Captive of Sin (3 page)

Gideon stepped into the stall. The girl huddled behind Khan. He tried to quell his automatic reaction to the crowded space and the darkness. But the gloved hand he placed on the rough wooden divider was unsteady.

Thank God the gloom hid his reaction. What confidence could she have in a rescuer who trembled like a willow at the merest shadow?

“We’re ready.”

She straightened and wrapped the coat around her like a cape. He supposed she couldn’t bear to force her injured arm into a sleeve. As she looked up, he caught the shine of her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged, trying to appear as if aiding stray maidens was his everyday activity. “You need help.”

“It doesn’t seem enough when I see the trouble you’ve taken.”

“It will earn me points in heaven,” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel. He extended the bundle he held. “I thought you might like this.”

She didn’t immediately take it. “What is it?”

“A shawl. The night is cold.” And she’d need to cover that distinctive hair when she entered the carriage. Although if he told her that, she’d know he tagged her tale as a pack of lies.

“Where did you get it?” Her voice dripped suspicion.

He hid a smile. She was so wary, so defensive. Yet if he wanted, he could render her unconscious in the blink of an eye. That possibility had occurred to him, but he’d dismissed it. She’d had enough violence done to her.

“Tulliver bought it from a lady at the inn.”

Good thick wool—he thought with a moment’s regret of the shimmering, gorgeous fabrics he’d seen in India. He lifted the brown shawl briefly to his nose and sniffed. “It smells of pug, but you’ll welcome its warmth.”

To his surprise, she gave a short huff of laughter. “I’ve been sleeping in a stable. A whiff of
eau de chien
won’t unsettle me in the least.”

The chit had backbone. He’d always admired courage, and this girl had more than was good for her. Something tired and rusty and long unfamiliar stirred in his heart. He stifled the unwelcome sensation and offered the shawl once more. “Miss Watson?”

“Thank you.”

As he’d known she would, she wrapped it around her head and shoulders. In his enveloping greatcoat and with her head covered, she looked almost anonymous. He couldn’t miss how she favored her right arm. Was it broken? Again, he wished she’d let him take her to a sawbones.

“And take this, just in case.” He passed her the pistol and watched her slip it into the coat’s voluminous pockets. “Do you know how to use it?”

He already knew the answer. She handled the gun with an ease that indicated familiarity.

“Yes. My father was a marksman. He taught me to shoot.”

Gideon shadowed her when they crossed the yard to the waiting carriage. Akash was already up on his temperamental gray.

As Gideon opened the door for Miss Watson, he caught his friend’s eye. He wondered what Akash made of the night’s events and the new addition to their party. He’d find out, he knew. Just because Akash had said nothing yet didn’t mean he had nothing to say.

The girl paused, as if expecting Gideon to hand her up. Yet another clue to a privileged life, if she but knew it. When Gideon didn’t respond, she climbed into the carriage.

Tulliver followed, leading his sturdy mount and Khan, and tied both horses to the back of the coach. Gideon cast a last look around the windswept yard. Ostensibly, nobody paid them any attention.

On a frosty night like this, anyone who didn’t have to be outside sought what warmth they could. The few servants
crossing the open area seemed to mind their own business. Still, old habits died hard, and Gideon took note of the scene’s every detail.

Tulliver came up to his side. “All set, guvnor?”

“Yes.” One last glance to make sure, but nobody appeared unduly interested in their little party. “Let’s get under way.”

“Very good.”

Tulliver climbed into the driver’s seat. Gideon entered the vehicle where the mysterious Miss Watson, with her sharp tongue and terrified eyes, awaited.

As he surveyed her unkempt figure perched stiffly on the leather-covered bench, he was suddenly aware that for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than weary self-disgust. She made him curious; she made him concerned; she made him care.

Miss Watson was an unlikely miracle worker. He’d lived with wretchedness so long, even this much emotion felt like spring thaw after endless winter.

Wondering what other unexpected results his impulsive actions might yield, he subsided on the seat opposite and closed his eyes in counterfeit slumber. The coach jerked into movement with a crack of the whip and a shout from Tulliver. They jolted out of the inn yard and into the freezing winter night.

H
orrific images haunted Charis’s dreams. An endless replaying of Hubert’s fists pounding into her while Felix watched with a gloating smile. The wrenching drag on her arm. The final blow to her head that sent her whirling into oblivion.

When she opened scratchy eyes to the lamplit confines of the shabby coach, she expected to hear the echo of her screams. The only sounds were the creaking of the carriage and the howl of the wind. Sir Gideon sprawled opposite, apparently asleep.

Cool, blessed relief flooded her, and she sucked in a shuddering breath that made her bruised ribs twinge. For the moment, she was safe from both Felix and Hubert.

She was shaking, not far from tears, curled into the corner as if she cowered away from the beating. Her jaw throbbed painfully in time with the vehicle’s sway. Her injured arm had stiffened into agony, and she bit back a moan as she folded it against her heaving chest.

Long minutes passed while she fought dizzying pain.
But gradually her head cleared, and her breathing steadied. Using her good arm, she tugged the coat around her like a blanket and turned her attention to her companion. His lean body stretched out with an elegant abandon that made her foolish heart race.

To her shame, not with fear.

When the journey started, she’d braced for interrogation. But Sir Gideon had lounged on the bench, spread his arms along the back of the seat, extended his long booted legs into the corner, and closed his eyes. From the look of him, he’d hardly moved since.

Studying him like this felt like illicit intimacy. Although even now, his expression was guarded, closed. A lock of black hair fell across his brow. It should make him look vulnerable. It didn’t.

As her gaze roamed his sculpted features, she realized with a shock that he was close to her age. His air of authority had made her assume he was in his thirties. But now, with his eyes shut, he didn’t look much past twenty-five. Ashamed of her unseemly curiosity, she stared into the loose folds of the coat over her lap.

“Are we near Portsmouth?” she asked in a croaky voice, looking up.

He opened his eyes and regarded her assessingly. “No. We’re not far out of Winchester.”

The coach drew to a juddering stop. Charis reached forward to push the blinds aside. They were in a large field. The change from road to turf under the wheels must have disturbed her nightmares.

The grassy area was empty. No lights shone in the distance. They could be a thousand miles from anywhere.

Abruptly what had seemed an acceptable risk in Winchester became a terrifying threat. She was alone and defenseless in an isolated location with three men she didn’t know. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and her throat closed with rising dread.

How could she be so naïve? How could she be so fatally
stupid? She scrabbled wildly for the door catch. Perhaps in the dark, she had a chance of escape.

“What are you doing?” Sir Gideon asked with what sounded like casual interest.

Was Gideon even his real name?

“Getting out,” she muttered.

She tensed, waiting for him to grab her, but he only straightened against the worn upholstery. She sucked a shaky breath through her teeth and continued her panicked search for the latch.

“I gave you my word I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly.

“I know what a man’s word is worth.”

Ah, at last!

The door banged open, and she tumbled forward. Only to land smack against her kidnapper’s accomplice. A choked scream erupted as hard hands closed around her upper arms through the voluminous coat. A scream of pain as much as fear.

“Let me go!” She struggled against his firm hold. Her abused flesh protested the violent movements, but she fought on.

“Your pardon, Miss Watson.”

To her astonishment, Akash carefully placed her on her feet and moved back. Behind her, she heard the carriage creak as Sir Gideon emerged into the night. He stood at her side, tall, urbane, his expression quizzical in the bright moonlight.

Tulliver came up, holding a lantern. “What’s all this to-do?”

He stared at her as if she’d escaped Bedlam. Her hysteria ebbed on a sick tide, leaving behind humiliated awareness that she’d made a fool of herself.

“Miss Watson was under the impression we brought her here to have our wicked way.”

Both the irony in Sir Gideon’s voice and the irritated look Tulliver cast her made her more than ever certain she’d jumped to false conclusions. Fading panic bubbled through
her blood and left her tottering with reaction. She pulled the thick greatcoat around her shivering body and suddenly realized her rescuer wore only a jacket over his shirt.

“You must be freezing.” She plucked at the coat with her good hand.

“No,” he said sharply, gesturing for her to stop, although he didn’t touch her. Then more calmly, “I don’t feel the cold.”

“Miss Watson, we’ve stopped so I can examine your injuries,” Akash said.

Her eyes went automatically to Sir Gideon. “You have medical knowledge?”

The carriage lamps glanced a sheen of gold across his glossy hair as he shook his head. “Akash and Tulliver between them make up a fair doctor. And we have supplies. Bandages. Ointments. Laudanum to dull the pain.”

“I won’t be drugged.” On unsteady legs, she retreated until she bumped into the carriage.

Bad as the beating had been, it was Felix’s threat to drug her and hand her over for Lord Desaye’s rape that had finally made her flee Holcombe Hall. When her ordeal started, she’d considered escape, then decided to cling to the dubious security of life at Holcombe. It was only for a couple of weeks. She could endure whatever her stepbrothers did as long as she had the ultimate promise of freedom. On the road, she’d be at the mercy of anyone she met. Defenseless. Destitute. Helpless.

But when her stepbrothers threatened unspeakable degradation, the dangers of the road had paled in comparison.

How she loathed the Farrells. Her two stepbrothers provided a contrast in menace. Hubert, all bullying brute strength, and Felix, spite and intellect. Whatever damage Hubert inflicted, it was Felix she really feared.

In response to her vehement refusal, Akash shrugged, the movement subtly foreign. “Let me at least see what the damage is. If you’ll permit?”

“Be careful. She’s hurt her arm,” Sir Gideon said urgently.

“My friend, you know you can trust me with her.”

Reluctantly, Charis stepped forward. Akash carefully lifted the coat away from her shoulders and laid it inside the coach.

She stood before them in her wreck of a gown. The night was freezing. The needle-sharp wind carried a promise of snow. Her good hand rose shaking to close her bodice while she angled her chin with a pathetic attempt at pride. She was decent. Barely. But she knew she looked dirty and hurt and helpless. With moonlight, the carriage lamps and the lantern, her bruises and abrasions must show with humiliating clarity.

“Please sit down, Miss Watson.” Sir Gideon slid a folding stool from the back of the carriage and set it behind her. He also passed her the pug-scented shawl.

She subsided with gratitude—her knees felt like rubber—and draped the shawl over her shoulders. Hesitantly, she extended her arm toward Akash. He frowned as he gently manipulated her wrist. Although his hold was skilled and sure, she winced.

“It’s sprained but not broken,” he said eventually.

Relief gushed through her. Life over the next three weeks would be tough if she was whole. A broken arm would be a disaster. Thank goodness Hubert’s beating had ceased once he knocked her unconscious.

Akash tested her hands, arms, neck, then ran his fingers carefully over her face. His touch was so impersonal, she gradually relaxed and became aware of the activity around her. While Tulliver checked the horses, Gideon collected a leather bag strapped to the back of the carriage. Without speaking, he placed it beside Akash. He turned away and began to lay a fire.

Trying to distract herself from both the cold and the painful examination, she watched the graceful deftness of Gideon’s gloved hands as he accomplished the workaday task. The breath caught in her throat when the crackling
flames caught and lit his remarkable face to gold, gleaming along smooth cheekbone and angular jaw.

Beautiful.
The word whispered through her like a
glissando
on a harp.

Looking at Sir Gideon made her restless, edgy. She shifted to ease a strange pressure in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m sorry, Miss Watson.” Akash raised his hands from her shoulders.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

She blushed when she realized he’d seen where her attention strayed. Straightening on the rickety stool, she strove to bring her unruly heartbeat under control.

As she looked up into Akash’s face, the compassion in his eyes made her cringe. He was a handsome man. The recognition was as dispassionate as if she studied a fine portrait. His handsomeness didn’t call to her the way Sir Gideon’s did.

Sir Gideon disappeared into moonlit darkness and returned carrying a tin kettle, which he set on the blaze. She’d been so focused on watching him that she hadn’t heard the stream bubbling in the distance. Behind her, Tulliver muttered softly as he fussed over the horses.

Once the water heated, Akash used a damp cloth to wash the blood and dirt from her swollen face. Even the lightest touch stung, and she tautened every muscle to stay still. She struggled not to glance at Gideon as she huddled in her shawl.

Eventually, she couldn’t help herself. While she silently bore Akash’s ministrations, she looked across to where Sir Gideon stood on the far side of the circle of firelight.

His febrile dark eyes were glued to her. Some deep turmoil she didn’t understand stirred in his gaze. His gloved hands clenched at his sides. She read anger in his expression, the same anger he’d betrayed when he first saw her battered face. She shivered although she knew the rage was targeted at her abusers and not at her.

He stiffened as he noticed her attention and turned away to fetch more folding stools, which he set up around the fire.
She bent her head, knowing her unconcealed interest was unbecoming in a lady.

Akash opened the bag and located a small ceramic pot. When he opened it, a pungent herbal smell filled the air. She jerked back, then made herself sit as he stroked the ointment onto her cheeks. Her face felt like it had been whipped with nettles. She couldn’t stifle a gasp of discomfort.

“Damn it, man. You’re hurting her!” Gideon’s protest was sharp, and he took an urgent step in their direction. “Be careful!”

Akash ignored his protective friend and spoke to Charis. “Where else are you hurt?”

Her ribs ached, and she had grazes on her knees from where she’d fallen in the dark. But her arm and face were by far the worst of it. “Nowhere.”

Akash’s stare was searching as he replaced the lid on the ointment. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She wanted him to stop. She couldn’t bear much more. Already her vision grew hazy as endurance faded.

“I’ll wrap your arm to reduce the swelling.” Akash opened another jar and smoothed the contents on her arm. It was as smelly as the first ointment, but when it touched her skin, she felt a spreading heat.

Surely this torture must soon be over. The shawl and her flimsy dress offered little protection from the biting wind. She drooped with exhaustion by the time Akash wrapped a bandage around her arm.

Gideon knelt and drew another length of linen from the bag that held their medical supplies. “A sling might be a good idea.”

“Yes.” Akash rigged the linen around her neck. Immediately, the painful pressure on her arm eased. “Does that feel better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She looked up with a shaky smile. “You’ve been very kind.”

He gave another of those exotic shrugs. “My pleasure.
I know you’re sore and sorry, but I can’t find any lasting damage. I’ll need to check in the daylight, but from what I can see, your injuries are superficial. You’ll be fighting fit in no time.”

She was too tired to do much more than whisper another thank-you. Gideon fetched the greatcoat from the carriage and dropped it around her shoulders. As the heavy folds enveloped her, his already familiar scent teased her nostrils. The warmth was immediate and welcome. “Come and sit near the fire.”

Already he’d moved out of reach. For a lost moment, she watched him stride away. Then crushing weariness hit, and she stumbled the short distance to the fire, where she collapsed onto a stool. Her frozen extremities tingled as restoring heat slowly seeped through her.

Sir Gideon lifted a heavy wicker basket packed with food from the back of the carriage. To her embarrassment, her belly rumbled. Her stepbrothers had kept her on minimal rations, hoping hunger would sap her resistance.

It was a silent meal. As the four of them sat around the merrily burning little fire, Charis prepared for more questions. Any questions. But her companions seemed astoundingly ready to accept her lies at face value. Guilt settled like a stone in her now-full belly, and she pushed away the pork pie she’d barely nibbled at.

“Are you feeling better?” Sir Gideon asked, noticing her sudden stillness. Of course he noticed. Throughout the meal, he’d studied her across the flames. He sat directly opposite her, with Tulliver and Akash on either side.

“Yes, thank you.”

With surprise, she realized it was true. Her face didn’t sting so badly, and the pain in her arm was a distant throb rather than fiery agony.

She sipped fine claret from the traveler’s cup Sir Gideon passed her. The men had made do with drinking from the bottle. It was oddly intimate to place her lips where Gideon’s
had once been, however long ago. Almost like a kiss. The thought made her blush even while her lips tingled as though they indeed brushed his.

After supper, Tulliver returned to the horses, and Akash and Sir Gideon cleared up. Charis frowned. Could Gideon really be a man of her own class if he accepted such mundane tasks? He was strangely comfortable with his rough surroundings. Her stepbrothers wouldn’t dream of dirtying their hands with rinsing a plate or setting a fire. Servants were there to serve. The landed classes were there to be served.