by Candice Hern
Verity was pleased with yet another success from her herbal skills, but most especially she was happy to have been of help to James. This tiny accomplishment could be the first step in his real healing. She liked to believe so, and therefore continued to deliver the infusion each evening.
She detected subtle but noticeable changes in James over the next week. His eyes took on a brighter appearance and the dark circles beneath them began to fade. He appeared at the breakfast table more often than before, and ate more than his usual tea and toast. He took supper with her and Agnes most nights, and his manner was more relaxed, despite Agnes’s increased hostility.
And he actually smiled now and then. Not frequently, hardly more than once or twice. Verity expected no more, for his was a sober, guarded temperament. She wondered if it had ever been otherwise, long ago, before Spain. Nevertheless, the full smile that so transformed his face became less rare, and when he turned it upon Verity it sometimes made her weak in the knees.
On a dreary morning that threatened more rain, Verity worked in the kitchen garden, gathering roots and stalks that might still be useful during the winter months. She had more or less adopted this small garden and tended it daily, trimming dead wood and cutting back plants for spring growth.
She stood and surveyed the rows of plantings, denuded for the winter, and considered all her little medicinal successes with pride. It was not long, it never was, before her thoughts drifted to another sort of achievement altogether, one that gave her even more pleasure.
After her ride over the estate with James, a new kind of relationship had begun to blossom. She savored the friendship, for it was infinitely more sensible than the relationship she had expected when he had come to her bedchamber. But in the deepest reaches of her heart, when she was perfectly honest with herself, Verity knew she wanted more. She knew that her gratitude for his rescue at the auction—for she had ceased thinking of it as anything else—and her instinctive need to heal him were leading her into far more dangerous sentiments.
A canvas bag was slung over her shoulder, and Verity reached in and began to strew bits of straw at the base of some of the more tender plants as a protective winter mulch. The simple task did nothing to interrupt her thoughts of James.
Never before had she experienced the physical sensations James had stirred to life in her body and, God forgive her, she wanted more. Her life had been turned upside down and would never be the same again. Everything that had once seemed improper did not matter anymore. One thing, however, would never change—James’s rejection had made that very clear. She would do well to remember that and stop spinning foolish dreams.
It served no purpose to dream of a life that could never be, she thought as she packed the mulch neatly around the base of a santolina plant. How could anything ever be normal again for a woman who was married, yet not married, who, though bought and paid for, was neither mistress nor servant?
As she made progress with the mulching, Verity felt as if she’d also made significant progress in adjusting to a life without an identity. Her skill with herbs had allowed her at least to be useful, to provide some level of meaning to her existence. And now she was building an odd sort of friendship with James. It was more than she could ever have expected as she had stood in the market square with a leather halter around her neck. She ought to be satisfied. She ought not to want more.
Verity straightened and groaned. Stiff from bending, she pressed her hands against the small of her back and stretched. Arching her neck, she looked up at the dark, threatening sky and followed a thin white wisp of smoke wafting from the direction of Wheal Devoran.
James had made good on his promise and taken her on a tour of the mine a few days after their ride. He had shown her the engine house first, and Verity had been fascinated by the massive pump engine with its hissing cylinder and huge iron beam rocking overhead. He had showed her the boiler house and the smithy’s shop, the storage buildings filled with odd-looking paraphernalia, the powder house and the timber yard, and the picking sheds where girls called bal-maidens hammered the pieces of ore in a rhythm while they sang.
It was all very strange and dirty and busy, and Verity thought it quite wonderful, but perhaps only because of her guide. As they strolled through the yards, a few of the workers—Zacky Muddle, Nat Spruggins, Ezra Noone—doffed their candle-laden hats to Verity, for she had met them in St. Perran’s. Most of the workers barely acknowledged James, scurrying out of his path and avoiding him altogether.
One man, though, had unsettled her momentarily. Verity had noticed a small, grime-covered man lurking behind one of the outbuildings and watching James intently. James either had ignored him or had not seen him, but when he had stepped aside briefly to speak to one of his captains, the little man had darted out to stand near Verity. His eyes stood out like small white stones in his blackened face. He held up one finger and wagged it toward Verity.
“Tedn’t safe fer ’ee here, mistress,” he said in an conspiratorial whisper. “Nor anywheres with that man, with Lord Heartless.” His mouth had twisted as he spoke the name. “There be only fire and death for ’ee up at that house. Fire and death.”
“Be off wid ’ee, Clegg,” another man had said. “Get back to yer pitch, man, and don’t make no trouble. Go on, now!”
The little man had kept his finger raised, gave it one final shake in her direction, then turned away and disappeared behind one of the sheds along with the nameless miner who’d chided him.
Verity had been rattled by the little man’s words. She was startled to find James again by her side, and wondered how long he’d been there, how much he’d heard.
James clearly knew that his own people mistrusted him, even feared him. Yet when he had come upon the group of women in St. Perran’s who had scattered in his wake, or when he strolled through his mine works where the men did the same, he made no effort to change their attitudes. He wore a perpetual scowl and a steely glint in his eye, almost as though challenging them to deny his villainy.
Captain Poldrennan had said James preferred to be known as a murderer rather than a coward. Apparently it was something another man could understand. Well, she was not a man and did not understand. She believed he had allowed all that was good in him to be overshadowed by guilt and shame.
This was the wound Verity wanted so desperately to heal.
She reached in the canvas bag for more straw and resumed her mulching, determined to finish before the rain began. The bag was empty when she felt the first drops of rain on her face. With one last look at her work, she turned and hurried toward the scullery. She slowed at the sound of shouting coming from the direction of the steward’s office.
“Hold your bloody tongue!” The familiar voice of James brought her to a halt. He must be arguing with that horrid man, Mr. Bargwanath. The loud, jeering laughter of the steward caused an involuntary shudder as she recalled how he had laughed at her in just the same way.
“I only meant she must be gettin’ used to it since no one hears her screamin’ in the night anymore. Learnin’ to like a rough ride, is she?”
Verity froze. Good Lord, they were speaking of her. She had indeed screamed herself awake with nightmares during that first week or so, when she had not yet put behind her the horror of the leather halter and the banging kettles. But that was not what Mr. Bargwanath meant.
She heard scuffling and wondered what was happening.
“Don’t you dare speak of her that way, do you hear me?” James spoke slowly, punctuating each word with a sort of huff, as though he pushed against something. Or someone. His words were followed by a whoosh of breath and a crashing sound, as though furniture was being overturned. Something violent was going on, and it sounded as if the violence was being handed out by James. On her behalf. Oh, God, no.
After an uncomfortably long silence, she heard, “Pack your bags, Bargwanath. I’ve had enough of you.”
“You can’t sack me! You’d never get no one else to work here and yo
u know it.”
“I don’t need you or anyone else who refuses to show proper respect to Mrs. Osborne.”
Verity flinched at the sound of her name, but continued to stand still as a statue. The rain had begun in earnest and was dripping over the brim of her bonnet and seeping under her collar down the back of her neck.
“Proper? What’s so proper about a bought and paid for dollymop like her?”
More crashing was followed by a heavy thud.
“Out!” More shuffling. “Out, now! And if I hear of you setting foot on Pendurgan land ever again, I swear I will kill you. Out!”
The words were bellowed with such force that Verity was at last driven to action. She pulled her wet skirts about her and ran into the scullery.
She leaned against the old stone wall to catch her breath. After a moment, she removed her drenched bonnet and shook it out. She then ran a hand over her face and wiped away the moisture, not all of it rain.
She did not know what frightened her more, the vulgar insinuations of Mr. Bargwanath, or the violent reaction of James. One tiny corner of her heart felt joy that he would defend her. But so violently! She had spent the last week and more building an image of him that was good and charitable. She had forgotten, or had chosen to forget, that there had always been a dark side to his character as well. She had pushed aside all thoughts of his rough handling that night in the library, of the sharp, almost cruel tone he sometimes used with Agnes when she pushed him too far, of the unexplained fires in the area.
But he had defended her. No one had ever before done anything like that for her. So he must have some feelings for her, even if only of friendship. That tiny corner of joy in her heart began to spread.
Though she knew he might always make her somewhat uneasy, that he had violent impulses she could never fully trust, that he might do her harm if he fell into a blackout and did God knew what, that he might well and truly be mad—knowing all these things and more, she had still allowed herself to do the unthinkable.
She had fallen in love with him.
Chapter 8
The explosion rocked the ground beneath him. Flames erupted all around, igniting every shrub and bush, catching the coattails and sleeves of his men. Shrieks of pain and horror rent the air and he watched, helpless, while several men of his company burst into flames. The odor of charred flesh hung thick in the air, so thick he could barely breathe.
His men were dying and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.
Suddenly a structure loomed ahead. A barn. His barn. His barn at Pendurgan. Two of the burning men fled into the barn. No, not men. Boys. Little boys. Two tiny bodies engulfed in flames ran into the barn, which had somehow caught fire as well.
And there was Rowena, staring at him in horror. She wanted him to run after the boys, but he could not move. He could not move. “Coward!” she screamed, and rushed into the burning barn, her skirts catching fire as she disappeared inside.
Someone else was running toward the barn. A dim figure. A woman. It was Verity. Dear God, it was Verity. He must stop her or she would be killed, too. He must stop her, but he could not move. He screamed her name again and again, and she moved toward him, arms outstretched, but never seemed to reach him. “I’m here,” she said, moving and yet not moving. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.”
Someone was shaking him by the shoulders. Someone was pulling him free, turning him away from the blaze, away from the stench. “I’m here.” It was Verity’s voice. He wanted to get to her, to warn her, but, maddeningly, she was always just out of his reach.
“Verity!”
“I’m here.” Someone was still shaking his shoulders. “I’m here, James.” Shaking and shaking. “James!” Shaking harder and harder. “James, come back. Come back!”
Dizziness washed over him and he went limp.
Verity knelt beside his sagging form, placed her hand on the back of his head, and gently stroked his thick, black hair. “James,” she whispered. It did not matter how many times she might have been told about his spells, she could never have been prepared for what she’d witnessed. It had been terrifying, and she still trembled in its aftermath.
She had made up his nightly infusion as usual. When she entered the library, he was not in his usual chair with his back to the grate. The chair had been knocked over on its side and James knelt before a blazing fire. He was shoeless and coatless. His boots had been discarded near an ebony settee where his green velvet coat and crumpled cravat lay in an untidy heap. His hands gripped either side of his head, his eyes were tightly shut, and his breathing was heavy. He seemed to be muttering something, but she could not understand. Startled, and concerned he might have injured himself and be in some kind of pain, she had called out to him, but he had not responded with anything intelligible.
Uncertain what to do, she had dropped to her knees beside him and leaned close to try and understand what he was saying. He seemed to be in a sort of trance. “I can’t move,” he muttered. “My men. I can’t move.”
And all at once she had known what was wrong. It was just as Captain Poldrennan had described. James was back in Spain at the time of the explosion.
Some instinct had told her to pull him out of the trance before he could suffer a full blackout and be lost for hours. She had touched his shoulder and called out to him. “No,” he muttered, over and over, and then he had called her name. Part of his brain must have known she was there now, in the present, while the other half was elsewhere.
The two sides seemed to war with each other as he fought his way out of the trance. She had shaken him hard by the shoulders and shouted again and again for him to come back, until he had collapsed.
She did not yet know which side had won. Was he unconscious, or simply exhausted from the battle? “James?”
His head stirred beneath her hand and she heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from his knees. Verity’s hand dropped to his shoulder and she let it rest there. He would need a human touch to help him re-orient after the trance.
“Verity?” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Yes, James. I’m here.”
His gaze appeared to take in his surroundings with a sort of hesitancy, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he came to be there. Verity’s heart went out to him, imagining how many other times he had come out of a spell like this, afraid of what he might find. Or what he did find.
He turned his head to look up at her, and she almost gasped at the devastation in his eyes.
She could never have imagined him like this—helpless, vulnerable, powerless against the fear that would always be a part of him. There was shame, too, in the eyes that looked back at her, eyes more black than blue, set deep behind high-boned cheeks drained of color.
He turned his head away. A man who preferred the label of murderer to having anyone know of this would suffer to realize she had been a witness.
Poor man! All she felt in that moment was a tenderness and a determination to help him.
“Oh, James. It is all right. It is all right.” She slid her hand about his shoulders, wrapped the other arm around him, and gathered him in her arms.
He resisted only for an instant, then settled his head against her shoulder and clung to her, tightly, desperately. After long, silent moments, he began to whisper her name, over and over, just as he had done while in the trance. Verity nudged his head away from her shoulder, her hand still entwined in his hair. She wanted to see his face, to make certain he had not slipped back into darkness.
The effects of the episode lingered in his eyes, but there was something else as well.
“Verity,” he repeated—and covered her mouth with his own.
He ravaged her with his lips and tongue, as he had done once before. This time, though, there was only urgency, hunger, need. She offered herself willingly.
James pressed his body against hers as though he could not get close enough, kissing her again and ag
ain and again. He kissed her jaw and her throat and her neck, always returning to her mouth, opening his wide and drawing her tongue deeper inside. His hands roamed up and down her back and her sides and her hips until Verity thought she might swoon with pleasure.
“Verity. My God, Verity.” If he had not kept repeating her name she might have thought he believed her to be someone else, someone desirable, someone normal. But he knew who she was when he explored every inch of her neck with fingers and lips and tongue. He knew who she was when he touched her breast tenderly, as though it were something rare and beautiful. He knew who she was when he cradled her face in his hands and kissed the corners of her mouth and her eyes and her lips.
A surge of pure joy caused her heart almost to leap from her breast. James found her desirable. Was it possible?
She did not resist when he urged her down on the rug and lay full length atop her, nor when he pushed her skirts up to her thighs, nor when he nudged her legs apart with his knees.
Verity knew what he wanted; God forgive her, she wanted it, too. She wanted to give this to him, regardless of the outcome, the repulsion he might yet feel afterward. She was ready.
At first he had merely sought her warmth, her gentle touch, her comfort. Muddled and shaken, he had wanted to climb right inside her and forget. Now, he wanted more. Pure lust overwhelmed him and he could not have stopped what was about to happen if he tried.
James wanted Verity, needed her. Badly, right now. God help him, he could not keep his promise to preserve her virtue. He had to have her right this minute or he would surely die.
He reached down and fumbled with his breeches—clumsy, rushed, impatient. In his haste he ripped one button clean off the fall and it went pinging across the floor.
