Captive of Sin (8 page)

For whom? Sir Gideon? Or the pathetically infatuated Miss Watson?

His voice was kind. “You might as well get back in, miss. We’ve got a mile or so to go.”

Charis’s shoulders sagged with weariness, and she limped after Gideon into the vehicle. Tulliver whipped the horses to a canter as they turned for the house. Gideon settled into his corner and stared out the window.

The sun plunged toward the sea in flaming glory by the time they passed through a crumbling stone arch and into the paved courtyard in front of Penrhyn. A closer viewing revealed the house was shabby and unkempt, but nothing could destroy the enchantment it laid over Charis. An enchantment indelibly part of the yearning she felt for its master.

“Parts stretch back to the fifteenth century, although most of it is Elizabethan.” They were the first words Gideon had spoken since that tense, revealing moment on the rise.

“It’s beautiful.”

He gave a short, caustic laugh. Through the dimness, she read the derision on his face. “Believe me, your enthusiasm will wane when you get inside to a cold house and damp sheets and a makeshift supper—if we manage any supper at all.”

“I don’t care.” His cynicism couldn’t damp her pleasure in Penrhyn. The ancient stones breathed warmth. The house had been loved, and it would be loved again. It was old and knew how to wait.

Holcombe Hall was a cold white Palladian pile. Architecturally perfect. Built for a Marquess of Burkett last century when the Farrell family still had money and prestige. She’d hated it from the moment she’d arrived there after her mother’s marriage to the late Lord Burkett. God rot his miserable soul.

As the coach slowed, two men dashed out to hold the tired horses. Four women hurriedly lined worn steps rising to a heavy door.

“Let the circus begin,” Gideon said bleakly. With a savage movement, he opened the door and leaped to the ground before the carriage reached a complete stop.

Gideon sucked air into lungs constricted with an anger he didn’t understand. He hadn’t expected his return to his boyhood home to be so fraught with emotion. But at the first sight of the old house, he’d felt crushed between the urge to escape and the yearning to stay forever.

Another deep breath in a futile attempt to calm his galloping pulse. The essence of Penrhyn overwhelmed his senses, cleared the last sour traces of yesterday’s laudanum. And brought back a thousand agonizing memories.

Still he drank in the air—tangy with salt and wild thyme and sun on old stone and good Cornish earth. He was home and the sweet, fragrant reality split his heart in two.

“Sir Gideon, welcome home!”

The familiar voice wrenched him from distraction. He straightened and fought to mask his tumultuous reactions. He met a shrewd blue gaze in a lined face. A face he knew. Behind the tall, rake-thin old man, the staff bowed and curtsied.

Surprise and something approaching pleasure stirred. “Pollett? Elias Pollett?”

The man’s eyes shone bright with welcome. “Aye, lad…Sir Gideon.”

Pollett had been his father’s head groom. Even when Gideon was a boy, Pollett had seemed old. Gideon’s memories of his family were unfailingly desolate. His memories of the local people less so. Mostly they’d ignored him. Which was kinder than any treatment he’d received from his father. But Pollett had been an ally as far as he was able. He’d se
cretly taught Gideon to ride after Sir Barker abandoned his son as a hopeless case.

“How did the solicitors know to give you a position?”

“I never left, sir. A few of us stayed to see the house secure until you got back from furrin parts and took charge.”

Took charge? What a joke. Gideon wasn’t even sure he intended to remain. Although the scents of sea and wild herbs insisted he belonged here. Demanded he accepted he was a Trevithick to the bone. Like all Trevithicks, born at Penrhyn and fated to die at Penrhyn. As much part of this place as the cliffs and the waves and the wheeling, crying gulls.

“Before that, I was Sir Harold’s bailiff.” The slow, deep roll of Pollett’s Cornish accent fell on Gideon’s ears like music. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

They might have. He hadn’t been interested enough to pay attention to much beyond the basics of his solicitor’s correspondence. Difficult as it was, he summoned a smile. “I can’t think of any man better suited to run the estate, Pollett.”

It was true. Unexpected his brother had seen it too. He wouldn’t have credited Harry with such good sense.

Pollett’s face creased in concern. “The estate isn’t as it should be. I did my best, but…”

Gideon made a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter.” The house stood, and anything else could be fixed. If he could summon heart for the task.

“We’ve been short-staffed. And Sir Harold…”

Gideon met Pollett’s eyes and a silent message of understanding passed between them. Harry had already been a hopeless drunkard when Gideon left, for all he’d only been nineteen.

Sir Barker had been a man of stubborn opinions. He’d considered drinking, like hard riding and ceaseless womanizing, an essential manly attribute. Gideon’s open contempt for his sire’s swinish pursuits was just one of many conflicts between them.

A memory of Harry before the liquor got to him assailed Gideon and aroused a pang of genuine sorrow. His brother
had been tall and gold like a Norse god. Strong. Hearty. Stupid as an ox but not vicious.

Any viciousness in the family had been his father’s.

Pollett swallowed visibly as Harry’s bluff ghost hovered, then vanished. “All will be well now there’s a real Trevithick holding the reins.”

Dear God, how much more of this could he take? The hope and joy in Pollett’s face made Gideon flinch. He didn’t deserve this unconditional welcome.

To avoid the old man’s gaze, Gideon turned back to the carriage. He looked inside to where Sarah shrank into the shadows. “Come out, Miss Watson.”

He stood back as she reluctantly obeyed. When she emerged, Pollett’s face lit with curiosity and the beginnings of speculation. “Are felicitations in order, Sir Gideon?”

If a man traveled alone with a woman, she could fill few roles in his life. A relative, and Pollett intimately knew the sparseness of the Trevithick family tree. A wife. A mistress.

Gideon stifled grim laughter. He wished to hell he was normal enough to have a mistress. If he did, she’d be a damned sight better turned out than Miss Watson. However low the Trevithicks sank, they always dressed their ladybirds
comme il faut.

The girl hovered at his side with visible uncertainty. She’d raised the greatcoat’s collar around her face, and her shoulders hunched.

Shame was so familiar, he had no trouble recognizing it in another. He hated seeing such a proud spirit brought low. She hid her injuries, as though they marked her unclean, contagious. More than that, she must know her virtue was in question.

She waited silently, gazing at the ground. Poor Sarah. Hurt. Alone. Helpless.

Her brothers’ violence cast her into an unforgiving world. How she must loathe relying so totally on strangers. In this isolated place, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

His glance swept the small crowd arrayed before him.
Generations of service tied these men and women to the Trevithicks. He drew himself up to his full height, and his voice rang with authority. “Miss Watson is an acquaintance who needs somewhere to stay.” He ignored her muffled gasp of horror as he used her name. “It’s imperative nobody knows of her presence. I entrust her safety to your good sense and discretion.”

Sarah mightn’t realize it, but he’d just claimed her as a denizen of his private kingdom. Penrhyn had always been a realm unto itself, loyal to those who belonged, suspicious of incomers. He waited as first one maid dropped into a curtsy, then another, and the men bowed acknowledgment.

Gideon gestured for her to precede him up the stairs and into the cavernous hall. But as he followed her into the house, reluctance weighted his tread.

The day’s last sunlight poured in dusty rays through tall mullioned windows. Inside, the shabbiness evidenced outside was overwhelming. Sparse furniture littered the vast space. There were signs of a hurried cleaning, but the elaborately carved moldings were unpolished, the curtains dusty, the fires unlit. The servants trailed in and lined up against the dark paneling.

“We put on extra staff when we heard you were coming, Sir Gideon. But I awaited your orders before I did too much. For the last year, it’s just been me and Mrs. Pollett in the house.” For a moment, Pollett’s formality faded. “I’m sorry, lad. It’s not much of a homecoming.”

Gideon looked around the unprepared, dirty room. Memories of his childhood were colder than the winter air. His father had conducted punishments here, usually before the staff. Gideon’s refusal to cry under the whip should have pleased the old tartar. After all, Sir Barker’s constant carp was that he’d spawned a puling weakling in his second son. But Gideon’s sullen obstinacy had only incited greater violence.

“Sir Gideon?”

The girl’s soft voice shattered his painful reminiscences.
He turned to look at her. The collar folded back from her face, and as luck would have it, she stood in a pool of sunlight. Lit like a saint in a religious painting.

Her features were clearly discernible. A pointed chin, full lips, large eyes as changeable as the Cornish weather. Her hands tangled in the black folds of the coat, he guessed to hide their unsteadiness.

“You must be tired.” Now he looked more closely, there were dark crescents beneath her eyes, visible even under the bruising. “The travel has been difficult.”

When she met his stare, she raised her chin and summoned a fleeting smile. She was alone, afraid, defenseless, but she dared fate to defeat her. Something shifted in the farthest reaches of his heart, and the house’s sounds receded to a hushed murmur. Sarah Watson drew him as no other woman ever had. If circumstances weren’t so tragically askew, he might aspire to offer for her hand.

Instead, she’d do better to run a thousand miles from him. He was no use to himself. He was no use to the world. He could be no use to a wife.

That knowledge didn’t stop him yearning for joys other men took for granted.

He’d had months to count the agonizing toll of his years in India. He thought he’d measured the price of his experiences. But only now, when the phantom life he might have led beckoned like a desert mirage, did he truly comprehend all that had been stolen.

Grim reality dictated that Sarah remained an unfulfilled promise of everything he’d never have.

He tamped down the poignant longing, the regret, the sadness. She’d be gone in three weeks. He could endure that, surely. He’d endured a year of unspeakable suffering in Rangapindhi and survived.

“I’m all right.” She hesitated and bit her lip. “I’d love a bath, if that’s possible.”

“I’m sure it is.” Gideon glanced at Pollett, who waited nearby. “Are any bedrooms ready?”

“Aye, Sir Gideon.” The man stumbled every time he spoke the title. “The master suite is prepared.”

“That will not be suitable for Miss Watson,” he said curtly. The glare he shot Pollett made it clear Miss Watson was not and never would be his mistress. “Have the maids make up the Chinese room. You’ll need to make preparations for my man Tulliver too. And I’m expecting another guest, an Indian colleague, in the next few days. He’ll use the ivy room.”

Pollett bowed and spoke in a subdued voice. “Yes, Sir Gideon.”

Gideon desperately needed to escape this room with its hordes of unhappy ghosts. He gestured Sarah toward one end of the hall. “In the meantime, Miss Watson and I will take tea in the library. If it’s habitable.”

Pollett bowed again as he passed. When he lifted his head, he spoke softly and with a sincerity that made Gideon cringe. “I’m glad you lived to come home, lad.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, wishing he felt a shred of gratitude for his survival into the hellish present.

At Sir Gideon’s side, Charis crossed a dark corridor and entered an even darker room. She drew her first unconstricted breath since she’d arrived. Thank goodness she was no longer the cynosure of all eyes. She loathed knowing the servants thought she was no better than she ought to be. In spite of Sir Gideon’s gallant efforts to insist she wasn’t his mistress. Her bruised face only increased speculation.

She waited uncertainly as he flung aside a heavy set of blue velvet curtains. Choking dust flew into the air. Sudden light dazzled her. She closed her eyes and opened them on a wall of windows facing an overgrown terrace poised above the sea.

For a long moment, Gideon stared at the magnificent
view. Charis sensed sadness and curiously, for a man who returned home, a deep loneliness.

Was he grieving for his dead brother and father? Or did something else trouble him?

His essential isolation prompted her to touch him, offer comfort, remind him he was part of the human race. She curled her hands into the coat and stifled the impulse. The journey had taught her he wouldn’t welcome her overtures.

His rejections hurt, but not as much as it hurt to witness his brooding unhappiness. More sign that she was dangerously vulnerable to this man who was little more than a stranger. But she’d already fallen off the precipice. It was too late to try to save herself.

Eventually, he turned, brushing dust from his hands. His expression was neutral, the brief vulnerability hidden.

“I’ve brought you to a hovel, I’m sorry.” He moved across to help her take the coat off. He draped it over a set of mahogany library stairs. Like everything in the room, they were covered in thick dust. But no amount of dirt could conceal the impressive walls of leather-bound books or the elaborately carved furniture and plasterwork. This was a beautiful room, but nobody had cared for it in years.

“Hardly a hovel.” Gingerly she perched on an upholstered chair, sending up a puff of dust that made her sneeze. She was weary to the bone, and every muscle ached from the beating and the hours in the coach. She’d sell her soul for a hot bath and a bed and the chance to sleep for a month. She’d sell her soul twice over to see a glimmer of joy in Sir Gideon’s dark face.