. Thank you!”

He was still staring at her, she was aware, though Sarah dared not look at him. In
fact, he was studying her quite intently and it made her skin prickle with gooseflesh.

“I don’t think I remember ever getting flowers,” Sarah added uncomfortably.

“Never?”

Sarah shook her head.

He bent closer, and whispered. “Not even from your fiance?”

Sarah blinked at his question. “Fiance?” Whatever was he talking about?

“The man with whom you were engaged to be married...”

Her brows lifted as she belatedly recalled the story she and Mel had concocted. “Yes...
of course,” she said after a moment, a bit provoked by his sarcasm, “but no...” When
had he the occasion to ask Mel about her personal affairs? “He never did,” Sarah continued,
deliberating the answer to her own question. “He wasn’t the sort to bring me flowers,
I’m afraid.”

He fell silent, and Sarah knew he was contemplating how best to ask her about her
accident. If Mel had told him about her fiance, then certainly he must have asked
about her accident itself. And yet there was no story to tell, because she and Mel
had agreed that their web of lies was best kept modest. They had agreed only to give
the most cursory details and to refuse further inquiries. It wasn’t as though Peter
needed to know the cause of her blindness to give her employ, was it?

She refused to elaborate.

“It isn’t the most pleasant subject for me,” she told him, dismissing it once and
for all.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, and let it go, though reluctantly.

It was clear by her tone and her body language that she would not appreciate his prying.
And yet curiosity needled him.

What sort of man had she loved? And why had he never brought her flowers?

Had they an arrangement as he’d had with Mary? Or were they to marry for love?

Standing there, staring down at her, he could scarcely imagine any man maintaining
any measure of distance from her. How could any man look at those lips and not crave
them? How could he see the pleasure in her face as she inhaled the fragrance of those
lilacs, and not wish to bring her flowers every damned day? How could he spy the flush
of her cheeks and not yearn to place fingers to her warm, soft skin?

It must be soft—it seemed to Peter she had the most perfectly luminous complexion
he had ever laid eyes on.

What color were her eyes?

He longed to see them.

He had to stop himself from reaching out to remove her spectacles from her face, from
looking into her eyes.

“Sarah,” he said.

“Yes?” She lifted her face from the lilacs, and it was all Peter could do not to bend
and kiss those lovely lips.

Damn, but he craved the taste of her more than he had craved anything in so bloody
long—more, even, than he craved the sweet numbing liquor against his tongue.

He reached out and touched her cheek, couldn’t help himself. She startled at the touch,
and he dropped his hand.

“You are beautiful,” he said low, and watched her breast rise with her intake of breath.

What would she do if he kissed her now?

He didn’t dare.

That didn’t stop him from imagining... the feel of her lips upon his mouth...

“You won’t tell, will you?” Christopher asked suddenly.

Sarah started at Christopher’s question, as though she’d somehow forgotten his son’s
presence. “Tell?” she asked, sounding confused. “Tell who?” It was obvious to Peter
that she was flustered, and that, for some reason, pleased him immensely.

“Aunt Ruth,” Christopher replied with a scrunch of his nose.

“Oh, that. I think not!” she assured his son rather passionately. “If your father
says you may have taffy, then who am I to say you may not?”

Peter bent low, and said for her ears alone, “A very, very intriguing woman, Miss
Hopkins, that’s who you are.” She buried her nose in the lilacs he’d brought her,
and he added, not entirely benevolently, “I shall look forward to getting to know
you better, Sarah.”

The afternoon had left him with more questions than answers, and answers were what
he wanted now.

CHAPTER
10

“No need to bother, Gunther,” a woman’s voice echoed from the hall. “I’ll see myself
in.”

“But, ma’dame!” Gunther protested. Their hurried footsteps echoed from the hall. “Mrs.
Morgan!” he declared a little louder, and it sounded more a desperate warning. Peter
glanced up from the papers strewn upon his desk to see Cile approaching his office,
her expression furious.

Their gazes met. Her blue eyes glittered angrily. “Didn’t you get my message?” she
asked him as she stalked into his office.

Peter pushed aside his papers. “What message?” She came directly to his desk and leaned
on it, looking straight into his eyes. “The one I sent telling you to meet me at August’s
home!”

“I did not,” Peter assured her.

“Damn you, Peter! Whatever has gotten into you? Do you know how embarrassing it was
to wait there for you and have you never show up?”

“Cile,” he repeated. “I did not receive it.”

She straightened and peered down at him, giving him that familiar pout. “I heard you
were at the park today,” she said.

Christ, news traveled fast in this town. “No doubt you did,” he told her, and suddenly
understood the nature of her visit. In fact, he doubted she’d sent a message at all.
It was hardly unlike Cile to use such a tack. The last thing he needed was Cile on
the warpath, and he decided to soothe her temper rather than call her on it. “In any
case,” he said, “I didn’t get your message. But now that you’re here, why don’t you
join us for dinner?”

She suddenly had that all-too-familiar gleam in her eyes. “Are you certain you wish
me to?”

Peter gave her a wry smile, wondering what it was she was up to. “Of course, Cile.”

“Well... I did wish to meet your... guest,” she confessed, and Peter lifted a brow.

So that was what this was about, he thought, and resigned himself to an uncomfortable
evening under Cile’s watchful eye.

Sarah wasn’t certain what it was that woke her, but she thought perhaps it was the
click of a door as it closed.

She opened her eyes to the faint light of a candle flickering by the window and an
empty room, and closed them once more, so tired she could scarcely remain conscious.

God, she was so tired... having stayed awake so late the night before, weeping over
Mary. She’d thought herself long past mourning, but evidently it wasn’t so. Being
here, in this room, was not easy.

Exhausted, she drifted back into a troubled sleep.

Today in the park... she had been so confused.

Peter’s actions and her perceptions of him were becoming muddled.

She remembered what her cousin had written in her journals; she had saved every last
printed excerpt. But the man in her company today had not been the same man her cousin
had written about. He had not been selfish or cold or thoughtless. He had treated
his son with respect and warmth, and he had been more than considerate of her, despite
that she had been so mean with her cane. But good Lord, it had felt good to vent in
such a manner! And still... how had he rewarded her? He’d brought her flowers, and
though she was not quite repentant, Sarah’s conscience pricked her just a little.

The scent of lilacs permeated the air.

He’d had a vase brought to her room, and then had the flowers arranged at her bedside
while she’d finished up with Christopher’s lessons. They’d been waiting for her upon
her return, and Sarah had felt torn between wanting to throw the bloody vase at the
door, and... well...

No man had ever given her flowers.

She supposed her attitude was hardly conducive to it. She was well aware she came
across as cold and even a bit combative at times. She hadn’t joined Peter and his
guest for dinner, hadn’t dared. The afternoon had taken an emotional toll on her,
and she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of sitting before him, enduring his scrutiny.

Sarah hadn’t been hungry at any rate. Though she’d ordered dinner brought to her room,
she hadn’t had much of an appetite. She’d had perhaps a few bites of bread and drunk
her tea. And then she’d grown sooooo tired afterward…

Lilacs.

She wasn’t supposed to see the flowers, but she couldn’t miss their scent so near
her bed.

Lilacs... and another stronger floral scent... sickeningly sweet...

The perception confused her.

She could scarcely smell anything else... except...

The smell of smoke jarred her awake.

Sarah opened her eyes to the flicker, not of candlelight, but of a flame.

The curtains were on fire!

A scream caught in her throat.

Her heart leapt within her breast as she tripped from the bed. The room spun before
her. The nearest thing to grab was the small blanket she had found in the wardrobe.
Mary’s last efforts. Snatching it from the chair where she’d left it, she used it
to slap at the tiny flames that licked upward upon the curtains.

Smoke began to choke her.

She slapped furiously at the flames, jerking down the curtains and beating at them
in growing panic.

In the space of seconds, the room exploded around her.

Her lungs filled with smoke as she pounded desperately... until she realized it was
a lost effort, and then with the charred baby blanket in hand, she raced for the door,
tripping. She fell to her knees. God, it was a bad dream! It had to be a nightmare!
Everything seemed so distorted. Crawling the rest of the way upon her hands and knees,
she clawed her way up the door and threw it open, collapsing into the corridor.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

It was the past revisited.

Somewhere in Peter’s sleep-drugged mind, the screams registered. His eyes flew open.
He leapt out of his bed and bounded into the hall, trying to gain his bearings.

The hysterical shrieks were coming from the direction of the nursery, and he lunged
toward the noise, running as fast as his legs would carry him. In the darkness he
tripped over a table and vase. The vase smashed in his wake as he regained his balance
and turned the corner in the hall.

The far end of the corridor glowed red. He could see the silhouette of a woman standing
in the flickering shadows.

Sarah!

Her room was on fire.

He began to shout for help at the top of his lungs. His first thought as he reached
her and lifted her into his arms was for Christopher’s safety. Christopher’s room,
thankfully, was near his own, and as long as they worked with haste, they could contain
the flames.

They must contain the flames!

Sarah was barely conscious, her arms falling limply down his back. God, he didn’t
know what to do. Take her and Christopher outside? Or leave them here?

He carried Sarah without a word to his son’s bedroom, knowing there wasn’t time to
dally, and dropped her upon the bed, waking Christopher from his slumber. “Stay with
him,” he commanded her. “Do not leave this room!”

There was no time to waste.

Even as he turned and raced away, leaving Sarah to deal with his frightened child,
he knew time was of the essence.

Containing it wasn’t simply a matter of saving their own lives. In this city, where
rooftops merged one with another, fire was their worst enemy.

Sarah tried to shake off her stupor.

Even in the darkness, the room spun before her.

God! But she hadn’t known what to do.

She’d been frozen with fear, but she was regaining her senses. Comforting the whimpering
child, she urged him out of the bed and into her arms.

“Hurry!” she pleaded with him.

“Where are we going?” the child whined.

“Everything will be all right,” Sarah assured him. “We are going to wait outside for
your father.” Even in her state, she understood the dangers of remaining inside. The
sensation of burning lungs remained with her, and the fear of it propelled her to
her feet.

“Why?” he cried, as Sarah started out the door.

God... it seemed the corridor swayed beneath her, unbalancing her like a rug pulled
out from beneath her feet.

“Where’s my daddy?”

Sarah would be damned if they would simply wait here in this room to meet their deaths!
For all she knew, Peter Holland had set the fire. She wasn’t simply going to wait
here to die. No bloody way! And neither was Christopher. Ignoring Christopher’s questions
and sleepy protests, she found her way through the darkness and hurried toward the
front hall, bouncing off of walls as she made her way out. There wasn’t any smoke,
only darkness, but she couldn’t seem to see the way before her. When she reached the
foyer at last, with moonlight piercing the sidelights, she followed it, and nearly
cried with relief as she unlatched the front door and threw it open.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she carried her cousin’s child into the frigid night
air. Once outside, she snuggled him within the charred baby blanket as curious onlookers
began to congregate.

A few ran screaming, “Fire!” as Sarah crumpled to the street with Christopher in her
arms.

At the far end of the house, a window glowed in the darkness as though it were a demon’s
eye. Smoke seeped into the brisk night air, dark, sinister wisps against the cloudless
night sky.

Sarah held Christopher tight, rocking him.

He whined, “I want my daddy.”

“I promise everything will be fine,” she whispered to him, and tried with all her
might to stay awake. Somehow she couldn’t seem to. It was as though she’d been drugged...

Someone had drugged her.

The realization smacked her across the brain before a wave of blackness hit.

Someone had started the fire, too, she realized suddenly, and without doubt.

Someone didn’t want her around.

Why?

She had only just begun; they couldn’t possibly have suspected her so soon. And yet...
someone did perceive her as a threat.

Who?

The answer, she knew, lay with whoever had drugged her tea.