Captive of Sin

by Anna Campbell

The fiendish instruments. The endless torment. The inevitable knowledge that nothing could save them.

  There would be pain. Then there would be death. No escape.

  “Gideon…” She looked down and sucked in a shuddering breath. Not before he caught the shimmer of tears.

  Her shaking distress wrenched him back from nightmare. “I should stop. I’m upsetting you.”

  As she looked up, her eyes glittered. He was astonished to recognize fury beneath her wretchedness. “Of course I’m upset. You describe your systematic degradation and torture.” Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. “How long were you held?”

  “A year. Mostly in a dark pit the size of a grave.” His voice was still flat although his heart beat like a drum as he revisited the agonies of Rangapindhi. Not that they were ever far from his thoughts. But somehow putting what he’d endured into words revived all the vile reality.

  Now he’d released the floodgates that dammed the memories, he couldn’t stop. “Parsons died within the first week. Gerard, poor devil, hung on for over a month. God knows why I didn’t die too. I should have. The jailers gave me just enough food to keep me alive. I’ve never been sure why. Just as I’ve never been sure why of the three of us, I survived.”

  She released the chair and wrapped her arms around herself. Standing there in her cheap, borrowed dress and a coat far too large for her, she should have looked absurd. But her beauty shone like a beacon, stole his breath.

  “You wanted to die,” she said bleakly.

  His lips flattened. “Believe me, death would have been welcome. But I was too blasted stubborn to kill myself and give those bastards the satisfaction of besting me. And for all the pain they put me through, they never quite finished me off.”

  Raising her chin, she cast him a defiant look. Her voice emerged with unexpected ruthlessness. “So you were a hero.”

  He stiffened and stepped back. No hero he. A hero never begged for mercy from his torturers. A hero never longed for death to spare him another day’s pain. A hero never succumbed to devils in his mind.

  “No, I wasn’t a bloody hero.”

  Her voice deepened into irony. “Because you told the Nawab what he wanted to know.”

  “Believe me, keeping my mouth shut was the extent of my courage. When the Company’s men finally dragged me out of that pit, I was a babbling lunatic.”

  She made a sound in her throat that indicated disagreement, but mercifully she didn’t argue. Strain marked her features. “And it’s the torture that makes it impossible for you to…touch anyone?”

  He met her perceptive gaze and decided he’d gone too far to prevaricate. He folded his arms in a futile attempt to hide his shaking. “We were chained together in the pit and left.”

  He thought at first she hadn’t understood. Thank God.

  Then he realized what scant color she retained leached from her face. “The three of you?”

  He stiffened. Damnation, he should never have started this. Why didn’t he make up some easy story about comfortable incarceration and eventual rescue?

  But he couldn’t look into her eyes and lie.

  “Yes.” The word was choked. He battered back memories of month after month chained to rotting corpses. Through the humid airless heat of an Indian summer. Through the savage cold of winter. The unrelenting stink, the decay of once-healthy flesh.

  Horror dawned in her expression. And a compassion that stabbed at his pride.

  Because he couldn’t bear her to imagine even a hundredth of what he’d been through, he spoke quickly. “It was almost a relief when the Nawab exhibited me for general mockery. He loved having a captive sahib who stank like carrion and could hardly cover his nakedness. I was quite the highlight of his divans until the stench got so bad, even he couldn’t stomach it.”

  “How did you escape?” she asked huskily.

  “British troops ousted the Nawab. Akash entered Rangapindhi with the invading forces. He knew if I was alive, I must be in the palace. He found me in the lowest depths of the Nawab’s prisons.”

  “Thank God for Akash,” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly as if the words were a prayer.

  “I was burning up with fever, barely able to walk, half-mad.” More than half-mad. He’d spent a long time convinced his rescue was another sick fantasy.

  Charis’s brow creased in a thoughtful frown. Her voice was stronger, although still thick with emotion. “Your health has improved since.”

  “I can walk and talk without humiliating myself. Most of the time. Quite an achievement.” He bit back the sarcastic edge. It wasn’t her fault he was a wreck.

  He crossed to stoke the fire again. The flaring flames revealed her somber, troubled expression. Unfamiliar shadows swam in her unblinking gaze. Shadows he’d put there. He cursed himself for a selfish swine. He should have found a room, slept off the drink, left her to innocent dreams.

  Except he couldn’t bear staying away from her.

  “Charis, I’ve had months to recover.” She was better facing the bleak truth than nurturing the smallest hope that he’d ever offer her a whole body and mind. “My physical health is as good as it will get. Nothing has shifted the devils in my mind. Nothing will.”

  She swallowed again. He expected a protest, but she spoke with perfect calm. “You believe you’ll never touch another person?”

  “Not without difficulty.”

  Her expression was unyielding. “Then how can you hope to consummate our marriage?”

  He tensed. The attack was unexpected. He dredged his response from the deepest part of him. “I must. I will. I can.”

  Something in his face must have alerted her to the shame roiling in his gut. “Gideon, what is it?”

  He swung away although she didn’t approach him. Confound it, why didn’t he hold his ground? He acted like he’d done something wrong. “Nothing.”

  Her voice was sharp. “Where were you tonight?”

  Why did she have to be so damned acute? “I told you. Drinking. I got into an altercation with a couple of ruffians. They came out the worst, I’m pleased to say.”

  Then she did step closer, her skirts rustling. Christ, don’t let her touch him. Not now. After telling her about Rangapindhi, he felt like he’d scraped off several layers of skin.

  She exhaled in a long, impatient breath. “There’s more.”

  Oh, she was damned right about that.

  His guilt surged. Fought with the absurd urge to confess, to receive absolution. When he knew there was no real absolution for him ever, for this sin or his other, more heinous transgressions.

  She waited for his answer. Strange how he’d withstood agonizing interrogations in Rangapindhi without cracking, but his wife’s bristling silence made him frantic to spill his secrets.

  Oh, hell, why shouldn’t she know what he’d done tonight? Perhaps it was best she recognized what a craven she’d married. He’d tried to tell her so often, but she refused to heed him, devil take her foolish stubbornness.

  He drew himself up to his full height, turned, and surveyed her down his long nose. “I paid for a tart,” he said harshly.

  As her expression darkened with hurt, his gut clenched in unwelcome remorse. She came to a trembling halt a few feet away. “What…what did you do with her?” she asked shakily.

  Abruptly Gideon’s guilty defiance evaporated. He felt utterly sickened. With himself. With the world. With every bloody thing in Creation.

  Except the woman he’d married.

  He avoided eyes that held no accusation, just tortured curiosity. Shame rose like bile. Sometimes his shame was so suffocating, he thought it would kill him.

  His voice was toneless as he unleashed the mortifying truth. “Not one damned thing.”

  Even without watching, he knew the tension drained from her. He braced for a volley of questions. But she didn’t speak. Which somehow forced him to explain.

  “I couldn’t. I thought…” God above, this was humiliating. His hands formed f
ists at his sides. He gulped for air, which seemed in short supply in the dark room. “I thought…I think I’ll hurt you when I…when I bed you. I thought if I could take the edge off, it would go easier for you. I’d give up my life before I…I hurt you.”

  Good God, he stammered like an embarrassed schoolboy. Heat prickled his neck.

  He risked a glance at her. Astonishingly, her lips curved in a faint smile although her eyes were still somber. “I’d rather you hurt me than you went to another woman.”

  He’d expected hysterics, rage, tears. Shock sent him tumbling headlong into speech. “I’d hoped to manage the act with a professional. I haven’t willingly touched anyone since Rangapindhi. And you’ve seen what happens to me when I do touch someone. I’m in a damnable state to bed an inexperienced girl. I’d hoped…if I could touch a stranger, I’d be able to touch you, manage the act without too much pain or clumsiness.” The final sour admission surged up. “But using that woman felt too much like betrayal.”

  Her smile widened as if he’d done something wonderful instead of shabby and sordid. Devil take her, what was wrong with the girl? Nothing he said or did, no matter how vile, made her despise him as he deserved.

  He couldn’t bear to look into her face any longer. Its beauty, its honesty, its love scourged his soul. On feet heavier than lead, he crossed the room to stare out the window.

  The sky outside turned gray. His wedding night was over. And his bride was still a virgin.

  She padded across to stand beside him. “It’s a new day.”

  “We’ve got nothing but darkness ahead,” he said grimly, glancing at her.

  “I don’t believe that.” She sounded tired but sure as she looked at him. The honesty in her eyes always cut right through him.

  “You will.” He slumped onto the window seat. He felt empty, lost. He had no idea where they went from here. Not for the first time, he wondered if in marrying Charis, he’d inflicted worse harm on her than her stepbrothers ever could.

  She stood too close, but at least she didn’t touch him. “Do you want to come to bed?” she asked hesitantly.

  “No.” In the strengthening light, he saw her face more clearly. She looked exhausted, devastated. “You go.”

  She shook her head and knelt on the thick red-and-blue rug at his feet, pulling his coat more securely around her shoulders. “You’ve had less sleep than I.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  She drew her knees up and linked her hands around them. With her loose hair tumbled around her, she looked absurdly young. Except the expression in her eyes spoke of heartbreaking experience. She’d changed in the last hour, taken on some of his darkness.

  What he’d dreaded had come to pass. The poison of Rangapindhi had infected her bright spirit. And there was no antidote.

  Her gaze was somber as she stared across the room at the burning embers in the hearth. Instinctively, Gideon lifted his hand to stroke the soft fall of her thick hair, to offer a moment’s comfort.

  Then he remembered that such natural gestures were forever denied him. His heart contracted in agony as his hand dropped away from her.

  Fourteen

  Wearing only her shift, Charis waited alone in the big bed. It was late, past midnight, and the weather had turned colder during the day so a fire blazed in the grate.

  No sound came from the parlor behind the closed door. She knew Gideon was in there, steeling himself for what he must do. She’d been steeling herself all day too. In her belly, huge ugly toads of fear somersaulted over each other. Her trembling fingers crushed the embroidered edge of the fine linen sheet.

  Could consummating their marriage push him further into darkness?

  Darkness hovered perilously close. She’d recognized that last night, when he’d told her about Rangapindhi. The magnitude of his suffering beggared belief.

  Could she heal him? Could anyone?

  And still they both had to get through tonight. She’d told Gideon she could do this. But every lonely second of delay made her bravado less and less convincing. If he didn’t appear soon, her failing courage would desert her altogether.

  Charis bit her lip and closed her eyes, whispering a silent prayer for strength. It didn’t help.

  When she opened her eyes, Gideon stood on the threshold. The doors in St. Helier’s best hostelry were, of course, well oiled.

  “Hello,” she said stupidly, although she’d only left him to his brandy half an hour ago, and they’d spent an entire strained day together, carefully avoiding the subject of what happened tonight.

  His beautiful mouth quirked in the wry smile that was indelibly imprinted on her poor yearning heart. “Hello to you too.”

  He was in shirtsleeves and trousers. The neck was open, slashing down to reveal a solid chest covered in curling dark hair. The sight shocked her. She’d imagined him hairless, like the marble statues in the hall at Marley Place. His long narrow feet were bare. He still wore his fine tan kid gloves.

  All this she took in with one sweeping look, aware he studied her in his turn. What did he see? She kept the covers pulled to her shoulders as she sat against the carved oak bedhead. She’d plaited her hair as usual. It seemed inappropriate to leave it loose, too bridal when she didn’t feel remotely like a bride.

  She overcame her crippling shyness to glance into his face again. His fleeting amusement had evaporated. He was pale, and that telltale muscle flickered in his lean cheek.

  “What…what do you want me to do?” she asked almost soundlessly.

  Why, oh, why did this have to be so awkward? Surely people consummated marriages—or did this without legal niceties—all the time. Yet she was so nervous, she felt sick.

  He stepped into the room and shut the door after him. “Lie down. Close your eyes,” he said in a somber voice. “I’ll try to be quick.”

  Charis’s heart clenched with misery. She was sure when those other people came together, they said more than that. But those people wanted what was to occur. She bit back a protest at the bleak crudeness of it all.

  He didn’t come nearer. “Would you like me to blow out the candles?”

  She started to shake her head, then nodded. “Yes, please.” What happened was better done in shadow.

  She watched him move around the room with his usual catlike grace. Soon the only light was the fire’s flickering golden glow.

  He stopped beside the bed. With his back to the hearth, she couldn’t see his expression. He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it. She itched to rise on her knees and smooth it. But, of course, she couldn’t touch him.

  The agony of that knowledge carved a crack in her heart as wide and deep as the sea they’d crossed to reach Jersey.

  “Are…are you going to undress?” she asked uncertainly.

  “No.”

  She bit her lip again. Her fingers tightened on the sheet until they ached. Gideon stood close enough for her to hear the uneven hiss of his breath. She looked at the superb man she’d married and wished with every particle of her being she was anywhere but here.

  “Charis, I’ll have to pull the covers away,” he said with gentle insistence.

  She realized she clutched the sheet like a shield. Absurd. She’d agreed to this. He was here for her sake and at great cost to himself. Too late to cavil at the bargain she’d made.

  “Of course.” With difficulty, she relaxed her clawlike grip.

  Down, down the blankets went, until she lay revealed to her bare toes. She closed her eyes because she wasn’t brave enough to look into Gideon’s face. Uncontrollable heat rose in her cheeks. He’d see she was naked beneath her shift. A nauseating mixture of nerves and embarrassment kept her stiff and unmoving.

  He was so still, standing next to the bed, that she couldn’t even hear him breathing anymore.

  He’d warned her he’d be clumsy. She was smart enough to believe him. She braced for him to grab her, but nothing happened.

  What was he waiting for? Dear heaven, did the sight of
her shatter his resolution? Now the moment of truth arrived, was he unable to go through with it?

  “My God, but you’re glorious,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Her eyes flew open with disbelieving shock. “What?”

  His expression remained troubled, but his gaze was avid as it traced her body. “Charis, you’re beautiful beyond a man’s wildest dreams.”

  How could he say such things? It was too painful. She couldn’t find pleasure in his praise when he shook with disgust at her slightest touch.

  “Please…” She swallowed to dislodge the lump of distress in her throat. “Please get it over with.”

  His face contorted with sorrow. “I’m sorry, Charis.”

  “Don’t say any more.” She closed her eyes, partly to stem her foolish tears, and slid down in the bed. “Just…do what you must.”

  “As you wish.” He sounded remote, as though he too retreated behind some inner bastion.

  The mattress sagged with his weight, then she felt encroaching warmth as he straddled her legs. She knew the act would be less painful if she relaxed, but every muscle tensed in fearful expectation.

  After a moment, he raised the hem of her shift. To her thighs. Then past her hips. The cold air on her skin made her shiver.

  She placed shaking hands over her mound. Which was stupid. He’d do more than look at her before he was finished.

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her…there. His face was taut with such anguish and longing, she couldn’t bear it.

  Hesitantly, he placed one gloved hand on the soft plain of her belly. Her breasts tightened, and restless heat settled between her legs. She was ashamed that she couldn’t stifle her powerful and immediate reaction.

  He snatched his hand back as if she scalded him. He was shaking. Of course he was. Touching her, even for such a short time, required every ounce of will.

  She bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood. The urge to beg him to stop fought up through her closed throat. She could see in his strained, colorless face what this cost him.

  She remained silent.

  Still silent, she lifted her hands away from her sex.