They brought him up an hour later.
They carried him up in a litter like the others. But unlike the others, he lived.
At the sight of him Jessalyn swallowed back a sob in a throat skinned raw from fear and worry. He might be alive, but he looked near death, with his eyes shut and sunk deep into the sockets, the flesh pared from the bones of his face and white as whalebone. His chest heaved, drawing thinly at the air, and blood oozed from a gash in his head.
Emily made a little chirping noise of pain and grabbed Jessalyn's hand. McCady opened his eyes.
His gaze flickered over the faces surrounding him, fastening on to one. "Jessalyn..." He sucked in an agonized breath. She thought he looked bruised. Deep inside him, where he would never heal. But then, incredibly, he smiled. "I got a... trifle lost..."
Tears spilled from Jessalyn's eyes. "You silly goose. No one can be a trifle lost."
Emily squeezed her hand tightly in silent comfort. But after a moment Jessalyn pulled free and dropped back, leaving Emily to walk alone beside the litter that carried her husband.
They had gone only ten more feet when Emily jerked and spun around, collapsing onto her knees. She stretched out her arm, her fingers curling into a rigid claw, and Jessalyn felt a scream building in her chest. He's dead, she thought. Oh, God, he's dead.
But it was Emily who screamed.
CHAPTER 21
Rain dripped off the roof of the lych-gate, rattling on the shiny, lacquered wood of the coffins, soaking into the ebony velvet bunting of the hearse. The horses' black plumes drooped, soggy with the damp. It was fitting weather for a funeral.
The whole countryside had gathered at St. Genny's cemetery. Some were drawn as always by the enactment of a tragedy, but most were there out of respect for the earl. Hadn't he brought work to these parts? said Salome Stout to her mistress, the Reverend Mrs. Troutbeck. And he one of the scapegrace Trelawnys, them as never cared a tuppence for Cornwall before. Well, the mining venture had ended badly to be sure, but give the man his due, he had tried.
The pallbearers carried the caskets one at a time to where the freshly turned earth lay black in the spring grass among the leaning salt-pitted gravestones. It did not take as many hands to lift the second one, small as it was. 'Twas no bigger than a lobster basket, Little Jessie Stout said, earning a shush from her mam. If the babe had lived, so Dr. Humphrey said, it would have been a boy.
They spoke in reverent whispers of how Lady Caerhays had miscarried her babe on the bluff above Wheal Patience that terrible night of the fall and of how she had died, bleeding and feverish, two days later. The earl had not even been in his right head himself when the poor thing had slipped away.
Miss Jessalyn had been with her at the end, though, and there was another tragedy. Burned out of house and home she and old Lady Letty had been, and this hardly a week gone by. Left with scarcely a rag to stand up in. Still, she had trimmed her hat with black mourning ribbons this day, out of proper respect for the dead, so Mrs. Troutbeck pointed out to Mrs. Childrens, the baker's wife. She had grown up a proper lady, had Miss Jessalyn, for all her earlier harum-scarum ways.
The Reverend Troutbeck fumbled through the service, twice losing his place. Not many noticed, though, for they were too intent on studying the earl. The women thought he looked romantic, like a hero out of a blue book, what with the way the white bandage around his head set off his dark good looks. And such a torment burning in his eyes, they whispered. How he must have loved his pretty young wife. The men—those who knew that he was burying all hope at thirty thousand pounds—thought how well he might be grieved to the point of madness.
Jessalyn stood beside him, looking up at him out of gritty, pain-darkened eyes. She saw a face that was all sharp bones and hollow shadows. He was still and drawn deep into himself, his eyes utterly empty and seeing nothing but the coffins... and another failure.
He is flagellating himself with it, Jessalyn thought, like a monk heating his own hack with a knotted rope, until he bleeds and does penance for his sins. She wanted to lean her body against his, to press his head to her breast. To take the whip from his hand and kiss his scarred and bruised fingers one by one. And she was afraid that if she so much as touched his arm in sympathy, he would turn away.
The Reverend Troutbeck spoke of dust returning unto dust, and ashes unto ashes. The rain came down harder now, beating a tattoo on the caskets. Jessalyn's gaze was drawn to the lych-gate, where the hearse waited, where she and Emily had stopped to speak that windy Sunday, the day the primroses had first bloomed. Emily had been so happy that day, laughing, blossoming herself in her pregnancy, and with her newly discovered love for Cornwall. I don't think I shall ever want to leave....
A great sadness swelled within Jessalyn's breast. She swallowed hard, trying to keep it down, but a gulping little cry escaped her. McCady flinched, as if she'd touched him after all.
She lifted her head, seeing him through a wash of tears. His gaze lashed back at her, sun-bright with fury. He spun on his heel and strode away from her and the caskets of his wife and son, his right leg dragging heavily and leaving a groove in the thick green grass.
The pale linen of his shirt shone stark against the tin gray sky. The sea rolled in heavy black waves, tumbling over his boots, breaking into foam.
She sloughed toward him through the wet sand. The rain slashed at the beach, making a rough, purring sound as it stippled and pocked the water. He faced the sea. He had discarded his coat somewhere; his shirt clung to his back, so wet she could see the darkness of his skin underneath. She licked her lips, tasting salt and fear, and spoke his name.
She didn't think he heard, for he stood unmoving still. She shivered, wet and cold in the pouring rain, for she was wrapped only in a delicate cashmere shawl that Emily had given her after the fire. She thought she would leave and instead took another step toward him.
His voice lashed at her, hard and biting, above the sea's raucous, gasping breaths. "You can no longer place any dependence on my playing the part of the honorable gentleman, Miss Letty. From now on, if you know what is good for you, you will stay the bloody hell away from me."
She took another step and laid her cheek against his back.
He whirled, almost stumbling as he took all his weight on his bad leg. He flung out his arm, pointing down the beach. "Go, damn you!"
Tiny tremors shook her legs, and tears burned her eyes. She felt suffocated with yearning. She would not leave him.
His dark hair hung plastered to his head, dripping over the white bandage. Rain ran over the sharp bones of his face. Haunted and slightly wild, his eyes glowed at her. His hand curled into a tight fist, and he drew it back against his chest. "Oh, Christ, Jessa. Please..."
"I love you."
He seized her in a grip that hurt, hauling her up against his hard chest with such force it knocked the breath from her. He lowered his head, smothering her mouth, and the sea slammed and broke around them. The rain poured.
His kiss was rough, frantic... hot. She clung to his shoulders, her fingers digging into his rigid flesh, while he devoured her lips. He yanked off her poke bonnet, then jerked off her shawl and hurled them onto the rocks. He thrust his fingers through her hair, pulling her chignon loose from its netting and pins. He held her head fast with one hand, while he kneaded her breasts with the other. His fingers tugged and pulled at her nipples through the thin, rain-slick material of her muslin bodice and cotton shift.
He was being too rough and fierce, hurting her, but she didn't care. She had wanted this for so long. She was afraid to move, afraid to make a sound, for fear that he would stop.
He tore his mouth from hers and dragged her down with him onto the wet, foam-laced sand.
He loomed above her. The gold ring in his ear caught a flash of some ethereal light, so that it shimmered like a star caught fast in the dark night of his hair. His eyes were dark and sun-faceted in a world of gray rain. There was no tenderness in them, no mercy in the hard and h
ungry mouth that seized her lips. Only a deep and terrible need.
She surrendered to his kiss. Not even the crashing roar of rain and sea could drown out the tumult of her heart. Her hands roamed over him, seeking, yet she already knew the shape of him, the taste of him. She had always known these things, even before she knew of him.
A wave broke hard against the beach, dousing them with salty spray. He said something fast and harsh that she didn't understand, as he pushed up her skirt and shift. He gripped her thighs, spreading them. He knelt between her legs, rising above her. His face was so hard, so intent, he looked cruel. He cursed as he wrenched at the flap of his pantaloons, and then his breath left him in a soft, keening sigh. His sex sprang free from the concealing shadows of hair and cloth. Her glazed, unfocused eyes caught but a glimpse before he lowered himself over her again. His fingers probed for the slit in her drawers, and when he found it, he hooked his fingers in the opening and ripped.
She gasped with shock and then arched, gasping again, as he slid his finger deep inside her. He went utterly still, and she seemed to hang suspended with him, in a universe of wondrous feeling, connected only to his hard, burning finger. A wet heat spread in a growing pool from that part of her, as if she were melting down there.
He shuddered, and a harsh, tearing sound erupted from his throat. "God, I have to... Jessa, sweetling, I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't..."
She didn't know what he meant; she was afraid he was going to stop, to pull away from her. The thought was unbearable. She wrapped her arms around his back, her nails gripping at the wet thin linen, holding him tight to her. "Please," she whispered.
He pushed another finger inside her, opening her. She felt a searing pain, and she stiffened against him. Something smooth and hard and hot pushed between her legs, probing her woman's flesh, stretching her impossibly wide.
She knew a moment's fear, and then he drove into her. And she pressed her mouth into his shoulder to smother a cry.
He thrust again, burying himself deeper. She felt the fullness of him; he was thick and hard and throbbing inside her. It hurt, yet there was something else there—a hot, spiraling pressure that went beyond the pain into pleasure. It felt right for him to be so deep within her, to be a part of her.
He moved, pulling almost out of her, then pushing in again, a rough thrust and drag that struck a fire deep within her, like a spark off flint. She clung to him, straining upward, as the pressure within her grew, burning hotter. He pumped his hips, and the breath came from him in harsh, tearing gasps. "Please..." she said again, wanting something more, not knowing what it was.
His head flung back, his eyes clenching shut, his face contorted. He gave one last mighty thrust that seemed to pierce her heart as he shuddered violently, surging long and deep within her.
He collapsed heavily on top of her. She could feel the thudding of his heart and tiny tremors quivering across his chest. She reveled in the crush of him against her, the feel of his weight. Love for him squeezed at her heart, bringing tears to her eyes.
Slowly his breathing quieted. He drew out of her and rolled onto his back in the sand, leaving her feeling empty.
The rain poured over her face, into her parted, panting mouth. The sea spilled over her legs, pounding and sucking, in and out, pulsing to the heavy beat of her heart. She sat up. Her skirts were rucked up around her waist, and she pulled them down, suddenly embarrassed.
She dared a glance at him. He sat with one leg bent, his elbow resting on his knee, his face buried in his hand, and his fingers clenching and clenching in his rain-black hair. The words I love you swelled up from within her, pushing against her lips, but she held them back.
He raised his head, and his hand fell, hanging limp. He looked at the tumultuous sea, and she could see his throat move as he swallowed. He turned, searching her face. The only light in the whole world seemed to come from his eyes. "I want you again."
A sigh stretched across her chest, easing out of her. She leaned into him. "Oh, take me again, McCady. Take me again."
His arms came around her, crushing her to him, and his mouth closed over hers in a long, deep kiss that stole her breath.
After an eternity he tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her neck. He planted soft, sighing kisses along her throat, his lips trailing over her chilled, wet skin, and she trembled. He lifted his head. His mouth tightened as he rubbed his thumb over her red and swollen lips. "I was a bloody rutting beast. I hurt you."
He had, but she didn't care. She loved the thought of him being inside her, the intimacy of it. And they said it hurt only the first time.
She smiled, tilting her face up to his, asking without thought or words for another kiss. He traced the shape of her mouth with his tongue, parting her lips. He tasted of the rain and the sea, and of wanting—hot and spicy. Their mouths mated, then parted, only to come back together, again and again, as if each breath must begin and end with the other's lips.
His fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her head back, exposing her neck to his hot, wet mouth. He rubbed his partially open lips against her throbbing pulse. "Ah, God, Jessa, Jessa... you taste like sin. Once started, a man cannot stop." He raised his head, pulling back a little. His eyes burned bright and hot.
With the soft pads of her fingers, she traced the severe line of his mouth. His lips moved beneath her touch, the creases deepening into a sudden, beautiful smile. "Christ, I think it's raining," he said. "And I've got sand in places one doesn't dare mention in polite society. Let's find a bed."
It was dim and damp inside the gatehouse.
He lit a lantern, hooking its handle over a wall peg. The room held little furniture: a scarred and ring-marked table, two ladder-back chairs, and an old wooden bed made up with a brown army blanket and rough huckaback sheets that looked worn but clean. A stack of dry faggots lay next to the swept hearth. The place was freshly scrubbed and smelled faintly of fried bacon and tobacco.
She felt shy and nervous, being alone here with him, knowing what was coming, knowing that he was thinking of it, as she was. "Does someone live here?" she asked.
He was crouched on one knee, laying the fire. His doeskin pantaloons pulled tautly across his hard thighs; his wet shirt clung to the powerful muscles of his back. "No one now," he said. "Duncan slept here at first, until we could fix a place for him up in the hall."
The wood caught with a lick of flame and curl of smoke. He straightened and came toward her, where she stood in the middle of the room. It was ridiculous, but she had to tighten her muscles to keep from running away. There was a roaring in her ears, as if they were still being battered by the rain and the sea. He stopped when only a hand space separated them. So close she could smell his shaving soap and the wet starch in his shirt. And a hot male smell that went with what he had done to her on the beach.
"Take off your clothes," he said. Commanded.
"M-my clothes?" She had not thought about this, that he would want her to undress. She had never bared her body to a man before. Not even Becka had seen her out of her shift. Yet there was a wet stickiness between her legs to remind her of the intimacy she'd already shared with this man.
His fingers spanned her chin, tilting her head to meet his eyes. They caught the light of the fire, glowing like hurricane lamps in the stormy passion of his dark face. "I want to see you naked, Jessalyn."
Her hands trembled as she reached behind her back, working at the hidden laces that fastened her bodice. She was afraid he wouldn't like her body. She was so thin and bony.
She had trouble working loose the tight long sleeves, the wet muslin seemed to cling to her arms. But then the dress slid into a dripping pool around her ankles. She wasn't wearing stays, only a shift and drawers. Drawers that were ripped from front to back so that she could feel cool air bathing those most intimate parts of her body.
His breathing had changed, coming in quick, shallow gasps. "Everything," he said, the word a coarse whisper.
She
swallowed hard around the dryness in her throat. She untied the drawstring to her drawers, and they joined her dress on the floor. She pulled the shift over her head, letting it fall from her outstretched lingers. Her wet hair hung in clumps over her shoulders, water running in rivulets over her breasts and belly. The water was cold, yet her skin sizzled. She couldn't look at him.
"I've wanted you since you were sixteen," he said, the words hoarse. "When you were all legs and no tits and with a sunburnt nose and freckles on your cheekbones."
He was staring at her breasts, and she felt a rush of tingling heat spread through her, like swallowing brandy. She looked down. Her nipples stood out hard and round and dark like two pebbles. "They still aren't much to look at."
He breathed a laugh. "Oh, no, there you are most wrong, Miss Letty." His hand trembled slightly as he combed the hair away from her face, following the length of one thick curl where it curved beneath a smooth, upthrust breast, sticking to her wet skin, skin that seemed suddenly to have caught on fire. "As an acknowledged rake I happen to be a connoisseur of women's breasts." He cupped one in his palm, lifting it, and she stifled a moan behind her teeth. "And yours are splendid. All round and golden, as if sprinkled with cinnamon." Together they watched his long, hard fingers, dark against the whiteness of her skin, trace the contours of her pliant, aching flesh, gently teasing the nipple until it seemed to throb and quiver. "I've dreamed about what it would be like to try and lick every cinnamon fleck off with my tongue, one by one."
Her body felt weighted, her skin too hot and tight. Her legs trembled, wanting to sink to the floor. She had to touch him as well. She laid her palms flat against his chest, rubbing them over his wet shirt, marveling at the way his muscles tightened and expanded with his heavy breaths. The way he felt, rugged as the cliffs, yet yielding, too, beneath her hands like the soft black earth. "You are so strong," she said. "So hard."
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