Engaged in Sin (33 page)

First she shrugged on his dark-blue tailcoat—it would cover the white shirt. Then she swiftly pinned up her hair and found a hat in his wardrobe. She clutched that in one hand, raced to the window, and awkwardly pulled it open. She crept up onto the sill and swallowed hard. There was still a light mist of rain, and it was foggy now. It was a long way to the ground, but there was a garden below, with soft earth to break her fall.

Before she could lose her nerve, Anne jumped.

NNE WAS RUNNING
again, with her lungs heaving and her chest tight. At least Devon’s clothes made it much easier to move, but every quick breath she took flooded her nose, her conscience, and her heart with his rich scent. It was truly agony. She vowed she would return everything to him.

Dawn lightened the sky, but the rain had brought out a thick morning mist. Layers of fog billowed over the lawns and twined among the trees. She was running as blindly as she had in the dark.

This time she hoped she had a better plan. She raced to the woods and took the opposite direction to the one she had before. This way, she should be able to reach the road to the village, and she could travel more quickly along a road than on the paths in the woods. In dark masculine clothing, she would not attract attention.

Behind her, in the gray mist, twigs snapped. Her heart jerked wildly in her chest.

What if it was Mick again? Surely he would have given up on watching the house. She prayed that he had, that he thought she was well and truly in the duke’s possession now.

Crunching sounds pursued her, and she risked one glance back. She couldn’t see anything but mist and the trees close to her; their black trunks seemed to dance crazily as she swept her gaze back and forth. She left the path, just as she’d done last night, and she ran through the woods. If it was Mick, he wouldn’t let her get away this time. If it was Devon—

Her right foot didn’t land on the ground—it dropped away beneath her. She was too shocked to scream. Her boots slid, her bottom slammed down, and she went flying along a slope into thick fog. Then she cried out in shock, damning the sound as it echoed everywhere.

Splash!
Her feet hit water. Cool water instantly poured in through the lacing of her boots. Her spine felt as though it had been smacked with a hammer, and her hands had been scratched and torn up by small rocks. She quickly jerked her feet out of the water, but it hurt to move. She had nearly fallen into the wretched stream.

“Anne? Where are you?”

It was Devon. Not Mick. Relief left her light-headed, but she stayed silent. She had to get away. The only way he could help her was to throw himself into a scandal that would hurt him.

His footsteps grew closer, muffled by the mist. “Anne?” Then a pause. “Taylor? Taylor, are you out here? If you have Anne, hand her over to me right now. I swear I will shoot you.”

Devon didn’t sound angry. His voice was strained with panic.

Heavens, he was running now, his footsteps hard through the fog. It sounded as though he was racing over her head, but that was impossible.… No, he was running along the path she’d taken. Running, even though he couldn’t see. The path would bring him to the edge of the ravine—

“Don’t!” she shouted. “Stop! You’ll fall down the hill!”

But her cry was too late. She heard a startled male shout, a horrible thud, and a terrible amount of crashing, as if Devon was tumbling over and over as he fell down the steep side of the ravine. Then there was a huge splash, several yards behind her.

Sheer panic forced her pained body to move. She turned and limped as fast as she could toward Devon. Fog had pooled in the ravine, and she couldn’t see anything through it. Not trees until branches smacked her in the head. Not rocks until she collided with them. Heavens, this was what it was like for Devon. No wonder he hated it. How strong he had been to learn to cope.

Through the veil of gray mist, she saw a ghostly white outline. Her wits clicked into place, and she understood what she was looking at. Devon’s shirt was white. It was rippling on the water of the stream. He hadn’t slid in, as she had. His entire body had tumbled in, and he was facedown in the water.

Anne ran into the stream, forcing her legs to push through flowing water. An eternity raced by as she fought her way to him. The current tugged at him, but he wasn’t moving. Now she could see that his arms and legs were outstretched, the water slapping at him, flowing around him.

Finally she was at his side. He had landed chest-first in the water. His head had struck a large flat rock. He lay on it, his cheek resting on the slippery surface. Water lapped at his lips.

His face wasn’t submerged. That gave her hope. But his skin was ashen and waxy in his unconsciousness.
Please don’t be hurt. Not badly hurt
.

Anne had known horror when she’d found the virgins in Madame’s house, when she’d watched Madame
crumple after the blow to her head, when Mick had caught her. But this was the worst terror she’d known.

She touched his cheek. Even though his skin was sheet-white, it wasn’t as cold as she expected. She had to get him out of the water. She grasped his heavy right arm and tried to lift him. All she succeeded in doing was unbalancing herself, and she fell on a rock.

Sore and soaked, she clumsily got to her feet. He weighed a ton. She gave another tug, desperate now, for the water was splashing at his slack mouth.

He moved. His cheek slid along the slippery rock, then he was free of the stone support, but she still couldn’t lift him. Damn and blast, his head was starting to sink.…

His head ached like the blazes. He tasted dirt against his lips. Bits of rock jabbed into his side. Why was he soaking wet?

Devon kept his eyes shut and lifted his hands to his aching head. It felt as if a sword had pierced his skull. Or a bayonet. Where was he? In battle? No, he was in England. Wasn’t he?

Visions flashed through his head. A bayonet slicing through the ash- and scream-filled air, coming right for his eyes—

“Devon!” A tremulous, fear-filled feminine voice flowed over him. Anne Beddington’s frantic voice brought him back from the battle in his head. As she always did. Gentle as a feather, her hand caressed his shoulder. He heard her stifle a sob, and warmth brushed over his cheek. Her breath, he guessed. “Thank heaven,” she whispered.

He intended to agree—thank heaven he’d caught her. Instead, he started to cough. He was lying on his side, and he sputtered, spitting out water. His mouth tasted
like the stream, his lips felt slimy. He could hear the water burbling close by. With his eyes still shut, he asked, “What happened?”

“You were running after me through the fog. You did the very same thing I did—you slid down the side of a ravine and landed in the stream. I managed to pull you out.”

It all hurtled back. The smell of cool night air wafting through the open window in the bedroom. Driven by panic and frustration, he hadn’t bothered to gather up servants, and he’d made it to the woods. Once in there, he’d heard her. She moved quietly, but he was used to listening for every sound. Then he’d heard her scream. “Thank you. Are you all right, Cer—Anne?” There was no point in opening his eyes—he couldn’t see her to know.

“Yes, I’m fine. I slid down on my bottom.”

“So first you try to heal me, now you’re trying to kill me. Angel, why did you try to run again? Don’t you believe I will help you?”

“I fear you
will
try to help me. I cannot ask that of you. I caused Kat to be hurt. I don’t want to hurt you.”

At her confusing words, he instinctively lifted his eyelids. And his vision was flooded with bright gray light. It was so intense, pain shot through his skull. He felt … blinded. Stunned. He shut his eyes again.

Devon’s heart thundered. Maybe he was in shock. Or he
had
drowned after all, and for him purgatory consisted of a burning gray light and Anne’s voice to haunt him for eternity.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

Pain. In his
head
. “Where did I land?” he asked hoarsely, with his eyelids clamped shut.

“On a rock.”

Doctors—the ones at the London Dispensary for Curing Diseases of the Eye and Ear—had told him his sight
could come back if the fragment of bone or knot of blood in his skull was to move. “Did I hit my head?” he demanded. Why didn’t he open his eyes again? It was as if he was afraid—afraid to find he’d hit his head and still couldn’t see. At least the blow hadn’t dislodged the thing from his optic nerve and killed him.

“I think so. I found you lying in the water, with the side of your head on a rock. When you landed, you must have hit it.”

She pressed a place on his left temple, and he let out a growl of pain. At once, her hand withdrew. “There’s no blood but definitely a bump.”

He caught hold of her wrist so she couldn’t run. He pulled her down on top of him and wrapped his arms around her. Then he cursed himself for cowardice here, in front of Anne, and he opened his eyes.

A canopy of dark-green leaves loomed over him, and a soft fog rolled among the trunks of trees. He could see faded browns, ebony blacks, and some splashes of yellow leaves. He could see the stream out of the corner of his eye, frothing white where it bubbled over rocks. The sun was rising, burning away the fog. He could see leaves rippling and shimmering where the light struck them. He was assaulted by the detail, by all the color and form around him. He was soaking wet, his head throbbed with pain, but he’d never seen anything so … miraculous.

The most wonderful miracle of all waited in his arms. Anne. More abruptly than he intended, he pushed her up so her face hovered over his. For the very first time, he saw her, and he felt his eyes go wide as though he was trying to draw in every detail.

Her huge eyes peered down at him. Eyes of an exotic green, dark and shiny as ivy leaves. Eyes filled with worry—for him. He saw her wet, disordered hair—half was pinned up, the rest tumbled down her back in a
curtain of reddish-blond silk. She had an oval face with a stubborn, firm chin to anchor it. A wide, lush mouth so sensual he wanted to haul her down and kiss her—

No, look at her first
.

She looked … nothing like he had imagined. He’d never pictured she would look so young, so innocent. She possessed a straight nose with a bump at the end and a trail of freckles across the ridge. Long lashes of amber. Her skin was like pearl, and perfect. She looked like a lady. No wonder she’d been prized at the brothel.
Hell
.

He reached for her cheek. The ability to direct his hand, to touch what he saw, was like a miracle. Something a child took for granted, but it filled him with awe. He felt the grin explode on his mouth.

“Why are you looking at me like—” Her eyes went wide as saucers. Her hands flew to her mouth. Pretty hands with long, graceful fingers. Wild images shot through him. Of what it must have looked like when she stroked his chest or wrapped her hands around his erection.

“You are beautiful,” he said, even as his head ached from the onslaught of newly found sight. It was so much, too much, hurtling at him. But he fought the instinct to close his eyes.

“You can see,” she whispered.

Devon saw the shock in her eyes dissolve and happiness flare to life in her face. “I can,” he murmured. He let his gaze flow over her. Like a drunk man draining the last drops, he wanted to take in everything. This was the woman he’d made love to, the woman who had healed him. A heartbeat later he observed, “You’re wearing my clothes.” And in a faster heartbeat, “The shirt is soaking wet, love.”

Anne looked down, dizzy from the knowledge that Devon could see. Water had turned the linen translucent. Between the sides of the tailcoat, the shirt stuck to
the curves of her breasts and to her erect nipples. She might as well not have been wearing anything at all. “I’m sorry I took your clothes. I couldn’t run in skirts. And I planned to return them to you. Somehow—” Then Devon grimaced and rubbed his temple, and she gasped, “Is your head all right?”

“The doctors told me this could happen—a blow to the head could bring my sight back.”

“You can see everything? Perfectly well?”

“I think so. It’s overwhelming right now.” Groaning, he finally tried to push up from the muddy ground. He still held her hand. “We need to get home. Get you out of your wet clothes. Again.”

She tugged her hand free of his grip. “I’m so sorry. But I must go.”

She backed away from him. Through sheer force of will, she had dragged him out of the water, onto the bank. She had rolled him onto his side, in case he’d swallowed water. She had prayed he would open his eyes. But she couldn’t go with him.

Another two frantic steps back. He was watching her. He was trying to stand, but his fall down the hill had obviously hurt him, and he was blinking as daylight glowed through the mist. She should
help
him, but he would never let her go then.

“Thank you for believing me, Devon, but I can’t ask you to hide me and hunt for the real killer. There’d be scandal. Or worse. You could be arrested. For hiding me. I’m sorry.” She was babbling wildly and, before she could lose her nerve, she ran.