Page 90 of His Sinful Touch

“My de—Sabrina,” Dearborn said reproachfully. “There was never any pretense. I have loved you like a daughter. Peter loves you, as well. You may not remember your life with us, but you were very happy. Don’t let Alexander Moreland poison your mind with wicked tales of us. You and Peter fell in love and married—”

“I have recovered my memory.” A dead silence fell after her words.

After a moment, Dearborn said, “Oh, I see.” Rallying, he went on, “Then you remember how happy you were with us. How much Mrs. Dearborn loves you. All the things we’ve done for you. We took you in after your parents died. You love us, Sabrina. It would break my heart to lose you. And poor Regina would be devastated.”

“If you regained your memory, then you must remember our wedding ceremony,” Peter said in a cajoling voice. “Saying your vows...”

“I remember saying my vows before an actor!” Sabrina shouted.

Peter blanched. “You’ve—”

“Yes, I have talked with your friend Anderson Fairfield—if, of course, that is his name. My God, Peter, I never imagined that you were so low.”

“I’m not! Damn it, Sabrina, I don’t understand what’s the matter with you. We’ve always been close. I would treat you like a queen.”

“Would that be before or after you locked me away in Bedlam?” When both of them stared at her in astonishment, she went on, “You see, I know all of it. I know what sort of creatures you are. I know you have been stealing from my trust for years. I know that you hoped to continue to control my money by marrying me to Peter. You cannot in a thousand years convince me to do that.”

“Are you prepared to say goodbye to any hope of seeing Alexander Moreland again?” Mr. Dearborn’s face was hard now, his voice harsh, all show of sympathy and love gone. “You will marry Peter. We have the special license—you will go to a priest and say your vows.”

“I will not.”

“Well, that is that, then.” Dearborn turned away.

Sabrina kept a firm grip on her emotions. “Do you think you can just kill Alex and get away with it?”

“No, no, we won’t kill him. All we have to do is not return.”

A chill ran through her, and Sabrina knew it must have shown on her face, for a triumph flared in Dearborn’s eyes. She shoved away the thought of Alex locked away somewhere, alone, dying inch by inch each day. All because of her. She hated the shakiness in her voice as she replied, “He’s the son of a duke. They will bring the law down on you like a hammer.”

“Why?” Dearborn widened his eyes innocently. “We know nothing about Alex Moreland or what happened to him. Why should we? We barely know the man. The only one who is claiming we murdered him is a poor girl who has for years been prone to fits of fear and melancholy.” His voice turned wheedling. “Come home, Sabrina. Take your vows. We will do our utmost to locate Moreland, if it will ease your mind.”

“I will not agree to anything until you free Alex.”

“That’s out of the question,” Dearborn snapped. “Not until we are certain of you. Marry Peter. Now. Or Alex Moreland will disappear.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Well, Sabrina, what is it to be? His future is in your hands.”

* * *

ALEX SQUATTED DOWN beside the tray of food and took off the glass and bowl. Clearing his mind of all thought, he gripped the tray firmly between his hands and opened himself to the sensations.

He could feel his captor’s presence. He concentrated and it flowed into him—bitterness, stubbornness and fear. Yes, mingled with the antagonism and distrust was a strong thread of fear. It seemed absurd that the man should fear him, so Alex dug more deeply, pulling at the sensations in a way he never had before. And, there, sunk deep inside, was the bedrock on which his fear sat—superstition. Primitive, unreasoning superstition, the kind that set men on witch hunts.

Witchery, the man had said. Dearborn had convinced the man that Alex was capable of working magic. Seeing this dark, stagnant pool of ignorance and fear inside his jailer, Alex guessed that it had not been hard to do. Alex set down the tray and began to pace, thinking. There must be some way to use this knowledge.

A time or two in his life, Alex had wondered if his ability worked both ways. They had been small, insignificant things—he had been reading a book of Theo’s, thinking how hungry he was but unwilling to pull himself away from the book, and after a few minutes Theo had stuck his head in the door, asking why Alex hadn’t come down for tea. Another time he had talked one of their tutors into allowing them to skip their last hour of studies, and afterward he had wondered if the fact that he was holding the tutor’s pencil had helped him convince the man.

He had dismissed them as silly, impossible ideas. But what if it was possible to touch another’s mind or rouse their feelings from afar by using his talent? And if it were, wouldn’t the sort of mind that was ruled by superstition be easier to sway? Alex was frankly desperate enough to try anything.

Picking up the tray again, he clamped both hands on it and focused. When he felt the faint tingle of the man’s presence, the trickle of his emotions into Alex’s consciousness, Alex directed his own thoughts back into the channel, swimming upstream. It was difficult and strange, and Alex felt a kind of pressure building in him. Then suddenly he broke through, and his thoughts began to mingle with the other man’s. He pushed all his will into the Scotsman, urging him to come to Alex. He could feel the other’s resistance, then the gradual lessening as fear opened up a path for him.

Alex imagined himself lying ill on the floor. Who would be held liable for killing a peer of the realm if Alex died? Certainly not Dearborn; no, it’d be the Scotsman who’d go to prison. To the gallows. He felt the alteration in the man’s emotions, the sudden uneasiness, and he pushed hard on resentment of Dearborn for putting him in this position.

But still the man dithered, his mind circling. Alex redoubled his efforts. Now he infused his thoughts with the threat of magic. He encouraged and increased the guard’s belief that Alex was a sorcerer. Alex could reach through walls with his talents; he could turn himself into air and vanish from the room.

He heard footsteps at the far end of the hall, and Alex jumped to his feet. The man stopped. Cursing himself for letting go of the connection in his excitement, Alex once again clamped his hands around the tray and shot his power back into him. Redoubling the fear, he urged the other man to look in the cell, to reassure himself that Alex was still there and not dying.

Without letting go of the tray, Alex flattened himself against the wall beside the door, out of sight of the narrow spy window. He could hear the man pacing about in the hall, his halting steps toward the door. Finally he was at the door.

“Here! You!” His voice was high and thin, at odds with the bluster in his manner. “Show yerself. Moreland!” The man pounded his fist against the wall, then stood there, waiting, breathing heavily.