The Passions 0f Lord Trevethow (The Cornish Dukes Book 2)

by Bronwyn Scott

  Nothing except passion, excitement, freedom. But perhaps these things were overrated. Just look what had happened when she’d embraced them. What did she have to show? A broken heart, disappointment. She had to stop living in the fantasy and for the fantasy. Cassian wasn’t here. He had not come and she had to move on. She could do worse than Wadesbridge. If she accepted him the search would be over, her father would be pleased and in time, perhaps, she would find contentment. She did not think she’d find more than that, but perhaps it would be enough. Perhaps it would be the first necessary step in setting Cassian aside. How long could she cling to hope before it became ridiculous? Before she let go of a good man for a fiction of a romance that hadn’t truly existed except in her mind. She had to accept someone. Why not Wadesbridge?

  Her voice trembled. He would think it was from maidenly nerves. ‘You do me a great honour. I would be pleased to accept.’

  Wadesbridge smiled, relieved. ‘Shall I tell your father? What would you prefer for an engagement? I was thinking of two months, with a harvest wedding in October. It will give me time to make the house presentable for a lady, or would you like to do that? Perhaps what I really mean is that it would give you time to make the house ready.’ He laughed nervously, eager to please her, and she thought once more what a shame it was that she didn’t love him.

  ‘Whatever you prefer is fine with me.’ Now that the decision was made, she was numb. She had no stake in this fight. There was no fight, not any longer. There was nothing to fight for.

  The French doors opened on to the garden and her father strode towards them, a rare smile on his face. ‘Do you have news to share?’

  Wadesbridge smiled at her before addressing her father. ‘We do. Penrose has consented to be my wife. I am the happiest man alive.’

  Her father shook Wadesbridge’s hand and hugged her, his joy over the decision evident. ‘We shall celebrate tonight at dinner. There will be champagne and perhaps Cook can find something sweet for dessert. We shall make a party of it.’

  Pen managed a smile. ‘If you would both excuse me, I’d like to take a walk before dinner.’ If she was to begin as she meant to go on, there was something she needed to do first.

  ‘Just around the castle grounds,’ her father warned with an eye to the sky. ‘There’s likely to be rain by supper.’

  ‘Just around the grounds.’ It was an outright lie. Pen fully meant to venture beyond Castle Byerd. She grabbed a shawl and stuffed her glass heart into a small drawstring bag. She didn’t have much time.

  * * *

  The cottage was just as she remembered it. Even prepared as she was to face memories, the familiar space assaulted her senses the moment she opened the door: the lingering scent of the lavender she’d brought that last day, the ashes in the hearth, the thin quilt on the bed. Every space contained a memory: eating meat pies before the fire, watching Cassian build that fire in the rainy days of spring, later, lying together on the bed, whispering dreams to life. By the window stood the table, still covered with the faded cloth, a chipped vase holding the now-brittle sprigs of lavender. She squinted. Something was propped against the vase.

  Pen went to the table and picked it up. For a moment her heart raced. Had Cassian been here? Had he come back? Was he trying to reach her? She unfolded the note and scanned the letter, her hopes fading. It had been written in April after she’d left. He wasn’t here. Not now.

  Pen sat down on one of the chairs, reading slowly. It was the only letter she had from him.

  Dearest Em,

  That seemed ages ago—when they were simply Em and Matthew.

  Whoever you are, wherever you are, know that you carry my love.

  I have gone to London to do my duty, but my heart remains here with you in this cottage.

  The tears started and she let them come. She would cry one last time for all she’d lost. He had told the truth then, that first night at the ball. Matthew had loved Em. That was some consolation. Maybe Cassian had even loved Pen by extension. If so, why hadn’t he come? Why hadn’t he sent word? Or for that matter, why hadn’t he told her of the land from the start when he’d realized who she was that first night in London? How different things might have been then. But he hadn’t even tried to fight and now it was too late. She might never know. Pen left the note on the table and put her glass heart next to it. The cottage would be their shrine. She would leave her heart along with his. It was better this way, better that she leave it behind instead of torturing herself with the remembrance every day. She had to let go of them both—Matthew and Cassian. She couldn’t keep one and not the other.

  At the door, she paused. ‘Goodbye, Matthew.’ Perhaps some day when she was stronger, when there was more nostalgia than hurt associated with this time, she would come back to the cottage and remember. For now, she had to go home. She had her engagement party to attend.

  * * *

  He was nearly home. Cassian had ridden hard, taking advantage of dry roads and good weather all the way from London. It looked as if that was about to come to an end, though. Rain was imminent, and probably more. It appeared they were due for a summer storm. He pulled his hat tight on his head and spurred his horse forward for one last push. Hayle wasn’t far, but that wasn’t his final destination tonight. He would make for Redruth and Castle Byerd. He didn’t want to waste another moment. Enough time had been lost. Never mind that he’d be travel sore and road weary when he arrived. There was one stop he did have to make, though. He’d pass the cottage. He wanted the note he’d left. He wanted it as proof that his heart had always been true.

  At the cut-off towards the cliffs, he turned his horse from the road and jogged down the dirt path until the cottage came into sight. On the horizon, a fork of lightning split the sky far out to sea. He had time until the storm arrived in full. Inside, he strode to the table and stopped short. His note lay open and Pen’s glass heart beside it. She’d been here! He picked up the heart, running his thumb over its smooth surface, wondering. Had she left it as a sign? Had she left it as goodbye? Was she trying to purge herself of their association or was she leaving him a message? He had a hundred questions, but beneath them there was hope. She’d come here because she hadn’t forgotten.

  His mind raced. What if she came back? He should leave a sign as well. Cassian ran outside, a fat raindrop catching him on the nose. He picked a handful of wildflowers and grabbed his canteen from his saddle. Indoors once more, he laid aside the lavender, poured fresh water into the chipped vase and arranged his wildflowers as best he could. If she came again, she’d understand. He stuffed the note and the heart into the pocket of his jacket and set off for Castle Byerd. With luck, he could return them both to her tonight.

  * * *

  He was soaked and dripping by the time he arrived at the Castle. The rain had begun in earnest. He tossed the reins to a groom and strode up the wide steps to the door. He thumped hard to be sure he was heard over the storm and had his foot ready when the door was answered.

  ‘What do you want?’ The footman passed a jaundiced eye over his dripping form. In the distance, thunder clapped. The storm was arriving in force. Cassian raised his voice.

  ‘I am Lord Trevethow from Hayle. I wish to speak with the Earl of Redruth.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, the family is not receiving tonight.’ Cassian got his foot in the door just in time.

  ‘I don’t think you heard me. I am Viscount Trevethow.’

  ‘Let him in, but he won’t be staying’ came a low voice from behind the servant. The door opened wide enough to admit him, and Cassian stepped inside, unapologetically dripping water on the floor.

  ‘Redruth, good evening.’

  Redruth ignored the greeting. ‘Did I not make myself plain? You will not be received here or in London.’

  ‘Where is Pen? I have something to say to her and then, if she prefers not to receive me, I’ll depart.’ This was his
boldest gambit yet. This would be the last chance in truth. But Pen had gone to the cottage. It had to mean something.

  ‘She is unavailable at present.’ Redruth met his gaze with a steely look of victory. ‘Tonight, the family is privately celebrating her engagement to Lord Wadesbridge.’

  ‘I want to see her.’ Cassian was reeling. Engaged? Pen was engaged? This was not how it was supposed to happen. He’d ridden hard, she’d read the note. They were supposed to be reconciled.

  The earl’s smile widened without pity. ‘You see, you and whatever you wished to say are too late.’

  ‘Milord.’ A voice spoke behind the earl.

  ‘Yes?’ Redruth snapped, not caring for the interruption. The maid behind him cowered nervously.

  ‘Lady Penrose is not in her room, milord. We’ve looked for her everywhere. She’s gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, gone? Did she come back from her walk? She was on castle grounds. Did someone look in the gardens?’ Redruth’s attention was fixed on the maid, his brow creased with obvious worry. Regardless of his often abrupt manner, the man loved his children.

  ‘Yes, milord. She came back, but when her maid went to dress her for dinner she was gone again.’

  ‘Send for her maid,’ the earl barked as thunder boomed directly overhead.

  The maid recited her tale, her eyes drifting towards Cassian. ‘She came back from her walk, milord, but she seemed sad. She asked for some time alone before dressing. She said she wanted to lie down. I left her for half an hour and when I came back she was gone.’ Thunder rolled again and Cassian grew impatient. There was something the maid wasn’t telling them.

  ‘Was anything missing? Did she take anything from the room?’ This would indicate how ‘gone’ she really was.

  The maid looked anxious, torn between protecting her mistress and doing her duty to her superiors. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘That is not an answer!’ Cassian growled. ‘Lady Penrose may be in danger in that weather. This is no time to keep secrets. What was missing?’

  The maid looked directly at him. ‘A cloak and a dress she keeps for walking outdoors. Her jewellery. Her hairbrush. Just small things.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cassian nodded. She’d gone out as Em and she’d taken portable items with her. Convertible items that could be turned into money. She didn’t mean to come back. Cassian didn’t wait for further instruction. He was already striding towards the door as the next thunderclap hit.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the earl called after him.

  ‘Out to find Pen. It’s dark and wet out there—you’ll need as many men as you can muster. This is the worst storm of the summer and the woman I love is out in it.’ There was no time to lose. Cassian called for his horse, barely watered and still tacked. ‘I’m sorry, old boy—’ he swung up into the saddle ‘—but she’s out there and she’s going to need us.’ He’d rather have his horse, tired as he was, under him in this weather than a fresh horse he didn’t know. Ajax was sure-footed in the mud of Cornwall and solid. He didn’t spook at thunder or lightning, and he was strong. He could carry two.

  Cassian turned Ajax east and headed to the hills. This was where he’d find her. The hills were her refuge. Hopefully, she’d found a cave for shelter. He didn’t like thinking of her out in the weather, soaked to the skin, unable to see the ground. It would be too easy to turn an ankle, to fall. She could be lying in a ditch, unable to get out of the mud. He preferred to think of her in a cave sitting before a small fire, staying warm.

  Cassian didn’t get far. The hills proved to be almost impassable. There’d been a mudslide, the land giving way under the deluge, and piles of earthy debris made progress futile. He had to rethink his plan. If she couldn’t go to the hills, where else would she turn? Surely she wouldn’t have kept walking in this storm and she would not have taken refuge with other people if it could be helped. Anyone she stayed with would remember her, would tell her father she’d passed that way. It would be tantamount to giving herself up. He would not waste his time on the villages. Redruth and Wadesbridge would be searching there. It was the first place they’d look. It was possible she might be there. She might not have had a choice. But if she did have a choice, where would she go?

  The cottage. She could have made it that far before the storm would have demanded she take shelter. What better shelter was there than the cottage? There was firewood, a bed and a roof that didn’t leak. And it was away from the road. Cassian turned Ajax towards the sea and began to ride.

  Hold on, Pen, I’m coming, was the litany that thundered in his mind. The cottage would be secure, but getting there was less so. Navigating the terrain in the dark would be difficult. he prayed she would be safe.

  * * *

  Pen pushed streaming hanks of hair back from her face and struggled to get her bearings. Was she still on the road? She should get off it. She’d be too easy to discover. The road and the villages were the first places her father would look once he mounted a search party. But to lose the road would risk losing her way. She had to go on. It was now or never. When she’d seen the dress laid out on the bed, the gown she’d wear to her engagement party, she’d known she couldn’t go through with it. If she did, there would be no more choices. Her course would be set.

  At the moment, however, that course wasn’t set. She was still in charge of her fate. Pen could disappear. She could become Em one last time. Em could go anywhere, be anything. Em couldn’t disappoint her father, couldn’t disappoint Wadesbridge. Em could roam the world. It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be safe. But perhaps she’d had enough of that. There was no time to plan, only to do. If she stopped to think, she might doubt and doubt would lead her back to Wadesbridge and the life that waited for her.

  She wasn’t sorry. Even in the pouring rain she didn’t regret the decision, although she did regret the weather. She would have liked a dry sky and a lovely sunset to walk by. She was making no progress in this muck and her clothes were soaked. She needed to get dry. There was no sense escaping only to catch pneumonia her first night out. She was close to the cottage, though. She could shelter there and continue in the morning.

  Pen turned off the road and cut through the meadow, not seeing the rabbit hole until she stepped in it. She went down hard with a yelp, her hands landing in mud, her ankle screaming with sudden pain.

  It’s not broken, it’s not broken, she chanted under her breath as if the words could make it true. She pulled her foot out of the hole and gave it an experimental wiggle. It hurt, but she could move it. It was only sprained, or perhaps twisted. Still, getting off it was imperative, an imperative that was doubly difficult to satisfy now. A twisted ankle impeded her progress to the cottage significantly as she hobbled towards shelter.

  * * *

  By the time she reached the cottage, she was exhausted. If there was a condition beyond soaked, she was that too.

  Inside the cottage, she set about the tasks of seeing to her needs. She lit the lamp and laid the fire, trying to remember how she’d seen Cassian do it. Cold, hurt and exhausted, the chores of preparing for the chore of taking care of herself seemed endless. She’d not realised how much work went into taking care of oneself.

  With the fire going, Pen stripped out of her clothes and wrapped herself in the quilt from the bed. She dragged both chairs before the fire, laying her clothes over one and sitting at last in the other to see to her ankle. It was throbbing and swollen. It took enormous effort to pull her foot out of her boot. What could she do for it, though? She hadn’t anything to wrap it in. A bucket of cold rain water might help with swelling, but she didn’t have a bucket. Even if she did, it would take time to fill.

  She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Her adventure was poorly planned and supplied. She had no medical supplies, no food, no spare clothes. She’d thought to buy those things once she got to Penzance, som
ewhere far enough away where her jewellery would not be recognised. She’d not accounted for any emergencies that might befall her before she reached her destination. Who would have thought an emergency would occur three miles from home?

  It wasn’t until she’d rested a bit and got her spirits back that she noticed the table. It looked different in the dim light of the cottage, or was that just the shadows playing tricks? She got up, using the chair as a makeshift crutch, and thumped her way over. She froze at what she saw. Someone had been here and not long ago. She’d just left the cottage hours before. But her glass heart was gone. The note was gone. She’d been foolish to leave them, thinking they’d be safe. The idea of a shrine had been fanciful and now her keepsakes were lost. She glanced around the room, her nerves on edge and what the missing keepsakes might mean. Had someone been watching the cottage? How would they have known to come and look around? Were they watching the cottage now?

  Fear tickled her spine with a cold finger. What kind of a fight could she put up with a bad ankle and no weapon except for the poker by the fire? She supposed she could smash the vase and use a sharp shard like a knife. The vase. Her gaze went back to it. She noticed the lavender laid aside, dry and brittle. The flowers in the vase were new, fresh. Wildflowers from the meadow. Whoever had taken the keepsakes had picked the flowers.

  Cassian. She breathed his name and fear released her, replaced by something more powerful: hope, ridiculous, irrational hope. Cassian had been here mere hours ago. Perhaps she had just missed him that afternoon. The question was, would he come again? Did she dare wait that long to find out? Pen trudged back to the fire with her chair crutch and sat down, eyes closed, weary with an odd sense of peace. Cassian was here, somewhere. The thought made her feel safe, safe enough to sleep.