Perfect in My Sight (14 page)

CHAPTER
15

Was that really what she was doing?

Punishing herself for taking a stance against Mary’s marriage?

Did she truly
need
to blame Peter?

As much as Mel’s accusations galled Sarah, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking of
them since Mel had left her. Mel had been her dearest friend for as long as Sarah
had known her. She was only the third person, after her uncle and Mary, in Sarah’s
entire life whom Sarah had ever opened up to. Sarah doubted Mel would say such things
if she didn’t truly believe them.

Mel hadn’t returned as she’d said she would, and Sarah supposed she was still perturbed
over their discussion. Left to fend for herself, Sarah had found her way out of that
monstrous tub that belonged to Peter Holland, and had rushed through his room and
into her own, cursing Mel beneath her breath the entire way. Her cheeks burned now
when she thought of herself tiptoeing through Peter’s private bedroom—naked as the
day she was born!

It wasn’t until she’d shut the door behind her that she’d breathed a sight of relief.

In the back of her mind she wondered if Mel had left her there to prune in that bath
so that Peter might discover her there. God only knew, after their discussion, Sarah
wouldn’t put it past Mel, because Mellie did indeed have a wicked streak as long as
the bloody Nile—no matter that she denied it.

Even after Sarah was safely ensconced in her room, her heart continued to hammer.
Peter had certainly barged in upon her once; she didn’t think he would hesitate to
do so again. She didn’t bother to dress, however, as it was late already. Instead
she drew on a fresh nightgown and crawled into the bed, despite the fact that the
last thing she was, was sleepy.

She lay in her cousin’s bed, and thought of her cousin’s husband.

How wicked was that?

God forgive her, but for the first time in her life she allowed her thoughts to drift
in that forbidden direction...

The memory of that look upon his face as he’d gazed at her made her heart beat just
a little faster. A vision of him sitting here before her accosted her once more, and
her breath quickened at the thought of his beautiful bare male flesh.

She hadn’t been able to keep herself from peeking.

What would it be like to kiss him?

Did she dare even dream of it?

Something fluttered within her belly at the merest thought of him touching her, and
her hand swept down, brushing herself gently over her gown. Her breath caught and
she grew dizzy over the sensations that swept through her.

Was she truly such a prude?

Was she so afraid of letting down her guard that she could not even allow herself
a private moment of appreciation for a man’s beauty?

Her heart beat a little faster.

Why had Mel’s observations angered her so?

And why couldn’t she admit without so much guilt that she did indeed find Peter Holland
appealing?

He
was
a beautiful man.

Her breath quickened at the mere image of him, and her body responded with a flush
of heat that flooded through her, leaving her breathless in its wake. There was a
slight dampness between her legs. Wide-eyed, Sarah reached down in shock to clasp
a hand over it, denying it even as she felt the moistness seep through her gown.

Dear God...

She took a shuddering breath and swallowed a bit nervously as she arched upon the
bed, stretching her legs, bracing herself against the sensations that threatened to
overwhelm her.

Outside, the sun had completely faded to dusk. The curtains were almost completely
drawn but for a sliver, and the room was darkening moment by moment...

With every breath she took, the next came more rapidly.

She turned to look at her cousin’s portrait at her bedside and stared... not thinking,
only staring, only feeling...

Her heart hammering fiercely now, she reached out and turned the picture down against
the night- stand and stared at the ceiling.

What, dear God, was she thinking?

What was she doing?

Closing her eyes, she dared to picture his face once more... that look in his eyes
as he had so wickedly gazed at her breasts beneath her gown. If she imagined it, if
she only dared... she could swear she felt the weight of his hand upon her breast,
pressing her down into the bed.

Daring to slide her hand down to the hem of her gown, she clutched it as though she
would strangle temptation.

Let yourself feel, for God’s sake, Sarah!

She heard Mel’s words as though it were a challenge.

His face materialized before her once more... so real she imagined reaching out and
touching his cheek... his jaw... the feel of his skin beneath her touch...

Dare she?

Warmth enveloped her at the very thought, and her skin prickled with gooseflesh as
she lifted up her gown to her belly.

Oh, God... dare she?

She swept her hand down to brush her dark curls, and the sensation left her wanting.
Something deep within her ached to be touched. Something she could not deny. Something
she didn’t want to deny.

Strange as it seemed, she could smell him in this room, though he’d been here only
a short time.

Stranger yet was the notion that she should know his scent, but she did. She could
swear that she did...

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sarah slid her hands back down... and dared to feel.

The last thing Sarah expected to see upon entering the nursery was Peter Holland seated
on the floor with his son.

Despite that he hadn’t spied her as yet, her face heated at the sight of him.

Don’t think of it, she told herself.

She shook her head, watching them from the doorway.

This room had suffered minimal damage but for the right wall, which separated the
nursery from the adjoining room. It was partially destroyed, and the unicorn’s face
was no longer entirely visible. One eye peered through the soot-damaged wall, and
the shelves that had once held the toy soldiers and blocks so neatly had collapsed
on one side, spilling little wooden men into a common grave upon the carpet. The smell
of smoke permeated the room. Other than that, the structure seemed sound enough, and
the room relatively unscathed.

Father and son sat on the carpeted floor, surrounded by little piles of damaged and
dirty toys, while the sounds of reconstruction echoed from the other room. Peter’s
jacket was off. It lay on one of the small chairs that had been dragged away from
the little table. His shirt was untucked and half unbuttoned as well.

Sarah tried not to notice.

They still hadn’t acknowledged her as yet, so she watched them unheeded, taking these
few moments to study them without the encumbrance of their scrutiny.

As she watched, Peter lifted up a little toy soldier and with the tail of his shirt
began to buff it clean. It was only then that she realized how filthy his shirt was
already, and the pile of cleaner toys that sat between him and Christopher.

Something like shock pummeled through her.

He was repairing his son’s toys.

Those were not the actions of a man who had no heart.

Not at all.

She blinked, mesmerized by the sight of them.

It was becoming apparent to Sarah that he did indeed love his son. She didn’t know
many fathers who would take a day from their work to sit and polish little toy soldiers
with such painstaking care. The two of them spoke in low tones, and Christopher giggled
easily at something his father said.

Peter smiled, and Sarah’s heart tripped a bit at the sight of it.

He had a brilliant smile, one that was filled with as much wicked masculinity as it
was with little-boy charm.

She watched as he pressed a newly polished toy soldier into his son’s hand, and tried
to remain as inconspicuous as possible as she strained to listen to their discourse...

“This one is blue, Daddy?” Christopher asked of the toy soldier in his hand.

“It
was
blue,” Peter corrected him. “Now it is more black. We’ll have to paint him a new
face, I think.”

“All right,” Christopher replied. And then asked, “Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

“What is blue, Daddy?”

The question took Peter slightly by surprise.

He had to think about his reply an instant, because he didn’t think he’d ever quite
considered blue a what.

“Blue is...” He closed his eyes and thought hard about blue.

To answer simply that it was the color of the sky and sea seemed inappropriate. He
wanted to express it so his son could comprehend. Christopher’s world was one of scents
and sounds and tastes and touch. “Blue is... tranquility,” he replied, opening his
eyes and peering down at his son, and was satisfied with that definition. “Like the
feeling you get,” he elaborated, “when you are lying in a meadow in the sun on a warm
day... and the sun is striking you upon the face... and the birds are chirping in
the treetops.”

Christopher seemed to accept that answer. He nodded. “What about black?” his son asked,
still examining the toy soldier with his pudgy little fingers.

“Hmmm,” Peter said. “Let’s see... black is a tricky one, I think, because black can
be empty... like a clean slate...”

Christopher’s face screwed with confusion. “Clean slate?”

“No, arggh... that’s not a good way to say it. Black is like...” He tried to think
of something that had very definite boundaries... something his son had experienced...
something that wasn’t scary. “It’s like the feeling you have when you are sitting
in a big empty bathtub and the water is not yet running... understand?”

“Think so,” Christopher answered, but his little face didn’t express any measure of
certainty.

“And then black can be frightening, too, at times, I think. Like—”

“Oh, yeah,” Christopher interjected, though he was somewhat preoccupied with the toy
soldier in his hand. “Sometimes I feel black,” he said, and continued to inspect the
toy soldier.

Peter looked down at his son, frowning. “You do?” he asked. “Explain, son.”

“Well...” Christopher paused at his task a moment. “I think maybe it is the feeling
like when I am standing someplace I don’t know—like when Aunt Ruth takes me to the
park—and I don’t know where she is and I’m afraid to move.” He went back to his toy
soldier. “I think that might be black.” He thought about his interpretation and then
wrinkled his nose. “Is that black, Daddy?”

Peter considered his son’s description an instant, thinking it was much better than
his own, and then he scowled as he peered down at Christopher. “Yes, like that, I
think.”

Christopher sat silently beside him, and Peter suddenly had a strange feeling about
his son’s revelation. “Christopher,” he asked, “do you always feel black at the park?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Christopher answered, and shook his head. “Only when Aunt Ruth
takes me, I do.”

“Only when Aunt Ruth takes you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you think that’s so?”

Christopher shrugged. “Dunno, Daddy.”

Peter couldn’t shake the feeling that came over him suddenly. Christopher had never
given him the first clue that he had ever been uncomfortable in Ruth’s presence, but
suddenly he found himself concerned. “Does she leave you alone, Christopher?”

“I dunno, Daddy... sometimes she’s quiet and tells me to stay and I get afraid she
will go away.”

Did Ruth walk away and leave him at times? Or did she simply lapse into silence? In
either case, it obviously bothered Christopher, and he would have to take measures
to remedy that.

“Well, I think I’ll have a talk with Aunt Ruth and see how we can make it so you don’t
feel black when she takes you to the park anymore. I’m certain she doesn’t realize.”

Christopher nodded, his attention returned to his toy soldier. “Daddy?” he said again.

“Yes, son?”

“What color am I?”

Peter had plucked up another toy soldier and had begun to clean it with the tail of
his shirt, but he paused at the question. “What color are you?” he repeated, and tried
not to laugh.

“Yes, sir,” Christopher replied.

“Well, yellow,” Peter said without hesitation.

Christopher’s brows lifted. “Yellow?”

“Yep,” Peter replied, a smile in his voice. “Bright, like the sunshine,” he said.

Christopher’s little brows drew together in confusion. “I thought you said that was
blue Daddy.”