Captive of Sin (10 page)

At least he was still here. More, he planned to escort her to the beach. Breathlessly, she waited for him to take her arm, but he merely gestured her toward the overgrown path and fell into step behind her.

He went ahead once they had to fight their way through a mass of untidy rhododendrons. Like everything else at Penrhyn, the garden reeked of neglect. Charis knew it was insane but she felt that the house cried out to her to save it, to make it a home.

Stupid fancy. She was only a temporary visitor to this beautiful place. She’d leave soon, to be quickly forgotten by Penrhyn and its owner.

The bleak knowledge set like concrete in her belly.

Her host was as unkempt as the manor. She studied his tall figure as he forged a path for her. He wore breeches and shirtsleeves, and his boots were old and scuffed. Still, he was utterly splendid. Her pulse, which had started to steady, kicked into a gallop again. She pictured him standing on the prow of a ship. A gold ring glinting in one ear. A cutlass at his waist. A knife clenched between his teeth.

He stopped to lift a prickly bramble high over her head. “What are you smiling about?”

She hadn’t realized she was smiling. “Were any of your ancestors pirates?”

“Black Jack Trevithick was one of Bess’s Sea Hawks.” As she passed him, he flashed her a grin that was devilment personified. Her unruly heart somersaulted. Heaven help her. “His portrait’s in the long gallery. At least it was. Black Jack looks like me, so my father may have retired it. My father and brother took after my grandmother’s family, the St. Ledgers. But I’m all Black Trevithick.”

“Is that because of your hair color?”

“Partly. Also black temper, black nature, black sheep, black heart.”

She couldn’t restrain a startled laugh as she pushed her way through the shrubbery ahead of him. “Goodness. I find myself quite terrified to be in your presence.”

Of course it wasn’t true. Gideon Trevithick’s company was as intoxicating as champagne. He unsettled her more than anybody she’d ever met. He confused and troubled her. But she could hardly countenance that once she left, she’d never hear his voice again.

Although of course it wasn’t just his conversation that made her head swim with excitement. He was handsome. More than handsome. He was beautiful, like some being sent down from heaven to illuminate dull earth. And strong and virile and manly. No woman with blood in her veins could fail to respond to his attractions.

Perhaps when he knew who she really was, he’d consider courting her. She saw no evidence of huge riches at Penrhyn. Could he overcome his disinterest in her person if he knew he married the greatest heiress in England? The Earl of Marley’s title had lapsed along with the entail upon her father’s death. Every penny, every acre, of the massive Weston inheritance devolved upon the earl’s one direct descendant, his daughter.

Dear Lord, was she so lacking in pride, she’d trade gold to gain the man she wanted even if he didn’t want her? Her belly clenched in sick shame. She needed to leash her foolish imagination before it brought her to grief.

They emerged from the bushes onto the cliff edge. Below, the sea spread like shining blue silk. Gideon paused behind her. She was so attuned to him, she felt his every breath. An unwelcome premonition brushed across her skin and made her shiver. This preternatural awareness seemed more significant than mere physical reaction.

“This is such a beautiful place,” she said softly.

With an unwillingness she immediately recognized, he moved closer. A light wind played with his thick hair.
Lucky breeze to take liberties with him that she couldn’t. She closed her fists at her sides to stop herself smoothing the disheveled locks. It disturbed and frightened her, this continual, frustrated need for physical contact. It left her jumpy and awkward.

She watched him draw in a deep breath of crystalline air. The tension seeped from his broad shoulders as if the view fed his soul.

“I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it. The sea. The wind. How…clean it all feels.” His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but she had the strangest impression he saw something else entirely. Something that haunted him. “When I was in Rangapindhi, I remembered this view. It made me want to live.”

She must have made some sound of protest or surprise because he stiffened and turned his head, fastening those glittering eyes upon her.

“Why wouldn’t you want to live?” she echoed, shocked.

He frowned. “Do you truly not know? My story has been in all the papers. Quite the sensation of the season.” He spoke with a biting sarcasm she didn’t understand.

“My brothers kept me prisoner. I’d never heard your name until we met.” She curled her arms around herself, although the chill she felt was more spiritual than physical. “Those men in Portsmouth called you the Hero of Rangapindhi. Were you a soldier?”

“No.” He bit the word out like a bullet fired from a gun. His unspoken pain was a vivid, twisting, tangible entity.

Charis tightened her arms to stop herself reaching out. A stinging mixture of compassion and desire lodged in her throat. She forced her question past the constriction although she was sure he’d dismiss her curiosity. “Did you hate India so much?”

His regard was unwavering, and his voice deepened with emotion. “No, I loved it.”

It was the same answer he’d given her when she asked whether he hated Penrhyn. Gideon Trevithick seemed to
have an ambiguous relationship with love. Again, she wondered at the despair that shadowed him, closer to the surface today than she’d ever seen it.

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “I wish I was the man you think I am.” His voice was so sad, it made her want to cry. “But I’m not worth an ounce of your regard.”

She sensed the acrid shame beneath his words. He was dauntingly complex, and he drew her more powerfully than anyone else ever had. After a long silence, she dared to ask, “Will you tell me why?”

“No. I don’t want you to share my nightmares.” His smile festered with bitterness. He lifted his gloved hand. For one breathless moment, she imagined he meant to touch her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut as she waited to feel the brush of his fingers.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes slowly to catch poignant sorrow on his face. His hand fell to his side. “But believe me when I say I’m no hero.”

She swallowed, and her voice shook as she spoke. “You’re a hero to me.”

The regret drained from his expression, leaving comprehension and a pity that stabbed her like a knife. “Miss Watson…”

Intent on silencing him, she made a gesture of denial. She didn’t want comforting platitudes. The pity in his eyes indicated he divined her unseemly hunger for him. How could he not? The feeling was too overwhelming to hide, and he was a perceptive man.

She blushed with mortification, and spoke quickly, before he could. “Aren’t…aren’t we going to the beach?”

He straightened, his mouth firming. But he didn’t argue with her abrupt change of subject, for which she was grateful. “The path is just here.”

He walked past, and she realized the ground dipped away sharply. A few steps after him, and she saw a thin track snaking down the cliff.

Charis looked down, and her stomach lurched. Far below,
rows of jagged rocks awaited. Resolutely, she lifted her head and stared at Gideon’s straight back in his loose white shirt. As he began to descend, he was utterly at ease in this rough, dangerous terrain. Not hard to imagine a gangly, intense, dark-eyed boy seeking refuge from a troubled home life among these cliffs.

Charis stepped carefully after him, not surprised at his silence. Now he’d guessed how besotted she was, he must wonder what he could say. Humiliation added its sour tang to the poisonous brew of unhappiness and longing stewing inside her.

At first the going was easy, the slope gradual. The path was in surprisingly good repair. But soon the track narrowed, became steeper. She placed a hand on the rock face as the descent grew more precipitous.

For one fatal second too long, her eyes dwelt on the tall man ahead. Every scrap of information she gleaned about him only fed her curiosity to know more.

The path dipped. Her foot slid on a loose stone. She clutched wildly at the rock wall, but her fingers slid uselessly across the cold, smooth surface.

“Gideon!” she screamed.

Dear God, she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live and make Gideon love her.

The thought, bright and burning like lightning, seared her mind as she tumbled helplessly toward the edge.

S
arah!” Gideon whirled and lashed out to grab her before she plummeted to her death.

His hands closed like manacles around her slender wrists. There wasn’t time to think or feel. There wasn’t time to recoil from the shock of physical contact. He pivoted and slammed her back hard into the wall.

She screamed again, with pain this time, as her head banged against the rock. Then she closed her eyes and sagged, trembling and gasping from his hold.

He slumped over her, silently protecting her with his body from the drop behind him. His gut churned, and terror tasted rusty on his tongue. His chest heaved as he fought for breath, and his shoulders ached with the strain of snatching her to safety. He didn’t relax his punishing grip although he shifted to press her hands flat into the rock on either side of her.

Hell, he’d come so close to losing her.

He leaned his forehead on the rock above her head, waiting for the wildly careening world to slow and stop. Diz
zying relief thundered through him. Cold sweat chilled his skin as his mind replayed over and over the few seconds when Sarah slid uncontrollably.

They remained unmoving, her facing him, his hands clutching hers, mere inches separating their bodies.

Gradually, Gideon’s suffocating fear ebbed. Reality returned, his mind started to function. He heard the crash of the waves on the rocks below. He felt the cool breeze on his damp skin. He felt the path’s unevenness under his booted feet.

Sarah lifted her chin with a curiously jerky movement and stared unblinking at him as if he provided her one sure compass point. Her pupils were dilated, and her face was haggard with shock and pain. Her lips parted as she drew a ragged breath.

With a spurt of guilt, he realized his unyielding grip must hurt her sprained wrist. Logic indicated she was safe. Even so, it was only with the utmost difficulty that he forced himself to release her left hand.

Biting her lip to smother a sob, she gingerly bent her arm against her chest. The fingers of her other hand twisted to twine convulsively around his.

“Sarah, dear God…” His choked whisper ruffled the soft hair on the top of her head. “Are you all right?”

She gave an unsteady nod. “Yes.”

His heart still raced, and he shook like a dog in a thunderstorm. “What about your wrist?”

“I jolted it, but I don’t think there’s any damage.” Wincing, she stretched her arm and carefully moved it. Her earlier bruises had faded to yellow, so the impression of Gideon’s fingers was red and stark on her pale skin.

He cursed himself for a blundering brute. He hadn’t had time to be gentle. All that mattered was keeping her alive. He sucked in a shuddering breath.

Suddenly he was aware how close they stood. He only needed to shift a fraction, and her body would brush his.

What the devil was wrong with him, standing over her
like this? He knew better. He had to stop touching Sarah now.
Now.

Familiar, unstoppable nausea rose. Blackness filled his head. With a roughness he couldn’t help, he wrenched his gloved hand away from her. Blindly, he turned to press his back to the rock wall beside her. His gloved hands splayed against the stone as he struggled to mask his reaction. She was too close, but he couldn’t bear to have her out of reach just yet.

For a long, taut moment, the only sounds were the mournful cries of the gulls, the pounding waves, and his hoarse panting.

Eventually, she shifted toward him. He didn’t look at her, but he felt her study him. He was guiltily aware that he must frighten and confuse her. Explanations, apologies gushed up, but he furiously bit them back. His pride revolted at putting his humiliating state into words.

When she didn’t immediately speak, he steeled himself to look into her ashen face. In a gesture that poignantly reminded him of the lost waif in Winchester, she cradled her wrist upon her breast.

Her voice emerged almost normally. “You saved my life again. How can I ever repay you?”

Oh, damnation. This was the last thing he needed. She stared at him as if he was St. George, and he’d just rescued her from the dragon. The unfettered admiration and gratitude in her hazel eyes sliced at his conscience. If he’d planned to discourage her interest, what had just happened beggared good intentions.

“You can repay me by being more careful in future,” he said harshly. And hated himself as he watched the radiance dim from her eyes. In truth, he wasn’t angry at her as much as at the whole bloody impossible situation. He had no right to bask in a beautiful woman’s approbation, even if he had just saved her life.

Her cheeks, which had been pale as paper, flushed with
color. Her response was muted. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Yet again, my foolishness put you at risk.”

His tone softened. “No harm done.”

Which, damn it, wasn’t true. With every second he spent in her company, the insidious bond between them tightened like drawn silk cords. His recent efforts to avoid Sarah had achieved precisely nothing. He was as irrevocably connected to her as he’d ever been.

She straightened and winced at the movement. This morning’s tidy plait had loosened into a mass of bright flying tendrils around her face. He fought the urge to smooth that wild halo.

For one intense moment, she met his eyes, then her thick lashes fluttered to her cheeks. White teeth worried at her plump lower lip, and her breath audibly caught.

Just like that, in a blazing instant, sexual need kicked into fierce life. He hardened. His heart broke into a savage rhythm. Every drop of moisture dried from his mouth.

His sickness at touching her passed in a bright flash. What possessed him instead was worse. Because he couldn’t do one damned thing to relieve his hunger.

The startling rush of desire left him reeling, light-headed. He’d accepted his lack of interest in women since Rangapindhi as a blessing. The only blessing. He’d assumed his indifference was permanent. What was the point of wanting what he could no longer have? Better not to want.

Dear Lord, let her not look down. Let her not see how aroused he was. He tried to edge away, but the narrow path gave him little room.

How the hell was he going to survive three weeks of this?

He couldn’t touch her. Every dictate of ethics and morality and chivalry insisted he couldn’t touch her.

If only principle was all that made him hesitate.

He
couldn’t
touch her. That was the sodding tragedy of it.

She was still speaking. He fought back the clamor in his head and tried to concentrate on what she said.

“…few bruises.”

Confound it, he needed to get a grip on his reactions. Through the buzzing in his ears, he battled to focus. He realized her good hand plucked unhappily at the sleeve of her plain gown. “…mend it.”

He tore his gaze from her mouth. So soft. So moist. So tempting. And glanced down to her dress. He must have ripped the sleeve when he dragged her back from the brink. There was a gaping rent in the threadbare brown material.

That was one problem he could solve, surely. He sucked in a tattered breath and spoke over her stumbling explanations. “I’ll take you back to the house. One of the servants must have something you can wear.”

She sent him an odd look. He hoped to Hades she had been talking about clothes. “As you wish.”

He frowned. She sounded disappointed. “Are you sure you’re not injured?”

Her restless hand tangled in her skirts, and she looked away. “Of course I feel a little knocked around. But, no, I’m not seriously hurt. Thanks to you.”

“Miss Watson, there’s no call to harp on your totally unnecessary gratitude,” he said repressively.

He flushed as he realized he barked like a displeased sergeant dressing down a recruit. She cast him a resentful glance that scorched him to his soles. He needed to get away. Fast. But his feet were welded to the path.

“I hardly think it’s unnecessary.” Her tone was soft but firm.

“Sarah…” He knew it was a mistake using her Christian name the moment the word emerged. He needed to resist further closeness, not reinforce it.

“I won’t refer to it again.” She still sounded subdued.

“Shall we go?” He gestured her past him, but she hesitated.

“Sarah?” Damn, he’d said it again. Every second in her presence extended his torture. If he didn’t put some distance between them soon, he’d grab her. Then the shaking would start, and the sickness and the humiliation.

“Can’t we go down to the beach? Only for a minute?” She sounded wistful, like a child denied a treat. “I’ve been cooped up for so long. I’d love to see the sea. I’ve never been so close to the ocean before.”

He desperately tried to ignore the plea in her hazel eyes. Curling his hands into fists, he strove to steady his tone. “You need to rest.”

Her lips—Lucifer himself must have created those moist, red lips—turned down in a dismissive quirk. “I’ll be careful on the way down. I’m not such a fragile vessel as you imagine. I’ve had a shock, but I’m perfectly all right. What sort of girls have you been talking to?”

“I haven’t been talking with many girls at all,” he said before he could remind himself that swapping confidences with his gorgeous tormentor was unlikely to ease his predicament.

With every second, she looked more like her usual self. “You surprise me.”

Curse her, why did he feel the urge to explain? “I told you Penrhyn was a masculine province.”

Apart from his father’s blowsy mistresses, who occasionally took up residence. His father’s taste had run to the overblown, the obvious. None of those women had been remotely interested in a studious stripling, for which Gideon had been heartily grateful.

“Surely when you left home…”

“I went to Cambridge at sixteen and immersed myself in study.”

Frowning thoughtfully, she laced her hands at her waist. A sign he hadn’t done her wrist serious injury, he was relieved to note. “The university men I know caroused their way through their education.”

His smile was grim. “I suspect the men who paid court to you weren’t second sons with no prospects. I was much younger, not to mention poorer, than most of my fellow students.”

If he were another man with another life, he’d surely have
been among those men who courted her. He straightened as if physically resisting the forbidden idea. A stray strand of windblown hair briefly clung to her lush lips. Another blast of sensual awareness shook him. He fleetingly closed his eyes and told himself he mustn’t under any circumstances kiss her.

He breathed deeply, struggling for composure. When he could see straight, he stepped past so he could precede her down the cliff, in case they struck any more unstable patches. Against his every instinct, he’d take Sarah to the beach. He knew when he was beaten. “Watch your step. It’s steep, and you’ve used up at least three of your nine lives today.”

“Thank you,” she said softly to his back. “I know I’m a trial.”

She had no idea just what a trial she was. Pray God she never found out. Craving to seize her in his arms tightened his skin and made his heart gallop as it had galloped when she teetered toward the edge. Except this time with lust rather than terror.

The reminder of her fall made him slow his pace. His hand itched to reach back and grab hers, in case she stumbled. Such a natural action, yet completely outside his capability. He couldn’t risk another of his attacks. He cursed himself and his affliction.

On the way down, he frequently glanced back to check on her. Her near disaster had obviously convinced her to treat the path with respect, and she negotiated it with visible concentration. Thank God. At least it checked her questions.

When he reached the base of the cliff, he jumped from the rocks to the beach. He landed hard on the firm sand and turned to watch Sarah carefully climbing from boulder to boulder.

Guilt bit at him as he remembered how he’d shoved her against the rock wall. For all her brave words, he recognized the stiffness in her movements as discomfort. He bit back a demand that they return to the house. After his experiences in Rangapindhi, he understood better than most her need for freedom.

She crossed to stand at his side just past the high-water mark. The bruises on her face were mere shadows now. In the bright clear light, her beauty was flamboyant, heartbreaking. She made him feel as close to alive as he ever expected to again.

The errant breeze flirted with her hair, teasing it around her face as she turned to him. “So you went to India to make your fortune?”

More blasted questions. He wished he had the heart to tell her to mind her own business. But he couldn’t resist the honest interest shining in her eyes.

His voice was stilted as he replied. He wasn’t used to talking about himself, and every time she pried a confidence out of him, it was an acknowledgment that they were more than just chance-met strangers. “An opportunity arose.”

Gideon began to walk along the coarse yellow sand, and she fell into step beside him. She flattened her hands on her skirts to stop the wind lifting them, but still he caught a breathtaking glimpse of slender ankles and shapely calves. He closed his eyes briefly and prayed for strength.

She was going to kill him before she was done.

“With the East India Company?”

He dragged himself back to the conversation and tried to ignore how lovely she was. He made himself go on, partly to distract himself from the pale flash of Sarah’s stockings.

“My talent for languages attracted the attention of powerful people.” He spoke without vanity. He had a freak facility for picking up foreign tongues. Some strange tic in how his mind worked. “They thought I could be useful.”

“As a trader?” She bent to pick up a scallop shell, the movement hitching up the back of her dress. He stopped to watch her, then wished he hadn’t. His hands flexed at his sides as he fought the urge to toss those skirts up to a more pleasurable purpose.

Because to his eternal regret, there could never be pleasure.

“More as native liaison.” The answer was strained. He didn’t want to tell her the truth, that he’d been a spy. Of
course, if she cared to investigate, she’d find out. His life had been sensationalized in every newspaper in Britain. In the world, for all he knew.