The Bride Sale

Chapter 6

Go!

His words echoed off the old stone walls, bouncing back to envelop Verity in their cruel mockery. She moved quickly to leave, but stumbled over something at her feet. The herbals. She gathered them up with trembling hands and hurried to the doorway. The moment she crossed into the hall, the door slammed behind her with a tremendous crash. The entire household would have heard. She took off for her bedchamber at a half run, then flung herself on her bed and cried. But the tears were few and soon spent. Verity rolled onto her back and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

She brought her fingers to her lips. They felt tender, perhaps a little swollen, and she could still feel his imprint upon them. Verity had never been kissed like that. Good Lord, she hadn’t even known anyone ever kissed like that. She could spend the rest of the night lying there reviewing every tiny aspect of it, but such thoughts caused an odd little stirring deep in her belly such as she’d never felt before. It would be easy to abandon herself to the pure physical memory of his arms and fingers and lips and tongue. But there was too much else to consider. Besides, it would be foolish, and useless, to dwell on desires that could never be fulfilled. Not with this man. Not with any man.

She rolled off the bed and removed her wrapper, then pulled back the counterpane and crawled beneath the blankets. She turned onto her side, tucked in her knees, and curled up like a hedgehog. The rain still pounded outside and the windows rattled against the incessant wind. The noise probably would have kept her awake even if her mind, and body, were not in such a mad whirl that sleep was an impossibility.

What had just occurred in the library had been more complicated than a mere—mere!—kiss and the confounding and probably sinful responses it wrought within her. The perplexing behavior of James Harkness—rescuer? murderer?—made him more a conundrum than ever.

He had accosted her brutally in the beginning, but had not ravished her as she had feared he would. If he was so anxious for her to believe the worst of him, why had he not acted in the worst possible manner as proof of his wickedness? There might be other reasons why he had not taken her, reasons having nothing to do with him and everything to do with her, but she had no wish to dwell on those at the moment.

There had been an obvious need for him to demonstrate a level of brutality, and yet he had not been able to maintain it. She very likely had bruises on her arms from his rough handling, and it had been extremely painful when he’d pulled on her braid. But when his embrace had changed—changed into something so sensual and wonderful she would surely go mad if she could not get it out of her mind—Verity had sensed a change in his need as well.

Perhaps she had only imagined it, and of course she had no experience whatsoever in such matters. But when the kiss had gentled, she could swear she had sensed a sort of longing, a melancholy yearning that was in no way connected with the need to overpower, to subjugate, to conquer. It was this longing to which she had responded. She felt as though—was it possible?—he needed her.

She was probably reading too much into it, trying too hard to find that decent, misunderstood man beneath the Lord Heartless mask. It was also possible that her lack of experience allowed him to manipulate her into seeing tenderness where there was only artifice and trickery. Was he in fact a fearsome murderer who found her dangerously easy to seduce?

A shudder coursed down her spine. She curled up into a tighter knot and clung desperately to the pillow.

She was no nearer the truth than ever. Ask anyone, he had said. Well, she had tried just that. She’d nudged and prodded and encouraged confidences, but only Agnes Bodinar had provided any information. Yet, because of her relationship to the late Lady Harkness, her words must still be considered suspect. Verity needed confirmation or explanation. She needed to know if she’d just been thoroughly kissed by a man who murdered his family.

Ask anyone.

All right, she would do that. She would go into St. Perran’s tomorrow and tell Grannie Pascow what Agnes had said, and ask her straight out if it was true. Verity pounded the pillow into a more comfortable shape and closed her eyes. She ran a finger across her lips one more time. Tomorrow, she would discover the truth about the man whose touch and taste still lingered.

James leaned against the windowsill in his bedchamber and gazed out over the estate. From his high vantage point he could see the formal gardens and the wooded landscape of the lower grounds, the apple orchards and the grain fields, the southern pastures dotted with sheep and the mill buildings down near Pendurgan Quay. A great gusting wind caused even the trunks of the big chestnut trees lining the drive to sway like gilly flowers. Far to the west the stacks of Wheal Devoran puffed white bands of smoke against a morning sky the color of an old shilling.

His father had always loved this room, the only bedchamber in Pendurgan’s only tower. When James was a boy, before he and his father had become estranged through endless petty disagreements, they often sat together on this very sill. He used to tell James how he could survey most of his holdings from this single room and how proud it made him to look out over the legacy of several generations. From an early age, he had instilled in James a love of the land and a responsibility for its maintenance and prosperity.

But James was not interested in the extent of his lands just now, or reminiscences and regrets about his father. He had other regrets this morning.

He watched as Verity walked through the terraced gardens, tilting forward into the wind and stepping cautiously along the muddy path. She disappeared from view momentarily when she passed through the archway leading to the lower grounds, but reappeared near the dovecote.

A knot of remorse twisted around in his gut as he watched her walk toward St. Perran’s. He had behaved abominably the night before. He had been so upset—with himself for what he’d done and with her for inciting him to do it—that he had drunk himself into a stupor before falling asleep in the library. Lobb had retrieved him at some ungodly hour and dragged him to bed. Eventually the nightmares had overtaken him, despite the drink. Only this time there had been a slight difference. This time his sergeant’s face had transformed into Verity’s instead of Rowena’s. A new guilt to disturb his sleep.

So now his head throbbed from last night’s brandy and his stomach churned over his treatment of Verity. He felt like hell, duly punished for his sins. He sipped on Lobb’s spiked coffee as he watched Verity disappear down the lane into the village.

He had certainly proven his point, had he not? He was a brute to the core and no woman was safe under his roof. It had been useless to pretend that such an encounter could have been avoided. It had been inevitable from the start. Verity Osborne had got under his skin from the first morning after her arrival.

He’d tried to convince himself that it was her strength and courage and dignity that most attracted him. Utter rot. She was just a damned fine-looking woman, and James had been without a woman far too long. Almost any woman would have affected him the same way.

But was that really true? When he had kissed her he had not been thinking of how the sight of her in nightclothes and with her hair down had stirred his blood. He had been furious with her questions about his wife and son, and wanted to assert his power over her, to provoke fear and loathing.

It had all changed in the space of a moment. She had stopped fighting him and seemed almost to melt in his arms. God, but she had felt good. Soft and warm and responsive. From the moment he had sensed her own pleasure, he had been lost. He had wanted to devour her—in slow, succulent bites. He was about to set his lips on a path down that long white neck when he’d come to his senses.

If he had not forced her to leave, James could not be sure that he would have been able to restrain himself from taking her. Right then and there, stretched atop the table at her back. The thought of her soft, white body beneath his aroused him even now. But shame and guilt had stopped him. He had no right to treat her as though she were a common whore he’d purchased for the evening.

Yet she had fought him only when he had been rough with her. When he had become more gentle, she had responded. Would she have let him make love to her?

The thought of taking Verity as his mistress set his heart to racing. His wickedness was known far and wide. Why continue to deny his own well-deserved reputation? Why not make the tales true? What was there left to lose?

His own reputation had been as black as it could be for over six years now. Through no fault of her own, Verity’s reputation was in shreds. There was no redemption for either of them among the solid Methodist stock of this part of Cornwall.

Despite what the world may think of him, he would never take her by force. If he behaved like a gentleman, would she allow it? Would she allow him to make her into what everyone already believed her to be?

There was only one way to find out.

Grannie Pascow’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Verity. Her knobby fingers beat a tattoo on the carved wooden arm of the high-backed chair. “So,” she said, “’ee wants to know the truth, does ’ee?”

Verity nodded. The smoldering peat fire in the hearth filled the room with an odiferous smoke that caused her eyes to burn. She looked around at each of the room’s other occupants: sturdy, no-nonsense Kate Pascow, proud Ewa Dunstan, and sweet-natured Borra Nanpean. Verity had hoped to speak with Grannie in private, but the old woman never seemed to be alone. Women gathered around the hearth, children frolicked on the dirt floor, and men stopped by to greet Grannie on their way from the mine or the pastures.

It was easy to understand her status in the village. Verity felt the old woman’s strength of character as much as any of the other villagers who’d known her all their lives. She could trust Grannie Pascow. She could not have explained how she knew that to be true. Perhaps it was because the old woman reminded her so much of her beloved Edith. Whatever the reason, Verity liked her and respected her. If she wanted the truth, plainspoken and raw, that is what she would get from Grannie.

Verity blinked against the peat fumes and nodded again. “Yes,” she said. “I should like to know what happened. I should like to know what sort of man Lord Harkness is, since I am living under his roof.”

Grannie leaned back and squinted down the length of her nose. “T’aint a pretty tale,” she said. The others mumbled agreement.

“If what Mrs. Bodinar told me is true, then it cannot be very pretty.” Verity steadied herself for the cold, harsh truth and took a deep breath. The peat fumes burned her throat and she began to cough. She made a mental note to ask Mrs. Tregelly about providing firewood for the cottages. “Tell me, please,” she said at last. “Did he murder his family?”

Grannie’s fingers stilled and she let them hang loosely over the chair arms. “Aye, most likely he did.”

Verity’s heart sank like a wounded bird. No amount of expecting it had prepared her for this bald truth. “Most likely?” she said. “But you don’t know for sure?”

“Nobody do know nothin’ fer certain. Couldn’t be proved, one way or t’other.” The old woman shook her head and pursed up her lips. “Looked bad from the first, though. Looked like he done it.”

“But why?” Verity asked, trying without success to keep the plaintive note from her voice. “Mrs. Bodinar implied that he had been very much in love with Lady Harkness. Why would he have killed her? And their child?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Grannie said. “But when he come home from Spain, he weren’t the same. Sumthin’ happened to him.”

“Aye, it’s true,” Kate Pascow interjected. She bounced a pink-cheeked baby on her knee while she spoke. “After he come back, he were as like to bite yer head off as look at ’ee.”

“Come home with a real mean streak, he did,” Ewa Dunstan added.

“How did they die?” Verity asked.

“Fire,” Grannie replied.

Verity shuddered. “Good Lord. And you believe he set it?”

“Could have,” Grannie said. “Likely he did.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Grannie surveyed the room in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. “Well now, from what I do recall,” she began, “young Trystan—that were his son—and Digory Clegg’s boy Billy was playing in one o’ them old stable buildings near the big house. Empty barn, it were, old and ramshackle. The boys did used to play there a lot. Not just Billy Clegg, but other village boys as well. Kate’s Charlie. Ewa’s Robbie. Lucas Kempthorne. Weren’t no children of his own kind fer young Trystan Harkness to play with, so he were left to mingle with St. Perran’s boys, nice as ’ee please.

“That day, a fire started in the barn. Nobody do know how, but with all the straw an’ such, ’twere bound to go up like kindlin’. Rowena, Lady Harkness that was, she seen the fire and runned outside screamin’ for help. Jammez stood watchin’ that fire, not movin’. Lady Harkness, she shaked him an’ shouted at him to help, but he wouldn’t budge. So she runned into the stable herself an’ tried to save them boys. But the fire be too far gone. The buildin’ collapsed and trapped all of ’em. They be all three killed—young Trystan, the Clegg boy, and Lady Harkness.”

“And Lord Heartless, the evil cur, he never stirred an inch to help,” Ewa Dunstan said. “Stood there and did nothin’ while that pretty wife o’ his and them two little boys died.”

“My God,” Verity said. “Oh, my God.”

Silence fell in the cottage, broken only by the occasional soft plop of crumbling peat. Anguish swelled like a tumor in Verity’s belly. This was not at all what she had expected. It was much worse. Though he may not have held a gun to their heads or a knife to their throats, his inaction had killed them just the same. How could he have done such a thing? It didn’t make any sense.

“But how do you know all this?” she asked, grasping for any thread to stitch it all together somehow. “If everyone died in the fire, how can you know what Lord Harkness did or did not do?”

“Old Nick Tresco, he seen it all,” Kate Pascow said, hoisting the restless infant onto her shoulder. “He were the steward at Pendurgan. Been there as far back as I can ’member. He were out in the fields when he seen the fire and started runnin’ back. He seen Lord Heartless standing there like a statue, big as you please, watchin’ that fire. He seen her ladyship try to get him to help. By the time he got close enough to lend a hand, it were too late. Old Nick do claim his bloody lordship didn’t say a word. Only stared and stared into that fire with a sort of wild look in his eye.”

“Old Nick left Pendurgan after that,” Grannie said, giving Kate a disapproving glance for her strong language. “He wouldn’t work for the man no more after what he seen. It fair made him sick, he said.”

Verity could certainly understand that; she felt nauseous herself. “What made him believe Lord Harkness had actually started the fire?” she asked.

Borra Nanpean looked up from her mending and spoke for the first time. “He were the only one near by,” she said in her soft, shy voice. “Old Nick said it looked like it been torched, with fire startin’ in more than one place, like. It weren’t natural.”

“He done it, all right,” Ewa Dunstan added. “Just like all them others.”

“What others?”

Silence fell among the women once again. Ewa stared at her hands in her lap and did not respond. Verity looked to Grannie. “What others?” she repeated.

“There been two or three queer fires in the district since then,” Grannie said. “No one else never got hurt. But none of ’em ever made no sense, and Jammez—Lord Harkness, that is—were nearby when each of ’em happened.”

“What are you saying?” Verity asked, her voice rising, on the edge of hysteria. “That he is a madman who likes to start fires?”

Grannie shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. I just be tellin’ ’ee what happened, like ’ee asked. Told ’ee it weren’t a pretty tale.”

Indeed it was not. Was she living in the home of an arsonist? Oh, God. She’d been kissed senseless by a man who had passively watched while his family died, when he might have saved them. Or perhaps even by a man who had he set the fire himself, deliberately killing them. Was she doomed to forever recalling the passion of that kiss and, God forgive her, how she had enjoyed it? Or was she doomed to much worse?

She wiped the moisture from her cheeks, blinking away the peat fumes that stung her eyes.

The wind had let up and a thin ray of sunshine broke through a patch of blue in the northwestern sky. The hint of clear weather ought to have lifted Verity’s spirits, but she hardly noticed the change. She trudged up the lane back to Pendurgan, feeling as though she dragged a heavy weight behind her.

It wasn’t anxiety that burdened her thoughts, despite having every reason, she supposed, to fear for her safety. Instead, she felt unexpectedly disconsolate after all she had heard. She had expected she would likely hear some level of confirmation of Agnes Bodinar’s words. But why was it so much more difficult to accept danger from possible madness than danger from pure evil?

For surely that was the only explanation for what Grannie Pascow and the others had told her. Or perhaps all evil was ultimately rooted in madness.

She had wanted the truth and now had it. And in having it, she was more confused than ever.

Verity was pulled out of her melancholy reverie by the clip-clop of an approaching horse, muted by the rain-softened dirt of the lane. A moment of apprehension that it might be Lord Harkness was followed by relief and curiosity when she looked up to find a very handsome, fair-haired gentleman riding toward her. He reined in and doffed his hat.

“Good afternoon,” he said, smiling warmly.

Verity nodded politely, returned his greeting, and then proceeded up the lane. She had no idea who the gentleman might be, but considering her unusual situation and the rumors it prompted, she was wary of any stranger. She had not forgotten the coarse behavior of Mr. Bargwanath and had no wish to endure another rude encounter.

“Forgive my impertinence,” he said as she stepped around his beautiful bay mare, barely a trace of Cornwall in his cultured voice, “but is it possible that you are Mrs. Osborne from Pendurgan?”

“Yes,” she said in a guarded tone, “I am Mrs. Osborne.”

The gentleman’s smile broadened. He dismounted and stood before her. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I ought to have waited for a proper introduction but there has not been the opportunity. I am so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Osborne. I am Captain Alan Poldrennan, ma’am. At your service.” He swept her a formal bow, a gesture strangely out of place in the middle of a dirt path.

“Captain.” Verity acknowledged him with another nod, but remained wary.

“I have a neighboring estate, Bosreath,” he said, waving a hand vaguely toward the west. “The Poldrennan and Harkness families have been friends and neighbors for many years.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I have been a close friend to James—that is, Lord Harkness—since we were boys.”

“Oh.” She was surprised to learn that the man called Heartless had any friends at all. “I suppose that is how you know of me, then,” she said. “You must also know—”

“I know about the auction, yes.” He gave her a reassuring look. “But we shall not speak of that. We will keep to the explanation James has given for you, as a distant cousin.”

“Thank you,” Verity said. A genuine amiability was reflected in the benevolent gray eyes, and his words put her immediately at ease. “That is very kind.”

“May I escort you back to Pendurgan?”

“I would appreciate that. Thank you, Captain.”

He walked his horse around to face in the opposite direction, then fell into step beside Verity. He was the first person, aside from Lord Harkness and Agnes Bodinar, of her own class she had met since coming to Cornwall. She was heartened to know that he did not think ill of her because of how she came to be there. And perhaps the captain could help dispel some of her confusion about the deaths and the fires, if she could think of a reasonable way to introduce the subject.

“You have come from St. Perran’s?” he asked.

“Yes. I go into the village often.”

“I have heard of your knowledge of herbs and physicks,” he said. “I believe you saved the life of one of the servant children at Pendurgan?”

Verity chuckled. “The story grows with each telling. I merely prepared a few home remedies to help ease his breathing and reduce his fever. I do not work miracles, Captain, I assure you. It is simply common knowledge handed down to me years ago.”

“It is good of you to share that knowledge with the village women,” the captain said. “They are very fortunate to have you just now, when Dr. Trefusis is away. Have you been nursing one of them today?”

This was the opening Verity had hoped for. “No,” she said, “I was not helping them today. They were helping me.”

“Helping you?”

“Yes. You see, I went seeking information.”

He looked down at her with a quizzical expression. “And did you find what you were seeking?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

His brows drew together in a puzzled expression.

“I am sorry, Captain,” Verity said. “I do not mean to sound so mysterious. It is…well, it is awkward for me, as a stranger and one who came to be here under…unusual circumstances. I had heard it said that Lord Harkness had murdered his family. Naturally I felt somewhat uneasy and wanted to learn the truth.”

“Ah. And now you know.”

“I was told what happened, but it still makes very little sense to me.” She looked over at him to judge if she ought to proceed. He kept his eyes straight ahead as they walked. Though his mouth had tightened slightly, he did not appear to have closed her off, as Lord Harkness had done when they had walked back together along this same lane.

“Tell me, Captain,” she said. “You are his friend. Why did he do it? Is he mad, as all I heard today suggests?”

Captain Poldrennan walked on in silence for several minutes, and Verity thought she might have made a mistake in asking him such a bold question at their first acquaintance. A frown played across his face while he seemed to weigh his answer. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he finally spoke. “It is very complicated,” he said. “And I’m not sure anyone who has not been to war can ever truly understand.”

“Then something did happen in Spain? I was told that he was very much changed when he returned.”

“We were all changed by what we saw and what we did,” he said, his face still marked by the frown.

“You were there?”

“Yes. James and I were in different regiments but saw much of the same action.”

“And yet you seem…I do not wish to say unaffected. Doubtless you were. But you are, perhaps, unscarred?”

Captain Poldrennan laughed. “I wish it were so. Unfortunately I took a ball in the shoulder at Badajoz.” He sobered quickly. “But that is not what you meant, is it? You are speaking of scars of the heart or of the mind or of the soul. I doubt any soldier survives without his share. But for some the wounds are deeper than for others and the healing more difficult.”

“Is that what happened with Lord Harkness?”

He stopped abruptly. The mare snorted and tossed her head in irritation. He muttered endearments and stroked the long neck until she stood quietly. He continued the gentle stroking as he turned toward Verity, the frown back in place. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. Verity suspected he was concerned about betraying a friendship by revealing more than he should.

“We were at Ciudad Rodrigo,” he said at last. He gazed out into the distance over Verity’s shoulder. “It was an ugly siege, mid-winter and cold, the ground frozen so hard we thought we’d never get the trenches dug. We had no tents, so the troops had to be billeted in the village across the Agueda. The half-frozen river had to be forded each day to get to the trenches, the troops constantly buffeted by huge pieces of ice. We worked ten days before the assault began.”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “I will not bore you with details of the assault. Suffice it to say it was gruesome. James’s regiment was among those storming the larger of two breaches. My own regiment was busy at the lesser breach, so I did not see firsthand what happened. At the Great Breach, the head of the column was cut down by French fire. When the French gunners had been dispatched, James’s regiment stormed ahead to the ramparts. A huge mine exploded beneath them, destroying the majority of his company.”

Verity’s face puckered up in horror. She had never heard the particulars of battle, and even though Captain Poldrennan was relating only the broadest facts without grisly detail, it was ghastly and upsetting to hear.

“Sometime afterward,” he continued, “when he was finally able to speak of it, James told me how he’d been knocked down and pinned by the charred corpses of his own men. He had broken a leg and couldn’t free himself. He watched his young sergeant and several others explode into flames and fall just a few feet away from where he lay. James has never been able to rid himself of the guilt over the deaths of those men. Though it was Picton’s order, he believes he sent his own men into a trap. The fact that he waved his men ahead and took up the rear himself, saving him from certain death, only intensified his guilt.”

Verity covered her mouth with her hand while she fought back the bile rising in her throat. The picture painted by the captain was more hideous than anything she could imagine. “I suppose,” she said after a moment, “I cannot know what it was like. I hope never to know what it was like. But I can certainly understand his guilt, justified or not. What I do not understand is what all this has to do with the deaths of his wife and child.”

The captain heaved a great sigh. “There is more,” he said. He waited until she looked up and met his eyes. “I do not think James would appreciate me telling this. It is a very private thing, a shameful thing for many men. But I believe it is best that you know. It will explain much for you.”

“Then please tell me,” Verity said. “Help me to understand. I am living under the man’s roof. I am, for the moment, dependent upon him. I need to understand.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Very well. But I only tell you this in the strictest confidence. James would have my head if he knew.”

“I will not betray your confidence, Captain.”

They fell into step together, setting a slow pace up the gentle slope to Pendurgan. “James was sent to hospital,” he said, “to recover from the broken leg. He stayed quite a long time. They kept him because…he became irrational and often had to be restrained. He had terrible nightmares and would wake up screaming uncontrollably. I believe he would have been shipped back to Bedlam were it not for a few of us who stood by and vouched for him. After several months he finally seemed to have recovered, physically and mentally, and was allowed to return to the regiment. But he had no stomach for it and sold out. I was just recovering from my own wounds and decided to go home with him. I suspected he would need a friend.

“So he did indeed come home a different man. He had not, has never, completely overcome the guilt and shame of what happened.”

“But why?” Verity asked, still not understanding. “He did not plant the mine. It was not his fault. It is all a brutal fact of war, is it not? Why should he feel shame?”

“An officer takes his responsibilities to his men very seriously,” the captain said. “James felt he had failed them. But the shame…that was different. The shame came from what happened afterward.” He paused before continuing, apparently gathering his thoughts.

“It is not uncommon that a soldier is traumatized by memories of some horror, sometimes to the point where he can no longer effectively perform his duties. It happens more often than you might expect, but it is seldom if ever mentioned. It is seen by many soldiers as a sign of cowardice. Many commanding officers have no patience for a soldier suffering from ‘nerves’ or ‘exhaustion’ or whatever they choose to call it, and often just send him to the rear guard. Fellow soldiers harass him and label him ‘coward.’ It is a difficult situation and demeaning for any soldier. That is what James would have faced when he returned to the regiment. That is the source of his shame.”

Verity began to understand. “He left the army to avoid being labeled a coward. Yet he branded himself with that label just the same.”

“Exactly,” he said. “James was so riddled with shame and guilt that he lashed out at anyone who approached. He began drinking. He kept everyone at a distance, especially Rowena. She used to cry and cry over his coldness. And then things started to happen. I would not know of this until some time later, but he began to have long periods of blackout. He would suddenly find himself somewhere with no recollection of how he came to be there. He would lose hours at a time.”

“Good Lord!”

“Each episode was brought on by the sight of fire. Not just an ordinary fire in the grate, but something sudden. An unexpected burst of flame, a small explosion at the mine, anything like that might trigger memories of the explosion at Ciudad Rodrigo. And he would disappear back into that memory for hours.”

“Oh, my God. That’s what happened with the stable fire.”

“Yes. Physically, he was there. Mentally, he was in Spain, immobilized by the memories.”

“How horrible!” Verity felt the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. “The poor man. He must have been devastated when he realized what had happened.”

“He became worse,” the captain said. “His guilt was compounded by feeling responsible for the deaths of his family. Beautiful, delicate Rowena and that sweet little boy.”

Verity brushed away the tears that trembled on her lashes. Her heart ached for what James had suffered. “How simply dreadful. The poor, poor man. And yet this tragedy has labeled him a murderer? It makes no sense.”

“The explanation I have given you,” he replied, “is known only to myself and Samuel Lobb, his valet. No one else knows about Spain, about the blackouts and nightmares.”

“Why not?” Verity asked. “Would it not help people to understand what happened, to know he could not help what the sight of fire did to him?”

“He would rather be known as a cold-blooded murderer than a coward.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“It is hard for a woman to understand, I know,” the captain said. “But it is his choice, and his life.”

“I wonder why he rescued me at Gunnisloe?” The thought found voice before she could stop it.

Captain Poldrennan cast her a curious glance. “Rescue?”

“Yes,” she said. In for a penny in for a pound. “I thought at first his motives were sinister, that I might be in some sort of danger. But I have not been. He has left me alone, for the most part.” She would not tell him about last night’s kiss.

“He keeps his distance from most people,” the captain said. “He still suffers the occasional blackout and I believe he lives in fear of another incident like the fire. He does not wish to put anyone else in danger.”

“Which is why I am wondering why he brought me here,” she said. “Have there been other incidents? I was told of other fires.”

Captain Poldrennan’s expression became wooden and he stared blankly ahead. “I have heard of one or two unexplained fires,” he said. “But I know nothing about them.”

How odd, that this amiable gentleman who had been so forthcoming now decided to hold his tongue. Well, she would not press the issue. She had learned more from him than she could ever have hoped.

“I thank you, Captain, for telling me all this. I realize it was difficult for you, and I appreciate your confidence. You cannot imagine how confused I have been, wondering whether I should be afraid for my life. It is a great relief to know I am in no danger from Lord Harkness.”

Captain Poldrennan smiled. “You are a most understanding woman, Mrs. Osborne.”

“Lord Harkness is wounded from the war,” she said, “just as surely as if he’d lost a limb or an eye. I am a healer of sorts, Captain, so it is not difficult to recognize a body in pain.”

His smile became a very engaging grin. “I am glad to know that you care for him,” he said.

His words caused a flush to heat her cheeks. Did she care for him?

“Perhaps that is your answer. Perhaps that is why he brought you here,” the captain said. “After all these years, you may be the one who can finally help him to heal.”

James rode through the back gate and into the western court, a small graveled yard adjacent to the main house. Jago Chenhalls, on the spot as always, was there to take Castor.

“Afternoon, m’lord.”

James dismounted and handed over the reins. “Afternoon, Jago.” He looked up at the blue sky, streaked with more pink than gray for once. “A break in the weather, do you think?”

“Naw,” Jago said. “The rooks do be flyin’ low. ’Twill rain by nightfall.”

James smiled at the man whose portents of weather tended to be uncannily accurate. He walked through the low, wide archway into the central courtyard and saw two figures approaching the main entrance. Alan Poldrennan, leading his bay mare, walked alongside Verity. He wondered how they came to be together. James watched as his handsome friend’s warm smile was returned by Verity, and felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. She had never smiled at him like that. But then, why would she? What had he ever given her to smile about?

He had been to Wheal Devoran and back during the time she’d been in the village. Had she done as he suggested and asked for confirmation of his villainy? What had she learned? Would the women have told her about the fire? Of course they would have, if she had asked. And what about Alan? They seemed to be chatting amiably as though they’d known each other for years. Had she asked him as well? And what would he have told her? Alan knew more of the truth than anyone. But how much would he reveal to a stranger, even a pretty one?

“Pretty” was not the right word, however, to describe Verity Osborne. “Pretty” had described Rowena and her fragile porcelain beauty. Verity’s charm was more earthy, but in a wholesome sort of way. She seemed healthy and alive and radiant, more handsome than delicate or dainty. Perhaps it was merely a difference in coloring that made her appear so, however, for as she turned that long, white neck to gaze up at Alan she could not have looked more feminine. Or more appealing. His loins stirred with anticipation.

Alan looked toward the courtyard and caught James’s eye. “James!” he said. “I hope you won’t think me intruding, but I encountered Mrs. Osborne on the lane and she has allowed me to escort her back to Pendurgan.”

“Good of you, Alan.” He sounded more gruff than he’d intended.

“Not at all.” Alan gave Verity another warm smile. “It has been my pleasure.”

“And mine, Captain,” Verity said.

“I trust you enjoyed your visit to St. Perran’s?” James asked Verity. Despite every effort, he was unable to quell the sullen, clipped tone in his voice. Damn. He had determined on politeness, hoping to undo some of the damage done the night before in preparation for the evening ahead. He even thought to attempt a smile, but then her eyes met his straight on.

She knew. She had heard everything. Damnation!

“Yes,” Verity said. There was no fear in her brown eyes. Something else, though. He could not have said what, but he did not like it. “I have been visiting with Grannie Pascow,” she said. “Her rheumatism is much improved.”

James gratefully took this conversational gambit. “Another victory for your herbs,” he said. “I saw your first victory scampering about the stables with his father this morning.”

Verity’s face lit up with a glow of pure happiness. “Davey? He’s up and about?”

Her reaction prompted James to give a half smile, and a new softness gathered in her eyes. “Indeed.” He found himself thoroughly entranced by the way her pleasure in the news of Davey transformed her, made her no longer merely handsome, but beautiful. Truly beautiful. Clearly Alan noticed, as well. He could not take his bloody eyes off her, either, damn him.

“If you will excuse me, then,” Verity said. “I should like to go see him.” She turned to Alan and smiled. “Thank you again, Captain, for your escort.”

Alan executed an elegant bow. “I am so pleased to have met you, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “I hope we shall see one another again soon.”

Verity nodded to each of them, catching James’s eye momentarily—there was that odd, unsettling look again—before turning away to walk toward the main entrance. James watched her progress across the courtyard, admiring the way the fitted pelisse clung tightly to the curves of her upper body. Ever since he had kissed her last night, her every movement, every look, every word seemed imbued with a sensuality he had not before noticed. It was maddening. He could barely wait for the evening.

“You were right.”

Alan’s words pulled James back, and he turned to face his friend. “About what?” he asked.

“You said she was a frightfully good-looking woman. You were right. She is that, and more.”

James’s eyes narrowed as he studied Alan Poldrennan. Was he interested, truly interested, in Verity? He had been a close friend to Rowena. James had at one time considered they might have been more than just friends, but had discarded the notion. It had been his own jealousy poisoning him against his best friend. It was happening again with Verity, although James had no cause to feel jealousy. There was no commitment between them, no vows as there had been with Rowena.

“What do you mean, ‘more’?” he asked.

Alan shrugged. “Just that she seems a fine, intelligent, caring woman. Good God, James, what can her husband have been thinking?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself. Can you stay awhile? Stay for dinner?”

“Thank you, but no,” Alan said. “I’m late as it is. I must return to Bosreath.”

James walked with him back through the main entrance. “I am glad you have maintained your honor where she is concerned,” Alan said. James flinched at the words. “Now that I’ve met her, it seems appalling what she must have suffered at the auction. Can you imagine a woman like that sold to some brute like Will Sykes? Thank God you rescued her. Those are her words, by the way. She said you rescued her.”

Rescued? James stared, thunderstruck, at his friend. “She did?”

“Yes. I think she cares for you, James.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though Alan’s words almost took his breath away. “I thought she was afraid of me,” he said. “Hated me, even.”

“She has heard the stories, and I suppose she might be somewhat apprehensive. But deep down, I think she sees you as a kind of hero. You did rescue her.”

James snorted. “Hero? Ha! A man who—”

“Maybe this is a chance for you,” Alan interrupted, “a second chance, to be someone’s hero. Don’t let ancient guilts get in the way, my friend.”

James watched Poldrennan ride away. The man meant well, but he was dead wrong. James could be no one’s hero. Ever.