Chapter Thirteen
The problem, Stoker thought, with touching Sabine, was that once he touched her, he did not want to let her go. Ever. Not to walk home (or in his case,limphome) from Belgrave Square; not to instruct servants to carry a summons to the doctor, which she had insisted on; not even to eat bloody supper, an endeavor he’d waited five long days to experience in her company rather than across the tray from Harley.
Now that she was finally back, elaborating on her findings at Hampstead kiln, all Stoker wanted to do was upend his tray and reach for her.
Instead, he stared at his food. He answered her questions about explosives and charcoal and how she might discover what they, along with barrels and wagons and the Isle of Portland, had to do with her uncle’s illegal smuggling business. Her dog, blessedly absent from the gardens, now sat beside his bed and begged for scraps from his plate.
Thankfully, Sabine seemed to have set aside the topic of the Duke of Wrest, although he was not so naive as to believe she’d forgotten it. It had never been his intent to conceal from Sabine what the investigator had learned. When he’d said the conversation had “gotten away from him,” it had not been a lie. The list of things he’dnotintendedin the garden were legion. He’d not intended to scold her about her ramblings in Hampstead. He’d not intended to translate her own feelings into his terms. And then of course, there was the thing he intended least of all.
He’d kissed her. Again. After he’d spent five days vowing to get a handle on his control. No matter how she provoked him. No matter how his desire for her raged. Because kisses, as he knew, led to other things, all-consuming, violating things, and he would never, ever violate Sabine. He would not be a source of distress or shame or pain in her life; and his ferocious lust would not be the end to the brief meetings they had always enjoyed or the simple knowledge that she existed somewhere in England, not hating him.
If these stopped, if she shut him out, he would embrace the demons of his terrible boyhood and wild youth and stop making any effort to be a gentleman. He would simply allow the memories and fears to consume him.
And no one wants that,he thought cynically, acknowledging his penchant for melodrama. Perhaps there would be no consumption, but there would be wretchedness, nightmares, and hopelessness. For the time being, she kept it all at bay.
Stoker passed another haunch of chicken to the dog and tried to keep up with the conversation. Sabine had set aside her own tray and now tacked pieces of parchment to his bedroom wall, explaining that she’d prepared the parchment as an evidence mural. Now securely hung on the bedroom wall, they could digest the evidence together. He admired her organization and artistry but also felt a heavy weight roll from his chest. She was back, back in his room and back in his life. For now, at least. If he could manage not to scare her away again.
She’d headlined the mural, “Known Facts Regarding Dryden, Smuggling, and Barrier Island Maps,” and used sketches and notes to form a representative path of what she’d discovered so far, with dates, places, names, and suppositions. There were arrows and question marks, newspaper clippings darkened with underlined text.
Her devotion to this research astounded him; hours and days and her considerable talents all brought to bear. When she’d mentioned her challenges as a young woman bringing accusations against an older relation, he’d wanted to remind her that she was married to a wealthy man who would happily call down the undivided attention of law enforcement, or he could put another investigator on the case. He could also simply travel himself to Surrey and pound on Sir Dryden’s door and demand to know what the hell he was doing. But he dared not interfere with her work or usurp the satisfaction it gave her. No one would be more thorough or effective than she.
“The key missing piece is this Phineas Legg of Portsmouth,” she said now. “He owns a small fleet of ships. According to the sailors on theDreadnought, it was on one of this man’s vessels that they sailed.”
Stoker nodded and tried not to stare at her mouth. Was it redder since their kiss? Had his whiskers abraded her cheek? Had he marked her? His mouth watered, remembering the kiss. She seemed to have some misguided curiosity about it. Thank God she was too innocent to know where kissing led.
He’d succumbed today because—he succumbed today because he’d wanted it so bloody much. He’d wanted it since she’d left his bed five days prior. He had become a vessel of desire for her, and when she had, remarkably, unbelievably, seemed to want the same thing? He gave in. Restraint was an afterthought; no, restraint was forgotten, and he took and took and took.
yes
For perhaps the first time in his life, he wanted and seized in the same glorious moment.
It was a kiss. Well, it was several kisses. He told himself that, of all the dark, dangerous paths to sex, kissing (for kissing’s sake) wreaked the least amount of havoc.
She was curious, he thought. Most young women came of age fantasizing about a kiss. Why she would transfer this fantasy on to him, an enigmatic man twice her size, damaged, churning with lust, he could not fathom. But the only thing that exceeded Stoker’s desire for Sabine was his possessiveness of her. And the thought of any other man putting his mouth on her made him consent to the kiss. Just once more. Lest she endeavor kissing with any other man.
If nothing else, he had taken fastidious care to keep his hands at his sides. The assault was to her mouth alone, a brief taste of what she believed she wanted.
Meanwhile, he gripped the bench with enough force to crack the stone, and rational thought had dissolved. He floated in the taste and smell of her.
Was it any wonder they’d gotten nowhere in their discussion of the smuggling or even how long he would remain in Belgravia?
No,he thought wearily, setting his tray aside,it was no wonder.The dog leapt to the bed and availed herself of the uneaten chicken.
“Stoker?” Sabine called from across the room. “Did you hear what I said? You’re certain you can recall no knowledge about this man? Phineas Legg in Portsmouth?”
“No, nothing,” Stoker said, forcing himself to keep up. “His fleet must be very small, indeed, because I know of most shippers in London and the ports along the South Sea.”
Sabine crossed out a note on her mural. “I’ve not had the time to travel to Portsmouth to look in on him. He was meant to be my last stop before venturing to the Isle of Portland itself.”
Stoker thought of Sabine traveling to the Dorset coast to look in on a nest of smugglers, and his stomach turned. Naturally, she would not limit her investigation to London. He cast around, trying to think of a strategy that would keep her safe until he was well enough to travel with her. He thought of the maritime vendors and sailors he knew from Portsmouth... the dock masters... and—
“Bryson Courtland,” he said, sitting up in bed.
“What?” She turned from the mural.
“I’m just thinking that we might apply to Bryson about this shipping man in Portsmouth. Bryson is one of the most respected shipbuilders in England.”
“I thought you didn’t want to bring injuries to the attention of Bryson?” Sabine said, glancing at him. “Or that is, you mentioned protecting his wife, Elisabeth Courtland? We cannot approach him without alerting her, I’m certain. And the Courtlands do not even know me. What time or interest would they have for my revenge plot against a cruel uncle?” She turned back to the mural.
