by Eve Silver
She cleared her throat, appalled by her verbosity. ‘Twas the most she had ever talked on the subject of her ruined limb to anyone other than the doctor from Launceston. His sound advice has been limited to a strong admonition that she walk as little as possible, and dose on laudanum as often as possible. Neither option appealed.
“Two doctors, one from Launceston and Doctor Barker in London, have said there is nothing to be done.”
“Doctor Barker,” Aidan repeated.
She nodded. She herself had found his name by chance when a guest at the Crown Inn left an array of pamphlets from the Royal Society behind. Excited by the information she read, and the sketches of splints drawn there, she had badgered her father until he agreed to write the man. Though Jane had had no direct contact with him at all, her father had sent a detailed description of the situation. Her father had relayed Dr. Barker’s reply, and his opinion had been clear enough. There was nothing to be done for her.
The look Aidan leveled on her was far too intense for her comfort. She could not imagine why she had told him these things, could not imagine why he had asked. Suddenly, she remembered the terrible words her father had hurled at her in Aidan’s presence, calling her a crippled gel, blaming her for their penury. Mortified, she tipped her head to look at the sky.
“We’re in for rain,” she said. The smell of sea and salt was rich in the air, and as they came full upon the beach, she looked to the horizon. Lapping at the rock-strewn shore, the water from this vantage looked like a rippling sheet of dark glass that blended with the pewter sky far in the distance.
Aidan stopped and turned to face her, his raised brows suggesting that he was well aware she avoided the topic of her ruined limb. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw.
“See to the damned menus, Jane. The gardens, the servants. Choose what task amuses you, what task pleases you. I don’t care.”
For a long moment she could only stare at him in confusion, and then, as his meaning dawned, in astonishment.
“Those are the duties of the lady of the house,” she demurred. “They are not the sorts of things a bondswoman is assigned.”
He raised one brow. “Have you much experience with the assignments of a bondswoman?”
“You know I have not.”
“Well, I have as much, or as little, familiarity with the matter as you.”
Jane gave a startled laugh. “Do not say you purchased my services without any sort of idea what you planned to have me do.”
“I won’t say it, then.” A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, gilding his hair and his skin. He smiled, dangerous, rakish, so alluring. Her heart skittered in her breast. “So do as you damn well please, Jane. Perhaps if you work at your watercolors, your talent will improve.” He gave a single chuff of low laughter. “Whatever makes you happy.”
“Happy?” she parroted. “You want me to be happy?”
Slowly, gently, he reached out and brushed a stray hair from her cheek. She could not think, could not breathe; her entire being centered on his touch. “Aye, Jane. I find that that is exactly what I want.”
She closed her eyes, her pulse leaping wildly and her thoughts crashing back to the times he had kissed her. Was that happiness, that wild, tumultuous feeling that heated her blood and made her long to taste him and touch him and bring her body close to his?
Her lids flipped open once more as he dropped his hand and stepped away.
“You may come and go as you will, Jane. You are no servant to me.” His gaze narrowed. “Only have a care that you do not tarry at The Crown Inn.”
Ah, well, she had expected that edict. “No servant to you? What am I then, if not your bondswoman?”
“You are not—” He broke off in clear frustration and the skin around his eyes and lips tightened. “Fine. Then I assign you your duty. You are to play the role of my guest.”
“Do not rumble at me, Aidan Warrick. This mad situation is entirely your doing.” She had said the wrong thing. She knew it as soon as the words left her mouth.
“Not entirely,” he said shortly, and turned his face away to stare out at the swelling waves and encroaching clouds. She thought she saw longing there as he looked to the ocean.
With a sigh, she walked along the beach toward a clump of boulders that jutted from the sand.
“May I visit my mother’s grave?” Jane asked tentatively after a long moment had passed.
“Daily, if such is your wish.” Still he did not look at her.
“And my cousin Dolly?”
He shrugged. “Invite her to tea. Invite the entire damned village.” He did not need to state that the invitation did not include her father. “Take the coach to Launceston and visit the shops. I shall make certain you have adequate coin. Do whatever the hell it is that women do.”
“Women do many things,” Jane said softly. “They bake and sew and knit and read. They earn coins to support their families. They tend the sick and comfort the dying. They laugh. They dance. They visit with their families...” Her words trailed away as he speared her with a sharp glance. She made a gesture of frustration.
They stood thus for a time, the cry of the ocean birds fanning out above them, and then Aidan sighed and walked to her side. “What is it you want of me, Jane?”
The blunt question, spoken in his gravelly tone, made her uneasy. What did she want of him? She should want her freedom, a return to her old life.
The breeze caught his thick honey gold hair, blowing it back from his face. His eyes were purely stunning, more blue than gray today, deeper than mystery, and she realized with a near painful pang that she wanted him to touch her, to kiss her the way he had that night at the New Inn and again in the coach.
So here was the bald truth of it, if she was brave enough to face it. She had not yearned to confront him this morning and demand a chore, a purpose. She had yearned just to be with him, to drink in the sight of his harsh splendor, to breathe in the scent of his soap and his skin.
Shamed by that realization, she looked away.
With an oath, Aidan caught her chin and turned her face to his.
“I thought to stay away. To grant myself freedom from this chain you cast about me. But the week stretched like three months, each moment a cruelty. I found my thoughts consumed with you.” A harsh laugh escaped his lips. “Madness it might be, but your presence brings me peace even as it destroys my peace of mind.” Dropping his hand, he clenched his fingers and stepped back.
Tears pricked her eyes. “‘Tis not my intent.” She lifted her chin. “And I will not bear the burden of blame that is yours, and yours alone. You are the creator of this situation. Your actions and choices have led us both here.”
“Ah, there’s my brave girl, speaking the truth even if I have no wish to hear it. Does anything make you afraid?”
Too many things.
Everything.
Unless he was by her side, and then her fears and torments seemed less than they could be. But that she would not tell him.
His jaw hard as granite, he stared down at her. “You are the daughter of my enemy.” The assertion pained her. “You should hate me. You see the beast in me, yet you are not afraid. Why, Jane? Why are you not afraid? You know what I am.”
Yes, yes, yes, she knew.
“I see no beast. You are a man.” Jane closed the distance between them and laid her palm against his cheek, desperate to understand, to heal the great gaping hole that threatened to suck away his humanity. She could feel it, feel his agony, though she could not fathom its source. “The truth of your words rings clear,” she said. “I should hate you.” The last was spoken with uncharacteristic vehemence, the syllables echoing hollowly among the rocks.
There was pain in his gaze, and despair, and then... nothing.
“I will destroy your father.” His tone was flat.
“And will you destroy me? Kill me? Cast me from your highest tower? Your vengeance fills your heart. But when you are done with it, will it be enough? W
ill you finally know peace then? Or will you be adrift like a slat of wood lost in the ocean, only following the current where it leads, aimless, rudderless?” Her pulse raced, and her cheeks felt hot with emotion.
She flung one arm toward Trevisham House where it sat high atop the mount that they had just descended. “Do you know, once, long ago, I swam for my life against the waves, believing that if I could only reach this island, this shore, I would be safe. I heard Trevisham calling to me that day, heard the lost souls of a hundred years crying above the storm, guiding my path. The rocks took a price from me, in pain and blood and heartbreak. Lives were lost that day, but not mine. In the end, my life was saved. Do you think I fear this place now, that I fear you?”
“You should.” He touched her, a brush of his knuckles against her cheek, and she nearly moaned at the hot, sweet current that invaded her blood. “Be wise, Jane. Find that fear and hold fast to it.”
“I have known what it is to suffer, Aidan, and now you would add to that? Whatever his limits and flaws, my father is all that is left to me. You will destroy him.” She dragged in a breath before she whispered. “And that will destroy me.”
She turned away, blinking back tears, remembering her mother’s oft spoken words: Watch out for your father. All through her childhood, her mother had repeated the refrain. Watch out for your father. Do you understand, Jane?
She had done that. All these years, she had done as her mother bade. She had watched out for her father, cared for him in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, pulled off his boots when he fell on his bed too drunk to pull them off himself, kept his books, served his customers, cooked his food and washed his clothes. She had done that and more, but the guilt and the loss did not ease.
“He is not worthy of your loyalty.” Aidan stood so close, coiled tension and raw power. “Jane, I cannot change what I am. What Gideon Heatherington made me.”
“No. Your words are a fallacy. My father did not make you. By your own admission, you met him only once, long ago. Is that not what you told me?” She shook her head. “A man makes himself, chooses his own path. Whatever it is you believe my father did, those were only circumstances. Who you are, who you decide to be is a choice. You can thrust aside this wicked obsession.”
“You dare to ask me for that?” He closed his hands around her shoulders, spinning her to face him.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I cannot. Any more than I can set aside this madness, this burning need to bind you to me and make you mine.” Leaning close, he touched his nose to her neck, breathed deeply.
Yearning careened through her, leaving her trembling.
With a cry, she stepped away, her back colliding with a large, rough boulder. He advanced, pressing the palms of his hands to the rock on either side of her, trapping her between a wall of cold stone and hot, muscled man. She breathed the scent of him, citrus and spice, and she wanted to press her nose to his skin and breathe in until she was filled with him.
A smoldering spark flared and roared through her, burning away common sense, leaving a trail of molten need in its wake. Should she let him, he would consume her. His name escaped her lips on a sigh. “Aidan.”
“This is why I meant to stay away.” His eyes darkened to the shade of the sky in the moment before dusk, and he thrust his fingers into her hair, loosening the coil she had secured at her nape. She was breathless, remembering the way he had kissed her before, the feel of his mouth and the taste of him, and the mad, pounding thrill he had roused in her.
Arching her body, she raised her face to him, beguiled, mesmerized, wanting him so badly that her limbs trembled, and the world spun dizzily. With a low groan, he leaned in, pressing his open mouth to hers. The tip of his tongue traced her lips then thrust inside, licking her, tasting her.
With a groan, he shifted full against her, granite-hewn muscle, the thrust of his hips pressed tight to her own. Her blood ran hot and thick, and a heavy ache pulsed in the pit of her belly, sultry and pleasing.
She closed her eyes, rushing on a sizzling current of awareness, attuned to the taste of his hot mouth on hers, the rough scrape of his callused fingers on the tender skin at her nape, the iron bands of his arms wrapped tight about her.
Her breasts felt heavy, full, the juncture of her thighs liquid and achy in a strange and unfamiliar way. The intensity was harsh, almost frightening, but, oh, she liked these feelings, wanted them to go on and on. With a low, inarticulate sound, she shifted her hips against his, closer, tighter, feeling the hard press of him.
The stroke of his hand along her waist ensnared her, higher, higher. She held her breath, arching into his touch until his hand closed over her breast, stroking, caressing, the tips of his fingers teasing the sensitive peak sending sharp shafts of wanting radiating through her limbs.
With a strangled moan, Jane curved her body to his, reckless in her need to get closer to him. Thrusting her hands through the open front of his coat, she pulled at his shirt, goaded by a frantic urge to free the cloth and push her hand beneath to touch the warmth of his skin. As her palms brushed his naked waist, she moaned, and pushed deeper, wanting to feel the broad expanse of his back.
He tore away with a low oath, and stood, panting, his head lowered, his eyes dark and fathomless as he stared down at her. He looked fierce and primitive, and she ached to press herself against him, and tug his head down until she could taste him again.
Through the haze of her rampant desire, she became aware that he shook, as though holding himself back by sheer force of will. He raised his hands, looking at them with an expression of distaste, turning them palms up and palms down, and finally clenching them into fists and letting them fall to his sides.
“I have killed men.” A harsh scrape of words. He lowered his head, drew a breath, and another, and when he raised his head once more, his eyes were bleak. “Not just with a pistol or a knife, Jane. I have taken a man’s head in my hands and twisted until the sharp crack of death filled me with satisfaction.”
The horror he described assaulted her, a cold and frightening blow. Whatever tender emotion he roused in her breast, Aidan Warrick was a stranger to her, a man of secrecy, cast in shadows and darkness even when he stood in the light.
She had been a breath away from letting him take her, here, on the pebbled beach, in plain view of any who might pass.
Letting him take her? Nay, in a moment she would have pleaded with him to do the deed.
She fell against the boulder at her back, struggling to still the trembling that overtook her.
“You deserve better. Better than these hands on you.” He raised his fists. “Better than what I can give you. I am filled with venom and hate.” He tore his gaze away and looked out to the water, as though the sight of her was more than he could bear. “And you deserve better. Far better.”
“You do not mean these things,” she whispered brokenly. “You cannot. There is good in you. There is kindness and affection—”
“Do not weave a web of fantasy,” he broke in sharply. “What emotion do you imagine in me, Jane? Hate? Vengeance? They are the only emotions I know.”
Feeling sick, she stared at him. He wanted her. Yet he denied himself. Why? She studied the rigid line of his jaw, and conviction coalesced with the clarity of a cold winter’s dawn.
“Honor,” she said, knowing with certainty that it was a trait he valued. He had told her so that night at the New Inn. “I imagine honor in you. Nay, not imagine. I know it is there.” How had she once imagined that he was a man who cared nothing for honor?
He didn’t answer and as the waves lapped at the shore and the birds circled overhead, she felt as though a heavy veil was pulled from her eyes. “That is why you made me your bondswoman, isn’t it? Not because you meant to hurt my father by taking me. You do not believe he has enough care for me to be hurt. You made that clear in the carriage the night we returned to Pentreath. And you said something else, something about everything you have done and how it would be for
nothing. Your honor forbid you from seeing an innocent harmed, so you took me into your care so I would not suffer when you destroyed my father.”
The sound of her own heart thrummed wildly in her breast as she waited for his reply. Finally, she could not stand the silence.
“Look at me!” she cried, shocked when he did just that, his gaze stark and severe.
Tears poured down her cheeks, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand.
“You are a tool I use to wound the man I hate,” he said, his tone dull.
She nodded, her lips pressed tight together, and then the breath exploded from her. “Lie to yourself, Aidan, if you must.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it once more and a sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. “I am a poor liar. It is a dangerous failing in a smuggler and thief.” He shook his head. “Jane, I would protect you from any who would do you harm. Including myself.” A deep inhalation expanded his broad chest. “Most especially myself.”
He stood before her, rigid in his self-imposed denial, each breath measured, controlled. “I will send Hawker to see you safely back to the house.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not leave this beach or try to climb that path without his escort.”
Her throat clogged with heartbreak, Jane could only nod in reply. She tore her gaze from him as he stalked off, and looked instead to the waves that now crashed against the shore, angry, turbulent, mirroring the maelstrom in her soul.
Chapter 11
There was fog the next morning, smoky gray and thick, curling cold, damp tendrils about Jane’s frame, making her shiver. Aidan had agreed that she might go anywhere save the Crown Inn and so, released from her captivity to some small degree, Jane walked toward the church. The way was achingly familiar and she was glad for the tiny bit of ease she found in the comfort of habit. She paused at the road that led to the village, wondering if she dared walk past the Crown Inn, not to tarry there, but only to look upon its known and comforting facade.
