The Sinner Who Seduced Me (6 page)

Behind them, the door opened and she stood in the threshold.

The two men turned in unison and looked at her.

“A fine job, if I do say so myself,” Dupont exclaimed with delight, pulling Clarissa forward and gesturing for her to turn slowly. “The binding looks to have worked well,” he said distractedly, eyeing her breasts critically. “And the breeches! Well, if I didn’t know better, I would assume those to be the legs of a gentleman. Mind you, your build made the task far easier than if you possessed a more feminine form …”

James ignored Dupont’s observations and simply watched Clarissa revolve. He had to agree with Dupont—the binding worked, as did the breeches. If he were to encounter her on the street, James would not look twice. Even her hair, tucked up beneath a hat, was passable, though they would have to cut it off before reaching England. But he
knew
her—remembered every intimate detail of her body, which made the moment that much more bizarre.

“If you two are done, I’ll need some assistance with the boots.” Clarissa turned on her stockinged heels and
returned to her room. “Dupont,” she called after the tailor.

“The remainder of the clothing is downstairs. Please make sure that it is carefully packed,” the tailor requested of James, then joined Clarissa, closing the door behind him.

“Are you comfortable?”

Clarissa swept the dark, dank ship’s cabin with a critical eye, then looked at James. “Not in the least. Did you specifically request the most inhospitable of ships or was it merely my luck?”

James took one step toward the scarred lattice-backed chair where Clarissa sat, the planked floor creaking ominously under his boots. Then he stopped, uttered some sort of oath, and turned abruptly toward the captain’s bed situated along the wall of the low-ceilinged cabin.

This would be the first significant amount of time they would spend in each other’s company since their unexpected reunion. Clarissa had insisted James accompany her on horseback rather than ride in the carriage. And then she’d shut herself up in her room for the entirety of their stop last night. Clarissa couldn’t help but miss the distance that had so conveniently separated them until now.

“There is a blockade in effect, Clarissa. Besides, it is important that we not be seen. Our presence will draw less attention in a ship of this nature rather than a more ‘hospitable’ vessel,” he said tightly.

“By nature, I assume you refer to the fact that it is piloted by common criminals?”

Clarissa sat straighter in order to gain some relief
from the tightly wound fabric about her chest. Unwanted emotion churned in her stomach. Anger? Fear? Certainly, though there was something else. Something she didn’t want to consider too closely.

“Are you well?” James asked, leaning against the opposite wall and folding his arms across his chest.

Clarissa breathed as deeply as she could, the binding fabric chafing against her skin as she did so. “Why would you ask such a question? No, of course I’m not well. You’ve placed my mother in danger, forced me into service, and torn me from my home.” She rose from the chair and leaned her head against the wall, the wood rough beneath her forehead as she attempted to draw another, deeper breath. “Really, James, you’ve grown lack-witted in our time apart,” she added caustically, her head beginning to spin.

Dimly, she heard the sound of footsteps, then his hands were upon her, ripping the linen shirt from her waistband, before slipping them beneath the soft fabric.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, batting at his hands as she tried to escape his hold.

He spun her around and yanked the bindings loose, quickly unraveling her with deft skill. “When I asked if you were well, I was referring to your physical state. This,” he paused, holding a fistful of the bindings at her eye level before tossing the length of fabric on the floor, “was slowly suffocating you.”

Clarissa stared at the length of soft white fabric on the floor, drawing in welcome draughts of briny sea air while she caught her breath. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, unable to look at him.

“For what, Clarissa?” he asked, gently catching her chin and turning her face up to his.

His touch was just as she remembered. Firm, yet gentle. “It’s been so long, and yet I’ve fallen into our old pattern.”

He cupped her cheek in his hand, his eyes searching hers. “Of quarreling? Yes, it has been quite some time, but I remember that part clearly.”

Clarissa shrank back, pressing against the rough wall behind her. James’s nearness suddenly threatened to overwhelm her senses. “It takes two to quarrel—”

“Clarissa,” he interrupted, laying one finger against her lips. “Please, I’ve no desire to fight with you. What’s in the past is just that—in the past.” He removed his finger and stepped back, gesturing for Clarissa to take the chair while he lay down on the bed.

She instantly missed the feel of his skin on hers—and hated herself for it. She knew he was right. There was no point in wasting time when her mother was in danger. And James was, in all likelihood, her only hope of assuring her mother’s safety. Durand and the rest of his gang were hardly the sort to inspire confidence in their promise to leave Isabelle unharmed if Clarissa completed her assignment.

And to succeed, she needed James’s help.

Still, his transformation troubled Clarissa; his ability to remain calm and rational in her presence confused her. Or was it her response to him that frayed her nerves? She watched as he effortlessly folded his arms and cradled his skull in his intertwined fingers.

“And the present?” she queried, suddenly needing to think upon anything else but their shared past.

He appeared to be rocking slowly back and forth, the movement of the waves below providing an easy rhythm. “Once we arrive in Dover, we’ll travel by coach to Bennett’s London home—no more than a two-day ride. You’ll begin the painting no later than—”

“You misunderstand me,” Clarissa interrupted, tucking the tails of the linen shirt into her snug breeches. “What I meant was, how did you find yourself here, in the employ of such men?”

James dropped one booted foot to the floor. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, shifting to look at her.

“Why?” Clarissa parroted in disbelief. “Although you broke my heart, you were, at one time, an honorable man, James.” She struggled to remain calm. “I suppose I’m curious, that’s all. Why would the son of a British peer cast his lot with such a crew?”

James turned his head and stared once again at the low ceiling above him. “I broke your heart? Is that how you remember it?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

“How else should I remember it? My father ripped apart the fabric of his marriage by taking a mistress and exposing my mother to the worst sort of pain imaginable. And you refused to lend your support to me—and my mother—at what was arguably the most difficult time in our lives—”

“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.