The Sinner Who Seduced Me Read online

  “You would not listen to reason,” he interrupted, his tone bitterly savage.

  Clarissa gasped and clapped a hand across her mouth.

  “And I’ve no doubt you’ll not listen to reason now,” James added, abruptly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rising. “I’ve already told you, I’ve no desire to quarrel with you. How I came to work for Les Moines is of no consequence to you. Complete the painting so that you may return to Paris and your mother. That is all you need think on.”

  He snatched the single lantern that lit the cabin and stalked toward the door.

  “Where are you going—and why must you take the only light?” Clarissa asked, her throat thick with emotion.

  James turned, fixing her with a stony gaze. “To fetch a pair of scissors, and I assumed you’d rather not alert the blockade ships to our presence with the light.”

  “Wait, why would you need a pair of scissors?”

  “For your hair.” He closed the lantern’s shutters then stepped over the threshold, slamming the door behind him.

  Clarissa picked up the rickety chair and threw it against the door, finding satisfaction in the sound of the ancient wood splintering as it broke apart.

  James took the narrow steps to the top deck two at a time, welcoming the briny air that hit him full in the face once he reached the top. The cabin below had been filled with Clarissa’s delicate flowery scent. Even now, it teased his nostrils and stroked his senses into painful awareness.

  The ship’s captain was on the bridge. Not wanting to converse, James turned in the opposite direction, successfully skirting a handful of sailors as he made his way to the stern. Looking out over the darkening sky and the sea below, James grimly acknowledged that dealing with Clarissa was going to be far more difficult than he’d first estimated. Even after all the time that had passed since they’d parted, she could still cut him to the quick like no other. The fire in her eyes and hurt in her voice made him ache just as before. His first instinct was to react with passion and heat—no thought for the consequences, no ability to see beyond the moment.

  A steady rain had begun, but James didn’t seek shelter, remaining at the rail. The moisture slowly seeped its way through his clothing, and yet he stayed. He hoped the damp would wash away the essence of her. He flexed his fingers, the smooth satin of her silky skin remaining on the tips. He’d prepared himself for her dramatic response to—well, in all honesty, everything involving her. But the smell of her? The feel of her? Her soft body under his hands as he’d pulled the shirt from her waistband and unwound the bindings from her breasts? It was too soon for such contact, clearly.

  The rain began to beat at him in earnest and the wind joined in, whipping about James in an ominous fashion. He’d forgotten what it was like with Clarissa. Once, she’d consumed his every thought and he, hers, until they’d not known where one began and the other ended. And then she’d taken it all from him.

  He gripped the railing as the ship began to pitch, widening his stance to keep his balance on the rolling deck. There was no point in revisiting the past, he thought grimly. He’d done so countless times after Clarissa had departed London for the Continent, and in the years that followed. It always ended the same way: James heartbroken, with nothing left but his work with the Young Corinthians. She’d turned her back on him once, refusing to listen. God willing, she would not fail him this time. He only hoped her love for her mother meant more to Clarissa than the love she’d once professed for him.

  “You broke my heart,” he muttered. Clarissa’s words were as unbelievable to him now as they had been when she’d first uttered them five years before in her mother’s parlor.

  If he’d been able to tell her the truth back then, perhaps she might have continued to trust him. A wave splashed over the railing, further soaking James, but he hardly noticed. She should have trusted him, he thought bitterly. With or without an explanation, Clarissa should have believed him when he’d assured her he loved her. And she hadn’t.

  A deckhand rushed up to James, pointing just beyond his shoulder. “A nasty one’s coming in. Best get belowdecks, sir.”

  James turned to see a growing thicket of black clouds rolling on the horizon, the storm’s ferocity threatening as it ate up the sky.

  “Get me a pair of scissors. I’ll wait here,” James instructed the deckhand with authority. “Now,” he snapped, causing the man to jump and run toward the bridge.

  Clarissa was a vain woman—something she had always readily admitted. James had secretly found this charming, though he’d teased her relentlessly for the weakness. Above all else, she’d valued her hair. Long, silken, and so black the thick mane had a bluish sheen, Clarissa’s hair was beautiful.

  James looked out at the choppy waters. He’d known she would have to cut it if they were to have any hope of substituting her for St. Michelle.

  But he’d been cruel to announce it in such a dismissive way. He’d done it on purpose. Her insinuation that he was now a dishonorable man had cut deep—far more than it should have considering the company he was keeping.

  The deckhand slid to a stop at James’s side and handed the scissors over. “Blimey,” he proclaimed, looking out at the storm nipping at their heels. “It’s going to be a nasty one,” he said.

  “You’ve no idea,” James replied before turning for the stairs.

  Clarissa had found great satisfaction in throwing the chair. For a moment. Then she’d quickly regretted its demise, since the less James realized his ability to vex her, the better. And he’d surely know she’d vented her temper by breaking the chair. She’d sighed, gathered up the broken bits, and dropped them into an empty chest at the foot of the built-in bed.

  And then she’d cried. She tried to stave it off, afraid that James would return and find her sniveling in the corner. Of course the man would realize he still held the ability to irritate, but did she really need to shed tears over the fact? Nevertheless, her emotions had gotten the best of her—again—and she’d climbed into the hard bed, pulled the coarse bed linens up about her head, and sobbed.

  James wasn’t the man she remembered. Clarissa supposed that was to be expected, at least to a certain extent. She’d been changed forever by their involvement, and logically, it made sense that he had been, too. But it was more than that. When he’d placed his hand on her chin and looked into her eyes, she thought she’d seen a flash of the man she’d known and loved. But the moment had passed too quickly for her to be sure she’d seen something substantive.

  The ship pitched forward, sending Clarissa sliding toward the end of the bed. Before she could right herself, the ship pitched back and she tumbled to her original position, tangled in the bed linens.

  The cabin door was wrenched open. James appeared, holding the doorjamb to steady himself as the ship wallowed, then threatened to rock forward again. “Clarissa,” he called, his gaze quickly searching the small room until he located her in the bed.

  Clarissa attempted to rise from her inelegant position, only to be catapulted to the end of the bed yet again by the rocking ship. “What is going on? Does this have something to do with the blockade?” she demanded.

  He stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him, throwing the lock. Just as he turned toward Clarissa, the heavy storage chest slid across the floor and smashed into the opposite wall, narrowly missing him. “No, we made it past the ships. We’re in the midst of a storm.”

  Clarissa planted her hands firmly on the mattress on either side of her hips and struggled to push herself upright.

  “Stay where you are,” James commanded, steadying himself against the wall before staggering across the rolling floor to reach the chest. He grabbed a handle and pulled, dragging the heavy box across the floor and wedging it into the corner at the end of the bed. “This is the safest place for us until the storm passes,” he added, climbing in next to her.

  Waves crashed into the ship, lifting the vessel and sending the floor pitching at an
angle again. Clarissa rolled into James and screamed.

  “Clarissa, listen to me.” James wrapped his arms around her and dragged her against his chest. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you believe me?”

  Clarissa tried to pull back, but his iron hold on her didn’t lessen. The ship’s timbers groaned as the waves hammered against the sides. Terrified, she buried her face against his linen shirt, comforted by the warm, hard wall of his chest and the solid, reassuring beat of his heart. “Why should I?” she ground out, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Clarissa, look at me!”

  The sharp command was colored with a faint hint of desperation. Compelled, Clarissa opened her eyes and tipped her face up to his. There was a glimmer of the man she’d once known there, deep within his umber eyes. She felt sure this time. Not that it would change their shared past, but it was something.

  “I do. I do believe you,” she whispered, uncertain whether he heard her over the wind howling just beyond the ship’s walls. Had she uttered the truth? She couldn’t know … not yet. But she needed to believe in something—in someone—right now more than anything.

  He tightened his grip, giving her a small smile as he nodded. “It’s about bloody time.”

  Cries from above rang out just as a loud, cracking noise reverberated throughout the cabin. Clarissa screamed again. James lowered his cheek to rest against the crown of her head.

  “Perhaps I should see if I can be of any use above-deck,” he said, shifting as though to leave her.

  Clarissa held tightly to his arm as the ship shifted and swayed. “You’re needed here,” she said resolutely.

  James looked at the door. “Clarissa, I’ve some sailing experience. This may be the best way to keep you safe—”

  “Do not make me regret the words I spoke mere moments ago, James.”

  He settled back against the wall, taking her with him, tucked securely within the circle of his arms.

  His embrace was unexpectedly comforting. Though the ship threatened to break apart at any moment, held safe in James’s arms Clarissa felt as though everything would, somehow, be all right. He was, for better or for worse, she acknowledged, her only ally.

  “A truce, then?” Clarissa offered, settling more fully against him.

  “Truce,” James agreed, bracing against the bed’s wooden frame as yet another wave slammed against the ship.

  “Must we?” Clarissa sat on the trunk, her back to James.

  The ship had bobbed in the roiling sea for hours, the storm finally settling near dawn. James had held Clarissa the entire time, inquiring after her painting, which he knew from past experience would distract her. She’d fallen asleep at some point, and yet he’d held tight, telling himself it was for her safety.

  The slower speed of the ship and the sounds coming from the top deck told him they were nearing the port of Dover. James had it on good authority that the captain had an understanding with several of the customs officials, which would make their putting into port much simpler than their taking leave of Calais had been.

  “We must.” With scissors in one hand, he gathered Clarissa’s hair into the other. The thick, black strands nearly slipped free as he paused, scissors poised and ready. “May I?” he asked, though the question was only a formality.

  Clarissa nodded without speaking, and with genuine regret James made the first cut, the length of long silken hair falling to the floor.

  She gasped, but to her credit remained still.

  “It will grow back,” James reassured her as he gathered another fistful and cut. He made quick work of the chore, wanting the moment to be over—for both of them.

  When he stepped in front of her to reach the silky bangs that fell in an ebony fan over her forehead, he nearly faltered at the stark lack of emotion in Clarissa’s eyes. Then he steeled himself and resolutely wielded the scissors before stepping back to assess her close-cropped hair.

  “Well?” Clarissa asked somberly as she stared at his boots.

  “You look … you look beautiful,” James answered, disbelief in his voice. He hadn’t thought it possible for Clarissa to look any lovelier. But the short hair emphasized her distinctive features and drew the eye to her long, bare neck in a most disruptive manner.

  Clarissa lifted trembling fingers, running them through the shorn locks. “Impossible,” she muttered, tears welling and threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Well, there’s no going back now.”

  “There never was,” James confirmed, his mouth a grim line.

  Clarissa’s steady gaze was bleak as it met his. She looked away, rising from the chest to brush the clinging bits of ebony silk hair from her shoulders. “No, I suppose there was not.”

  “Well, it is—”

  “Pretentious. Excessive. Ridiculous?” James suggested with sarcasm as he and Clarissa took in Kenwood House from the coach window. The treacherous Channel crossing followed by the two days drive from Dover had hardly put him in a good mood. Still, the home was perhaps the single largest estate he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Clarissa brushed off his mood with a feminine huff. “I’ll admit it is somewhat overgrown. But if it’s money you’re after, it appears you’ve come to the right place.”

  James couldn’t argue with Clarissa’s logic. From the little he knew of Canadian financier Joshua Bennett, the house was only the beginning. A fortune made in banking and trade guaranteed Bennett had enough money to do as he pleased—which, apparently, included living on the largest estate in the whole of England.

  He should be thankful for the man’s well-lined pockets. But something within him made James critical of such ostentation.

  “I do hope I have my own wing,” Clarissa added sarcastically.

  James chuckled. “Making fun of me now?”

  “Perhaps,” Clarissa replied, straightening her cravat.

  The carriage slowed, rolling to a full stop on the gravel drive, just in front of a monstrous portico supported by Grecian columns. No less than six liveried servants stood at attention, waiting for the two to alight.

  “James,” Clarissa murmured as she patted selfconsciously at her hair. “What if …” She paused, then folded her hands in her lap. She was shaking. Slightly, but still, her nerves were jangled.

  James took his hat from the seat beside him and donned it, allowing Clarissa a moment to recover. “You’ll finish the painting. I’ve never known you to fail.”

  “Hmm?” she replied, turning to look at him. “Oh, no. I’m not concerned in the slightest over my work.” Her hand shifted to touch her short locks again and she looped sections of the black silk about her finger. “No. I’m worried about my role. Do you think I’ll pass for a man?”

  James had pondered this very question for most of the carriage ride. Clarissa had quizzed him relentlessly concerning his sex. Everything, from breeches to women had been thoroughly discussed. And while Clarissa was an eager and intelligent student, James couldn’t quite see her as a man.

  Still, if bravado was worth anything, Clarissa had a fighting chance. Or so he desperately hoped.

  “Well, first things first. Stop fussing about with your hair in that manner,” he instructed.

  She pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Is that better?”

  James cast a critical eye over her countenance, then smiled. “Much improved. Now, repeat after me: ‘Bloody son of a pockmarked whore.’ ”

  “Come now, is it really necessary to use such vulgarity—”

  “Say it,” James commanded.

  “Son of a bloody pockmarked whore,” Clarissa spat out convincingly.

  James thumped her between the shoulder blades, nearly knocking her off the carriage seat. “Close enough. I do believe we just may pull this off.”

  She righted herself, frowning fiercely and clearly about to give him a tongue-lashing for the attack on her back. Then understanding dawned and she smiled. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s how you congratulate one another. With physical injury.�
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  James chuckled low in his throat. “Precisely. Now, are you ready for your debut, St. Michelle?”

  “I’ve never been more ready in my life,” she said resolutely, looking out at the servants who stood at attention, ready to receive them.

  James followed her gaze. “Truly?”

  “Not in the slightest. But there’s hardly any point in telling you I’m terrified. Come, our audience awaits.” She reached for the carriage latch and shoved the door wide.

  “Monsieur St. Michelle, welcome to Kenwood House. I am Robert.” The butler swept a low bow, the powder from his wig puffing, drifting, and filling the air where his head had been only a moment before.

  Clarissa nodded in approval. “Merci,” she replied in a perfect Parisian accent, then looked about, critically assessing the property. “Oui, this will do nicely. Now,” she added, gesturing toward James, “my assistant, Lucien Rougier, and I would like to be taken to our rooms. It has been a trying journey for us, you understand.”

  James remained stoic though his hands itched to swat Clarissa’s backside. “Lucien”? Really, they’d never once discussed an alias for him. And if they had, he sure as hell would not have chosen “Lucien.”

  “Of course.” Robert snapped his fingers and two of the waiting footmen hurried to assist the carriage driver, who was wrestling with the baggage. “If you will come with me?” he added, gesturing for them to follow.

  Clarissa took the lead, clearly pleased to be in charge of James. “Lucien, I’ll require a cold compress and a light repast,” she announced commandingly.

  “I’ll see that both are delivered to your chambers immediately,” the servant replied dutifully, nodding in command at the footmen manning the massive main doors. The two leapt into action, opening the panels wide. The butler stepped aside and allowed Clarissa and James to enter, then followed.

  “Non. I prefer Lucien to oversee my needs for the duration of our stay,” Clarissa answered in a bored, matter-of-fact tone as she looked up at the mural on the entryway ceiling. “Cherubs,” she commented with a marked lack of expression. “Interesting choice.”