To Kiss a Thief (11 page)

Perhaps he had something to lose, after all.

He busied himself with dressing first, a part of him hoping that she would return and demand the key back before he had a chance to open the trunk. But no such reprieve was granted him. Clad in the shirt and breeches of the late Mr. Potts—a man half a head shorter and a stone or two heavier, judging by the fit of the clothes—St. John dropped to one knee in front of the trunk, inserted the key in the lock, and opened it.

At first glance it contained nothing but a scant few items of clothing—a nightgown, a spare shift, and two vaguely familiar items far too fine for Haverhythe: a blue-green gown, and a heavy silk shawl woven with a pattern of peacock feathers. Surely Sarah had not fled London with so little to her name. What had become of the rest of her things? And why had these particular items been spared?

Digging deeper, he found a beaded reticule, now empty, which had no doubt contained the vial of smelling salts she had gone to fetch and was the reason for the trunk being open and in disarray when he had entered the room.

At the very bottom lay a thin bundle of letters tied together with ribbon. His hand hovered over them for a moment. She had told him she had cut herself off from family, so who had been writing to her? Were they love letters from Brice?

He slid one from the bundle and unfolded it just far enough to read the salutation. But what he saw defied his every expectation.

Amelia Sutliffe. His stepmother's hand. He turned the note over and looked at the direction: “
S.P.
,” to be claimed at the post office in Upper Haverhythe, several miles away. His father had even franked it—ignorant of its contents, St. John did not doubt.

He thumbed through them all, glancing at the amounts. A few pounds here, a few more there. Once as much as twenty, in a note whose date suggested it had been sent shortly after Sarah's supposed death. And then he counted them. Seven such notes. His stepmother had been a poor correspondent.

And that was it. All the trunk contained. No sapphire necklace. No pile of banknotes. No clandestine correspondence between his wife and her lover.

Just a handful of grudging gift notes that totaled a mere fraction of the sum recorded on the memorandum he had found in his stepmother's escritoire. Although he could think of no reason for the discrepancy, he was beginning to suspect which was true and which false.

If extortion had been Sarah's game, she had played it very poorly.

He supposed he ought to feel disappointment, but what he felt foremost was disgust—with his stepmother, certainly, but mostly with himself. He began to replace the items in the trunk when he spied something small and dark lying on the bottom. A miniature case, he realized when he brought it into the open. Hesitantly, he flicked open the catch.

His own face looked up at him, unscarred and considerably younger, but full of self-assurance and pride. Good God, he hoped what he had seen in the years since it was painted had wiped at least some of that supercilious smirk off his face.

He recognized the picture as one that had been commissioned years ago; how it had come into Sarah's possession he could only guess. He supposed his stepmother had given it to her as some sentimental gesture of womanly affection, a feeling he had had every reason to believe Sarah did not share.

But even if she had had it thrust upon her, obviously it had not been sitting untouched at the bottom of her trunk for three years. The leather case was worn in places, the clasp loose with repeated opening and closing.

Restoring the contents of the trunk as neatly as he could, he closed the lid, left the key in the latch, and then made his way out of the house as quietly as a creaking staircase and squeaking hinges would allow. It was just dusk, but the strand and the streets of Haverhythe were deserted as he made his way back to the Blue Herring.

As he walked he tried to imagine his stepmother lavishing such attention on a picture, but it seemed unlikely, when she could have looked at the original almost any time she desired.

But he had no difficulty picturing Sarah's slender hands gripping the small circle of leather as tightly as they had held the key. What he couldn't understand was why.

What had she been thinking as she had done so?

“Mama!”

Sarah jerked herself awake. Clarissa stirred fretfully in her narrow bed and then gave a feeble cough and rasped out, “Hungry.”

Rising stiffly from her chair, Sarah bent over her daughter and swept her hand across the child's brow, finding it considerably cooler than her own. “Of course, dear one. I shan't be a moment.”

Hunger was a good sign, she told herself as she gathered up the woolen shawl that lay puddled on the floor. The candle had long since guttered, but she could make her way across the room by the gray light that crept in through the rain-spattered window. Nearly dawn.

She opened the door only to find Mrs. Potts on the other side of it, bearing a tray.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Sarah smiled. “Clarissa is awake, and she says she's hungry.”

“Lord bless us, of course she is, poor thing!” Mrs. Potts declared, sweeping into the room and depositing the tray beside Clarissa's bed. “Here's broth, and a bit of bread and milk, and even a spoonful of yesterday's pudding to tempt you,” she cooed as she perched beside the child. “And tea for you, mum,” she added, without taking her eyes from her charge.

Sarah rolled her head, trying to ease the kink in her neck caused by falling asleep in the old rocking chair. “Tha-a-ank you,” she said, ineffectually stifling a yawn.

“Why don't you go and have a lie-down? I'll sit with the wee one for a spell.”

She glanced at Clarissa, who was happily eating spoonful after spoonful of bread and milk, just as fast as Mrs. Potts could offer it. It seemed impossible to believe that just a few hours past, the girl had been hauled from the water, near death. But Mr. Kittery had assured her that children often made quick recoveries, even from the most horrific accidents. Even so, Sarah did not think she could drag herself away from the child's bedside.

After a few moments of standing uselessly in the doorway, however, she found herself accepting Mrs. Potts's offer, stumbling gratefully across the landing to her own bedchamber, and collapsing in a heap across the bed.

It was then that the fragments of her dream, swept hastily away by Clarissa's cry, returned to her in full force.

Her first feeling was guilt—guilt that any part of her, even the deepest recesses of her mind, had been focused on anything but her daughter's well-being. She should not have allowed herself to fall asleep, let alone to dream.

But since she had, she supposed she should be grateful that the twists and turns of her fevered brain had not forced her mind to see what her eyes had missed: Clarissa falling headlong off the quay, Clarissa struggling fruitlessly against the sucking tide, Clarissa being pulled beneath the surface of the sea.

And as for what she
had
dreamt?

The nightmarish ending was the easiest to make sense of. Although St. John was hardly the man to take justice into his own hands in quite such a dramatic fashion, she would do well to remember that he meant to see her pay a steep price for what had been lost—his honor, as much as that necklace.

Truth be told, it was the rest of the dream that troubled her.

Sarah shifted onto her side and caught a glimpse of the trunk, closed and locked at the foot of her bed. The events of the day before had forced her to acknowledge certain feelings, emotions from her past she thought she had shut up as tightly as the items in that trunk.

She had never seen a man's bare chest before, not even her husband's. In that long-ago handful of nights after their marriage, when St. John had come to perform his husbandly duty, he had always worn a nightshirt and had respectfully waited to enter her bedchamber until the candles had been doused. She had never imagined that a real man's body could vie with a marble sculpture of some Grecian god.

Remembering how St. John claimed he had spent his time in the West Indies, Sarah called to mind every whey-faced, stoop-shouldered clerk in her father's employ. Whatever they hid beneath their frayed frock coats and ink-stained cuffs, she did not think it could be
that
.

Although she was exhausted, Sarah hoisted herself from the bed and went to the washstand to splash her face with water. If she allowed herself to sleep again, she clearly could not trust the direction of her dreams. On the landing, she paused to peek silently into her daughter's room. Both Clarissa and Mrs. Potts had drifted off. Smiling to herself, Sarah crept downstairs and retreated into the kitchen, where she could neither see nor hear the rain that threatened to wash away months of planning and work.

But no matter the task she took up, the memory of her dream kept intruding. And nothing she did could ease her suspicion that there was reality at its core: She was vulnerable, and her womanly weaknesses only made her more so.

St. John was a danger to her—and some small part of her wanted to throw itself in harm's way.

* * *

“Is that you, Mrs. Potts?” Sarah called, hearing the front door open and feeling the gust of damp air that whispered down the passageway and into the kitchen. “Clarissa and I are just sitting down to tea.”

“Oh, aye, mum, 'tis I. I woulda come in the back, but there's someone here wants to see Miss Clarissa.”

Sarah didn't have to guess who the guest might be. She had seen Mrs. Potts depart half an hour past with a bundle tucked under one arm—St. John's clothes, she'd assumed—and make her way against a drizzling rain.

And he had come back with her. Of course he deserved to see how Clarissa had improved in a day. He had saved the child's life, after all. But Sarah had begun to fear she was never again to have a moment's peace. St. John had insinuated himself into the life of the village, invaded her dreams—did he have to fill Primrose Cottage with his voice and his scent and his overwhelming maleness, too?

“Who, Mama?” Clarissa demanded. Her voice was hoarse from coughing and her eyes were smudged with shadow; one night's restless sleep had not quite erased the fatigue of the previous day's adventure. And hidden by her dress were wide bruises across her chest and belly where she had struck the water, and smaller round ones that ringed her arms where St. John had grabbed her and pulled her to safety.

But those discomforts had only slightly diminished her energy. Clarissa slid from her chair and hurried to the kitchen door. “Mr. Sijin, Mama?”

Sarah masked a grimace with a smile and rose to her feet. “I don't know. Let's go and see, shall we?”

“Sijin! Sijin!” Clarissa clamored, barreling into the sitting room, where St. John stood before the fireplace, much as he had been standing when Sarah had first seen him following his arrival in the village. Now, however, there was a fire crackling in the hearth and Clarissa's few playthings were scattered before it. Sarah's black knit shawl was draped over the rocking chair and her workbasket was open beside it. Framed by the doorway, it looked to be a cozy domestic scene.

She wondered how and when—or if—she would be able to tell her daughter that the man for whose attention she vied was her father. How would St. John react to hear Sarah correct Clarissa, to hear her say, “Call him ‘Papa,' dear one?”

Worse, what if he decided to take matters into his own hands, to reveal his identity to the child and strip away the last bit of power Sarah held? She had no doubt that the man who had already charmed half of Haverhythe would easily win Clarissa's affection if he set out to do so.

St. John knelt as he had the first night and met the child eye to eye. “And how are you today, Miss Clarissa?” His wide smile revealed a row of perfect white teeth, but his pale eyes darted nervously over Clarissa's face and limbs, and then past the child to lock questioningly on Sarah.

“We're all well, thank you,” Sarah answered, stepping into the room. “Clarissa has slept well and eaten well and is not to be persuaded away from her toys.”

“I should hope not!” he said, rising to his feet. “For here is something new to play with, and I would be utterly downcast if Miss Clarissa should deem my gifts unworthy.” He bowed elegantly while proffering two wrapped packages, and Clarissa giggled at his mock ceremony even as she reached out both hands to take the presents, one in each chubby fist.

As he helped her first with the ribbon and then with the paper, Clarissa eagerly pressed him. “What is it? What is it?” Turning to Sarah, she repeated the question.

“I can't guess, 'Rissa. Show me!”

The wrappings fell away to reveal a soft doll with frizzled yellow yarn for hair and a painted-on smile. Sarah had seen it many times in Gaffard's but had never been able to justify the expense. Now her heart felt ready to burst—or perhaps break—as she listened to Clarissa squeal and watched her hug the doll, then thrust it back into St. John's hands, shouting, “See! See!”

“I do see,” he said, admiring the doll with an enthusiasm that did not seem feigned. “And what a charming dress. She looks like you—only not half so pretty,” he maintained, returning it to Clarissa with a smile. “Now, what do you suppose is in the other package?”

“What?” Clarissa asked, eyes wide.

Again he helped her with the wrappings and shared her surprise at the discovery of a beautiful little book filled with brightly colored pictures of animals from around the world. Sarah's breath caught when she imagined the cost of such a thing and how quickly it might be ruined by a child's careless hands.

“May I see?” Sarah asked, and Clarissa reluctantly turned and laid it on her mother's palm. “How lovely! But I worry it will be . . . Perhaps it should be saved for another day.”

St. John stood and lifted the book unceremoniously from her grasp, returning it to Clarissa. Sarah frowned at him, but a slight shake of his head was St. John's only reply. “I'd say that today is a perfect day—rainy days are always best for stories, don't you think, Miss Clarissa? Now, let me see.” And he set about arranging her blanket on the floor and propping himself on one arm alongside it, his long, booted legs stretching almost into the center of the room. “Come, sit beside me and bring Dolly with you. She will want to look, too.”

Clarissa obediently sat down and leaned against his chest, tucking the doll between them as St. John opened the book. “Do you suppose your mama would be so kind as to fetch a storyteller a cup of tea—for storytellers should be rewarded for their efforts, don't you think?” Clarissa nodded and giggled again.

St. John lifted his eyes over Clarissa's curls to send a glance in Sarah's direction, and she felt suddenly as if she had never seen this man before. Certainly she had never seen his countenance so open, his eyes so gentle, his smile so genuine—and all so different from the man who had haunted her dreams. What was happening here?

Sarah snagged her lower lip between her teeth and gave a nervous nod. “Of course. I won't be a moment.”

“Now,” he began, turning back to Clarissa as if sharing a great secret, “I'll tell you all about a friend of mine who lives in a very special place—the place where we get the sugar for our tea and cakes and puddings. Can you guess where that is?”

“Gaffard's!” Clarissa shouted.

Wisely, St. John did not laugh. “An amazingly good guess, my dear, but it's someplace more exciting even than that. Sugarcane is grown on islands far away, in the Caribbean Sea, where it's hot and sunny every day. But that's all right, because my friend likes it that way. He's a monkey.”

“You know a monkey?” Clarissa asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Indeed, I do, and his name is Jasper. Now, Jasper is a friendly little fellow. He'd love to share your bread and jam.” When Clarissa looked alarmed, he added, “Why, he'd no more hurt you than would the donkeys here in Haverhythe.”

“Donkeys bite,” Clarissa informed him solemnly.

“Do they? Then I shall have to be on my guard! But Jasper would never bite you, no matter what sort of tasty treat you had in your hands. He's far too clever. Do you know what he'd do instead?”

Clarissa shook her head, totally enthralled.

He pointed to the illustration. “He'd perch himself on your shoulder and wrap his tail around you here,” he said, curling his free hand around her waist, “tap you on the other shoulder, and then reach around this way with his little hand and snatch it right from your fingers!”