With such somber thoughts for company, Gideon rounded the bend in the gallery and almost ran Sarah down.
“Sir Gideon!”
He reached out as she stumbled. Then he remembered and snatched his gloved hands back. Blood pumped through his veins in primitive demand. He hardened with uncontrollable swiftness. Untrammeled images from his dreams swamped his mind. His body moving in hers. Her bronze hair flowing about them like wild silk. Her soft moans of pleasure.
For one burning instant, he stood close enough to catch her scent. A hint of carnation soap. The essence of Sarah herself. Then she found her balance and shifted away, thank God.
Sucking in a deep breath, he retreated a step. The extra distance did nothing to curb the storm inside him. “Sarah…”
At his withdrawal, her eyes darkened with hurt. He wanted to tell her again it wasn’t her, but he stopped himself. Better by far she never learned his filthy secrets. He couldn’t burden her so.
She bit her lip and glanced at the painting she’d been studying. “He could be your twin.”
“What?” Gideon struggled to focus on what she said.
“The man in the portrait.”
He blinked to clear his vision and realized she stood looking at Black Jack Trevithick. For a long moment, Gideon stared into painted eyes so similar to his own. Black Jack wasn’t smiling, but the long, sensual mouth quirked on the verge of laughter.
“That’s Black Jack. An altogether more dashing fellow than I.”
“He certainly has the devil in his eyes.”
“Not just in his eyes if the stories are true.”
“Women, you mean? If looks are anything to go by, I suspect the stories are true.” She glanced directly at Gideon. “You’ll have to tell me.”
He shifted uncomfortably. A discussion of his disreputable forebear’s amorous conquests. Just what he needed when he struggled to rein in his own unruly sexual appetites. “Most aren’t fit for a lady’s ears.”
She laughed softly and flashed him a smile. Her full lips curved bewitchingly, and he caught a glimpse of small white teeth. Another bolt of arousal left him staggering. Her warmth beckoned, more enticing than a fire on a winter’s night.
He tilted his chin in Black Jack’s direction. “Actually, there’s one story you might like.”
“Only one?”
“Well, the only one I mean to tell.”
“Spoilsport.” Her lips twitched in a way that sent another frisson down his spine.
He strove to sound as if he weren’t about to combust into ashes. “Black Jack was the local wild boy. He could sail anything that floated, ride any horse that galloped, seduce any maiden into compliance. The family legend is he charmed Queen Bess out of her chastity.”
The enchanting smile still hovered around Sarah’s lips. “What a man.”
“Precisely.” He struggled to concentrate on his story rather than Sarah’s attractions. An impossible task when her attractions were so compelling. “On one of his raids along the Spanish Main, he captured a galleon.”
Her face was alight with interest. “Packed with treasure, so the Trevithicks were set up forever?”
“Who’s telling this tale?”
“You are. Pray, go on.”
“Packed with treasure, so Black Jack came back to Cornwall and rebuilt the house as it stands today.”
“If he built this house, he had an artist’s spirit. What else was on the galleon?”
He fell into the familiar tale, telling it as he’d heard it as a child from his nurse, one of Pollett’s sisters. “A grandee’s daughter called Donna Ana, the most beautiful woman in King Philip’s empire.”
“She fell in love with Black Jack at first sight?”
“No, she fought him tooth and nail. But Jack wanted her and brought her back to Penrhyn as his bride.”
“Don’t tell me she pined for Spain and died a melancholy death far from everything she loved?”
“Now what sort of romantic legend is that?”
“The sort I don’t like to hear.”
An amused sound emerged from his throat. So dangerous, letting himself relax with her. But sweeter than the rich Indian confectionery he remembered from the bazaars. “After a battle royal, she fell in love with her Cornish pirate and gave him ten healthy children. He lived into old age as a faithful and devoted husband.”
Sarah’s smile filled with unguarded delight. He felt as though he stood in a shaft of summer sunlight, for all it was a cold February day. “That’s lovely.”
Her response didn’t surprise him. He knew she was a romantic. Look at how she romanticized him.
“I suspect in reality their marriage was much like anyone else’s.” Gideon stifled his own boyish fascination with his swashbuckling ancestor. Misguided romanticism had already cost him everything that made life worthwhile.
Her smile faded. “No. It was a grand passion, so their life together was a grand adventure.” She must have guessed he meant to argue for a more prosaic interpretation because she rushed into speech. “Is there a picture of Donna Ana?”
Gideon gestured to the opposite wall. The small panel on wood depicted a dumpy woman wearing an unflattering black gown from the reign of James Stuart. “There.”
Sarah spent some time staring into the woman’s plump, lined face. He moved to stand behind her, not close enough to touch. “Are you disappointed?”
Of course she must be. The most beautiful girl in the Spanish Empire had turned into a middle-aged frump. If Donna Ana ever was beautiful. Perhaps family mythology embroidered that part of the tale. Perhaps Jack just married this little hen to secure her Spanish gold. The wealth he seized from the galleon was real enough. The proof was all around them in Penrhyn’s faded glory.
“No, I’m not disappointed,” Sarah said softly, turning to face him. “She looks like she led a happy life even though she was far from home and family. She must have loved her wild husband and her brood of children.”
In this dusty room with its beautiful parquetry floor, dark paneling, and elaborate plaster ceiling, Sarah was the only thing truly alive. She burned like a flame. His eyes feverishly drank her in. Satiny hair pulled back in a plait. Great, glowing eyes. Her cheap gown hinted at the untold riches of her body beneath.
Her cheap, torn, dirty gown.
He scowled. “Good God, woman, what are you wearing?”
A flush rose in her cheeks, and she self-consciously tweaked her faded skirts. “It was all I had.”
“I asked the housekeeper to find you something.”
She made a face. “Mrs. Pollett is three times my size. She lent me a couple of dresses, but they were hopeless. The nightdress was so big, it wouldn’t stay up.”
He stiffened. All over. Darkness edged his vision. His mind burned with scorching images of Sarah’s shift sliding to the ground with a sensual whisper. Leaving her bare and beautiful and ready for him.
He cleared his throat, clenched his fists, and battled for control.
Her color became more hectic, and her hands rose to her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Gideon swallowed and strove to concentrate on the least arousing objects he could think of. Radishes. Turnips. Cabbages. Carrots.
No, not carrots.
“No…” He cleared his throat again. “No, you shouldn’t.”
“You won’t believe this, but I wasn’t dragged up under a bush,” she mumbled.
He knew what he’d like to do with her under a bush. Or what he’d like to do if he was a whole man and able to turn his desire into action.
He struggled for a normal tone as wanton images of Sarah naked and eager rocketed through his mind. “My mother’s clothing is packed in the attics. Would you like to see if any is suitable? You can’t run around in that rag for the next three weeks.”
Sarah pointed to a gold-framed picture along the same wall as Black Jack’s. “Is that your mother?”
“Yes.”
As he’d known she
would, she wandered down to stand in front of the exquisite Lawrence. The woman in the portrait wore one of the diaphanous gowns popular at the end of the last century. Blond hair curled softly around her delicate face.
“She’s very pretty.”
“In her first season, she was considered a diamond of the first water. She was only eighteen when she married my father.”
“Is he the rather florid man in the next picture?”
“Yes. And my brother Harry is the fellow next to him, who looks like a younger version of his sire.”
His gut tightened with the usual contradictory emotions as he studied Sir Barker and Harry. Regret, certainly. A complex brew of grief and anger. The futile wish that at least a trace of warmth had marked his interactions with his family.
“You don’t look like either of your parents.”
“My father might have wanted to proclaim me bastard, but the proof of my mother’s fidelity is in this gallery.”
Interspersed with more conventional-looking faces, Black Jack’s piratical features looked out at the world, sometimes in daughters of the house, more often in sons. Black Trevithicks were usually male. Their faces were everywhere, under cavalier curls or bag wigs. Intelligent, knowing black eyes. Lazy, confident smiles.
Sarah tipped her head to the side, surveying his mother. “She looks sad.”
Gideon was surprised Sarah sensed the picture’s melancholy. He found himself telling her what he’d never told another person. “My father wasn’t an easy man. What little I’ve learned of their union indicates an infelicitous match. My brother’s delivery was difficult, and the doctors advised separate bedrooms. But my father insisted on his rights, so three years and four miscarriages later, I arrived.”
“And she slipped away.” Sarah returned her attention to the portrait. “How tragic.”
“Yes, it was.”
Would his childhood have been different if his mother had lived? She’d been a gentle woman with intellectual tastes. He’d always believed he inherited his love of learning from her.
“You don’t mind if I wear her clothes?”
He shrugged. “She was unfailingly kind. Everyone who knew her agreed on that. My father viewed her generous nature as a sign of weakness. The villagers, though, loved her and still speak of her fondly. She’d be the first to offer her wardrobe to a lady in distress.”
“I would have liked your mother.” Sarah’s smile was tinged with compassion.
He tensed. His pride revolted at her pity.
“Come up to the attics,” he said sharply, and tried to ignore the way her eyes once more darkened with hurt.
He turned on his heel to stalk out of the gallery and along the dim corridor that ran through the back of the house. She scurried to keep pace with his long stride. Without speaking, they climbed a series of ever-narrowing stairways lit by dirty mullioned windows.
Outside the last door, Gideon lifted two candlesticks from a niche. He lit the candles and passed one to Sarah, who waited slightly breathless at his side. He stifled a pang of guilt. It wasn’t long since she’d endured a savage beating, and yesterday she’d nearly fallen off a cliff. He should have more consideration than to rush her through the house at top speed.
Still, his tone was brusque. “Here. It’s dark up there.”
“Thank you.”
Silently, she followed him up the final precipitous staircase. He entered the attics ahead of her and halted abruptly as a thousand memories overwhelmed him.
The smell was exactly the same. Dust. Old dry wood. Fusty air. Painfully reminding him of boyhood misery.
“Heavens, you could fit a village up here.” Sarah stepped closer but thank God, didn’t touch him. Still her vibrant presence stirred his blood to turbulence.
Against his will, he looked at her. Flickering candlelight transformed her into a creature of dark mystery. Turned her great hazel eyes into bottomless pools. Gilded a cheekbone as she tilted her head with open curiosity to survey the cavernous area.
“It’s where I studied when I was a boy.” He raised his candle to illuminate a corner under the sloping roof. “Nobody’s touched it since I was last here. Look.”
Sarah moved closer to the untidy pile of books stacked near the ragged blanket he’d used in winter. In January, the attics had been as cold as an ice cave in hell. “You wanted to get away from your father.”
He cast her a sharp glance. “He hated having a bookish son. But no number of beatings changed me. I was stubborn.”
“You were strong. You are strong.”
He could have argued but didn’t. “Luckily, most of the year I was away at school.”
“Do you know where your mother’s belongings are?”
He pointed to some trunks against the wall. “They haven’t been shifted either. My father’s and brother’s things are downstairs. It’s such a big house, I hardly need the room.”
“It’s a house meant for children,” she said quietly. “Lots of them.”
He tensed, wondering if she meant to pursue the subject of marriage again but she said no more. Relief trickled through his veins.
“Let’s hope the mice haven’t got to everything.” He strode across to unlatch the first trunk. Anything to break the web of intimacy slowly spinning between them.
“I can’t smell mice. Your cats must be ferocious hunters.”
“Under my father’s and brother’s careless regime, they had to be to keep their bellies full.” He flung back the heavy lid with a bang. Immediately faded scents crammed his senses. Lavender to keep the clothes fresh. A faint echo of rose fragrance that must have belonged to his mother.
Sarah stepped softly to his side. “I feel like she’s here.”
“So do I.” His voice was flat with control. He placed his candle on the trunk behind. Sarah must see how his hands shook. She couldn’t miss the way the flame wavered in the airless room.
Reluctantly, he began to sift through the trunk’s contents. Bonnets. Hats. Scarves. Handkerchiefs. Stockings. Shoes. Soft kidskin gloves that had shaped themselves to his mother’s hands. Hands he’d never touched.
Finally, at the bottom, he found neatly folded clothing. His gloved hand brushed heavy silk, and he carefully lifted what proved to be an evening cloak. As the shining blue fabric unfurled, a gust of rose perfume drifted into the still room.
He’d never touched his mother’s things before. It had seemed somehow wrong to pry into her private possessions. Although he’d always known which trunks were hers.
Carefully, he laid the cloak aside. Behind him he was vaguely aware of Sarah’s footfall as she explored the attic. Then suddenly light bloomed around him.
“This might help.” She set the lantern down near him.
“It’s the one I used to read by.”
“I found it with your books.” She knelt, her shoulder inches from his.
He desperately wanted to tell her to move away. She was close enough for little eddies of scent to tease him, her peppery carnation fragrance mingling with the evocative rose. She was close enough for him to hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing.
Did his proximity disturb her as hers disturbed him? Sweet God, this became more impossible with every second. Briefly he shut his eyes and prayed for strength. When he opened them again, Sarah pored over the items he’d discarded on the floor.
“Everything is so delicate,” she said softly. “Like it was made by angels. Look.” She held up a filmy shawl of lace fragile as a spider’s web.
He reached out to touch the fabric, then jerked back. All his life, his mother’s gentle ghost had haunted him. Touching her clothing made her tragedy poignantly immediate.
He struggled to inject a prosaic element into his voice. “Not exactly suitable for late winter.”
He had to get this over with quickly, before he made an utter fool of himself. He drew out a satin ball gown. Its rich peach color gleamed in the candlelight.
“Nor is that.” Sarah’s voice sounded h
uskier than usual. As if she’d just got out of bed, God help him. His hands curled in the slippery material.
“These must have come from her London season.” Still, he strove to sound casual, unconcerned. The last thing he needed was Sarah to discover her interest in him was reciprocated. “My father never socialized. Or not with people he’d introduce to his wife. She’d have little call for a dress like this at Penrhyn.”
All the gowns were too elaborate for Sarah to wear around the house. Gideon repacked the trunk, his hands lingering on the fine materials. He knew it was only imagination, but a hint of warmth from that pretty laughing girl, the toast of London, still remained. He shut the lid and turned to the next trunk.
As with the other one, accessories lay on top. He quickly riffled through them. He passed Sarah a sturdy pair of half boots. “See if those fit.”
The first gown he pulled out was a sprigged muslin day dress. He stood and turned around, then wished to God he’d stayed put.
Sarah sat on the trunk they’d already checked, sliding on the shoe. Her skirts hiked to reveal two trim ankles. Petticoats frothed, white and alluring, around her shapely calves. Her thick braid tumbled over one shoulder to dangle between her breasts. As she leaned forward, her bodice gaped to reveal the pale skin of her cleavage.
His mouth went dry as sand. His heart slammed hard against his ribs. Hunger to tumble this girl on the dusty floor made him giddy. The urge to escape rose to choke him.
He must have made a noise because she turned startled eyes in his direction. “Gideon?”
Just his name. A low question. Just as he’d started calling her Sarah, somewhere she’d started calling him Gideon. He whipped around and dropped to his knees before the open trunk. His breath rattled loud in his ears as he fought to rein in the agonizing conflict inside him.
He couldn’t touch her. No matter how much he wanted to. He knew what would happen. He’d frighten and disgust her.
He fumbled in the trunk, roughly pushing aside the first gown. Without looking, he grabbed something and shoved it in Sarah’s direction.
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