Page 33 of His Sinful Touch

Chapter Twelve

“THAT WAS ME, wasn’t it?” Sabrina asked. Too stunned to speak, she had been silent as they left the house and started back to the duke’s mansion. But as they walked, her mind began to churn, filling with questions. “Who was that man? That woman? Are they my parents? And what happened to them?”

“I don’t know who they are,” Alex answered, his brow furrowed with concern. “But that child—she looked so much like you. I cannot help but think that it’s you.”

“They must be my parents. Why did they leave? Where did they go? Do you think I ran away from them?”

“I don’t know their names. I told Tom to check into the property records tomorrow, and that will give us a name. Once we have that, we can hopefully locate them.”

“They looked pleasant, don’t you think? Surely it wasn’t he who—” She gestured vaguely to the bruises on her face.

“I hope not. We’ll find out, Sabrina. I am much more hopeful about it now. It was something of a shock, seeing your picture, but that was the clearest evidence we’ve had.”

“But how—” She frowned in thought. “I still don’t understand. How did you know to go to that house?”

“Oh. Well.” He shrugged, glancing away. “I didn’t know. It was just, um, something that Tom discovered.”

“What? Something he overheard in a tavern? A document he found? He must have had some evidence.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sure he did. I’m just not sure...”

Sabrina stopped. He was acting as he had the other day—not meeting her gaze, shifting about. “Alex. You’re lying to me.”

He had walked on a step or two before he realized she’d stopped, and he turned back to her, his face wary. “Sabrina...I’m not lying. It’s just... There are things that...” He shrugged.

“That what? That I shouldn’t know? Why? Because I am a woman? Because they are so horrid?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

“I thought you were truthful with me.” Sabrina’s stomach was suddenly icy. “What else haven’t you told me? What else do you know?”

“Sabrina! I am... There’s nothing—Oh, blast!” He swung away, then turned back, his face pained. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s just... It’s me.”

“What do you mean, it’s you? What about you? I don’t understand. What does that house have to do with you?”

“Nothing. I know nothing about that house, except what I’ve told you. It’s more, um, the way I found out.”

“You don’t want me to know how you found the house? Why? Alex, was it...criminal?”

“No! I assure you, it was not criminal or wrong. I just didn’t want you to think I’m mad as a hatter. I didn’t want you to pull back from me.”

“What?” She stared at him, nonplussed. “Why would I think that? I wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be too sure. Most people would.” He sighed, then, looking like a man swallowing a bitter draft, he said, “I can sense things sometimes by touching an object.”

Sabrina stared at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t happen with everything. But if there’s enough emotion attached to it, enough importance, enough horror or love or violence, I can sense it. Sometimes I can put a face to it or I know what happened there. I... Once, when I was about fourteen, I leaned against a mantel in a room, and suddenly I knew someone had been killed there. I felt the rage and saw the blood spilling from someone’s head.”

Sabrina drew in her breath sharply at his words. “No! What did you do?”

“Well, it scared the devil out of me, I’ll tell you. It was at an inn. Fortunately, I was with Reed and Anna. They believed me. You see, it’s not just me. My whole family is...” He shrugged. “The Morelands aren’t just eccentric. Uncle Bellard is eccentric—he loves history, especially military history, and he has the time and money to indulge that interest. But my grandfather was given to peculiar notions about health and was always chasing some cure or other, although in fact, I don’t think there was anything to indicate that he was actually unhealthy at all. Until he managed to kill himself following some quack regimen of wrapping wet sheets around himself in the middle of winter.”

“Many people are obsessed with their health and always looking for some miracle cure. That’s not that odd.”

“What about talking to one’s deceased friends and relatives?” Alex asked drily. “My grandmother did that. She claimed to have regular conversations with my grandfather after he died, which is probably more than she had when he was alive. Also, she talked to her dead mother and one of her cousins.”

“Well, no, I don’t suppose that’s very common.”