The Bride Sale (13 page)

Verity uncurled herself from the chair and retied her wrapper close about the chest. She put on her slippers, took the candle from the desk, and crept out into the hallway and down the stairs to the main level. She slowed as she approached the library door. It stood slightly ajar, and a flickering light showed beneath it. He was there.

Verity hesitated. Did she really need the book this very minute? She could wait until he was out of the house tomorrow morning and no threat to her.

But why was she assuming he was a threat to her? Should she really place such faith in the words of a grieving and possibly mad old woman?

No, she would not be cowed by such accusations. Verity took her courage firmly in hand and slowly pushed the door open.

James sat there as before, with his back to the fire, and watching her with eyes as hard and cold as blue steel.

 

James cursed her silently for disturbing him. He had no desire to be alone with her again.

She wore a thick woolen robe, wrapped and tied closely about her. It was a most unappealing garment, but just knowing she had on nothing more than a night rail beneath it set his heart to pounding like the great high-pressure beam engine down at Wheal Devoran. She held a candle in her left hand. She had placed her right hand on her left shoulder, so that the whole arm modestly covered her already woolen-wrapped breast. A thick braid of hair fell over her right shoulder halfway to her waist. She looked very young and very tense and very pretty.

She was most certainly disturbing him.

James and Verity stared at each other for several long, silent moments. A shock of awareness crackled in the air between them. She was the first to speak.

“I've come for a book,” she said. Her eyes never wavered from his. “I wondered if you might have a copy of Culpepper or some other herbal.”

He studied her a moment longer before responding. “Yes, of course,” he said. He pointed to a row of books on the other side of the room. “Just there, I think. Second row from the top. Have a look for yourself.”

She hesitated, then walked over to the shelf he'd indicated. She held her candle high as she scanned the titles. She had to stretch in order to reach the shelf. He watched her long, pale neck flex and arch and open itself to his luxurious scrutiny.

James rose quietly from his chair and came to stand behind her. She gave a tiny start at his nearness, but otherwise did not move. She smelled faintly of lavender and hyacinth.

“It is too high for you,” he said. “Allow me.”

His arm reached around her from behind, brush
ing against her neck. She flinched slightly at his touch. He pulled down two volumes and stepped away. She set her candle down on a corner table and took them both from him. She flipped open the first one.

“Culpepper's
The English Physician
,” she said. “This is the one I especially wanted. It is an older edition than the one I had at home, 1752. But it will do perfectly.” She picked up the second and thumbed to the title page. “Meyrick's
The New Family Herbal
. I am unfamiliar with this one. It will be interesting to compare the two.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes catching a glint of candlelight. “May I borrow them?”

“Keep them,” he said. “I cannot imagine they've been opened in decades.”

She cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look. “I may keep them?”

He nodded.

“But I…I couldn't.”

“I insist,” James said. “They were just gathering dust here on the shelf. At least you will make proper use of them. Take them. They are yours.”

She looked down at the books in her hand and chewed on her lower lip. “That is very kind of you,” she said. “Thank you.”

Verity turned toward the table and reached to take her candle, but then swung back around to face him. He wished she hadn't. He wished she would leave before he made a fool of himself. She gazed up at him and tilted her head slightly, giving a delicate arch to the long neck.

“I could give you something to help you sleep,” she said.

What the devil? What did she know about his
sleeplessness? Was the staff talking behind his back?

“There are several herbs that could help,” she continued. “I could make something up for you, if you like. As a sort of thank you for the books.”

He turned away with a dismissive snort. She must think because she'd overcome her own nightmares that her silly little potions would do the same for him. Well, she was wrong. There was no help for him. His shame was too deep.

He heard her walk toward him. “What causes you not to be able to sleep?” she asked.

Dammit, why must she always ask so many questions? He walked away from her and stood before the fire. He watched the glowing embers for a brief moment, shuddered involuntarily, then spun around to face her. Her wide brown eyes begged for an answer.

“It is nothing I wish to discuss,” he said.

“Is it something to do with your wife and child?” she asked.

What
? A surge of anger shot through his blood like an electrical charge.

“Is it true that you murdered them? Is that what keeps you awake nights?”

 

The moment she said the words, Verity realized she'd made a terrible mistake.

His eyes took on a savage look, darkening to a deep indigo so they appeared almost black in the dim glow of the dying fire. She took a step backward. James took a step forward.

Good God, what had she done? Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut? Especially after he was kind enough to give her the herbals.

She wished she had kept her nose out of it from the beginning. It might have been stupid—no, it
was
stupid—but in a perverse sort of way she had rather liked the idea that perhaps she alone had discovered the notorious Lord Heartless was really a very decent sort of fellow after all. In the deepest reaches of her foolish, naïve heart, she had wanted him to be her heroic rescuer. But she had pushed too hard to learn the truth, and now she was going to pay.

He took another step toward her, and stood so close his height overwhelmed her. Not wishing to meet those cold eyes again, she lowered her gaze. It was a mistake. She stared at the sun-bronzed skin of his throat, the tight cords of his neck, the hint of dark chest hair revealed by the open collar of his shirt. He exuded a pure unyielding masculine power that threatened to engulf her.

“You've heard that I am a murderer?”

Verity nodded.

“And do you believe it?”

She was not sure what he wanted her to say. She could only stare up at him, taking quick, shallow breaths through her mouth so that she was almost panting.

“Well, do you?” He roared so loudly that she took an involuntary step backward and dropped the books she'd been holding. She bumped against the table where she had left the candle. Reaching behind her, she grabbed on to its edge with both hands.

“I don't know!” Her voice came out thin and strangled. “I don't know what to believe.”

He had moved closer until they were standing toe to toe. “You should believe it,” he said. Without warn
ing, he grabbed her roughly by the upper arms and jerked her forward. The violence of his movement threw a thick lock of black hair over one eye, giving him the look of a pirate. She began to tremble. Dear God, she wished he hadn't touched her.

“I can assure you,” he said, and she could feel his breath on her face, “I am every bit as base and wicked as you've heard.” His voice was cold and cruel, slicing through her like a new blade. “More so.” He pulled her closer so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. The black brows drew down over eyes bright with anger…and something else.

Oh God, oh God, oh God
. He was going to ravish her. Despite how repulsive she knew she must be to him, he was going to ravish her. Verity gripped the table edge so tightly she could feel her fingernails digging into the wood.

“In fact,” he said, “you will never know the depths of my corruption.” He let go of her right arm and took hold of her braid, wrapping it slowly around his knuckles. “But perhaps a demonstration will make a believer of you.”

He jerked her braid so that her head was drawn back, and crushed his mouth against hers.

Verity tried to twist away, but he was too strong. He kept hold of her hair with one hand and wrapped the other around her back like a vise, all the while pressing his mouth against hers—brutal, ruthless. Her lips had been slightly parted, and now he forced her mouth open wide and plunged his tongue deep inside.

Startled by this intimacy, and wondering how he could possibly want to do such a thing to her, she
squirmed and tried to pull away. But he yanked her hair again, harder, and ravaged her mouth with his tongue. Verity was stunned and frightened and thought she was the one who might be ill this time. But she could not fight him, and so she stopped trying.

She willed her body to relax. If she submitted, perhaps he would not hurt her. She might be able to get through this, if only he did not hurt her. She went limp in his arms.

And all at once, the kiss changed. James pulled back slightly, as though surprised by her acquiescence. He released her braid and wrapped a hand gently around her neck, caressing and stroking it with his long fingers. The arm around her back loosened and he began to move his hand slowly up and down her spine. He withdrew his tongue from the depths of her mouth and began nibbling her lips, slanting his mouth over hers, first in one direction, then another, tasting, exploring, grazing gently with his tongue.

It was a new beginning, as though the other had never happened. He gently coaxed her lips open again and tentatively touched his tongue to hers. She did not retreat, and he followed with a tender stroking, slow circles that set up a treacherous response low down in her body.

The kiss was no longer a punishment. God help her, it was an exquisite pleasure.

Confusion overwhelmed her as his tongue enticed and invited her own timid exploration. She leaned into him and the kiss became more urgent. Their tongues meshed in a fervent dance, while fear
meshed with bliss, shame with pleasure, denial with consent. Verity became lost in a maelstrom of warring sensations, and gave herself up to the pure sensuality of it all.

James pulled away at last, leaving her bereft and breathless. He gazed down into her eyes with a puzzled look, then his mouth twisted into an expression of disgust and he pushed himself away.

“You see what I am,” he said, his back to her as he leaned against a chair.

Still shaken, as much from her own reaction as from what he'd done, Verity could only stare at him, speechless. She was surprised to find that her hands still gripped the table behind her, had not in fact moved during the whole incredible episode.

“You see!” He spun around to face her, arms held stiffly at his sides, hands balled into fists. “Do you believe now? Do you?”

She felt the sting of tears building behind her eyes. Why was he doing this? She didn't know what to believe and had no words to answer him. She offered an ambivalent shrug in reply.

“Foolish woman!” he shouted. “What will it take to convince you? Ask anyone, anyone in all of Cornwall. Go ahead. Ask them! Every man, woman, and child will confirm the depth of my villainy. Ask them. Go ahead. Go.
Go!
”

G
o!

His words echoed off the old stone walls, bouncing back to envelop Verity in their cruel mockery. She moved quickly to leave, but stumbled over something at her feet. The herbals. She gathered them up with trembling hands and hurried to the doorway. The moment she crossed into the hall, the door slammed behind her with a tremendous crash. The entire household would have heard. She took off for her bedchamber at a half run, then flung herself on her bed and cried. But the tears were few and soon spent. Verity rolled onto her back and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

She brought her fingers to her lips. They felt tender, perhaps a little swollen, and she could still feel his imprint upon them. Verity had never been kissed like
that. Good Lord, she hadn't even known anyone ever kissed like that. She could spend the rest of the night lying there reviewing every tiny aspect of it, but such thoughts caused an odd little stirring deep in her belly such as she'd never felt before. It would be easy to abandon herself to the pure physical memory of his arms and fingers and lips and tongue. But there was too much else to consider. Besides, it would be foolish, and useless, to dwell on desires that could never be fulfilled. Not with this man. Not with any man.

She rolled off the bed and removed her wrapper, then pulled back the counterpane and crawled beneath the blankets. She turned onto her side, tucked in her knees, and curled up like a hedgehog. The rain still pounded outside and the windows rattled against the incessant wind. The noise probably would have kept her awake even if her mind, and body, were not in such a mad whirl that sleep was an impossibility.

What had just occurred in the library had been more complicated than a mere—
mere
!—kiss and the confounding and probably sinful responses it wrought within her. The perplexing behavior of James Harkness—rescuer? murderer?—made him more a conundrum than ever.

He had accosted her brutally in the beginning, but had not ravished her as she had feared he would. If he was so anxious for her to believe the worst of him, why had he not acted in the worst possible manner as proof of his wickedness? There might be other reasons why he had not taken her, reasons having nothing to do with him and everything to do with her, but she had no wish to dwell on those at the moment.

There had been an obvious need for him to demonstrate a level of brutality, and yet he had not been able to maintain it. She very likely had bruises on her arms from his rough handling, and it had been extremely painful when he'd pulled on her braid. But when his embrace had changed—changed into something so sensual and wonderful she would surely go mad if she could not get it out of her mind—Verity had sensed a change in his need as well.

Perhaps she had only imagined it, and of course she had no experience whatsoever in such matters. But when the kiss had gentled, she could swear she had sensed a sort of longing, a melancholy yearning that was in no way connected with the need to overpower, to subjugate, to conquer. It was this longing to which she had responded. She felt as though—was it possible?—he needed her.

She was probably reading too much into it, trying too hard to find that decent, misunderstood man beneath the Lord Heartless mask. It was also possible that her lack of experience allowed him to manipulate her into seeing tenderness where there was only artifice and trickery. Was he in fact a fearsome murderer who found her dangerously easy to seduce?

A shudder coursed down her spine. She curled up into a tighter knot and clung desperately to the pillow.

She was no nearer the truth than ever. Ask anyone, he had said. Well, she had tried just that. She'd nudged and prodded and encouraged confidences, but only Agnes Bodinar had provided any information. Yet, because of her relationship to the late Lady Harkness, her words must still be considered suspect. Verity needed confirmation or explanation. She
needed to know if she'd just been thoroughly kissed by a man who murdered his family.

Ask anyone
.

All right, she would do that. She would go into St. Perran's tomorrow and tell Grannie Pascow what Agnes had said, and ask her straight out if it was true. Verity pounded the pillow into a more comfortable shape and closed her eyes. She ran a finger across her lips one more time. Tomorrow, she would discover the truth about the man whose touch and taste still lingered.

 

James leaned against the windowsill in his bedchamber and gazed out over the estate. From his high vantage point he could see the formal gardens and the wooded landscape of the lower grounds, the apple orchards and the grain fields, the southern pastures dotted with sheep and the mill buildings down near Pendurgan Quay. A great gusting wind caused even the trunks of the big chestnut trees lining the drive to sway like gilly flowers. Far to the west the stacks of Wheal Devoran puffed white bands of smoke against a morning sky the color of an old shilling.

His father had always loved this room, the only bedchamber in Pendurgan's only tower. When James was a boy, before he and his father had become estranged through endless petty disagreements, they often sat together on this very sill. He used to tell James how he could survey most of his holdings from this single room and how proud it made him to look out over the legacy of several generations. From an early age, he had instilled in James a love of the
land and a responsibility for its maintenance and prosperity.

But James was not interested in the extent of his lands just now, or reminiscences and regrets about his father. He had other regrets this morning.

He watched as Verity walked through the terraced gardens, tilting forward into the wind and stepping cautiously along the muddy path. She disappeared from view momentarily when she passed through the archway leading to the lower grounds, but reappeared near the dovecote.

A knot of remorse twisted around in his gut as he watched her walk toward St. Perran's. He had behaved abominably the night before. He had been so upset—with himself for what he'd done and with her for inciting him to do it—that he had drunk himself into a stupor before falling asleep in the library. Lobb had retrieved him at some ungodly hour and dragged him to bed. Eventually the nightmares had overtaken him, despite the drink. Only this time there had been a slight difference. This time his sergeant's face had transformed into Verity's instead of Rowena's. A new guilt to disturb his sleep.

So now his head throbbed from last night's brandy and his stomach churned over his treatment of Verity. He felt like hell, duly punished for his sins. He sipped on Lobb's spiked coffee as he watched Verity disappear down the lane into the village.

He had certainly proven his point, had he not? He was a brute to the core and no woman was safe under his roof. It had been useless to pretend that such an encounter could have been avoided. It had been in
evitable from the start. Verity Osborne had got under his skin from the first morning after her arrival.

He'd tried to convince himself that it was her strength and courage and dignity that most attracted him. Utter rot. She was just a damned fine-looking woman, and James had been without a woman far too long. Almost any woman would have affected him the same way.

But was that really true? When he had kissed her he had not been thinking of how the sight of her in nightclothes and with her hair down had stirred his blood. He had been furious with her questions about his wife and son, and wanted to assert his power over her, to provoke fear and loathing.

It had all changed in the space of a moment. She had stopped fighting him and seemed almost to melt in his arms. God, but she had felt good. Soft and warm and responsive. From the moment he had sensed her own pleasure, he had been lost. He had wanted to devour her—in slow, succulent bites. He was about to set his lips on a path down that long white neck when he'd come to his senses.

If he had not forced her to leave, James could not be sure that he would have been able to restrain himself from taking her. Right then and there, stretched atop the table at her back. The thought of her soft, white body beneath his aroused him even now. But shame and guilt had stopped him. He had no right to treat her as though she were a common whore he'd purchased for the evening.

Yet she had fought him only when he had been rough with her. When he had become more gentle,
she had responded. Would she have let him make love to her?

The thought of taking Verity as his mistress set his heart to racing. His wickedness was known far and wide. Why continue to deny his own well-deserved reputation? Why not make the tales true? What was there left to lose?

His own reputation had been as black as it could be for over six years now. Through no fault of her own, Verity's reputation was in shreds. There was no redemption for either of them among the solid Methodist stock of this part of Cornwall.

Despite what the world may think of him, he would never take her by force. If he behaved like a gentleman, would she allow it? Would she allow him to make her into what everyone already believed her to be?

There was only one way to find out.

 

Grannie Pascow's eyes narrowed as she glared at Verity. Her knobby fingers beat a tattoo on the carved wooden arm of the high-backed chair. “So,” she said, “'ee wants to know the truth, does 'ee?”

Verity nodded. The smoldering peat fire in the hearth filled the room with an odiferous smoke that caused her eyes to burn. She looked around at each of the room's other occupants: sturdy, no-nonsense Kate Pascow, proud Ewa Dunstan, and sweet-natured Borra Nanpean. Verity had hoped to speak with Grannie in private, but the old woman never seemed to be alone. Women gathered around the hearth, children frolicked on the dirt floor, and men stopped by to greet
Grannie on their way from the mine or the pastures.

It was easy to understand her status in the village. Verity felt the old woman's strength of character as much as any of the other villagers who'd known her all their lives. She could trust Grannie Pascow. She could not have explained how she knew that to be true. Perhaps it was because the old woman reminded her so much of her beloved Edith. Whatever the reason, Verity liked her and respected her. If she wanted the truth, plainspoken and raw, that is what she would get from Grannie.

Verity blinked against the peat fumes and nodded again. “Yes,” she said. “I should like to know what happened. I should like to know what sort of man Lord Harkness is, since I am living under his roof.”

Grannie leaned back and squinted down the length of her nose. “T'aint a pretty tale,” she said. The others mumbled agreement.

“If what Mrs. Bodinar told me is true, then it cannot be very pretty.” Verity steadied herself for the cold, harsh truth and took a deep breath. The peat fumes burned her throat and she began to cough. She made a mental note to ask Mrs. Tregelly about providing firewood for the cottages. “Tell me, please,” she said at last. “Did he murder his family?”

Grannie's fingers stilled and she let them hang loosely over the chair arms. “Aye, most likely he did.”

Verity's heart sank like a wounded bird. No amount of expecting it had prepared her for this bald truth. “Most likely?” she said. “But you don't know for sure?”

“Nobody do know nothin' fer certain. Couldn't be
proved, one way or t'other.” The old woman shook her head and pursed up her lips. “Looked bad from the first, though. Looked like he done it.”

“But why?” Verity asked, trying without success to keep the plaintive note from her voice. “Mrs. Bodinar implied that he had been very much in love with Lady Harkness. Why would he have killed her? And their child?”

“Don't rightly know,” Grannie said. “But when he come home from Spain, he weren't the same. Sumthin' happened to him.”

“Aye, it's true,” Kate Pascow interjected. She bounced a pink-cheeked baby on her knee while she spoke. “After he come back, he were as like to bite yer head off as look at 'ee.”

“Come home with a real mean streak, he did,” Ewa Dunstan added.

“How did they die?” Verity asked.

“Fire,” Grannie replied.

Verity shuddered. “Good Lord. And you believe he set it?”

“Could have,” Grannie said. “Likely he did.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Grannie surveyed the room in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. “Well now, from what I do recall,” she began, “young Trystan—that were his son—and Digory Clegg's boy Billy was playing in one o' them old stable buildings near the big house. Empty barn, it were, old and ramshackle. The boys did used to play there a lot. Not just Billy Clegg, but other village boys as well. Kate's Charlie. Ewa's Robbie. Lucas Kempthorne. Weren't no children of his own kind fer young Trystan Harkness to
play with, so he were left to mingle with St. Perran's boys, nice as 'ee please.

“That day, a fire started in the barn. Nobody do know how, but with all the straw an' such, 'twere bound to go up like kindlin'. Rowena, Lady Harkness that was, she seen the fire and runned outside screamin' for help. Jammez stood watchin' that fire, not movin'. Lady Harkness, she shaked him an' shouted at him to help, but he wouldn't budge. So she runned into the stable herself an' tried to save them boys. But the fire be too far gone. The buildin' collapsed and trapped all of 'em. They be all three killed—young Trystan, the Clegg boy, and Lady Harkness.”

“And Lord Heartless, the evil cur, he never stirred an inch to help,” Ewa Dunstan said. “Stood there and did nothin' while that pretty wife o' his and them two little boys died.”

“My God,” Verity said. “Oh, my God.”

Silence fell in the cottage, broken only by the occasional soft plop of crumbling peat. Anguish swelled like a tumor in Verity's belly. This was not at all what she had expected. It was much worse. Though he may not have held a gun to their heads or a knife to their throats, his inaction had killed them just the same. How could he have done such a thing? It didn't make any sense.