The Bride Sale

Chapter 5

His head throbbed. He pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes and tried to make the pain go away. The pounding only intensified, continuous Howitzer rounds fired from inside his head and slamming into the backs of his eyeballs.

James groaned. Oh, God, not again. A sick dread churned in his gut. He took in deep gulps of cool air to combat the nausea that always came with the headache. When he was fairly certain he was not going to be sick, he finally opened his eyes.

He was on the moor. Crouching on the very top of the High Tor, in fact. As close as he could get to God. The sun showed it to be well into afternoon. How long had he been out? How did he get there? Castor grazed lazily nearby, so he must have ridden. He could not remember riding. He could not remember anything.

Think, man!

Against the pounding in his head, James tried to remember what had happened this time. It had been morning. Good Lord, hours ago. He had gone to Wheal Devoran. Core was changing. Filthy, exhausted night workers joked noisily with the morning core. As he approached the timber yard he saw Ezra Noone playfully tip the hat of Gerens Palk. Barks of laughter rose from the gathering of men when Palk’s hempen candle fell off his hat and into his dinner pail. The man shouted as the cloth covering his pasty ignited. A burst of flame shot out from the pail.

That was all. No more memories came, as he knew they would not. After six years and more, James knew the effects of sudden fire or explosion. And after six years and more, he still could not control it. He had learned early on to avoid the mine on blasting days, but small incidents such as today’s could never be predicted.

Another long block of hours lost, black hours during which he could recall nothing. A familiar wave of disorientation swept through him, as though he were two people, one not knowing what the other did. It was always the same, yet it never got easier.

He mounted Castor and headed back down the hill to Wheal Devoran. As he approached the main engine house, Kneebone, his chief engineer, leaned against the doorway and mopped his brow. He spied James and walked over.

“Afternoon, m’lord,” he said warily.

“Everything all right here, Kneebone?”

“Aye. We got that plunger pump replaced and now all the shafts are working. And Tregonning’s pitch has been reset.”

“Good. Nothing else?”

“Everything as usual, m’lord.”

If James had made a fool of himself earlier, Kneebone would never mention it. Or anyone else. James knew they all thought him mad. Since he did not know what they might have seen him do—not only today but a hundred times before—he was inclined to agree with them.

He stopped by the count house, checked on the work in the cobbing shed, spoke briefly with the smithy, and made a quick survey of the store buildings. The surface workers avoided him if they could. The rest seemed more guarded then usual. The bal-maidens had stopped singing. He wondered again what sort of scene he’d created that morning.

It was possible he’d been in the village during those lost hours. He knew he should return home and forget about it, but he was always compelled to try and discover what he could. The miners and the farmers, though, and even the staff at Pendurgan, kept their silence. Poldrennan assured him he’d done no more harm, but James could never be sure. He turned Castor toward St. Perran’s.

He swung wide to the south and west so he would enter the village through the churchyard. He picked his way along the gravel path skirting the fenced graveyard. A babble of female voices stopped him, and he edged Castor behind a small copse of trees near the lychgate.

He watched through the leaves as a group of women appeared at the door of Old Grannie Pascow’s cottage, apparently taking their leave. He would stay hidden until they’d dispersed, for he knew how they felt about him. If he listened closely, though, perhaps he might hear something useful, some clue to today’s lost hours.

They seemed, however, merely to be discussing their various aches and pains. They were certainly not talking about him. He kept Castor quiet among the trees while the women lingered and lingered. He wished they would leave so he could be on his way.

“I be most grateful, Miz Osborne, and look forward to yer mixture fer my Gwennie.”

James froze. Verity? Dammit, what was she doing here?

He watched as Verity’s small figure emerged from behind the more substantial one of Borra Nanpean. She wore a gray dress beneath a blue wool cloak and carried a basket on her arm. It was the same blue cloak she’d worn at the auction. Did she know that some of these women had been at the auction? That several of their husbands had actually bid on her? She was smiling and talking to Hildy Spruggins. Did she know Hildy had been there with Nat, probably banging on a kettle as loud as anyone?

She must know. Even if she did not know specifically who had been there, she must realize many of the locals had been. How could she blithely walk out amongst these people, all of whom knew how she came to be at Pendurgan? How could she so calmly face this community of women who would believe her to be no better than his mistress?

Yet here she was, risking their scorn and rejection, apparently dispensing her herbal remedies. She had faced them head on, and succeeded, for there was no question they had welcomed her. She looked as comfortable with them as any Cornishwoman.

It humbled him to watch her, to see how she faced her demons and won—something he had never been able to do. Her demons, though, had been external forces out of her control. His demons came from within.

Somehow he knew Verity had too much pride to allow that single incident to rule her life. She wore her pride like an armor. It was so easily donned he suspected she had used it often before. Only an occasional flicker of vulnerability reminded James there was no real core of steel beneath the armor.

The distinctive voice of Old Grannie Pascow reached his ears.

“Now ’ee mind what I said, child, and ’ee call on me if ever ’ee be in trouble up there.”

Damn. These termagants were rallying around Verity in protection against him. The interfering old shrews! His anger prompted an involuntary jerk on the reins, and Castor whinnied.

The women fell silent and all heads turned in his direction. Muttering a curse, he led Castor forward as though he’d been casually passing by instead of skulking in the trees.

Several stifled gasps met his appearance. Without a word, the women scattered like rabbits to a gunshot. One of them—Dorcas Muddle, he thought—clasped her child to her breast as she scurried down the lane. He wondered again about those lost hours today; but this reaction was typical and likely had nothing to do with anything that might have occurred today.

Verity stood still as a statue in the doorway with Old Grannie. Kate Pascow disappeared inside. The old woman glared at him, her expression formidable and defiant. Verity looked confused and slightly apprehensive as she watched the other women hurry away.

James pulled up alongside the cottage and dismounted. “Good afternoon, Grannie,” he said. “Verity.” She looked startled at the use of her name, but if he was going to maintain the poor-relation charade, anything more formal would seem awkward.

“Afternoon,” Grannie said. After a brief pause, she added, “M’lord.” She had known him since he was in the cradle and seldom used his title, except in the company of others.

He turned to address Verity. “I did not know you planned to come into St. Perran’s today.”

“She did come to give us remedies fer winter head colds an’ such,” Grannie said in a contentious tone, “fer which we be most thankful, what with that Trefusis feller bein’ away an’ all.”

“That was most kind of you, Verity,” he said. “May I escort you home?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, apparently flustered at the notion. “Thank you.” She turned to Old Grannie and smiled warmly. “And thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“’Ee do be welcome anytime, child. The door always be open an’ I always do be home.”

“I shall drop by in a day or so,” Verity said, “when I deliver all the remedies I’ve promised the other families. Now, don’t you forget to use that oil I brought.”

“I won’t be forgettin’. I do thank ’ee again fer it. And ’ee, James.” She pronounced his name Jammez, in the old Cornish manner. “Take ’ee good care of Verity Osborne, do ’ee hear me?”

“Still watching out for everyone’s welfare, eh, Grannie?”

“Someone got to.”

He smiled, and her expression softened. “I will take good care of her, Grannie, have no fear. Come, Verity.” He reached out and took her basket. Then, holding Castor’s reins, he walked beside her along the path.

After a few silent moments, he looked over to find Verity watching him. She dropped her gaze and flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

“By coming to St. Perran’s?” he asked.

“No, not that.”

“How, then?”

She looked up and met his eyes, hers large and liquid brown and unafraid. “By smiling. You smiled at Grannie.”

James shrugged and looked away. “I’ve known her all my life.”

“It’s just that I…I’d never seen you smile.”

Her words, and her soft buttery voice, disconcerted him. It was easier when she was afraid of him.

“I suppose you think me an ogre. Well, it’s true, but not all of the time. And I am afraid now is one of those times. What the devil do you mean coming into St. Perran’s all alone? You ought to have taken Gonetta or Tomas with you.”

“Oh, but I did,” she replied. “Gonetta spent most of the day with me, but left to finish up her chores while I had tea with Grannie and the other women.”

“You should have returned when she did,” he said. “I will not have you wandering about alone beyond Pendurgan.”

“I had not realized you had rules,” she said, a note of challenge in her voice.

“Only the normal ones, the ones any lady would understand.”

“How dare you!”

That had done it. “You know very well how I dare,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. “How silly of me. I am your property, am I not? I shall take more care in the future.”

“Don’t be foolish. I do not own you. I thought I made that clear the first night. But I am responsible for you, so long as you remain under my roof.”

They walked on in silence. Verity kept up a brisk pace, her strides long and her shoulders rigid. So much pride!

“Damn it,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. I should not have scolded you.”

“No, you should not.”

“I’ve had a…a difficult day,” he said. “My temper is on edge. Forget what I said.”

“Then I may return to St. Perran’s, alone, when I please?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, his voice sharp with impatience. “Do as you wish.”

“I am only trying to help your people, my lord.”

The more she helped, the more entrenched she would become in all their lives. And the harder it would be ever to let her go.

“Why are they afraid of you?”

Her question shook him. He had deliberately avoided being alone with her, all the time believing it was his infernal attraction to her he wanted to forestall. But it was more than that. It was this directness. He had seen it every time they’d spoken more than a few words, from that first night in the library when she had tried to sneak away. Beneath all the other excuses, it was this about her, more than anything else, that made her dangerous. He had feared she would inevitably come to this question.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“You should be.” He strode ahead and walked the rest of the way in silence.

During the next several days, Verity often found her heart thrown into a wild disorder. She did not know what to make of James. That day at Grannie’s, when he had ridden out of the churchyard on the black gelding, there had been the apprehension that always affected her in his presence, as well as a fleeting moment of fear when the women had run from him. But there had also been a niggling little spark of pleasure at the sight of him.

He had looked magnificent and handsome sitting atop the sleek black horse. It was the perfect mount for him, she had decided as she watched him swing out of the saddle with a fluid grace, for he was equally dark and sleek.

She had no right entertaining such wayward thoughts, considering her situation and his reputation.

All good sense was tossed away, however, when he smiled at Grannie Pascow. Her traitorous heart had melted a tiny bit. He had a beautiful smile, one that broke across the harsh angles of his face like a sunrise. Clearly, he did not often smile. His face did not bear the creases of laughter. Instead, the lines around his mouth and nose were marks of the scowl he wore so frequently. What a pity, she thought, when the smile so much more suited him.

Could a man who harbored such a smile, a smile that went all the way to his eyes, be so very wicked? There was so much she wanted to know, but no one was willing to tell her.

Not even the man himself. He had never replied to her question. It appeared he wanted to keep her at arm’s length through fear. He wanted her to be afraid of him. Why? James Harkness was a man wary and watchful. It was as though he held on to his control with a firm grip, afraid to let go, afraid…of what?

She had been back to St. Perran’s several times, delivering her herbs and remedies, and providing instructions in their use. And the women had opened up to her about many things. She learned a bit about each family, about their joys and their sorrows. She got to know the children. She learned about each tenant farm’s capacity and about each miner’s pitch. They all seemed to turn to stone, though, on the subject of Lord Harkness.

Even Grannie Pascow was reticent. The oil had worked wonders on her joints, and she claimed to feel as spry as a young colt. Verity sat for hours at Grannie’s hearth, listening to colorful tales of Cornish saints and sinners, of piskeys and tommyknockers. Whenever Lord Harkness was mentioned, though, Grannie steered the conversation in other directions.

Since no information was forthcoming from any quarter, Verity was forced to come to her own conclusions.

He had good, loyal servants at Pendurgan. The cottages and church at St. Perran’s were kept in good repair. He provided employment for both men and women at his mines. He provided a school for the children and paid the teacher’s salary.

If Lord Harkness was so evil, would he take such care of those in his employ, or show concern for the children’s education?

And what about her? He still had not come to her bed, and she decided he had no intention of ever doing so. Since he obviously had not purchased her for his own pleasure, it could only mean he had done it to rescue her from a worse fate.

Verity found it difficult to reconcile all this evidence of decency with the general attitude of the local people and their concern for her safety. What did they fear? What did they know that they weren’t telling her?

Verity considered the question as she walked up the back stairs to the room where Davey slept. She had discovered a patch of coltsfoot near the river embankment a few days earlier. Pleased to find this herb that could be very soothing to a sore throat, she had prepared a new infusion for Davey.

She knocked quietly before entering. Tomas sat by his brother’s bedside and rose at Verity’s entrance. The little boy was tucked up to his chin in wool blankets. A shock of bright red hair fell over his forehead, and the freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks stood out like paint flecks against the pallor of his skin.

“Good afternoon, Davey,” Verity said. “I’ve brought something for you.” She handed the steaming cup to Tomas, who placed it on a small table next to the bed.

“Hullo, Miz Osborne,” Davey squeaked. His throat was still raw and it obviously pained him to speak. “Somethin’ good this time, I do hope? No more nasty-tastin’ stuff?”

Verity chuckled. “I don’t believe this will taste nasty at all, Davey. I’ve sweetened it with honey for you. It should help your throat feel better. You’d like that, would you not?”

“Sure would,” he croaked. “It still do hurt real bad.”

“I know. Here, let me help you sit up and we’ll see if this helps. Tomas, I will stay with him for a while if you like.”

Verity sat on the edge of the bed when Tomas left, helping Davey take the sweetened infusion, one small sip at a time. She chattered to him between sips. She spoke of the Kempthorne children and Gwennie Nanpean and Benjie Spruggins and other children she’d met. Davey knew them all and had his own stories to tell, but Verity kept feeding him sips so he would not talk too much.

After an hour or so, Gonetta entered the room. “Davey boy, y’ain’t been talkin’ Miz Osborne’s ears off, has ’ee?”

Verity reached up and wiggled her ears. Davey dissolved in giggles, which turned into a hacking cough. Verity held him up straight with a hand at his small, bony back until the coughing subsided. He sank against the pillows, pale and weary.

“You rest now, Davey,” Verity said. A rush of emotion for this child welled up in her throat as she tucked the blankets up around his ears.

“Come back?” His voice had become a hoarse whisper.

“Of course I’ll come back. But you must sleep now. Gonetta will sit with you for a while, all right?”

He shook his head and offered a wan smile. His eyelids slowly drooped shut, and he was almost instantly asleep.

Verity rose to leave. She told Gonetta about the new infusion and when to administer it again.

“Thank ’ee, Miz Osborne. ’Ee been such a help.”

Verity shrugged and smiled down at the boy, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She took the service stairs down to the main level. When she passed the Little Parlor, she saw Anges Bodinar seated on a small divan, an embroidery hoop in her hands. She looked up at Verity’s approach and waved her inside.

Verity groaned silently. Encounters with Anges were never pleasant. She gritted her teeth and entered the parlor.

“You’ve been with Cook’s boy again, have you not?”

“Yes,” Verity replied. She stood just inside the doorway with her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

Agnes snorted, then returned her attention to the embroidery. “You spend far too much time with that young scullery rat.”

“He’s a very sick little boy.”

“I thought he was recovered,” Agnes said without looking up, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “According to Cook, you miraculously cured him.”

“I only helped a little, in the absence of a doctor,” Verity said. “But it is a serious illness, especially for a child. He will be some time in recovering.”

“And I presume you mean to stay until he is fully recovered?”

“I gave Mrs. Chenhalls my word.”

Agnes stabbed at the stretched fabric with her needle. “Too bad,” she said. “You ought to have left by now.”

Verity walked into the room and took a seat across from Agnes. She was going to get the truth of out of the old shrew if she had to sit here until the sun went down.

“Why are you so anxious for me to leave?” Verity asked. “Is it because of your daughter?”

“Of course it is!”

It had been a shot in the dark, but it seemed to have hit its mark. Agnes must see Verity as a threat to her daughter’s memory. Or perhaps she simply did not like the idea of anyone taking her daughter’s place at Pendurgan. “You need not worry on that score,” Verity said. “I assure you, despite what you may believe, I am in no way—in no way—replacing Lady Harkness in this house. Do you take my meaning?”

“Hmph. As if you could.”

“You have nothing to fear from me, Mrs. Bodinar. I may have come here under…unusual circumstances, but not for the purpose you have supposed.”

“Great heavens! Do you think I care if you keep that monster’s bed warm at night?” She yanked her needle through the fabric with such ruthless force that Verity thought she would surely ruin the piece. “I only warn you not to trust him.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because of who he is and what he’s done, of course.”

This was the opening Verity had been waiting for. “But I do not know who he is or what he’s done,” she said.

The embroidery hoop dropped to her lap and Agnes looked up at Verity, astonishment in her face. She blinked like an owl surprised in daylight. “You do not know?”

“No.”

“But everyone knows.”

“Everyone around here. I am new to Cornwall.”

Agnes gave a weary sigh and resumed her stitching. “Then I suppose it is left to me to tell you,” she said.

Verity sat silent, hands folded in her lap, perched on the edge of her chair like a pigeon, waiting for Agnes to go on.

“He was fine before the war,” Agnes said at last. Her voice had lost some of its sharpness though her eyes remained hard. “They married young, he and my Rowena. They had known one another most of their lives and Rowena was bound and determined to have him. Frankly, I would have preferred it if she’d married Alan Poldrennan. Such a nice young man, and he’d been pining after her for years. But Rowena’s heart was set on James.” She hunched a shoulder and gave a little sigh.

“My husband’s mine, Wheal Blessing, was in the district, not far from here,” she continued. “Old Lord Harkness was still alive and running Wheal Devoran with a firm hand. He and James did not always agree on things, so James ran off and joined the army. It was during one of his leaves that he and Rowena married. Wheal Blessing finally played out and was closed, and we lost everything. Soon afterward, my husband died, leaving me nothing but an empty hole in the ground. James offered me a home here, said he wanted me to keep Rowena company while he returned to the army.”

Her brow puckered and she stared off into the distance, as though she’d forgotten Verity was even there. After a moment, she literally shook herself free of whatever memory had taken hold.

“He came home on leave as often as he could,” she went on. “Trystan was born in 1809. Rowena was blissfully happy. But then James was wounded and sold out. He was not the same man when he came home in 1812. He was hard and cruel. Irritable and vicious-tongued. He made Rowena miserable.”

Harsh loathing filled Agnes’s eyes. She held Verity’s gaze for one long moment before speaking again.

“And then he killed her,” she said.

“What?”

“James Harkness killed my daughter. And even worse than that, he killed his own son as well.”

“Are you certain?” Gilbert Russell paced the length of the Turkey carpet in his friend’s study. “It is the same man?”

“There is only one Lord Harkness of Pendurgan,” the other man said. “It says here he inherited the title some eight years ago from his father. Besides, the father would have been too old to be your Lord Harkness. It has to be the same man.”

Gilbert could not believe what he was hearing. He had finally admitted to his friend, Anthony Northrup, what he had done with Verity and where he had got the money to pay off Baldridge. He had thought to unburden himself, to purge himself of this awful thing he’d done to his poor wife.

Tony was one of the few people who knew Gilbert had a wife at all. That’s why it had been so easy. A few weeks away in Cornwall and no one the wiser.

But the deed had gnawed at his gut like a tapeworm. He had to tell someone. Who better than Tony, his closest friend and confidant?

But Tony had just made it worse.

Gilbert stopped pacing and pressed his hands to his temples. “Good God, what have I done?”

“It appears, old chap, that you have turned your wife over to a murderer.”

Verity sat at the tiny desk in her bedchamber and flipped through her notebook. A single candle illuminated the notes she was reviewing. Rain pounded against the window and the wind howled. She had not been able to sleep. Fidgety and restless, she had finally crawled out of bed and decided to go over the stillroom work for tomorrow, to make sure she had all her recipes in order. She concentrated on the herbs needed for her mixtures, hoping to dispel all thoughts of Agnes’s startling revelation.

Had he really murdered his wife and child? Could she believe Agnes? The old woman seemed slightly mad at times, hateful and bitter at most others. Could the words of such a woman be trusted?

Dried betony for Robbie Dunstan’s wheezing.

Once she had made the accusation, Agnes had flung her hoop aside and rushed out of the parlor. She had seemed on the verge of tears. She had lost a daughter and a grandchild, so naturally she would be upset. And perhaps there was some reason to blame James for their deaths. But murder?

Rosemary for Izzy Muddle’s colic.

If it was true, if he had killed them, why was he not prosecuted for the crime? Why was he still wandering about free instead of rotting in gaol or swinging from a hangman’s rope? It didn’t make any sense. Agnes must be exaggerating the tale.

Lovage root for Hildy Spruggins’s stomach.

But if it was true, it accounted for the way the locals feared him, especially the women. Verity recalled how women had grabbed their children when he had walked through the crowd at Gunnisloe. And how Dorcas Muddle had clasped her baby and run down the village lane. She had not forgotten—would never forget—the whispered words of the people at Gunnisloe, words that had made her fear for her life. The villagers must certainly believe them to be true. But were they, in fact?

Beech leaves for Sam Kempthorne’s strained back.

Or was it birch leaves?

How she missed her modern edition of Culpepper. It had been a gift from Edith and was full of Verity’s cribbed notes in the margins. When Gilbert had told her to pack everything for the trip to Cornwall, she had not, of course, taken him literally. She had not thought to bring her books.

So far she had been working from memory, and it had served her well. But if she mistook even one ingredient, the results could be disastrous. Blast! If only she had her books.

She pulled her wool wrapper more tightly around her, though it was only the sounds of rain and wind that made it seem cold. Just the same, she moved to the big wing chair and pulled it right up next to the fire so she could rest her toes on the grate. She stared into the flames and willed herself to remember the precise ingredients for the poultice for Sam Kempthorne. No matter how hard she tried, though, she could not recall if it was beech leaves or birch leaves she needed.

What she wouldn’t give for a good English herbal.

The library downstairs was lined with books, though she had never ventured in to examine them. It was his domain, and she avoided it. But if one of those books was an herbal, it would be a prodigious help to her. What harm could it do to search the shelves?

But what if Lord Harkness was there? She had heard the servant’s whispered references to “his lordship’s insomnia.” What if she went down to the library now and found him sitting there as he had been that first night? Would she be able simply to wander in and casually look for a book?

After what Agnes had told her, Verity doubted anything would be so simple again. Now that she knew the truth, or at least Agnes’s version of the truth, she would not be able to look at him again as her handsome, deceptively decent rescuer. He was once again the fearful dark stranger—a murderer?—and she must be forever wary of him.

But she could not stay closeted in this room. She had made commitments. And she needed an herbal.

Verity uncurled herself from the chair and retied her wrapper close about the chest. She put on her slippers, took the candle from the desk, and crept out into the hallway and down the stairs to the main level. She slowed as she approached the library door. It stood slightly ajar, and a flickering light showed beneath it. He was there.

Verity hesitated. Did she really need the book this very minute? She could wait until he was out of the house tomorrow morning and no threat to her.

But why was she assuming he was a threat to her? Should she really place such faith in the words of a grieving and possibly mad old woman?

No, she would not be cowed by such accusations. Verity took her courage firmly in hand and slowly pushed the door open.

James sat there as before, with his back to the fire, and watching her with eyes as hard and cold as blue steel.

James cursed her silently for disturbing him. He had no desire to be alone with her again.

She wore a thick woolen robe, wrapped and tied closely about her. It was a most unappealing garment, but just knowing she had on nothing more than a night rail beneath it set his heart to pounding like the great high-pressure beam engine down at Wheal Devoran. She held a candle in her left hand. She had placed her right hand on her left shoulder, so that the whole arm modestly covered her already woolen-wrapped breast. A thick braid of hair fell over her right shoulder halfway to her waist. She looked very young and very tense and very pretty.

She was most certainly disturbing him.

James and Verity stared at each other for several long, silent moments. A shock of awareness crackled in the air between them. She was the first to speak.

“I’ve come for a book,” she said. Her eyes never wavered from his. “I wondered if you might have a copy of Culpepper or some other herbal.”

He studied her a moment longer before responding. “Yes, of course,” he said. He pointed to a row of books on the other side of the room. “Just there, I think. Second row from the top. Have a look for yourself.”

She hesitated, then walked over to the shelf he’d indicated. She held her candle high as she scanned the titles. She had to stretch in order to reach the shelf. He watched her long, pale neck flex and arch and open itself to his luxurious scrutiny.

James rose quietly from his chair and came to stand behind her. She gave a tiny start at his nearness, but otherwise did not move. She smelled faintly of lavender and hyacinth.

“It is too high for you,” he said. “Allow me.”

His arm reached around her from behind, brushing against her neck. She flinched slightly at his touch. He pulled down two volumes and stepped away. She set her candle down on a corner table and took them both from him. She flipped open the first one.

“Culpepper’s The English Physician,” she said. “This is the one I especially wanted. It is an older edition than the one I had at home, 1752. But it will do perfectly.” She picked up the second and thumbed to the title page. “Meyrick’s The New Family Herbal. I am unfamiliar with this one. It will be interesting to compare the two.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes catching a glint of candlelight. “May I borrow them?”

“Keep them,” he said. “I cannot imagine they’ve been opened in decades.”

She cocked her head and gave him a quizzical look. “I may keep them?”

He nodded.

“But I…I couldn’t.”

“I insist,” James said. “They were just gathering dust here on the shelf. At least you will make proper use of them. Take them. They are yours.”

She looked down at the books in her hand and chewed on her lower lip. “That is very kind of you,” she said. “Thank you.”

Verity turned toward the table and reached to take her candle, but then swung back around to face him. He wished she hadn’t. He wished she would leave before he made a fool of himself. She gazed up at him and tilted her head slightly, giving a delicate arch to the long neck.

“I could give you something to help you sleep,” she said.

What the devil? What did she know about his sleeplessness? Was the staff talking behind his back?

“There are several herbs that could help,” she continued. “I could make something up for you, if you like. As a sort of thank you for the books.”

He turned away with a dismissive snort. She must think because she’d overcome her own nightmares that her silly little potions would do the same for him. Well, she was wrong. There was no help for him. His shame was too deep.

He heard her walk toward him. “What causes you not to be able to sleep?” she asked.

Dammit, why must she always ask so many questions? He walked away from her and stood before the fire. He watched the glowing embers for a brief moment, shuddered involuntarily, then spun around to face her. Her wide brown eyes begged for an answer.

“It is nothing I wish to discuss,” he said.

“Is it something to do with your wife and child?” she asked.

What? A surge of anger shot through his blood like an electrical charge.

“Is it true that you murdered them? Is that what keeps you awake nights?”

The moment she said the words, Verity realized she’d made a terrible mistake.

His eyes took on a savage look, darkening to a deep indigo so they appeared almost black in the dim glow of the dying fire. She took a step backward. James took a step forward.

Good God, what had she done? Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? Especially after he was kind enough to give her the herbals.

She wished she had kept her nose out of it from the beginning. It might have been stupid—no, it was stupid—but in a perverse sort of way she had rather liked the idea that perhaps she alone had discovered the notorious Lord Heartless was really a very decent sort of fellow after all. In the deepest reaches of her foolish, na?ve heart, she had wanted him to be her heroic rescuer. But she had pushed too hard to learn the truth, and now she was going to pay.

He took another step toward her, and stood so close his height overwhelmed her. Not wishing to meet those cold eyes again, she lowered her gaze. It was a mistake. She stared at the sun-bronzed skin of his throat, the tight cords of his neck, the hint of dark chest hair revealed by the open collar of his shirt. He exuded a pure unyielding masculine power that threatened to engulf her.

“You’ve heard that I am a murderer?”

Verity nodded.

“And do you believe it?”

She was not sure what he wanted her to say. She could only stare up at him, taking quick, shallow breaths through her mouth so that she was almost panting.

“Well, do you?” He roared so loudly that she took an involuntary step backward and dropped the books she’d been holding. She bumped against the table where she had left the candle. Reaching behind her, she grabbed on to its edge with both hands.

“I don’t know!” Her voice came out thin and strangled. “I don’t know what to believe.”

He had moved closer until they were standing toe to toe. “You should believe it,” he said. Without warning, he grabbed her roughly by the upper arms and jerked her forward. The violence of his movement threw a thick lock of black hair over one eye, giving him the look of a pirate. She began to tremble. Dear God, she wished he hadn’t touched her.

“I can assure you,” he said, and she could feel his breath on her face, “I am every bit as base and wicked as you’ve heard.” His voice was cold and cruel, slicing through her like a new blade. “More so.” He pulled her closer so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. The black brows drew down over eyes bright with anger…and something else.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. He was going to ravish her. Despite how repulsive she knew she must be to him, he was going to ravish her. Verity gripped the table edge so tightly she could feel her fingernails digging into the wood.

“In fact,” he said, “you will never know the depths of my corruption.” He let go of her right arm and took hold of her braid, wrapping it slowly around his knuckles. “But perhaps a demonstration will make a believer of you.”

He jerked her braid so that her head was drawn back, and crushed his mouth against hers.

Verity tried to twist away, but he was too strong. He kept hold of her hair with one hand and wrapped the other around her back like a vise, all the while pressing his mouth against hers—brutal, ruthless. Her lips had been slightly parted, and now he forced her mouth open wide and plunged his tongue deep inside.

Startled by this intimacy, and wondering how he could possibly want to do such a thing to her, she squirmed and tried to pull away. But he yanked her hair again, harder, and ravaged her mouth with his tongue. Verity was stunned and frightened and thought she was the one who might be ill this time. But she could not fight him, and so she stopped trying.

She willed her body to relax. If she submitted, perhaps he would not hurt her. She might be able to get through this, if only he did not hurt her. She went limp in his arms.

And all at once, the kiss changed. James pulled back slightly, as though surprised by her acquiescence. He released her braid and wrapped a hand gently around her neck, caressing and stroking it with his long fingers. The arm around her back loosened and he began to move his hand slowly up and down her spine. He withdrew his tongue from the depths of her mouth and began nibbling her lips, slanting his mouth over hers, first in one direction, then another, tasting, exploring, grazing gently with his tongue.

It was a new beginning, as though the other had never happened. He gently coaxed her lips open again and tentatively touched his tongue to hers. She did not retreat, and he followed with a tender stroking, slow circles that set up a treacherous response low down in her body.

The kiss was no longer a punishment. God help her, it was an exquisite pleasure.

Confusion overwhelmed her as his tongue enticed and invited her own timid exploration. She leaned into him and the kiss became more urgent. Their tongues meshed in a fervent dance, while fear meshed with bliss, shame with pleasure, denial with consent. Verity became lost in a maelstrom of warring sensations, and gave herself up to the pure sensuality of it all.

James pulled away at last, leaving her bereft and breathless. He gazed down into her eyes with a puzzled look, then his mouth twisted into an expression of disgust and he pushed himself away.

“You see what I am,” he said, his back to her as he leaned against a chair.

Still shaken, as much from her own reaction as from what he’d done, Verity could only stare at him, speechless. She was surprised to find that her hands still gripped the table behind her, had not in fact moved during the whole incredible episode.

“You see!” He spun around to face her, arms held stiffly at his sides, hands balled into fists. “Do you believe now? Do you?”

She felt the sting of tears building behind her eyes. Why was he doing this? She didn’t know what to believe and had no words to answer him. She offered an ambivalent shrug in reply.

“Foolish woman!” he shouted. “What will it take to convince you? Ask anyone, anyone in all of Cornwall. Go ahead. Ask them! Every man, woman, and child will confirm the depth of my villainy. Ask them. Go ahead. Go. Go!”