The Passions of Lord Trevethow

by Bronwyn Scott

  Cassian nodded. ‘A noble sentiment, although I doubt they’ll extend you the same courtesy when they come back to take your purse. You exposed yourself, you know.’ He wished she’d expose a little more of herself, perhaps push that hood back from her face, show him the eyes, the mouth that went with her voice. In his experience, a confident woman was always attractive. He found confidence sexy in the bedroom and out. This woman’s confidence stirred him, intrigued him. ‘Perhaps I might escort you in case they return.’ If he was beside her, he was certain they wouldn’t.

  ‘Where might you escort me? A dark alley?’

  ‘Would you like me to?’ He flirted with a smile. ‘There are many things one can get up to in a dark alley, not all of them bad.’

  ‘You might be more dangerous than the gang of boys,’ she answered shrewdly. She was enjoying the exchange. ‘How do I know you’re not in on it with them?’ She gave a throaty laugh when he raised an eyebrow in approval of her quick wit. ‘See, I’m not as green as you think.’ Sweet heavens, the minx gave as good as she got. The open boldness appealed.

  Cassian chuckled. ‘I never thought you were. I was merely concerned you were too kind-hearted for your own good. Might I interest you in a pasty or some other delicacy?’

  ‘I don’t even know your name, sir.’ She was serious about that. He’d reached the limits of what she’d tolerate. However, he was enjoying her far too much to ruin it by announcing his real name. It would change everything if she recognised it. Even if she didn’t recognise it now, she would be sure to recognise it later. A name was power, to be used for or against him. He would not put that kind of power in a stranger’s hands.

  ‘What would you like my name to be?’ Cassian flirted. ‘Choose one for me.’ Beneath the hood of her cloak, green eyes lit in liking and understanding. The idea appealed to her as well. His intrigue ratcheted. His lady liked games.

  ‘Matthew.’ She chose easily and quickly. ‘And what shall you call me?’ It was an interesting woman who saw the benefit of an alias, who perhaps was just as eager as he to keep her identity hidden. Maybe because it made the little game between them more exciting, or maybe there was something more to it.

  ‘Must I call you anything? I’d rather know your face than your name.’ Cassian cajoled. ‘Push your hood back a little farther so that I can see you better.’ He was starting to like this game. This was a woman with secrets, a woman who liked her privacy. He respected that. He had secrets of his own.

  With her free hand, she pushed her hood back just far enough to reveal hair the colour of caramel and honey and eyes like sea glass, a mouth that was full and inviting. Taken together, her features were starkly, intensely riveting. Memorable. In the right clothes, the right setting, she would be a beauty. Amidst the plain folk of Redruth, she was remarkable, a faerie queen among mere mortals. He understood why she stayed cloaked. Remarkable women drew attention and hardly ever the right sort.

  ‘I saw an opal once the shade of your eyes, but I think Emerald makes a better name.’ Cassian let her draw her hood back up. ‘That way I can call you Em. It sounds friendlier.’

  ‘Are we to be friends, then, for the night?’ They’d begun walking back towards the stalls, the decision to share the evening already implicitly made.

  ‘We shall be whatever you want, Em.’ He let his voice linger on the last, the caress of his tone carrying the nuance for him; they could be strangers, lovers, friends. Em suited her, his cloaked minx with her throaty laugh and her bold mystery. He purchased two pasties stuffed with hot, sliced potatoes. He passed one to her and watched her bite into it.

  ‘Oh, that is good.’ Her eyes closed as she savoured the food, chewing slowly, and Cassian felt himself grow hard at the sight. If she looked this delicious eating a pasty, what might she look like in the throes of taking her pleasure? Her hair loose from its braid, her long neck arched?

  A droplet of juice dribbled on her lips and Cassian felt the wicked urge to lick it from her mouth. She smiled coyly as if she guessed the direction of his thoughts, but before he could lean forward, the tip of her tongue darted out to claim the drop.

  * * *

  He wanted to kiss her, this handsome, dark-haired man. A little frisson of excitement raced through Pen at the realisation. She’d read enough novels to know. The drop of the eyes, the lingering gaze on one’s mouth. Those were the signs. Only she’d beaten him to it with her tongue.

  Perhaps she ought to have let him kiss her? But it was too soon. He’d think her easy. They’d only just met and she’d broken so many rules already: talking to a stranger, walking with him, accepting food from him, flirting outrageously, saying wickedly witty things she’d only ever practised in her mind and taking on a false name. Em, he’d called her, only when he said it, she imagined it as M. M for mystery, perhaps. Perhaps he might try for a kiss again when they’d known one another a little longer and she could oblige. It was naughtily delicious to think she might get kissed tonight; her very first kiss, and from a tall, dark, handsome stranger at the fair.

  They finished their pasties and began to wander the booths, stopping when something caught their eyes: a belt here, a scarf there, a pretty bauble, a scented bar of soap and a never-ending stream of conversation. Matthew was easy to talk to and easy to listen to. He had stories about everything from how the French soap was milled to how many crimps of a crust it took to make a true pasty to how Brussels lace was made.

  ‘You’ve seen them make the lace?’ She fingered a delicate sample in renewed appreciation for the labour. At home in her wardrobe, she had several gowns with lace collars and yokes. She’d not stopped to think of the effort those yards had taken.

  ‘Yes, it’s a very elaborate, time-consuming process. It can take months to produce a design.’

  She gave a sigh. ‘I’m envious of you and your travels! How wonderful to see the world. I’d give anything to leave here, at least for a while. Where else have you been?’ They stopped to sniff little vials of perfume. She held up a vial of sandalwood mixed with an exotic scent. She sniffed and handed it to him. ‘Try this one. It’s very masculine.’

  He sniffed and put the stopper back in. ‘It’s nice. It reminds me of Russia.’

  She smiled. ‘So, you’ve been to Russia. Tell me. What is Russia like?’

  He winked. ‘I will, but first we need sustenance.’ He was a bottomless pit, she discovered. The pasty they’d consumed earlier was followed by a sampling of every sweet available as they shopped and talked and he regaled her with stories of his travels. They ate, turning the night into a parade of scones with jam and clotted cream and saffron buns warm from the oven. When they stopped at a stall selling fairings, she gave a laughing groan as he bought a bag of the biscuits and offered her one. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another a bite!’

  Matthew grinned mischievously and waved a ginger treat under her nose. ‘Are you sure? I have it on good authority from my nieces and nephews that fairings are generally irresistible and these are fresh. Try one, for me, please.’

  He smiled at her and it seemed to Pen that the crowd disappeared, that the whole world vanished when he looked at her like that with whisky eyes and long black lashes. She was lost. ‘Well, perhaps I could find room for one,’ she teased.

  ‘Open wide, then, Em.’ Her pulse raced as she divined his intentions. He meant to feed it to her from his own hand! She took the fairing from him with her teeth, aware of his fingers lingering on her lips, aware of the spark that leapt between them. Around them, the lanterns began to cast their glow as light faded, the day was changing and they were changing with it. There was a charge between them. Matthew’s eyes were on her as she swallowed the fairing, searing into her as if his gaze could see into her mind, her very soul, into every fantasy she’d ever harboured of a night like this—a night with a stranger who wanted her, just her; a stranger who knew nothing of her family’s tragedy, of her seclusion, her pr
ivate fight for freedom; a stranger who didn’t want her for her money, her land, her family’s title, a man not curated for her by her father.

  She was aware, too, that the fantasy had to end very soon. She’d already stayed longer than she’d intended. Matthew fed her another fairing and she took this one more slowly, revelling in the brush of his fingertips at her lips as she summoned the willpower for the words that must come. ‘I have to go.’ Her maid, Margery, would cover for her, of course, but she still had to walk back and that walk would now occur in darkness.

  ‘Soon,’ he said, taking her hand in his and beginning to stroll again. ‘But not yet. We haven’t seen the Venetian glass-blower.’

  ‘One more booth and then I must go.’ She could not resist the temptation of a few more minutes with him, a few more minutes of freedom.

  The glass-blower did not disappoint. In the darkness, the flame of his forge was inviting and warm. They joined the semi-circle of onlookers gathered around the stall to watch him work his magic. Pen gasped as the man blew through a tube and a fragile shape took form at the other end. She’d never seen glass blown and the process mesmerised her almost as much as the man standing behind her. She was acutely aware of him, of his height, of his body so close to hers in the crowd, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, the heat of him rivalling the heat of the glass-master’s forge. She felt the gentle grip of his hand at her waist as they watched the demonstration. No man had ever dared touch her so intimately, so possessively, but he did it easily as if his hand belonged there, as if it had a right to belong there.

  A hungry, curious, lonely part of her wished he had that right, but she knew better. She was an earl’s daughter, a woman destined for a match that went far beyond the means of this whisky-eyed stranger. He was not a peasant. His bearing, his confidence was too grand for that with his greatcoat and boots. Perhaps he was a squire’s son, a man of decent means, but no substantial wealth, a man who could never be a contender for the hand of an earl’s daughter. She could only be his for the night. And who knew? Perhaps he had obligations elsewhere as well? Perhaps he could no more be hers beyond tonight than she could be his?

  The glass-blower completed his demonstration to applause and the crowd dispersed. Pen lingered to look at the items on display in the case: a clever glass heart that could be hung as a pendant, a menagerie of little glass animals of all sorts, tiny thimbles and teardrops. ‘Amazing,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘To think that Venice has come all the way to Redruth. What a world it must be.’ It was worth it to be late getting back to have seen this and to have seen it with him, her Matthew. She slid a glance his way and smiled. ‘I’m glad you insisted I see this.’

  He did not look away, his gaze holding hers long after her words faded. ‘Will you permit me to offer you a souvenir?’ His voice was low and private, for her alone.

  ‘I should not.’ Her voice was equally as quiet.

  ‘But you will. Your heart’s not in the refusal,’ he said softly, gesturing for the glass-blower. ‘The lady would like the pendant.’

  Pen blushed furiously. It was too much, too intimate, far more intimate than Wadesbridge’s rose cuttings. The necklace wasn’t fine diamonds or even Austrian-cut crystal. She had a jewel box full of items that were more expensive, but she was cognisant this was a trinket of some expense for a common man. Yet Matthew handed over the coins easily. ‘May I put it on you, Em?’ He was searing her with his gaze, burning her alive here in public where everyone could see. Did he see what he did to her?

  She gave him her back, pushing off the hood of her cloak and lifting the thick braid, giving him access to her neck. His fingers were cool against her skin where he tied the ribbon, where they lingered at her neck as he whispered, his mouth at her ear as if they were lovers, old familiar lovers who knew one another’s bodies, ‘You have the neck of a swan, Em.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Was that the right response? What did one say when one’s neck was complimented? Somewhere in the distance, music began for dancing as he pushed up the hood of her cloak, covering her hair, his hands lingering at her shoulders.

  ‘Do you insist on leaving? I would ask you to dance if I could entice you to stay?’

  She fingered the glass heart at her neck. ‘I must go now. Thank you for a wonderful evening.’

  ‘Where are you headed? My horse is at the livery. I can take you.’

  Pen hesitated. She was tempted. A horse would be faster than a walk, yet her father’s sense of caution and danger was deeply ingrained in her. Here at the fair, they were surrounded by people. Matthew couldn’t do much to her here where she could cry out for help. But on a horse, on the dark road...her mother had died on a dark road.

  ‘You’re thinking of dark alleys again, aren’t you, Em?’ He chuckled softly. ‘You don’t owe me anything for the necklace. I’m not the sort of man who demands payment for trinkets. That wasn’t why I bought it.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered softly. She knew it was true in her bones. Fantasy or not, she was safe with him. Em was safe with him. Pen might not be, though. She didn’t want him getting close to Byerd. He might try to find her there later. She couldn’t risk him showing up, exposing her. ‘Still, I must leave you here.’ She had to insist although it saddened her to see the evening end. She would never see him after tonight. He would become a treasured memory.

  But Matthew was determined. ‘Can I see you again, Em?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was faltering now, unsure. She hadn’t thought further than tonight. How would she manage it again? Not just getting out of Byerd again without her father knowing, but keeping her identity secret? How would she explain if she were caught?

  ‘There’s an abandoned gamekeeper’s cottage between Redruth and Hayle just off the coast road. Meet me there tomorrow at one,’ he urged. ‘I will wait all afternoon for you.’

  She should absolutely say no now. No good could come of meeting a man in an empty cottage. Instead, Pen found herself saying, ‘I will try.’

  ‘Do more than try, Em.’ His eyes glittered dangerously in the lantern light, all hot whisky. ‘I want to see you again. Tonight was magical, being with you, talking with you. I want more of that. If you don’t come, I’ll know you felt differently.’ He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. A bolt of white-hot awareness shot up her arm. ‘Until tomorrow, Em.’ Then he let her go, let her have her way to make the journey home alone with her thoughts. Her hand burned from the imprint of his touch, her heart wishing he’d dragged her into a dark alley after all and kissed her on the mouth instead of the hand. Her mind debated whether or not she was crazy enough to keep the rendezvous tomorrow with all its potential risks and whether or not he’d really wait all afternoon for the likes of her. He’d not struck her as the sort of man who had to wait on a woman.

  Chapter Four

  Em was keeping him waiting. Cassian snapped shut his pocket watch for the third time in fifteen minutes and retraced his steps back across the room to the hearth where his haphazard fire burned, built from the scraps of kindling he’d picked up on the cliffs. A half of an hour he’d been here, lighting a fire, setting out the parcels of his picnic on the scarred table and pacing the floor of the gamekeeper’s cottage, first in anticipation, then in a little self-deprecating irony, reflecting on the intrigue this whole interlude raised in him. Certainly, he’d had more sophisticated affairs and yet this one had him vacillating between anticipation and anxiousness. Would she come? Perhaps she wasn’t merely keeping him waiting—the very concept implied she was coming. Maybe that was a fallacy. Maybe she wasn’t coming at all.

  Perhaps she’d woken up this morning and realised the insanity of what he’d proposed—that two strangers meet in an isolated location for an afternoon of undisclosed activity. Such an adventure was always more dangerous for a woman. She would be taking all the risk. Perhaps last night had been risk aplenty for her and yet
she’d enjoyed his company, that had been plain enough in her smile, her wit, the flash of her sea-glass eyes.

  He’d definitely enjoyed her, the delicious directness with which she’d spoken. She’d been quick to challenge him when she thought he was too bold. She’d been open and unguarded when she’d told him of her dreams to travel. Her joy in the vendors had been natural, spontaneous. Without artifice. Those two words described her appeal completely. There had been no dissembling from her, no posturing. Everything between them—from eating messy, juicy pasties to wandering the booths—had been organic in a way no London ballroom or exquisitely coached debutante could replicate.

  It felt good to put his finger at last on the source of his attraction. However, it felt less than good to realise why that had been possible. She didn’t know who he was. If she did, all that naturalness might be sacrificed. She’d be intimidated into curtailing her open speech, into second-guessing what she shared, or maybe she’d realise the futility of meeting him. There was no future for a peasant girl and a duke’s heir. Nothing could come of this except enjoyment of the moment, as it had last night.

  Would the promise of continuing that enjoyment be enough to compel her out in the light of day to the cliff lands between Redruth and Hayle? He hoped it would be, but hope hadn’t been his friend today when it had come to appointments. Today was taking on a potentially disappointing theme in that regard. The Earl of Redruth had written a vituperative letter in quick response to his latest missive. Redruth’s letter had outlined his reasons for refusing to sell to the Porth Karrek Land Development Company. Such a project would attract ‘outsiders’, the earl’s letter had cited with contempt. Redruth felt that such a plan would not only bring the desired tourists to the depressed region, but also strangers, people who would take jobs from the people the project intended to help here at home. Moreover, Redruth believed there would be other more nefarious types who didn’t intend to work, but who came to prey on the unsuspecting, such as the families taking a holiday thinking they were safe, but instead finding themselves at the mercy of a cutpurse or worse, citing the tragedy of the Duke of Newlyn in London.