One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle Page B

Esmée. Oh, God. I am…”
    She backed away slowly, mute and horrified. His hands slid down her arms, all the way to her elbows before falling away. His gaze tore from hers. Silhouetted as he was against the morning sun, MacLachlan looked like an angel. Like Lucifer come down to tempt and torment. And he had! Oh, heaven help her, what had she done?
    Esmée turned and ran.
    Lydia was on her knees in the schoolroom, stacking alphabet blocks on the worktable with Sorcha when Esmée burst back into the room. “Hello, Miss Hamilton,” she said. “The young miss is awake now, and in a rare fine humor.”
    Esmée looked at her wildly. “Thank you,” she managed. “I shall…I shall just be a moment.”
    Ignoring Lydia’s questioning look, Esmée hastened past and into her bedchamber. She closed the door behind her and fell back against it. God. Oh, God. She covered her mouth with her hands. What had she done? She glanced almost desperately about the room and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror opposite. Her hair was disheveled. Her face deathly white. Anyone with sense could see what she’d been about.
    Esmée looked away. Dear heaven! And why was this room so cold? She shivered, and ran her palms up her arms. She could still feel the warmth of his hands high on her arms. Could feel them sliding reluctantly down, lower and lower, as she stepped back.
    Esmée laughed bitterly. Well, of course he’d been reluctant to let go! She had been such an effortless prize. A ripe plum, dropped unexpectedly into his hands. What man would say no to something so easily tasted? Certainly, Alasdair MacLachlan wouldn’t. He probably hadn’t said no to an easy pleasure in the whole of his life. Now he would doubtless hope for more. And it was her fault. She had surrendered to her traitorous emotions.
    Like mother like daughter.
    Esmée’s face began to burn with shame. That, no doubt, was just what MacLachlan would be thinking at this moment. And he would be right, too. That was Esmée’s secret. Her fear. Her shame.
    She would never be the beauty her mother had been. No, their similarities went deeper than that. A rashness of temper. A wit too quick. A tongue too tart. And the other. That aching hunger. That foolish loneliness which pierced the heart like a cold fear, overwhelming good sense and restraint. Like mother, like daughter. God, how she hated those words.
    A sudden screech cut through her self-pity, snapping Esmée back to reality. Through the nursery, she could hear one of Sorcha’s all-too-familiar tantrums interspersed with Lydia’s firm voice. As usual, the rare fine mood had been short-lived, and now, something wasn’t going Sorcha’s way. Perhaps she was not settling in so well after all.
    Esmée dashed into the schoolroom to see that Sorcha had decided to clamber up on the window ledge. She had managed to take hold of it, and was flailing and kicking at Lydia for all she was worth.
    “Let go, miss!” said the maid sharply. “You must let go!”
    Sorcha screamed bloody murder.
    Eschewing Lydia’s restraint, Esmée simply grabbed the child around the waist, and hauled her ruthlessly backward. “No, nooo!” Sorcha screeched. “Look out, Mae! Look out!”
    Esmée set her down forcefully. “Och, ye little jaudie!” she scolded, giving her a swat on the rump. “I am ashamed of you!”
    In response, the child proceeded to stomp her way to the worktable and, with surprising strength, backhanded all her blocks into the floor. Chunks of wood flew and bounced, rolling into the corners and under the chairs.
    It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t even especially out of character for Sorcha. But this time, Esmée burst into tears. Lydia rushed to her side. “Oh, miss, I am so sorry,” she cried. “I turned my back but an instant, and she got away. ’Twill never happen again, I swear it.”
    Esmée sobbed even louder. “But it will happen again!” she bawled. “Because I can’t teach her any better!