by Eve Silver
They rode in silence and through the carriage window she saw the great dark saucer of sky, the scattered glitter of stars flung there as though by a careless hand. She leaned close to the window when the familiar crenellated tower of Pentreath’s church came into view, a black shadow against a black sky. Soon they would pass within calling distance of her father’s inn. A bittersweet sadness stole over her.
She shifted to better see her surroundings and her knee brushed Aidan’s. He tensed, but did not move away. Sending him a sidelong glance, she found him watching her intently.
“Please,” she said softly. “Let me stop and tell him all is well. Let me put his heart and mind at ease...” Her voice trailed away as Aidan shook his head.
“Do you imagine he spares a thought for you?” he rasped.
Jane gasped at the harsh words, struck by his cruelty.
“I do,” she said vehemently. “And I wish to ease his worry.”
“For endless months and years I dreamed of stealing Gideon Heatherington’s ease, yet now you ask me to give him succor.” He drummed his fingers on his thigh, a slow and steady beat. “I cannot. I am a man of dogged intent, sweet Jane, and I cannot alter my course.”
“Yes, I believe that.” Implacable. Relentless. Even cruel. Yet, he had been strangely kind to her as well. “But even a man of dogged intent may choose to alter his path.”
His answer was slow in coming, and he turned his face from her as he spoke. “For two decades I have walked a wild and oft times treacherous course, yet always have I held sight of my clear and ever-present goal.”
She knew his goal. She was certain he yearned for her father’s destruction, perhaps even his death, but only if it were slow and terrible. “What is it that you think my father did to you? He is a decent man. A good father...” Her voice trailed away as he shot her a look of undiluted incredulity, and she bit back any further glowing descriptions. No benefit could come of adding fuel to Aidan’s smoldering anger.
“Tell me why you hate him so,” she said softly. “A heavy weight is easier when shared.”
“I beg to differ. Some burdens cannot be made easier.” He leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes, pinching his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose. With a sigh, he dropped his hand, but his head remained tipped back, baring the strong column of his throat. “You confound me. Your innocence. Your bravery. Your tenacious nature.” A soft rumble escaped him. “I had not expected to like you.”
“Nor I you,” she whispered. “I expected to hate you. So where does that leave us?”
The moonlight filtered through the window, bathing the interior of the coach in gentle luminosity. Aidan lifted his head, opened his eyes, and she thought she had never seen such a heartrending lack of emotion. His expression was as barren as a frozen and fallow field.
“You threaten my goal, sweet Jane, make me lose sight of where I must go. If you distill my vengeance, then I am lost. It is my northern star, my compass in the storm. It is all that I am, all that I can ever be. There is nothing else left for me but my burning hatred.”
His words pummeled her already bruised heart.
I would be your compass.
The thought winged its way toward her lips, only to catch in her throat, clogged by her heartbreak. She wanted to demand answers to the questions that haunted her, but though he applauded her bravery, she found herself too cowardly to press him.
“Please,” she said. “I need not speak with him. Send Mr. Hawker to bear news of my wellbeing.”
Through the window she could see the shape of the Crown Inn just a short way up the road, and the lantern that glowed at the entrance. She thought of her father, serving at the bar. Was he laughing with his cronies, or was his mood soured by worry and an overabundance of drink? She had to believe he thought of her, worried for her.
“If he had killed me... that man, Gaby... would you have left my father to wonder at my fate, to spend month after endless month waiting for some news, some word, or would you have told him—” She choked on the words.
“The endless torment of never knowing is neither more nor less than he deserves.” He laughed darkly. “What perfect and convoluted justice that fate should grant him the reality he bestowed on another.”
She could find no meaning in his words, and as she studied him, his tense jaw and his balled fists, she thought they would drive past the Crown Inn, for his expression seemed set in stone. Her heart sank. “For me, Aidan. Not to ease his mind. To ease mine,” she whispered, though she did not imagine any plea could sway him.
He jerked forward and reached up to rap sharply on the roof of the carriage. The vehicle lurched to a stop and after a moment, Mr. Hawker yanked open the door.
“Give him some trinket, Jane. A handkerchief. Something. And a message, though I caution you, be brief,” Aidan rasped, sinking back into the shadows. It seemed the words caused him pain, that he sacrificed a part of himself with this concession.
Jane’s heart leaped with joy. That he had softened enough to allow this small thing—this most monumental thing, if truth be told—gave her hope that she might somehow dissuade him from whatever terrible course he was set upon. And she wanted to dissuade him. Needed to. Not only to save her father, but to save Aidan, as well. Though she knew not what eventuality he contemplated as his final vengeance, the certainty that his chosen course would destroy him gnawed at her. By his own admission he had focused on his vengeance for years, perhaps decades. What would he have left when it was done?
“Thank you.” On impulse she reached across the space that separated them and, closing her fingers round his much larger ones, she squeezed gently. He glanced up, bafflement and wariness gracing his features before he looked away once more.
“You are well?” she asked Hawker, dipping her gaze to his shoulder.
“I’m alive. A little pain just reminds me of that. Reminds me of the alternative,” Hawker answered with a pained grin.
“Get on with it,” Aidan ordered.
Jane dug through the pocket of her cloak, searching for her handkerchief. It was not there. Her fingers closed round the button from Aidan’s waistcoat. That would not serve.
In the end she decided to send only words. “Tell my father that I am well,” she instructed Hawker. “Tell him that I have not been treated unkindly—” She shot a glance at Aidan’s profile. He sat still as could be, barely appearing to breathe. “Nay, tell him I have been treated kindly. Yes. That is better. As proof to the veracity of my words, tell him that you bear witness in lieu of the sheet I was to hang that first night.”
Hawker sent a startled look in Aidan’s direction.
“Go,” Aidan growled. “Do as she asks.”
“Aye, sir.” Hawker closed the carriage door and strode toward the inn.
Aidan looked at her then, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I do this for you, Jane, and I am at a loss to explain the why of it.” His expression hardened, and she thought he must have read the hope in her gaze. “Oh, do not misconstrue my intent. Gideon Heatherington will know days and nights of torment. He will know true suffering of body and mind. He will live in the hell that is his due. But not today. Today, swayed by your blameless and honest plea, I offer him a small reprieve.”
Jane nodded, not daring to speak, choosing instead to savor this sweet concession and not press for more than he could bear to give.
Moments later, Hawker returned and the coach heaved into motion once more. Jane perched on the edge of the seat, leaning close to the window. With a heavy heart she saw her father lumber into the yard. He stood staring after them, and then he turned his face and spat on the ground.
Troubled, she wrapped her arms about herself and watched the shape of the Crown Inn grow smaller and smaller as they left her father’s hostelry behind. It was not long before the great shadow of Trevisham House loomed before her, solitary and barren, with the vast ocean so black around it. She smelled the salt, heard the crashing surf and the sigh of
the wind.
Or perhaps it was the souls of ages past, crying out to her in warning.
Chapter 10
A week later Jane stood in the shadow of Trevisham House, looking out at the ocean. As far as the eye could see it stretched, a vast expanse of rippling gray silk. But beneath the surface lay the promise of a treacherous swell. It would come. She had only to wait for it.
A full seven days now she had done naught but walk and worry, hoping for something, anything, to do.
She turned in a slow circle and studied the coast. Directly across the stretch of water that separated Trevisham from the mainland were the fishermen’s cottages, stacked in three stories so the fishing gear could be stored below. Pretty, they were, with white walls and thatch or slate roofs. These things were so known and familiar to her.
Shivering, she drew her shawl tight, and thought that she should have brought her cloak. The temperature had been deceptive when first she embarked on her stroll. Soon, the cold clime would chase her indoors.
With a step and a half-turn to her left, she faced the curve of the cliffs. In the far distance she saw a tiny dark shape. She could not discern any great detail, but she knew it was the outline of the engine house that lodged the tin mine pump. A hard-won living that, underground in the tin mine. Still, no harder than tending the wind-swept farms up top, or braving the merciless Atlantic in a small fishing boat. Hard work, all, for an honest living.
‘Twas what she missed... the work. The busy hands. She was used to serving ale until well past the chime of midnight, and used to cooking and tending the garden and washing the stairs.
Her mother had been a squire’s daughter raised for a genteel life. She had tutored Jane in manners and letters, but life’s reality had determined Jane’s daily custom. She was no lady of quality reared to paint and play the pianoforte. Despite her mother’s tutelage on the fine art of pouring tea and the skill of delicate conversation, Jane knew exactly who she was: an innkeeper’s daughter, used to hard work.
Aidan had robbed her of that, and she was of a mind to fight for what he had taken. She did not know what to make of her employer, her puzzling, infuriating, maddening employer. He had brought her to Trevisham, deposited her in an enormous chamber fit for a princess, and then stalked out without another word. She had not been invited into his presence since, though he clearly was in residence, for she saw him from afar as he rode across the causeway or strode through the garden. Once, she had hurried down the stairs upon hearing his voice, only to find him gone by the time she arrived in the front entry hall.
He had ripped her from her very full, if somewhat mundane, life but had failed to provide her with a purpose, a task with which to fill her new life. She had expected to be his servant. Instead, she was in a limbo of uncertainty, left without place or goal. It was a cruelty of diabolic nature.
She could not spend another idle day like the last without threat to her sanity.
Perhaps that was Aidan’s intent.
Setting her hands on her hips, Jane glanced at the house. The army of servants he employed had been brought all the way from London, and their rank and order were clearly defined. All and sundry seemed to know their place, from the aloof butler, Coldwater, to the unctuous housekeeper, Mrs. Francis, to the scullery maid who whispered that her name was Penny only when Jane pressed her.
There were workmen, too, set to restoring the crumbling part of the house that had fallen to ruin after so many years vacant.
Everyone had a station, a duty. Except for Jane.
Her first morning at Trevisham, she had descended endless stairs and wandered through a maze of corridors until she had finally found the kitchen. The staff had been aghast that she had encroached upon their territory, and a footman quickly escorted her to the enormous dining room, where a feast was laid out. She had dined alone and, when she mentioned that she found the dining room somewhat forbidding, the footman, whose name she learned was Giles, had appeared flustered. “Mr. Warrick instructed that miss’s comfort was of utmost importance. Perhaps miss would prefer the breakfast room for future meals,” he had intoned solemnly.
Thereafter, the venue had changed, but her restlessness had remained.
Now, a sigh escaped her as she acknowledged that in their time together Aidan’s presence had grown on her. To her mortification, she realized that she missed him. She wandered closer to the path that led in a steep decline to the pebbled beach. The way seemed treacherous given her unstable knee. Wary, she decided against the descent, though a new exploration would surely be a fine distraction.
Startled by a sound behind her, she spun, flinging out her arms to steady herself as she came face to face with the exact perverse, uncooperative man she sought. The sight of him both soothed her lonely heart and exacerbated her feeling of neglect.
“Trying to frighten me into an early grave, are you?” she asked, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at her lips.
“You are far too courageous for that.” He smiled back. “In high temper, Jane?” His gaze raked her. “Angry over my absence, or my arrival?”
Her pulse raced, in equal measure frustration and pleasure. “Have you been avoiding me?”
His brows rose. He shrugged and admitted, “After a fashion...”
“And here I had thought you fearless,” she muttered.
He laughed, and she closed her eyes and let the sound wash over her. After a moment, she opened her eyes. He turned and stared out at the waves while she stared her fill of him. Fawn-colored breeches and a tweed coat hugged his tall frame, and over his arm was draped a beautiful cloak of the finest blue wool, the hood lined in silk, and the rest lined in soft ermine. She eyed him uncertainly as he held the garment up for her to put on.
With a shake of her head, she protested. “The cloak is lovely, but it is not mine.”
“It is now.” Aidan met her gaze, his amusement gone, replaced by a faint tension.
Stunned, Jane half raised her hand, then let it drop. Something flickered in Aidan’s eyes, and for a single instant she had the ridiculous notion that he was vulnerable. “If you do not like it, you need not wear it.” He shrugged and began to fold the material over his arm once more.
She had bruised his feelings. The possibility seemed absurd.
“No. I... I do... That is, I—” She hesitated, unsure of the appropriate etiquette. She should not accept such a costly thing from him. Surely such an offering did not come without payment of some sort.
Hesitantly, she reached out and touched her fingers to the material, marveling at the quality. “You are most kind,” she whispered. “I just do not understand—”
He cut her off. “Do not try to understand. Just enjoy. Let me give you this.” His lips curved in a tight smile. “And, for a moment, let us both pretend that I am kind.”
“I neither understand you, nor your twisted logic,” she said, blunt. “You have only to say the word, and I will have my life back exactly as it was. That would be a kindness.”
“Would it?” Gray-blue fire, like the heart of a flame. She was caught in his regard, plumbed by it and warmed by it, and left flushed and confused.
That was what she wanted... was it not? To return to her father’s pub and forget that she had ever met Aidan Warrick?
As Aidan settled the cloak about her shoulders, Jane studied him with a sidelong glance, aware that she could not pretend indifference, or even dislike. The bare truth was that she did not wish that she had never met him, only that they had met under a different circumstance. Such ridiculous notions, for had there been no need for him to claim her as bondswoman in payment for her father’s debt, then she likely never would have met him at all.
“Walk with me,” Aidan ordered, offering her his arm.
“A prettily worded invitation,” she murmured. He shot her a questioning glance. With a sigh, she felt the last vestiges of her annoyance slip away and she gingerly rested her hand on his forearm, the tweed of his coat scratchy beneath her palm. He
led her in the direction of the path that would bring them to the sea.
Alone, she had not dared to attempt the sharp descent, but with Aidan by her side, she braved the risk. The terrain was uneven, strewn with small rocks and pitted in places. She picked her way with care, even as she thought that she must apply the same caution to her anticipated discourse with her employer. “Aidan,” she began, “when you purchased my services, what exactly did you intend for me to do?”
The muscles tensed in his arm, and though he said nothing, she knew he had heard her quite clearly.
In a rush, she forged on. “There must be something, some task you would assign to my attention. I must have something to occupy my days, some purpose to my life. I cannot simply stare out the window at the sky and the sea. My needlework is abysmal and my skill at watercolor even worse, though Mama did try to teach me.”
The memory made her pause, and she thought of how she missed visiting her mother’s grave. She cast Aidan a sidelong glance. This battle would be won one skirmish at a time.
“I am accustomed to hard work, to cutting and chopping and serving... In fact, I like to work. Such idleness is a torment for me—” Jane broke off as her foot slid on a rock and her leg twisted beneath her. She dug her fingers into Aidan’s arm, and his free hand jerked forward, as though to catch her should she fall.
Holding her breath, she rested her weight on him for an instant as she fought to right herself, and won. With her lips pressed together, she gathered her composure before taking another step, and when she did, she could feel his eyes upon her, studying her gait. She forced herself to walk on, to pretend that his perusal did not unsettle her.
“Is it stiff?” he asked. Her gaze shot to his.
“At times,” she said. “But the greater concern is the weakness. I will walk a step, or ten, or two hundred, and then without warning, the limb simply melts away beneath me.”
