Catherine Archer - Lord Sin

Again he saw Mary Fulton’s face in his mind. Ian now knew what had caused that trace of sadness in her golden eyes. He was assaulted by unexpected feelings of protectiveness.

He gave himself a mental shake. Ian knew he must put these unwanted thoughts of Mary Fulton from his mind. He had given his promise not to seduce her. And he really could not offer marriage to a vicar’s daughter even if he wanted to. It would be too far to go in his defiance of his father.

Any sense of protectiveness he was experiencing was brought on solely by his lack of compassion when he met her. It was regretful, really, that he had not known of her father’s death.

As she made her way out to the garden, Mary hesitated beside the table in the front hall and picked up her widebrimmed straw hat. The last time she had seen Victoria, her friend had been adamant in telling her that she must remember to put the thing on her head when she was outside. She had then with affectionate admonition pointed out two light golden freckles on Mary’s nose.

Yesterday when Mary had met Ian Sinclair she had not been wearing her bonnet. She suddenly wondered if he had noticed those freckles. Being an aristocrat himself, Ian Sinclair would certainly expect any well-bred young woman to take great care with her complexion. Yet when Mary thought back, she realized he had not appeared to be concerned about such things at all. Even now she flushed when she remembered the way he had looked at her. It was as if…as if he wanted to…Well, Mary didn’t know what he wanted to do. Yet she did somehow know that the feeling of tightness in her belly was connected to that look.

In direct opposition to those feelings, Mary firmly told herself she did not care one way or another what the infamous “Lord Sin” thought of her. Then, in spite of her own declaration, she tied the bonnet ribbon securely beneath her chin as she made her way out the front door.

Mary had not done any work in her garden since before the funeral. There had simply seemed little point in tending plants that no one cared about. For some reason she had risen today with the overwhelming need to do so. Her mother had brought many of the seeds and cuttings here as a young wife and mother. Was it not Mary’s duty to honor her memory by looking after the things that she had loved? Especially since that love of gardening had been passed on to Mary. One of the few clear memories she had of her mother was of her reaching up to give her a bloom from one of her own roses as she tended them.

Besides, the task would certainly give her something to do with her idle hands. Not to mention her mind, which obviously needed something worthwhile to occupy it if the number of times Ian Sinclair had popped into it since she met him was any indication.

The garden lay at the back of the red brick house, surrounded by a four-foot-high picket fence. An enormous weeping willow spread its branches over much of the yard, offering a portion of shade to her lilies of the valley during the hottest part of the summer days. Beneath the tree sat the lawn furniture where she and her father had often come to spend a warm evening before he had become too ill. She tried not to let her gaze linger too long on the rattan chaise where he had rested, most times reading a book. But even a glance was enough to jar her aching heart.

Mary squared her shoulders, fighting the wave of grief, refusing to let the misery overpower her again. She must get on with her life. It was what her father would want.

For several hours she managed to think of little besides the young plants she tended, which seemed to respond to her ministrations by reaching eager young leaves to the light. The earth was moist and dark, smelling rich and pleasantly musty in her hands. The few clouds that had lingered from the previous day cleared and the morning sun shone down with determined good cheer.

After a time, Mary grew warm. Absentmindedly she undid some of the buttons at her throat and with the handkerchief from her pocket wiped the perspiration that had beaded on the back of her neck and down the front of her dress. As she reached down between her breasts, Mary felt an odd prickling along the base of her neck. She looked toward the walk that led from the front of the house. No one was there. She told herself she was becoming too edgy from being alone so much, but she did take her hand from the front of her dress.

Telling herself this did not make the sensation of being watched go away. It in fact became overpowering, and she found herself turning around to look in the direction of the back gate.

Then she stopped in horror, still as the statue of St. George in the churchyard. For leaning against the top of the fence was none other than Ian Sinclair himself, looking every bit as handsome, confident and compellingly male as she had remembered him.

It was impossible.

Mary blinked to see if she was conjuring him up herself. But when she opened her lids, there he was, still smiling in that infuriatingly sardonic way of his, his dark eyes regarding her with that strangely unsettling expression of the previous day. It was almost as if he knew a secret about her, a secret that even she did not know.

That, Mary realized, was completely ridiculous. Ian Sinclair knew no secrets about her, because she had none. For some unknown reason this did not soothe her. She drew herself up, raising her chin high. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his brows in what she could only believe was feigned surprise and regret. “Am I to take that to mean you do not want me?” he asked. “Why? What have I done to offend you so greatly? We have only known each other since yesterday.”

As he spoke his gaze drifted down to the open neck of her gown and she felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Mary had to resist the urge to look at what he might be seeing. With as much aplomb as she could manage, she drew the edges of the dress together with one hand, not at all pleased to note that her fingers were not quite steady.

Did not want him, indeed.

His smile widened as he watched her and she was even further chagrined, but she did not wish him to know that. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr.—Lord Sinclair?”

Unexpectedly his expression changed, growing decidedly more gentle, his dark eyes devastatingly intent with concern. “No, but there is something I wish to do. When I told Victoria of our meeting she informed me of your recent loss. It…I realized that you must have been somewhat distraught even before I came upon you yesterday. I thought I should…”

He indicated the black stallion, which she now saw he had tied farther along the fence toward the front of the house. “Well, I was out riding and decided it would only be common courtesy to come by and offer my condolences and apologize for upsetting you. It is the least I could do after giving you such a start.”

She looked down at the ground, then back at him, nodding jerkily. His apology was rendered so endearingly, almost as if he was a recalcitrant schoolboy. It would have been nearly impossible to remain aloof, but her reaction to his care was stronger than she would have imagined, for it called forth a glowing warmth inside her. “I…thank you, that is very kind of you. I’m afraid I may have overreacted. I was never actually in any danger. It’s just that it has been…so very difficult…” Mary halted, the lump in her throat preventing her from going on.

“And understandably so.” He reached down and flipped the gate latch. The next thing she knew Mary was no longer standing alone in the garden. Ian Sinclair seemed to fill the space with the potency of his presence. He was too alive, too compellingly attractive to be real in the midst of this quiet garden. She watched as he moved forward—with the same grace as a tightrope walker she had once seen at a fair—and reached for her hand.