by Candice Hern
Her mouth dropped open and she quickly brought up a hand to cover it. She blushed scarlet and glared at him wide-eyed, stunned and unbreathing, as if a fist had knocked the wind out of her. Clearly, she had not considered the possibility. By God, she really was an innocent.
“You will tell me?” he asked.
She looked away, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to comfort her the way she had done for him. He struggled against the unexpected rush of tenderness. “Verity? You will tell me?”
“Yes,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Promise me.”
She lifted her head, cheeks still flushed, and for once did not look him square in the eye. She was as flustered as he’d ever seen her. “I promise,” she said. “But do not forget that I have a fair knowledge of herbs. I…I know how to prevent such things.”
James sagged back in his chair. A profound relief that there would be no child swept over him. Profound and apparently quite obvious relief. A flicker of pain crossed Verity’s face before she composed herself.
“You needn’t worry about that, James,” she said, her protective armor of pride and dignity firmly back in place. “Now, I have much to do in the stillroom. If you will excuse me.” She practically ran from the room, without a backward glance.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 9
“You want me to do what?”
Verity smiled at what must surely be a look of sheer horror on his face. “I thought it would be nice if you went along with me to deliver Christmas baskets to your tenant farms and the cottages in St. Perran’s.”
James schooled his features into the stern glare he had perfected during his army days. He would have none of this nonsense from her. “You have no need of me for that,” he said in his best Major Lord Harkness voice. “The staff has always taken care of it.”
“Always?”
“Yes, since…since Rowena’s death. She saw to all those sorts of things.”
“And so now you send the servants in her stead?”
“Yes.” He did not trust the direction of this conversation. “What of it?”
Verity lifted an eyebrow. “Do you not think it is a trifle…impersonal?”
“Impersonal?”
“Yes. I would have thought it fitting that one of the family deliver the gifts, and wish all the tenants—your tenants—a happy Christmas in person. I had thought perhaps Mrs. Bodinar might wish to accompany me, but she declined as well.”
James had difficulty suppressing a smile. “You asked Agnes? To visit the cottages in St. Perran’s?”
Verity smiled in return. “Yes.”
“Ha! You are a brave woman, Verity Osborne. I suspect Agnes did not appreciate the invitation.”
“No, I do not believe she did. That is why I am hoping you will come along instead.”
His smile twisted into a frown. “No.”
“It is your largesse we will be delivering, after all.”
“No.”
“It will be much more appreciated coming from you.”
“No.”
“Oh, James. It is Christmas!”
And so it was that James found himself on a frosty Christmas Eve driving out to each of his tenant farms and all the cottages on his land, distributing baskets prepared by Verity and his staff.
Verity ignored the shocked faces and frightened children as she led James from cottage to cottage, as though it were the most normal, everyday occurrence. “Lord Harkness wanted you to have this,” Verity would say, and then press the basket into his hands, forcing him to be the one to bestow it.
It was awkward. It was difficult. James was certain the tenants felt every bit as uncomfortable as he did.
It had not always been so. He had done this with his mother when he was young, and once with Rowena when he’d been home on leave. His wife, however, had always been a trifle condescending when she visited the plain stone cottages and farmhouses. Perhaps aloof better described her manner, for she was not unkind. Verity, on the other hand, knew each family member by name, had a smile and a touch for every child, and a personal word for each adult—more often than not having to do with some ailment or other, as he ought to have expected. She presented her own offerings of clove-studded oranges and prettily tied bags of scented herbs—incongruous luxuries for such simple folk, but effusively appreciated.
It was altogether less hateful a task than James had anticipated. Some of Verity’s goodwill among his people spilled over onto James as well. He was thanked by each family. Uneasily, awkwardly, often reluctantly, but he was thanked in every case. It was the first time in more than six years he’d had a civil word out of most of his people, and it was quite strangely satisfying.
Christmas passed quietly as usual. He had been afraid that Verity, in her obvious efforts to redeem him, would make more of the occasion, attempting to revive some of the old traditions. She did not. She stood by quietly when he went through his usual awkward machinations to have someone else light the great mock. Young Davey Chenhalls was more than pleased to do it again, but asked Verity to help, and the two of them had held the charred faggot from last year to light the fire while James maneuvered to keep his back to them. Verity had then raised a glass of punch with the household, and had sent him a look that told him she understood how difficult the whole ordeal was for him.
She went to church on Christmas morning with Agnes and did not object when James declined to join them. She did not so much as mention any other holiday traditions, though James suspected she had once been accustomed to much more gaiety this time of year. He imagined she had been one to fall into the annual traditions with great enthusiasm. Her natural generosity of spirit would shine during the Christmas season.
Yet she did not attempt to impose any long-lost sentimental custom on this wretched household. She did not ask any more of him this year than the awkward delivery of baskets.
James was relieved, and a little disappointed. He had secretly hoped Verity might have resurrected the kissing bough, though it was probably best that she did not.
Their unlikely friendship settled into a comfortable easiness. Verity never knew, or at least he hoped she never knew, of the deep longing he still felt for her, as he made a deliberate effort to keep his desire in check. More foolishness than simple desire was involved, but James knew there was no point in going down that path. He was determined to keep her virtue, what was left of it, inviolate. That he had ever thought to make her his mistress seemed absurd. The very idea of further eroding that stalwart dignity was unconscionable to him.
She held true to her astonishing offer of friendship, keeping their relationship strictly within the bounds of propriety. Even so, he found himself drawn to her in ways that seemed beyond his control, and in more ways than the merely physical.
It often took him completely by surprise to find himself longing simply to be with her, to be in the same room with her, to find her at his side while they walked or rode over the estate, to speak with her, to be silent with her. Was that, after all, why he had made that offer for her in Gunnisloe? Had it been simple loneliness that had prompted that impulsive bid?
They rode together when weather permitted, and James took her all over the vast stretches of the moor, pointing out stone circles and other ancient monuments to her obvious delight. When the weather kept them indoors, he showed her all about the house—through the oldest parts and the unused wings, explaining the stages of building over the centuries, the history of the family.
Throughout all of their wanderings, they talked, mostly of their childhoods, their families, their friends, of books and poetry and politics. She loved to hear tales of Cornwall and he was happy to oblige. It had been years and years since he had indulged in such easy, untroubled conversation, and he relished every moment.
He knew she wanted to talk about Spain; he wanted to talk about her nonmarriage. Neither forbidden subject was broached.
Verity strayed
close to the prohibited topic only once. They had ridden to the High Tor one chilly but clear morning, left the horses at the bottom, and hiked to the top. They sat perched on a fallen boulder and enjoyed the view until an icy wind made it too cold to remain outdoors. Verity had laughed and gamboled down the hill like a girl, and James had been thoroughly charmed at the sight.
She had slowed her pace when she reached a particularly craggy spot, and James took her gloved hand to help guide her down the rocky hillside. Though there was nothing improper about taking her hand in this way, he could not deny the almost electrical warmth that seeped through the leather of their gloves. A look passed between them and he knew she felt it, too.
Verity had not let go when he had led them onto smoother ground, but had pulled him down the slope, laughing all the way. When they reached the horses, they’d both been panting, their breath creating white puffs in the air. Her smile was brilliant and she looked positively irresistible. James had been hard pressed not to take her in his arms and kiss her breathless. That bloody promise of his was becoming excruciatingly difficult to keep.
“Don’t you simply love this time of year?” she said. “With the air so clear it crackles and so cold it makes your skin prickle?”
“No, actually,” James said, “I have always hated winter.” Until today, he thought.
She sobered and let go of his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Captain Poldrennan told me about—”
She gave a tiny gasp and brought a hand to her mouth, clearly aware she was skirting forbidden territory. But he was feeling particularly in charity with her, though he would have liked to keep hold of her hand, and decided to allow her this one small lapse. “What did he tell you?” he asked.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh!” She stared at him a moment, obviously rattled, studying him to determine if he really meant her to go on. He gave a slight nod of encouragement, and she took a deep breath and continued. “Well,” she said, “he told me about that awful winter in Spain, about the frozen ground, about the trenches, about…about everything.”
“Yes, it was quite miserable,” he said, then gave in to his impulses and kissed her briefly on the mouth. “Now, let’s get back to the house before it becomes as miserable here.”
She smiled and his heart flip-flopped in his chest. She had not objected to his kiss. For a moment, he considered taking her into his arms and doing the thing properly but decided, reluctantly, against it. He did not wish to spoil what was between them. Perhaps she would consider the kiss no more than a chaste salute between friends. He would leave it at that, for now.
They mounted their horses and raced back to Pendurgan in perfect amity. When they reached the house and had discarded their cloaks and hats, he had followed as she bounded cheerfully into the drawing room in search of warmth.
They had found Agnes instead.
Garbed in her usual black—her constant reminder to him that Rowena and Trystan were gone—Agnes had looked up from her needlework with a glare so cold and vicious it stopped them both in their tracks. She laid aside her embroidery, stood, and swept past them without a word.
James was accustomed to Agnes’s fits of pique, but he could sense Verity’s dismay. “Come,” he said. “Let us try to get warm. I will ring for something hot to drink.”
Mrs. Tregelly arrived almost at once. James went about ordering tea and biscuits, and when he turned, he found that Verity had moved two chairs near the fire—one, as always, turned away from the hearth. She was already seated in the other.
“Thank you,” James said. “You are most indulgent of my…my problem.” Now he had skirted the forbidden topic. He must be getting soft. He waited to see if Verity would ignore the issue and pretend he hadn’t spoken of it.
She did not.
“Has it…has it happened again?” she asked. “Since that night?”
“No.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Does it…does it happen often?”
He ought to put a stop to this conversation, but he was weary of the battle. He decided to allow her a gentle probe. “Not so often as the years go by,” he replied. “But I never know when to expect it. At least my dreams are less disturbed, thanks to you. Perhaps the blackouts will continue to decrease over time, as well.”
Verity reached across from her chair and rested a hand briefly on his sleeve. “I pray they will go away forever,” she said.
Mrs. Tregelly arrived with the tea, and their conversation became more general.
James grew used to having Verity around—to seeing her across the dining table, to hearing her laughter with young Davey in the kitchen garden, to catching a whiff of her familiar lavender fragrance as he entered a room, to awaiting her appearance in the library each evening when she delivered her tranquilizing drink. He began to forget how bleak his life had been before her arrival.
January heralded a wet winter. There had been a brief snow flurry just after Christmas, but no more since. The temperature remained brisk and rain fell nearly every afternoon.
The most pressing matter for Verity, though, had been resolved. She was not with child.
When James had mentioned the possibility it had shocked her to the core. She had not even considered it. The very notion that she might be able to bear a child, like any other ordinary woman, was almost too wonderful to comprehend.
She had lied about her knowledge of herbs in that area. That afternoon, she had pored over the herbals to find what information she could. It had not been heartening. Where on earth was she supposed to find pomegranate seeds?
In the end, it had not been necessary. It was a good thing, for how could she possibly have explained a child? Even so, she had cried for the lost hope when she learned there would not be one.
Verity took advantage of each clear morning either to ride with James or to visit the women of St. Perran’s. She began taking Titania into the village after once getting caught on foot in a sudden downpour and having to slog through the mud uphill to Pendurgan. On Titania, she could also venture farther afield.
It was in late January, as she returned from the Penneck homestead, the largest and most distant tenant holding on the Pendurgan estate, when she saw Rufus Bargwanath. It unsettled Verity to see good-natured Mark Penneck leaning on a fence post chatting with that horrid man. She spurred Titania into the opposite direction, every instinct warning her that he was trouble.
She never had told James of what she’d overheard the day Bargwanath was dismissed. That would only remind her that James’s action on her behalf had been a defining moment, the precise moment when she realized she was undeniably and completely in love with him. She was careful to keep such foolish emotions to herself.
The path away from the Penneck farm took her southwest, into an area unfamiliar to her. Verity tried to keep the rabbit-eared tower of St. Perran’s Church in sight so she would not get lost, but after a few twists in the path, it suddenly disappeared from view and Verity found herself thoroughly disoriented.
She slowed Titania to study her surroundings when she heard an approaching horse. Captain Poldrennan soon rode into sight.
“Mrs. Osborne!” He reined in his mount and removed his hat with a flourish. “What a surprise to find you on this path. Were you by chance coming to visit Bosreath?”
Verity looked around in confusion. “Oh, is Bosreath in this direction? I did not know.”
The captain smiled. “Are you lost, Mrs. Osborne?”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve lost track of St. Perran’s Church, my point of reference. Or perhaps I’ve been piskey-led at last.”
Captain Poldrennan threw back his head and laughed. When he faced her again, a lock of fair hair fell over his brow and he reached up to flick it into place. “So,” he said, still grinning, “you’ve been warned of the little folk, have you? Here, follow me. I’ll guide you back to St. Perran’s.”
He turned his horse and led her down a trail Verity had not even noticed. Within minutes, the church tower w
as once again in sight.
“Were you on your way to the village?” the captain asked.
“Not by design,” she replied. “I intended to return to Pendurgan. I do not like the look of those clouds. I’ve just come from the Penneck farm.”
“The Penneck farm? In this direction?” He laughed again. “Good heavens, you certainly were lost.”
“It’s just that…I saw someone I did not wish to meet.” Verity kept her eyes on the path ahead and wondered why the former steward had been hanging about Pendurgan. All sorts of implications came to mind and she did not like any of them.
The captain’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Do you mind if I ask who you were trying to avoid? I realize it is none of my business and you need not tell me if you’d rather not. But if someone has been bothering you…”
“It was Rufus Bargwanath.”
Verity slanted a glance in his direction and saw a frown crease his brow. “Bargwanath?”
“Yes,” she said. “I thought he had left the area after James let him go. He was a very unpleasant man.”
“So I thought as well,” he said, still frowning. “Always wondered why James kept him on. Has he replaced him yet?”
“No, not yet,” Verity said. “He’s doing all the work himself. He was busy enough with the mine, what with all this rain and the extra strain on the pumps. Now he’s working doubly hard, poor man.”
Captain Poldennan fell into silence and Verity looked over at him to find him gazing at her with a curious look in his gray eyes. She raised her brows in question and he smiled.
“You seem to have settled in quite comfortably at Pendurgan,” he said.
Verity felt the heat of a blush color her cheeks, as though his words hid a deeper meaning. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.”
They rode on for several minutes, negotiating the twists and bends in the path, before Verity spoke again. “Why do you suppose Mr. Bargwanath is still about?” she asked.
