The explosion rocked the ground beneath him. Flames erupted all around, igniting every shrub and bush, catching the coattails and sleeves of his men. Shrieks of pain and horror rent the air and he watched, helpless, while several men of his company burst into flames. The odor of charred flesh hung thick in the air, so thick he could barely breathe.
His men were dying and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.
Suddenly a structure loomed ahead. A barn. His barn. His barn at Pendurgan. Two of the burning men fled into the barn. No, not men. Boys. Little boys. Two tiny bodies engulfed in flames ran into the barn, which had somehow caught fire as well.
And there was Rowena, staring at him in horror. She wanted him to run after the boys, but he could not move. He could not move. “Coward!” she screamed, and rushed into the burning barn, her skirts catching fire as she disappeared inside.
Someone else was running toward the barn. A dim figure. A woman. It was Verity. Dear God, it was Verity. He must stop her or she would be killed, too. He must stop her, but he could not move. He screamed her name again and again, and she moved toward him, arms outstretched, but never seemed to reach him. “I’m here,” she said, moving and yet not moving. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.”
Someone was shaking him by the shoulders. Someone was pulling him free, turning him away from the blaze, away from the stench. “I’m here.” It was Verity’s voice. He wanted to get to her, to warn her, but, maddeningly, she was always just out of his reach.
“Verity!”
“I’m here.” Someone was still shaking his shoulders. “I’m here, James.” Shaking and shaking. “James!” Shaking harder and harder. “James, come back. Come back!”
Dizziness washed over him and he went limp.
Verity knelt beside his sagging form, placed her hand on the back of his head, and gently stroked his thick, black hair. “James,” she whispered. It did not matter how many times she might have been told about his spells, she could never have been prepared for what she’d witnessed. It had been terrifying, and she still trembled in its aftermath.
She had made up his nightly infusion as usual. When she entered the library, he was not in his usual chair with his back to the grate. The chair had been knocked over on its side and James knelt before a blazing fire. He was shoeless and coatless. His boots had been discarded near an ebony settee where his green velvet coat and crumpled cravat lay in an untidy heap. His hands gripped either side of his head, his eyes were tightly shut, and his breathing was heavy. He seemed to be muttering something, but she could not understand. Startled, and concerned he might have injured himself and be in some kind of pain, she had called out to him, but he had not responded with anything intelligible.
Uncertain what to do, she had dropped to her knees beside him and leaned close to try and understand what he was saying. He seemed to be in a sort of trance. “I can’t move,” he muttered. “My men. I can’t move.”
And all at once she had known what was wrong. It was just as Captain Poldrennan had described. James was back in Spain at the time of the explosion.
Some instinct had told her to pull him out of the trance before he could suffer a full blackout and be lost for hours. She had touched his shoulder and called out to him. “No,” he muttered, over and over, and then he had called her name. Part of his brain must have known she was there now, in the present, while the other half was elsewhere.
The two sides seemed to war with each other as he fought his way out of the trance. She had shaken him hard by the shoulders and shouted again and again for him to come back, until he had collapsed.
She did not yet know which side had won. Was he unconscious, or simply exhausted from the battle? “James?”
His head stirred beneath her hand and she heaved a sigh of relief. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from his knees. Verity’s hand dropped to his shoulder and she let it rest there. He would need a human touch to help him re-orient after the trance.
“Verity?” His voice was little more than a whisper.
“Yes, James. I’m here.”
His gaze appeared to take in his surroundings with a sort of hesitancy, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he came to be there. Verity’s heart went out to him, imagining how many other times he had come out of a spell like this, afraid of what he might find. Or what he did find.
He turned his head to look up at her, and she almost gasped at the devastation in his eyes.
She could never have imagined him like this—helpless, vulnerable, powerless against the fear that would always be a part of him. There was shame, too, in the eyes that looked back at her, eyes more black than blue, set deep behind high-boned cheeks drained of color.
He turned his head away. A man who preferred the label of murderer to having anyone know of this would suffer to realize she had been a witness.
Poor man! All she felt in that moment was a tenderness and a determination to help him.
“Oh, James. It is all right. It is all right.” She slid her hand about his shoulders, wrapped the other arm around him, and gathered him in her arms.
He resisted only for an instant, then settled his head against her shoulder and clung to her, tightly, desperately. After long, silent moments, he began to whisper her name, over and over, just as he had done while in the trance. Verity nudged his head away from her shoulder, her hand still entwined in his hair. She wanted to see his face, to make certain he had not slipped back into darkness.
The effects of the episode lingered in his eyes, but there was something else as well.
“Verity,” he repeated—and covered her mouth with his own.
He ravaged her with his lips and tongue, as he had done once before. This time, though, there was only urgency, hunger, need. She offered herself willingly.
James pressed his body against hers as though he could not get close enough, kissing her again and again and again. He kissed her jaw and her throat and her neck, always returning to her mouth, opening his wide and drawing her tongue deeper inside. His hands roamed up and down her back and her sides and her hips until Verity thought she might swoon with pleasure.
“Verity. My God, Verity.” If he had not kept repeating her name she might have thought he believed her to be someone else, someone desirable, someone normal. But he knew who she was when he explored every inch of her neck with fingers and lips and tongue. He knew who she was when he touched her breast tenderly, as though it were something rare and beautiful. He knew who she was when he cradled her face in his hands and kissed the corners of her mouth and her eyes and her lips.
A surge of pure joy caused her heart almost to leap from her breast. James found her desirable. Was it possible?
She did not resist when he urged her down on the rug and lay full length atop her, nor when he pushed her skirts up to her thighs, nor when he nudged her legs apart with his knees.
Verity knew what he wanted; God forgive her, she wanted it, too. She wanted to give this to him, regardless of the outcome, the repulsion he might yet feel afterward. She was ready.
At first he had merely sought her warmth, her gentle touch, her comfort. Muddled and shaken, he had wanted to climb right inside her and forget. Now, he wanted more. Pure lust overwhelmed him and he could not have stopped what was about to happen if he tried.
James wanted Verity, needed her. Badly, right now. God help him, he could not keep his promise to preserve her virtue. He had to have her right this minute or he would surely die.
He reached down and fumbled with his breeches—clumsy, rushed, impatient. In his haste he ripped one button clean off the fall and it went pinging across the floor.
He kissed her once more, quickly, while he positioned himself above her. He looked down into her eyes, wide and uncertain, and wished he could have done better by her. But it was too late. He needed her now. Now!
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and then plunged himself full length inside her. Like a gauche schoolboy, he came after only a few swift thrusts.
Only when his own groan subsided did he realize Verity had also cried out, but not in pleasure. Even now, she whimpered slightly and he realized what he’d done. Good God, she’d been a virgin. A virgin? Was it possible? Son of a bitch!
He held himself still and looked at her. Her eyes were closed and tears slid down her cheeks onto the floor beneath her. Her mouth was contorted in pain—my God, how he must have ripped through her—and she tried valiantly not to whimper.
Bloody hell. He’d been afraid of stripping her of the last shred of her dignity, and in the end had stripped her of much more. A cad to the core.
She held herself rigid and seemed unable to breathe. “Goddammit, woman.” Lust dissipated, he rolled off her in disgust.
He sat up and turned his back to her while he fastened his breeches, cursing at the missing button that left the fall flapping open at one corner. Verity lay silent behind him, like a wounded bird, not moving.
And so he had lived up to his dastardly reputation after all, taking a virgin like she was a whore—quickly, fiercely, painfully. Lord, how he must have hurt her, this proud young woman who only sought to offer him comfort. Typically, he thought only of himself, his own needs, and ending up using and abusing those dear to him.
Yes, she had indeed become dear to him. In the sweet, shy way in which she offered her friendship, she had worked her way under his skin, despite all intentions to keep his distance and stay uninvolved. He had just blown those good intentions all to hell. Once again, he had ruined everything he touched.
James heard the sounds of movement behind him. He turned to find her sitting up, her face as blank as an egg, hair disheveled, skirts still bunched up around her thighs. His eyes were drawn to a deep red stain on the pale yellow muslin of her dress. The sight ignited his anger, and he wanted to shout. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to strike out.
“What game do you play, madam,” he said, “that you hide your virginity behind this mock tale of a marriage?”
She looked away from him, and in a small, tremulous voice said, “You are m-mistaken. My marriage was real and I was not a…a v-virgin.”
Anger coursed through his blood and bones and took full possession of him. He grabbed her skirts so roughly she recoiled, as if she thought he might strike her. He held out the bloodstained fabric. “Then how do you explain this?”
Verity twisted out of his grasp and adjusted her skirts. “It is not what you think,” she said. “It is merely my…my time of month. I have been…married. It was not my first time.”
James did not know why, but she was lying. She had been a virgin, there was no question of it. Damn her, why was she playing this game with him?
He stood and noticed for the first time that his chair was on its side. He righted it, turned it away from the fire, and sank into it. He watched as Verity rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. The stain on the back stood out like a beacon. She reached up and fingered her hair. The chignon had come loose and bobbed limply at the back of her neck. One untidy lock had escaped and fell over her left shoulder. There was a rent in the neckline of her dress. She looked for all the world like a woman who had been ravished.
He could not bear the sight of what he’d done. “Please leave,” he said.
She walked slowly toward the door without a word. He could tell by the way she moved—awkwardly, cautiously—that she was still in some pain. “Wait,” he said, and she stopped. He could not just let her go like that, hurt and confused and damaged beyond repair. He forced himself to say the words that needed to be said. “I am sorry for what happened.” His tone was clipped and gruff but it was all he could manage without falling to pieces. “I promise it won’t happen again. I swear I shall not touch you again.”
Verity squared her shoulders, cocked her head at that prideful angle he’d seen so often, and swept out of the room, dignified as a duchess. He hoped to God no one saw her. Despite the proud carriage, she looked a mess. A bloody mess.
James rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into unsteady hands. He thought for a moment that he’d never been more miserable in all his life, but that was not true. He had spent the better part of his life making misery for himself. This was just one more chapter in his infamous history: cowardice, murder, and now ravishment.
Was it ravishment? She had not fought him. She had never once asked him to stop. From what he could remember, she had been just as involved as he was, wanting it as badly as he did.
But she had been a virgin.
Hell and damnation, what was he supposed to do now? What if he’d made her pregnant? The notion sent a shudder down his spine. Should he offer to marry her? But she was not free to marry. Despite those two hundred pounds, she was still legally married.
Or was she? Had she ever really been married at all? If so, then why the devil had she still been a virgin? His head began spinning with speculations of collusion and deception and entrapment, of schemes and plots to entangle him…in what? If there had been some master plan, it was a poor one that didn’t make much sense. Russell had absconded with the two hundred pounds almost two months ago. Besides, neither of them could have known he would be at Gunnisloe that day, or that he would make that blasted offer. If they had been involved in some entrapment scheme, why wait until now?
Of course, she had to wait for him to make the first move. He had almost done it once before, and she had been ready and willing that time as well, just as she had been tonight.
James lifted his head and swore aloud to the room. “No, no, no!” He pounded his fist on the chair arm so hard he surely bruised it. No, he did not believe it. He was spinning fantasies to remove the blame from himself. He did not know why she lied, but he could not make himself believe Verity was deceitful by nature. She was one of the most straightforward people he’d ever known. Everything about her was genuine, from the fear she’d exhibited at the auction and in the days following, to the comfort she had offered tonight.
He rose to his feet and began to pace the room. Why had she lied? Why maintain the foolish pretense that he had not ripped her virginity from her like a raging bull? Why pretend he had not caused her pain?
His steps came to a halt at the library table where a full teacup sat in its saucer. Verity’s tea. She must have been bringing it to him when she found him—what? Cowering before the fire?
He picked up the odiferous brew and all at once understanding slammed into him like a howitzer. Verity tried to ease suffering, whether it be a villager’s toothache or his own insomnia. He did not like to consider what she might have seen of him tonight while he fought off his familiar demons. But she had offered herself up as a means of easing his torment. She had given herself freely. She was too concerned with his pain to allow him to know of her own. She protected him by pretending to be unharmed.
James spun around and flung the cup and saucer into the grate, where they smashed into a thousand pieces. How he loathed himself for what he’d done. How could he possibly make amends to this sweet woman who was only trying to help him in a moment of weakness? And then he had lashed out at her in anger as though she had done something wrong.
Verity had bestowed upon him the gift of her virginity, and he did not misunderstand the generosity of that gesture. It nearly broke his heart, assuming he still had one, to know what she had done for him, and he would forever honor her for that unselfish gift.
And he would treat it as a gift. He would not, would never, ask it of her again. He had done enough to compromise her proud dignity. He would do nothing further to erode it.
What was he to do with her, then, as she lived under his roof every day, ate meals with him, rode with him, and brought him foul-tasting tea each night? They could never marry—
The realization burst upon him like an electric storm. He stopped pacing. Marriage to Verity. By God, he would marry her if he could. She had already worked her way into his household, his village, and at least a small corner of his heart. There was nothing he’d rather do than spend his life with her.
He’d never meant to let another woman into his life. His relationship with Rowena had been troublesome and volatile from its youthful beginning. But he had loved her with the consuming passion of first love, and in the end he’d killed her. James never meant to allow love into his heart again.
He wasn’t prepared to allow himself to love Verity. In any case, he was not ready to admit that what he felt for her was love. But if she were free and if she would have him, he would marry her in a moment.
He allowed the idea to roll around inside his head for a while, touching upon the possibilities of divorce and annulment. But it was pointless. He had nothing to offer but a soiled life, riddled with cowardice and culpability. Verity would end up despising him, just as Rowena had.
James poured himself a brandy, brought the decanter with him, and sank down into his chair again. He hoped to God his lack of control would not result in a child. The thought terrified him more than almost anything else. How could he be depended on to keep a child safe when he still lost untold hours during blackouts over which he had no control, and during which he had no idea what he might have done?
He pushed aside all thoughts of fatherhood, as he always did, for they only conjured up painful images of Trystan, with his big, trusting blue eyes and a mop of blond hair that curled in all directions. James had barely known his son but had loved him desperately. When he returned from Spain, instead of letting the child into his life, he had kept Trystan at a distance. His blackouts were deeper and more frequent then, and he had feared what might happen. He had been right.
James took a deep swallow and let the brandy burn a path down his throat and warm his stomach. How he wished he could have been worthy of a woman like Verity Osborne. She had such courage, dignity, compassion, not to mention beauty. Did she realize how beautiful she was? He doubted it. Ah, but he could never be worthy. He had condemned himself forever in her eyes as a callous, rutting brute.
He downed the glass and poured another. What a worthless excuse for a man he was. He ought to have ended it years ago. In the days after the fire, he had wanted nothing more than to do so. Why should he be allowed to live when he had killed the two people he loved most in the world? If he had any strength of character, he would do so now before he caused any further harm.
But he had not the strength. He never had. He made excuses instead. He poured a third glass and recounted them. His people needed him. The mine needed him. Winter had arrived and the pumps would be pushed to their limit during the rains. The cottagers would need fuel and food and medicine. He must look after the land, since he no longer had a steward. There was Agnes, too. As much as she hated him, she had nowhere else to go, no one else to depend on. And Verity depended on him now, too.
There were endless excuses why he could not take the easy way out. But James knew the real excuse lay in cowardice. Everything about him was based on cowardice. He had never been strong enough to do what any man of honor would have done years ago.
No honor. No courage. No heart. Only another empty glass to refill in hopes of dulling the pain, drinking himself into oblivion and forgetfulness.
Tears soaked the pillow slip beneath Verity’s cheek. She had cried and cried—for the pain he had caused, for the anger he had flung at her, for her own inadequacy, for the ruins of her life.
When the flow of tears had ebbed at last, she rolled onto her back and pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. She ought not be so shattered, having known all along how it would end. She had allowed her need to comfort him to overwhelm the knowledge that she could not. Not in that way.
Verity swung her legs over the side of the bed, rose, and walked slowly toward the dressing table. The ache between her legs had subsided somewhat, but she was still very conscious of it, of what had happened there, and she moved stiffly. One glance at herself in the mirror and she turned away. She looked a fright. She reached for the tapes at the back of her dress. After much fumbling she was finally able to slip out of the bodice and allowed the dress to fall to her feet. When she reached to pick it up she saw the reddish stain between the folds of yellow muslin.
A little moan of despair escaped her lips before she balled up the garment and tossed it into the grate. It began to smolder but did not catch fire. A small bellows leaned against the hearth. Verity picked it up and pumped several times before the dress ignited with an explosive rush. She watched as it blackened and curled and finally fell to pieces. There would be no evidence of what had occurred downstairs.
James had been more furious over her supposed virginity than her other inadequacies. How could he know for sure? Was it possible for a man to be certain about such a thing? She had explained away the blood; how could he possibly have known?
It did not matter. Verity would never admit the truth to him, or to anyone. She had never told a living soul that her marriage had not been consummated. To do so would mean admitting to the humiliation of her wedding night, admitting the fact of her undesirability, admitting a man could never really want her in that way.
It had been difficult enough to admit to herself, but over the years she had come to accept her shortcomings. She did not dwell on it, and she had become resigned to a life without physical love. Or children.
Until she had come to Pendurgan.
When she found herself reluctantly attracted to James, the old failures returned to haunt her. Every time her body reacted to him—to his touch, his kiss, a look, his mere presence—Verity had been reminded of all she could never be.
The extent of the pain the act had caused surely vindicated the truth of Gilbert’s implications. There was something wrong with her, physically, that made sexual relations difficult, if not impossible, and made her sexually undesirable.
Tonight had been an accident of circumstance. James had been needy, and she had been the only one there. Any woman would have done. For that moment, though, Verity had been available and, God forgive her, willing.
She walked to the basin stand and poured water into the bowl. The water was icy cold and she relished its prickly sting as she splashed her face with it.
In the deepest reaches of her heart she had hoped that she might be allowed to experience what other women experienced routinely. For one fleeting moment, she actually believed she could be desirable to a man, to know what it was like to have a man want her.
She rinsed her swollen eyes one final time, then rubbed her face roughly with a towel, hoping to dissipate the last vestiges of foolishness. The sweet moment she had coveted had been fleeting, indeed, for as soon as James had entered her—stretching and tearing so she thought she must be ripped to shreds—he could hardly wait to be done with it. Had she somehow caused him pain as well? He had cursed her, then rolled away in disgust, unable even to look at her.
How could she have pretended it would be different this time? How could she have allowed herself to respond to his kisses, to believe they spoke of desire rather than simple need?
Worse yet, how could she have allowed herself to fall in love with a man who could never want her, who tonight vowed he would never touch her again?
Verity sat, carefully and slowly, on the stool in front of the dressing table and began to unpin her hair. She had lost several hairpins downstairs and the tight coil at her nape had become an untidy mess. She let it fall down her back and began the nightly ritual of brushing its thick length.
She remembered speaking with Edith when she was very young, about her dreams for the future, dreams of a home in the country, a husband, children. Ordinary things dreamed by most young girls. But it had all gone wrong somehow.
There had been nothing ordinary about her marriage to Gilbert, who, after being violently ill on their wedding night when he’d attempted to consummate the marriage, had abandoned her in a tiny, ramshackle house for more than two years, never to come to her bed again, seldom setting eyes on her until he’d come to take her to Cornwall. There had been nothing ordinary about being led to auction like a dray nag. And there was certainly nothing ordinary about falling in love with a man who needed her but didn’t want her.
Verity stopped brushing and stared at herself in the mirror. “Stop it!” she said aloud and wagged the brush at her reflection. “Stop it. Stop it.”
She hated it when she gave in to self-pity, even for a moment. She had never allowed the unexpected turns in her life to get her down, and refused to let the world see her as a victim. She had even adjusted to her new life at Pendurgan, however uncertain its nature. She had never been much of a fighter, but neither had she worn her disappointments on her sleeve. She quietly tucked them away and went about her life, head held high, as if they had never happened.
Just as she had told no one of her disastrous wedding night, neither would she speak of what had happened between her and James. Her love for him would remain a precious, close-guarded secret—unspoken, unacknowledged, unrequited.
There were, however, other ways in which she could act upon her love for him.
After what she’d witnessed tonight, when he’d been in the strange trancelike state, she realized James needed a friend more than ever. Not only to help him overcome his guilt and grief and shame, but also to help him rebuild his life, reestablish his ancestral position in the district, restore his good name. Anyone who saw him immobilized during such an episode could not possibly blame him for what happened in the Pendurgan fire. More likely, they would sympathize with the extraordinary pain he must surely have suffered from the deaths of Rowena and the children, when he realized he had not been able to help them.
It was sheer pigheaded male arrogance that drove him to foster his own black reputation. There was nothing to stop her, though, from trying to repair more than six years of damage. It should be easy enough to do as she moved about the villages with her herbs and remedies. The local people had begun to accept her and, she believed, respect her. She would begin talking to them about James. Just a word here and there, but over time she hoped those words would take root and wipe out all the old bad feelings that had spread like a thicket through the community.
Verity finished plaiting her hair, then removed her undergarments and donned a nightgown. She felt much less like crying when she returned to bed at last. She had pushed aside what had happened that evening and come to a decision. Though she could not give James what he needed, there were two things she could give him: her friendship and his reputation. They were all she had to give.
James sat on the side of the bed and sipped Lobb’s special coffee. His head throbbed and he felt more hung over from drink than he’d ever been in his life. Drink and conscience and self-loathing. All of it had exaggerated the effects of last night’s alcoholic binge.
He had hoped to drink himself out of the despair he felt over what he’d done to Verity. It had not worked. The more he drank, the more despondent he’d become. The drunker he got, the more beautiful, the more compassionate, the more passionate Verity had become in his mind. By the time he had passed out in the chair, he had been sick with love for her.
In the reasonably clear light of day, he realized how foolishly maudlin and sentimental he’d been in his cups. He admired her, to be sure, and lusted after her as well. But guilt over what he’d done to her had magnified his feelings all out of proportion. It would be exceedingly foolhardy to fall in love with Verity.
He rose slowly to his feet, the creaking of the bed frame painful to his ears. He grabbed the bedpost to anchor himself.
“You all right there, m’lord?”
James stood perfectly still while the ringing in his ears quieted and the throbbing in his head subsided to a dull roar. “Yes, Lobb,” he said at last, “I’m fine. Just help me dress, would you? I’m not feeling too steady on my pins this morning.”
He washed his face in bracing cold water, but when he started to shave himself, Lobb took the razor from James’s shaking hands and did the job himself. Afterward, James stood useless as a rag doll while Lobb got him dressed, all the while thinking of what he would say to Verity. For once in his life, he wanted to do the right and noble thing. He would offer her marriage, if such could be arranged, or at least a marriage of sorts if it could not be legally done. Perhaps he could contact Gilbert Russell and discuss the possibilities of a parliamentary divorce. In any case, James was bound and determined to pledge himself to Verity, legally or not, especially if he had made her pregnant.
When he finally made his way down to breakfast, he found Verity there, as expected, looking as though she had not slept. The sight of her brought on a renewed wave of desolation, a self-loathing as deep as any he’d ever known. Agnes was there as well. She glowered at him as he took his seat across from her.
“You look terrible,” she snapped. “I suppose you’ve been drinking all night again.”
“Good morning, Agnes,” he said. “Verity.”
Agnes snorted and Verity nodded, attempting a wan little smile. Agnes then set off on a diatribe on the evils of drink, and how it was simply one more sinful nail in his wicked coffin. James tried not to listen and allowed the pounding in his head to drown out her shrill voice.
After half a slice of bread and a few sips of black coffee, he rose to his feet, interrupting Agnes mid-sentence, and excused himself. He turned to Verity before leaving. “There is a matter I must discuss with you,” he said. “Would you join me in the library at your convenience?”
He immediately wanted to bite his tongue. The library! What sort of monster would she think him, to force her to return to the scene of last night’s debacle? Before she could speak, he amended the request. “No, not the library,” he said. “The Old Drawing Room. I’ll have Tomas lay down a fire. Will you join me there?”
“Of course, my lord,” Verity replied, without the slightest trace of awkwardness or hesitation. But then, he had never yet seen her lose her composure in public. “Shall we say in half an hour, then?” she asked.
“As you wish.”
After Tomas had laid the fire, James paced the small room. The Old Drawing Room was seldom used and so he could expect reasonable privacy. Located on the second floor in the tower wing, it was approached by old stone stairs dipped in the center from centuries of wear. It was in the oldest part of the house, built in the fifteenth century, and retained many of its Tudor furnishings.
Two rows of mullioned windows on the north and east walls provided ample light in the afternoon, but on this gray morning, the room was dark and cheerless. And cold. Perhaps it had been a mistake to meet Verity here.
Tomas’s entrance startled James out of his thoughts. “Seemed awful cold in here, so I brung more kindlin’ to build up the fire.”
James kept his back turned while Tomas went about his business. He did not wish to chance another episode by catching sight of newly ignited kindling, but he heard the rush of flame and felt the warmth against his back. When the red-haired youth left, James resumed his pacing and rejected the temptation to pull out his pocket watch to check the time.
When at last he heard Verity’s approach, James stopped pacing and stood with his back to the fire, so that when Verity walked in she found him facing her straight on. She paused in the doorway.
“Come in, please,” he said. He moved one of the straight-back wooden chairs from along the wall and placed it before the grate. “Sit here by the fire. These older rooms can be quite cold this time of year.”
She looked at the chair but did not speak or move away from the door. Damn. He ought to have chosen a more suitable room. Not only was it cold and dark, but the furniture was ancient and not at all comfortable.
Verity took a tentative step into the room and gestured toward the chair. “Will you join me?” she asked. “Or did you intend to remain standing? I should much prefer it if we were both seated.”
“Of course,” James said. She would not want him looming over her. He brought another chair and positioned it opposite the first.
Verity walked toward the first chair and turned it so that its back was to the fire. “You take this one,” she said. Then she moved the second chair so that it faced toward the fire, several feet away from the other, and sat down.
The small gesture almost paralyzed him. It took a moment before he could bring himself to take the chair, and a longer moment while he composed himself to speak. She did not allow the awkward silence to hang in the air.
“I have never been to this room,” she said. “It must be quite old. I’ve only seen that sort of linen-fold paneling once before, in an old Tudor home in Lincolnshire. It sets off the tapestries beautifully, does it not? You have a lovely home, Lord Harkness.”
Bless her for opening the conversation with banalities. “Do you really think so?” he said. “Do you not find it dark and forbidding?”
Verity smiled. “I did at first,” she said. “I thought the same of you, too.”
James flattened his spine against the hard back of the chair. So much for banalities.
“But I have since discovered,” she continued, “that Pendurgan is not as dark and forbidding as it looks. Neither is its master.”
“Verity.” He shook his head in disbelief, then rose from his chair, too agitated to sit. He began pacing once again and wringing his hands in frustration. She was going to make an apology very difficult. “How can you say such a thing, after what happened last night?” He stopped pacing and stood before her. “I cannot tell you how much I regret my behavior.” He was looming, so he sat down again. “It was inexcusable. How can I ever—”
“Please, my lord.” She held up a hand to stop his words. “You must not trouble yourself over what happened. Besides, it is I who should apologize to you.”
“You? Why on earth would I need your apology when I was the one who—”
“You only needed comforting and I was not able to provide it.” Chagrin, or perhaps it was sadness, gathered in her eyes. “I wish I could have done so, but you must know that it is impossible. I am very sorry.”
Good Lord. Verity was actually apologizing to him, and after he had practically raped her the night before. It was more than he could bear, and he leaped to his feet again, too unsettled to sit still. “Verity, I treated you abominably last night. I…I hurt you.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap. “It was my fault.”
Her fault? What was she talking about? Did she blame herself because she had not warned him of her virginity? Yet she had denied being a virgin, despite all evidence to the contrary. “I do not understand.”
“It does not matter.” She looked up again. “Perhaps we should just try to be friends?”
He could hardly believe what she was saying. “You wish to be my friend? After what I’ve done to you? And after all that you know, that you must surely know, about my past?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
James sank down onto the chair again. “I do not understand you, Verity Osborne. Why do you not hate me for hurting you, or at least fear me, like all the rest?”
“Recollect, my lord, that I was there last night. I saw what happened to you.”
He flinched as though she’d stuck him. Dear God, what had she seen?
“I know that in your mind you were back in Spain,” she said, “fighting that battle again.”
James gripped the wooden arms of the chair. “And how the devil do you know about that?” he asked, furious that she should know about Spain. What else did she know?
“Please do not be angry, my lord. I wheedled the information out of Captain Poldrennan.”
“Damn him!”
“Do not blame the captain,” she said. “You must blame me for being too meddlesome. I wanted to know, after the other things I’d heard.”
“From Old Grannie and the rest?”
“Yes.”
James heaved a sigh. “Then you know what I’ve done. You know the harm I’ve inflicted. And now I’ve done harm to you, as well.”
“I only know what I saw, my lord,” Verity said. “I saw firsthand how what happened in Spain—and here—still tears you apart after all these years. I would like to help you, if I can.”
Damn her interference. Her attempt at compassion had become intrusive and he didn’t like it one bit. He was unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “How can you possibly help me?”
Verity smiled, apparently oblivious of his building anger. “By standing your friend,” she said. “By making up valerian infusions to help you sleep without nightmares. By being there when the visions overtake you again. By listening, if you wish to talk about it.”
“Talk about it?” Was she mad? “Good God, I want only to forget it. That, of course, is impossible. Talking about it is the very last way in which you might help me. Stick to your possets and potions, Verity.”
She pressed on, unfazed by his words. “But keeping all that terror inside is eating away at you. I do not know about the visions or blackouts or whatever it is that happens to you.”
Lord, please make her stop.
“But I do know about nightmares,” she continued. “I know the shock of seeing and feeling the terror all over again, just as sharp as the first time, so that you wake up with a scream in your throat. And it happens again and again until you think you will die of it.”
James reined in his temper and watched her face closely. She spoke from the heart. He thought she had overcome the horror of being sold in the market square. He had even resented her for it. Had he overestimated her strength? Was she plagued by nightmares still?
“What happens to you must be a thousand times worse,” she continued, “since it occurs while you are awake. I saw what it did to you.”
James squirmed in his seat.
“What set it off this time?” she asked, apparently determined that he would talk about it.
He had not often spoken about his blackouts. Only to Lobb, who knew of them firsthand from the beginning, and once or twice to Alan Poldrennan. But the resolute look in her eyes told him she would not let up until he had told her everything. Damn her.
“My lord?”
He tossed her a look that he sincerely hoped reflected the intense displeasure he felt at her well-meaning persistence. In the end, though, he was helpless against those gentle brown eyes. He wrenched his gaze from them and stared at a spot on the wall above her shoulder.
“I had just finished reading a letter and tossed it into the grate behind me,” he began. “Some minutes later, I got up to get a brandy, assuming the paper would have ignited long before. It had not. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed it lying at the edge of the grate. I think it burst into flames just then. I don’t know. I can’t remember anything else.”
Verity remained silent for a moment and then said, “It is indeed a thousand times worse than a nightmare.” When he looked up at her, she caught his gaze and held it. “I’d like to help you.”
“Why?”
“Because I suspect there is a good man beneath all that pain,” she said, “beneath the Lord Heartless façade.”
By God, he’d had enough. “Madam, you go at me like a miner with his pick, chipping and chipping at solid rock where you think you’ve spotted signs of a rich vein. But there’s no shiny ore to be found here, my dear. I suggest you leave it alone. You will only disappoint us both.”
“I merely want to help.”
“You cannot help!” he shouted. “God’s teeth, woman, this is not some winter ailment to be healed by your herbs. Don’t you understand?”
Verity gazed at him with those liquid brown eyes, doleful as a hound and full of hurt. Blast it all, he had no right to shout at her.
James ran his fingers through his hair and made a effort to curb his anger. She did not deserve this surly treatment, but neither did he deserve her compassion. He had done her irrevocable harm and yet she still wanted to help him. It was almost more than he could bear.
He lowered his voice. “No, of course you do not understand,” he said. “How could you? How could you possibly understand what it’s like to live a life riddled with shame and guilt? To endure the fear and hatred of everyone around you until you become the monster they make you out to be? To wake up each morning and wonder how you can possibly make it through one more day? To want so badly to put an end to it all and yet be without the courage to do the deed? What can you know of any of that?”
Verity sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, the firelight reflected in the depths of her dark eyes as she watched the flames behind him. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to his and spoke, very softly. “You are right,” she said. “I can probably never understand the pain you have suffered. I am sorry if I presumed too much. I only hoped to be able to offer you my friendship, if you would have it.”
She devastated him with her benevolent words and her gentle eyes. She offered him yet another precious gift, and he had almost been ready to toss it back in her face. Anger dissipated, James leaned forward in his chair, reached out, and took her hand. “My dear Verity, there is nothing I would rather have than your friendship, and I accept it gratefully. But I confess you confound me. Here you are offering kindness to one who behaved no better than an animal last night, taking you against your will.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap once again. She kept her eyes on their clasped hands. “It was not against my will,” she whispered.
“Perhaps not at first. But it was badly done. I caused you pain and I deeply regret it. It shall not happen again, I promise you.”
“You’ve done me no harm, I assure you, my lord.”
He doubted that, but did not press the point. “If we are to be friends, will you at least call me James?”
“James, then.”
He squeezed her hand and released it. He did not wish her to think he wanted more. “Verity Osborne, you are a remarkable woman. You humble me, and I would be proud to call you friend. But you must not press me on certain matters. Just as I will not press you on matters I know you do not care to discuss.” She winced slightly at his words. He had her there. It was a sort of blackmail—her silence on Spain for his silence on her virginity and the state of her so-called marriage—but it was necessary.
“Agreed?” he prompted.
“Agreed.”
“You will stay at Pendurgan, then?” he asked.
She chewed on her lower lip as though considering a negative reply. James realized it was now he who presumed too much.
“Verity, as I told you on that very first night, you are not bound to stay here if you do not wish it. You are free to go whenever you choose. You always have been.”
She released her lip but her brow remained furrowed. He wished to God he knew what she was thinking. Did she wish to leave? She had at one time, of course, but he had thought…he had hoped…
“Yet I suspect,” he said, “you have no place else to go. You told me that your parents are both dead, and that you have no brothers or sisters. The woman you were so fond of, the one who taught you about herbs, she is also dead, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me offer you a home at Pendurgan,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, to keep from sounding as pathetically plaintive as he felt. The thought of her leaving had set off a despair howling around in his head like a chill wind.
“I do still feel responsible for you, Verity,” he continued, “despite my recent behavior. You are welcome to stay, my dear. You shall remain my long-lost cousin. Will that suit you?”
She smiled, and his despair dissolved into a warm breeze of hope. “Yes, James,” she said. “I would very much like to stay. Thank you.”
He smiled in return. “And we shall be friends, you and me,” he said. But there was one more sticky issue to deal with, and he found himself squirming slightly as he prepared to bring it into the open. “Yes, we shall be friends,” he said at last. “But you must allow me to be more than that, Verity, if I have…if you are…if there is a child.”
Her mouth dropped open and she quickly brought up a hand to cover it. She blushed scarlet and glared at him wide-eyed, stunned and unbreathing, as if a fist had knocked the wind out of her. Clearly, she had not considered the possibility. By God, she really was an innocent.
“You will tell me?” he asked.
She looked away, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to comfort her the way she had done for him. He struggled against the unexpected rush of tenderness. “Verity? You will tell me?”
“Yes,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Promise me.”
She lifted her head, cheeks still flushed, and for once did not look him square in the eye. She was as flustered as he’d ever seen her. “I promise,” she said. “But do not forget that I have a fair knowledge of herbs. I…I know how to prevent such things.”
James sagged back in his chair. A profound relief that there would be no child swept over him. Profound and apparently quite obvious relief. A flicker of pain crossed Verity’s face before she composed herself.
“You needn’t worry about that, James,” she said, her protective armor of pride and dignity firmly back in place. “Now, I have much to do in the stillroom. If you will excuse me.” She practically ran from the room, without a backward glance.
Bloody hell.