His Sinful Touch. Candace Camp
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course. You’re right. They could have followed my trail. They could be here in London searching for me.”
“No need to worry about that,” he said hastily. “Even if they assumed you fled to London, how would they know where you went once you got here?”
“The driver?”
“Let’s say they questioned the driver of every hack at Paddington, the most they could possibly learn is that you’d gone to the agency. Tom Quick won’t reveal where you are, and Con isn’t even here. No, if they think you’ve gone to London, then they’re most likely to go to your friend who wrote the letter in your pocket. She will know nothing about you. Or if you come to London frequently, they’ll go to the places you normally go.”
“And I won’t be there.”
“Exactly.”
She smiled and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
His pulse leaped at her touch. It was mad that even so small a thing could stir him. He wanted to turn his hand over and clasp hers. Well, frankly, what he wanted to do was to pull her over into his lap and kiss her again.
“It’s, uh...” he began before realizing he had no idea what he was going to say. “Very late. We should probably go to bed.” His face warmed. “That is to say, we should sleep. I’m sure you’re tired.”
Sabrina was just looking at him, her eyes huge and serious. She was so lovely it took his breath away. And she was still wearing only a nightgown. He could see the soft rise of her breasts beneath the thin material, even the hint of the darker circle of her nipples. She had curled her legs up onto the chair, and the nightgown had fallen away a little, revealing her ankles. He could not keep from thinking about reaching out and sliding his hand up, pushing the material higher, her skin smooth beneath his fingertips.
Alex jumped to his feet. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”
“I’m not.”
“It was just a dream—nothing will hurt you here. And I’ll be right down the hall. You can call if you need me.” Why couldn’t he stop babbling?
He swung away and found himself facing her bed. The covers were tossed aside invitingly, the sheets rumpled where she had lain. His mouth went dry as dust. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He wanted to touch her so much the very skin of his palms tingled.
Sabrina rose to her feet, and Alex turned back to her. She was close to him; it would be only a matter of reaching out and taking her arm. Pulling her to him. He remembered in vivid detail each moment of that kiss earlier. Her taste. Her warmth. Her softness.
“Good night,” he said hoarsely and hurried from the room.
SABRINA HUMMED TO herself as she fastened the buttons down the front of her shirtwaist. It was doubtless peculiar to feel so cheerful this morning after the bad dream last night, but that nightmare had been overwhelmed by the feel of Alex’s arms around her afterward. Alex’s kiss.
She smiled to herself. However little she might remember of her past, she was certain she had never felt anything as delightful. When she’d jerked awake and run from her room, she had acted instinctively, simply getting away. But when she saw Alex, she knew that what she was seeking was the safety and strength of his arms.
His embrace had provided that, warming and calming her, but as she stood pressed against him, she had become aware of much more than feeling safe. Her skin had tingled, and the feel of his body against hers, nothing but the thin cotton of her nightgown between them, had stirred her.
Lean and long, Alex was all bone and hard muscle. His shirt had hung open, unbuttoned, so her face had been pressed against his bare chest, his flesh on hers. She could smell the scent of his skin, subtle and slightly musky, and hear the rhythm of his heart. She’d felt his body suddenly flare with heat.
Sabrina had known what that flush meant, for she felt it racing through her own veins. Innately she understood the subtle signs—the almost infinitesimal alteration in his scent, the ragged draw of his breath, the way his muscles tightened. He desired her.
She had lifted her head, wanting to see his face. Wanting, if truth be known, for him to kiss her. And he had. Thinking about it, her lips curled up dreamily. His kiss had melted her, turned her quivering and mindless, for a moment a creature entirely devoid of thought or will, recognizing only the desire pouring through her. Looking back on it, it seemed a little alarming. At the time, it had been utterly right.
Perhaps she would come to regret it. It would be difficult to look at him today without blushing. If he counted her as less because of her response, she would rue it. But for those few moments, she had lived in a perfect world of pleasure. The truth was, right now she wanted nothing more than to return to it.
Sabrina pulled on her skirt and buttoned it up the side. One of the best attributes of Megan’s clothes was the ease with which one could dress oneself—buttons where one could reach them easily, fewer petticoats and only the smallest amount of padding in the back to form a bustle. Best of all, she could wear them without having to tighten herself into a corset first.
She had goggled yesterday at Megan’s breezy assurance that none of the Moreland women believed in wearing a corset. The duchess, she said, considered them a symbol of all that was wrong with women’s current place in the world, designed to render them mere ornaments incapable of performing any useful task.
Sabrina studied herself in the mirror. Though the lack of a corset made her waist less waspish than was fashionable, there was a certain grace and fluidity that was lacking with a stiff corset. Best of all, she could breathe deeply. That had been one of the most pleasant aspects about wearing male clothing.
The lines of Megan’s skirts were narrower, which, along with the smaller number of petticoats, made getting around much easier. Her clothes were also more versatile. Sabrina could wear the tailored skirt with only the cotton shirtwaist, or she could don a feminine version of a man’s jacket, one that nipped in at the waist and puffed out on the sleeves. Either way, the ensemble looked crisp and modern and somehow professional, as if the woman who wore it was capable of doing things.
It was so much better than the frilly things young girls had to wear. Sabrina considered that thought and what it meant about the void of her past life. Clearly she liked this streamlined look, so that was another thing she now knew about herself. And, given the distinct tinge of resentment in her thought, Sabrina suspected she had had to wear the ruffles and bows she disliked.
That was a curious thing. She was a grown woman, nearly twenty-one if their guess about the date on her locket was correct. Surely she would have been in charge of her own wardrobe. Sabrina frowned. Had she been so under the dominance of a husband or parents? Or, not having met the Moreland women, had she simply been unaware that the difference existed? Neither, she thought, spoke very highly for her own strength of character.
Shrugging aside the thought, she headed downstairs. The dining room at first glance was such a blur of noise and people that for a panicked moment Sabrina thought of turning around and going back to her room. There seemed to be a veritable army of children, as well as several adults, some sitting, some standing, getting food from the sideboard, reaching down to grab up a running child, gesturing—and all of them talking at once.
Alex, standing at the sideboard chatting with another dark-haired man, saw her and exclaimed, “Sabrina.”
At his word, all conversation ceased, and every eye in the place turned to Sabrina. She froze like a rabbit in the sight of a wolf. Alex set down his plate and came over to her, taking her arm and nudging her inside. “Kyria, this is Sabrina, whom I was telling you about.”
A tall, red-haired woman who could only be the duchess’s daughter kissed the child she was holding and set her down, smiling as she crossed the floor to Sabrina. Up close, Sabrina