When Sparks Fly (6 page)

Pushing up her spectacles, she took a quick glance around at the mysterious place that had caused so much trouble. Barrels were stacked at one end, and a long worktable sat at the other, beneath a large glass window set into the roof. Apparently it had been designed to funnel sunlight down on that half of the barn, since the stone walls had no windows. Assorted boxes and cabinets littered the rest of the space, which smelled of fire and sulfur and coal.

“What do you want?” he asked sharply, jarring her from her examination. “You shouldn't be in here. You could get hurt.”

The gruff concern in his voice touched her. “Unlike my cousins, I have no interest in rummaging about in your explosives.” When he said nothing, she added, “Besides, I wanted to thank you. The boys didn't deserve your lenience, but I appreciate your giving it anyway, my lord.”

“Martin,” he muttered, pausing in rifling a cabinet drawer.

She edged closer. “What?”

“My given name is Martin. You might as well use it.” Withdrawing a penknife, he shoved it in his pocket. “I hate that ‘my lord' humbuggery. In my mind, Rupert is still Lord Thorncliff. It suited him better than it does me, anyway.”

Her heart caught in her throat. How could society ever think he would kill his brother for the title? “All right. Then thank you . . . Martin.”

A shuddering breath escaped him. “I
will
cane your cousins if they don't behave, you know,” he said, a bit defensively.

“I know.”

“If you hadn't come along, I would have taken them over my knee.”

“I'm sure you would have.”

“Because they have no business coming in here—”

Ellie began to laugh.

He whirled to face her. “What the blazes is so amusing?”

“You don't have to keep growling about it now that they're gone. Unlike the boys, I am fully convinced of your capacity to play the dastardly Black Baron as often and fiercely as you must to protect them.”

As if noticing for the first time her loose hair and the cloak she'd buttoned over her inappropriate dress, he gave her a long, slow perusal that sent wanton shivers dancing along her spine. “Do you accuse me of pretending, Ellie?”

His intimate use of her nickname sent a little thrill through her. “I accuse you of acting more bad-­tempered than is your true nature.”

A sudden veil shadowed his face. “You know nothing of my true nature.”

“Actually I do.” It was time he learned that not everyone was against him. “And despite what people say, I don't believe you killed your brother.”

Chapter Six

Dear Cousin,

My, my, you certainly have my interest piqued. Perhaps I should guess at your identity, and you can tell me how far I am off the mark. Might you be a Hessian with a fondness for lemon tarts? An aging spy for the Home Office? A woman, even? No, I know you're not a woman. A woman couldn't possibly be as arrogant as you.

Your “relation,”

Charlotte

M
artin stared at Ellie. Had she really said what he thought?

Yes, that's why she was watching him so closely. She'd heard the rumors, and now she meant to find out if they were true.

A groan escaped him. He'd spent the last few days in agony, basking in her warmly innocent smiles, entertaining mad ideas of what it might be like to have her as his wife, looking after
his
children. He'd spent three nights imagining her in his bed, cradling his body between her honeyed thighs, caressing him as only a woman could. He couldn't stand to see her expression when it dawned on her that he really was responsible for Rupert's death.

He headed for the door. “Since you've apparently learned the real reason they call me the Black Baron, there's nothing more to say, is there?”

She caught his arm as he tried to pass her. “I should like to hear
your
account, since all I learned from my aunt were rumors.”

He froze, not looking at her, afraid to see what lay in her eyes. “I'm surprised she didn't order you to take her away from here. I'm surprised you didn't demand it yourself.”

“Don't be absurd. We know better than to heed some silly gossip. As Shakespeare said, ‘Rumor is a pipe/Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.' ”

A choked laugh escaped him at her blithely quoting Shakespeare while he stood here expecting her to bolt. “You have no idea how true that is.”

“I'm sure I don't. That's why you should explain it to me.”

His gaze shot to her. Did he dare? Her face was open, waiting. He saw no reproach in the eyes half veiled by her spectacles, but that meant little. Once he told her, she would despise him. God knew he despised himself.

Pulling away, he headed for the worktable. “You should go. I must hide a few chemicals in case your cousins try again. I packed up the worst ones a few days ago, but yesterday I had to take out some vials—”

“Martin,” she said sharply, halting his frenzied flow of words. “You might feel better if you talk to someone. Tell me what really happened. I promise not to judge you.”

Devil take her for saying that. To have someone listen and not judge. . . . No, not just someone—
her
. His men didn't judge him, and neither did the local townspeople. It was only her sort who found him guilty.

That thought spurred him to face her. “It's not a great secret,” he bit out. “The miners witnessed it. Huggett knows it. If people really cared to know, they could find out. Yet you're the first in society ever to ask me directly. Most people would rather invent their own tale than search for anything so dull as the truth.”

“You don't exactly make it easy to ask,” she pointed out.

That stopped him cold. “I suppose I don't.” Leaning back against the table, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“But since I've braved your temper to do so, the least you could do is answer the question,” she prodded, walking toward him.

For a moment, the silken dance of her hair about her hips distracted him. He couldn't believe she wore it down. Had she come here straight from bed? The very thought made him harden, imagining her lush body spread out on her curtain of shimmering, coal black locks, her mouth smiling, beckoning him to take her—

Idiot—you're letting your mind run away with you again.
She couldn't have come straight from bed—society females didn't do that. Besides, her cloak was buttoned up with perfect propriety, and she wore boots and spectacles. Not the attire of a lady fresh from bed. Probably she'd been dressing when she'd heard him with the boys, and hadn't waited to put up her hair.

“At least tell me how a gentleman like you came to do experiments on explosives,” she prodded. “Was it because of your brother's death?”

He shook himself out of his distraction. “No. It began long before then.” She wouldn't let it go, would she? And perhaps he'd be better off if she knew. Once she recoiled from him, he would no longer be tempted to keep her in his life. His dangerous, demanding life, where no woman belonged.

With a sigh, he began. “I was always interested in chemistry, so when I was a boy Father would let me go with him whenever he consulted the mine manager. One day we arrived right after a bad explosion. I was ten. I saw things my worst nightmares couldn't have conjured up: a miner whose arm hung by a tendon, another without—”

He caught himself, realizing she had gone quite pale. “Anyway, I never forgot it. It galvanized me. So when Father gave me the usual choices for a second son—join the army or navy or clergy—I told him I wanted to study science. I'd read everything I could about mining operations. Explosives might be a necessary evil in mining, but I
knew
they could be safer. I just needed more knowledge to know how. To my surprise, Father agreed to let me pursue my interest.”

“Didn't he think it inappropriate for a gentleman?”

“Yes, but he understood it. He'd witnessed plenty of accidents himself. So while he taught Rupert to run the estate, he allowed me to attend the University of Edinburgh. Once I came home, I worked on improvements to the mine. Ours was the first to use the Davy safety lamp.”

“Your father must have been very proud of you,” she murmured.

He had been—but only because he hadn't lived to see what became of his sons. “After Father died, Rupert and I remained in our circumscribed roles. Though he was the mine's owner by virtue of being the heir, he gave me full freedom to experiment with improvements. Everything was fine between us.”

His voice tightened. “Until the Christmas he died.” How well he remembered the smell of evergreens and roast goose, the bursts of laughter and carol singing, the crush of people filling every corner of the house. “Rupert invited several guests here for the season. When his guests found out I was testing a new, less volatile explosive at the mine, they clamored to be allowed to watch. Rupert agreed, but I refused to take them. I told him it would be too dangerous.”

Fixing his gaze beyond her, Martin saw again the mortification that had crossed Rupert's face. “So we argued about it, and I left, telling him that if he brought anyone there, I'd throw them out. Which, of course, I had no right to do.”

“Is that why he went there, to assert his rights?”

“In a fashion. He felt I'd shamed him before his guests. He showed up at the mine drunk, though thankfully alone, and tried to take charge of the blasting. He kept saying he was the owner and knew just as much about it as I did.”

Shoving away from the table, he began to pace. “He sorely roused my temper, so I told him to do as he pleased, then stormed off. The men didn't know how to react. He
was
the owner, after all. When he ordered them to set the blast, they did so. But the black powder fizzled before reaching the explosives, which sometimes happens. He went to light it again, even though they cried that he should wait until they were sure the powder really had fizzled.”

A shudder wracked him. “It hadn't.” If only Rupert had listened. If only Martin hadn't stalked off.
If only . . . if only . . . if only. . . .
The words tortured his nights. “It exploded just as he reached it. He was killed instantly.”

The silence that fell between them sent a cold chill down his spine. He was afraid to look at her, sure that she was appalled. And why shouldn't she be? He'd failed his own brother. He'd abandoned him in a rage, with horrible results.

But Ellie was thinking something else entirely—that his story told a tragedy so wide and deep, she didn't know how to begin easing his pain. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. He stopped pacing but didn't speak, so she muddled on. “It must have been awful for you.”

“Not awful enough, some would say, considering what I gained from his death.” His terse words were guilt-­laden.

“Anyone who says that has no heart,” she hissed, her own heart breaking for him.

He sucked in a ragged breath. “You don't blame me for what happened?” he said, a note of surprise in his voice, though he still wouldn't look at her.

“Certainly not. Why would I?”

“Because I was responsible, damn it!” He whirled to face her. “I didn't set out to kill him, but I did it as surely as if I'd put a pistol to his head.”

“Nonsense!” She hastened to where he stood as rigid and erect as one of the boys' lead soldiers, carrying a weight much heavier than lead. “Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but your brother brought his death upon himself.”

Martin gave a violent shake of his head. “You don't understand. I shouldn't have let him goad me. I should have stood firm. I should have—”

“It wasn't your fault!” She laid her hand on his arm in comfort. “Brothers argue, even under the best of circumstances.”

He turned an anguished face to her. “But I shouldn't have walked away. I should have tossed him off the property as I'd threatened to do to his guests.”

“That would have incensed him even more. And the miners would have been put in the intolerable position of going against their owner.”

“At least he'd be alive,” Martin said.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Sometimes people do foolish things no matter how much we try to stop them.” She stroked his arm, fumbling for words to help assuage his grief-­born guilt. “And the inquiry absolved you of blame.”

“Yes, but society didn't. My brother's guests were only too eager to run off and tell the world their version of events. That's why everyone thinks I killed my brother for his inheritance.”

“Hang society! Who cares what they think? I certainly don't.”

His expression incredulous, he searched her face. “You really mean that.”

“Of course.” Tears stung the back of her throat to see him still so uncertain of her. “Just because your brother's friends spread gossip about you doesn't mean everyone in society listens. Or believes it.” She dropped her gaze from his. “Some of us are good people, you know.”

Her wounded feelings must have been evident, for he said, “Oh, Ellie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you again.” Reaching up, he brushed back her hair, then tangled his fingers in it. “It's just that I'm not used to having a woman think anything but ill of me. Especially one who tempts me so.”

“I tempt you?” she said, hardly daring to believe him. He was too near, and his words were too sweet. It made her want everything he wouldn't give her.

His hand slid to cup her cheek. “I've spent the past three years hiding from the world you live in,” he went on in a rough voice, “sure that I didn't want or need to be part of it. Now you come along, making me realize what I do want.”

She lifted her gaze to his, which proved a mistake. Because he was looking at her as if he'd just found a treat he couldn't wait to gobble up.

Eyes darkening to pewter, he removed her spectacles with deliberate intent and set them on the table. Then his mouth covered hers. This time there was no hesitation, no agonizing uncertainty. He kissed her with the kind of hunger every woman lies awake at night dreaming about, the kind no man had ever shown her.

His hands swept down to unbutton the cloak that encased her from neck to hem, and she was so rattled by his kiss that she scarcely even cared. How could such a gruff man kiss with such feeling, give such delicious pleasure?

And why must he do it to
her
? He said he didn't want a wife, and for all she knew that hadn't changed.

A line from Michael Drayton's sad sonnet drifted through her mind—“Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.” She didn't
want
to kiss and part. That was why she shouldn't let him kiss her at all, shouldn't let him teach her to crave him. He would break her heart, and for what? To soothe his wounded pride? To give him a moment's comfort?

Why did he do it? Why did she let him?

In a desperate act of self-­preservation, she tore her mouth from his, but he slid his arm inside her open cloak, dragging her flush against him as he trailed hot, openmouthed kisses down her cheek to her neck.

“Please . . . Martin . . .” she begged.

“Let me just hold you awhile.” His hand swept along her ribs before he asked with surprise, “Where are the rest of your clothes, love?”

He spoke the word
love
with the rough intonation of a Yorkshire miner, but she didn't care. No one had ever called her
love.

“I had no time. . . . I was in a hurry. . . .” That was all she could get out, for his hands were roaming farther now, along the undersides of her breasts, his thumbs brushing the bottom swells, making her heart race.

“God help me,” he drew back to whisper, “you're nearly naked.” His eyes locked with hers, so beautifully needy that it made her chest hurt. Then they flashed like quicksilver before he took her mouth again.

This time his kiss was so hard and consuming that it left her no room to think of anything but how to wring every moment of enjoyment from his increasingly bold caresses. His thumbs now rose to tease her nipples through the thin cambric, rousing them erect, making them ache and throb.

She knew it was wrong, but she didn't care. He was turning her inside out, making her feel things she'd never felt.

With a little burst of will, she broke their kiss. “We shouldn't be doing this.”