Chapter Six
He was alone with Olivia Willow exactly as James had hoped to find himself. Her eyes, fixed on him like pools of warm honey, lent an already pretty face deeper interest. When she didn’t pretend to be unintelligent, her eyes fascinated. He wondered how she’d look with her hair spilling over a pillow and him staring into her face from just a few inches above. The image had a predictable result that made him glad for the length of his greatcoat as much as for the fact that he’d buttoned it against the cold.
Despite his private thoughts, at this precise moment, the mood was decidedly different from what James had intended, and he meant to make well sure it stayed that way. Miss Willow’s intentions were similar because she nodded before heading past him. She made a surprised sound when he grabbed her arm and halted her mid-step. Though he was in the main in control of himself, he felt a spark of arousal the moment he touched her. With an irritating poise, she faced him.
Red hair tumbled down her forehead and along one side of her cheek. Curls twisted in the breeze and sparkled with flakes of snow. Her chin was level with his chest. She made him feel brutish, clumsy and out-sized. Though a large man, he was none of those things and certainly able to make love to a small woman without injuring her.
“You are far too self-possessed,” he told her. He forced his voice flat and dry as dust so there could be no question of his complete dispassion toward her.
She stared to one side, hiding her eyes from him. “A great fault, I am sure.”
“It is.” Damn her for agreeing with him. Damn her for having herself so firmly in hand that he wanted to shake her out of her control.
“My former employer,” she said, staring now at his cravat, “Admiral Bunker, often said that the man who commands a ship of the line must be straightforward and brook no nonsense. That he must be quick to think and to say what is on his mind.” She looked into his eyes. “You, sir, have all those qualities and more. I have nothing but admiration for your record of success. The Achilles, the Resplendent, the Courageous. You’ve served your country ably and made all who know you and know of you proud to be English.” A light flickered behind her eyes and he, who had never cared to hear his praises sung, wanted more. He wanted to hear more of that admiration in her voice. “But, I hope you will permit me to tell you that when a man finds himself in gentle society, among young ladies such as Miss Royce, who have been brought up with immense delicacy and consideration, he must temper his words and his manner, however sorely it goes against his nature.”
“If you mean to criticize, say it outright.”
“You will not win Miss Royce’s heart if you persist in such brutal honesty as you have just shown to me.”
“I cannot afford to make a mistake about you.”
“And you can about your future wife?”
“My future wife is no concern of yours.” He used the dry voice again because she’d scored a hit with that last remark.
“You are correct, my lord.”
He let go of her, but he did not change the distance between them. In full despite of his desires and of James’s belief that Miss Willow would prove no better than she ought to be, Sebastian failed to see in her anything but what she appeared to be; a spinster of irreproachable reputation and declining fortune. She stood before him, gloved hands clasped as prim and proper as any gentlewoman of unremarkable past. There was not now any attempt to pretend less intelligence than she in truth possessed.
“Why did you come back to Far Caister?” he said.
“My mother is not well.” He liked the sound of her voice. A deliberate tone, an alto that settled on the ears like velvet over a bed.
“Tell me what you recall of my brother’s death.” All that he needed was in her head; how and why his brother had died and the identity of the man responsible.
She swallowed, drawing her cloak tighter about her. “You understand, my lord, that I have no recollection of that night or of the days immediately before and after?”
He nodded.
“Andrew and Guenevere were giving a fete, and I was invited. I know that’s so because I found the invitation which I gave in evidence at the inquest, though I have no recollection of going to Pennhyll that day. My first memory afterward is of waking up there.” She inclined her head toward the mountain, meaning, so Sebastian understood, Pennhyll.
“The last you recall?”
“Teaching. The day before. I teach the children of Far Caister. That day, I drilled the students on irregular verbs.”
“After you woke up at Pennhyll, what then?”
“I asked what happened, but no one would tell me.” Her eyes flickered with the recollection, turning a darker shade of honey. “I didn’t understand why until Dr. Richards told me. That Andrew and Guenevere were dead.”
Snowflakes glittered on one of her curls, and he brushed them away. “Dr. Richards gave evidence at the inquest. According to him, you were severely injured that night.”
She nodded, the color draining from her cheeks.
“I understand the subject must be painful to you.”
“You want to know.” She leaned forward, an earnest note in her voice. “You deserve to know. My shoulder was broken. A cut, here.” She touched the back of her head.
“And the gunshot.” What sort of villain beat and shot a woman and left her for dead? A desperate man, a man under no restraint from conscience.
“Yes.” Tipping her head to one side, she parted curls of copper hair just above her temple to display an indented, jagged scar about the length of his first finger. He’d seen enough wounds to know she’d been fortunate, indeed. She let her hair fall back into place.
“You recovered. But for your memory, of course.”
“I have headaches, and my shoulder sometimes hurts.” She astonished him by giving a brilliant smile. Full of light, like the one he’d admired when he first saw her. “Perhaps we might trade stories of injury and recovery. My scar itched terribly.”
“What about your dreams?”
For a moment, she froze. Then, without, Sebastian thought, awareness of what she was doing, she rocked, clutching herself around the waist, a slight flex at the hips and then back. “I used to wake in the night.”
“Used to.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I can’t remember why. I can never remember.”
“Try, Miss Willow.” He brushed more snowflakes from her cheek.
“I want to. I truly do. I came to Pennhyll again because I thought being there might help me remember.”
“Has it?”
“No. Not yet.” She continued to sway. Her face was composed but the air felt full and heavy, as if it would vaporize if compressed even one more inch.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Afraid of remembering.”
Her eyes shot to his. “Mama complained I woke her.” He tipped his head, silent encouragement. “I screamed. That’s what Mama told me. That I woke her with my screaming. But I don’t think I ever did.”
“You remember the feeling.” If he continued to press her, would she fall from the thin edge of her control?
“Yes.”
“Tell me that, then.” They stood close, and if he occasionally touched her shoulder or caressed her cheek, she took no notice.
“I wake up crying. My heart is pounding, my head hurts and sometimes—sometimes I cannot breathe. I feel I am being smothered and that if I do not get away, I will die.” She lapsed into a silence he chose not to break. Eventually, she lifted her hands an inch or so apart.
“Did you do anything unusual in the days preceding?”
“Oh, no. My life is quite dull.”
“Tell me about Andrew and his wife.” Jesus, she was a pretty woman. Damn James for telling him of his designs on her, for now he could not help thinking of her in a passionate embrace. His passionate embrace. He did not think of Diana or of any other young lady in such a prurient fashion, but her, hell, yes. He wanted her so badly, it hurt. In his head, he removed her gown and unlaced her corset. The images came to him with such intensity he wondered she didn’t see them herself. “Did anything seem out of the ordinary with them?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “No.”
“But?”
She flushed. Not deeply, a pale pink. Naked. Twining her body around his, straining up to meet him.
“Miss Willow. Please. However difficult this must be for you, you must tell me all that you know or surmise.”
Today, she was not wearing her coral necklace. No other piece of jewelry took its place. How easily he could imagine her bare neck exposed to his searching mouth. Indecent, really, that naked throat.
“Guenevere, though she possessed many fine qualities and in many ways I considered her my friend, in truth, she rarely saw the world except through her own eyes.”
“You thought them unhappy.”
“I admired your brother for his spirit and his joy in life, for his intellect and his unswerving love and admiration for you and your accomplishments.”
“But?”
“Guenevere was very unhappy.” She shivered and drew her cloak closer. Then she surprised the hell out of him. “You could help me. Help me remember.”
“Miss Willow.”
“You could.” Her voice fell low and urgent. “Andrew never said so, but I guessed some of what you did in the war. You made people tell you things they did not wish to reveal.”
“They were sailors and soldiers, men of war, not women of gentle birth.”
“I want to know what happened to me. Sometimes I feel so close to knowing—to remembering everything.” She put a hand just over her head, as if pushing against a barrier. “Here. It’s all here. Only I can’t see. I can’t make myself remember.”
Lord, she was pretty. And while the color of her hair was outrageous, he could not stop imagining his hands entangled in her curls. Or her body against his. Her breath hot against his skin. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I know I cannot bear not knowing. You could help me remember. I know you could.”
“Jesus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“No matter what I’ve done in the name of my country, I’ve never, ever subjected a woman to that sort of questioning.” Questioning that broke down barriers and made a man talk whether he wanted to or not. He glanced at the tops of his boots. “Astonishingly, I have some scruples left.”
“My lord.” She startled him by grasping his hands. They felt small in his. Cold, too. “Please.”
He refused absolutely to return her tremulous smile.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she said. “Living with a hole in your life. You want to know, too. Don’t deny it. Whoever killed Andrew and Guenevere is free because it’s trapped in my head.”
His body coiled with anticipation. Only a fool would turn down the very thing he most wanted; her memories and, he had no doubt, should he stoop so low, her sex. They’d be alone. They had to be. He couldn’t question her like that with anyone present. Not even McNaught. What would she be like? That body, her body, soft and sweet in surrender to him, under him, moving with him. He did mean to discover who killed his brother and up to now he would have sworn to the high heavens he’d do anything, anything at all, to know what had happened to Andrew. Here she was, offering everything he wanted, and a good deal more besides.
“Please,” she whispered.
He drew himself up, trying to stop the images in his head, the pounding of his heart, the conviction that he must and would possess her. He put his hands on either side of her head. “Are you sure?” She nodded. He knew he ought to say no, but what came out of his mouth was, “Very well.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You may not say so later.”
“Nothing could be worse than not knowing.”
James hailed them from the street, waving so his hat tumbled off his head. “Come along you two. Sebastian.”
“When?” she asked.
He stroked her cheek with the side of his thumb. “I’ll send for you.”
Miss Willow nodded, lifted her chin and walked past him, a wisp of red hair trailing in the breeze. He followed. When she reached the causeway that wound around the side of the church and back to the street, she joined James, his sister and Miss Cage. The ladies linked arms and walked ahead, heads together.
James stuck out a hand and stopped Sebastian from passing. “Are you poaching?”
He pushed away James’s hand, shooting a glance at Mr. Cage who had let the ladies walk ahead. “As if you didn’t intend to ruin her for a decent husband.”
“God in heaven. Am I to find myself with the dilemma of protecting her from you, of all people?”
“That is not necessary, I assure you.” Snow fell in increasing thickness, staying on the ground now. Sebastian ignored the cold and wet. His mood was peevish, and he made no effort to hide it.
James gave him a look. “You do intend to marry Diana?”
“Consider the matter all but settled.”
“Well, well.”
“I expect you’ll be making an announcement on St. Agnes’ Eve.”
James grinned. “Excellent.”
“In the meantime, what do you intend to do about Miss Willow?”
“Have her in my bed, of course.”
“She’ll not fall in without a ring on her finger.”
“Then let her think she’ll have one.” James smiled. “She’s leading me a chase, I won’t deny that, but Sebastian, for pity’s sake, I’ll take care of her. On my honor I will. And—” He kept his hand on Sebastian’s chest. “I’ll thank you not to interfere.”