The Bride Sale (17 page)

The little man had kept his finger raised, gave it one final shake in her direction, then turned away and disappeared behind one of the sheds along with the nameless miner who'd chided him.

Verity had been rattled by the little man's words. She was startled to find James again by her side, and wondered how long he'd been there, how much he'd heard.

James clearly knew that his own people mistrusted him, even feared him. Yet when he had come upon the group of women in St. Perran's who had scattered in his wake, or when he strolled through his mine works where the men did the same, he made no effort to change their attitudes. He wore a perpetual scowl and a steely glint in his eye, almost as though challenging them to deny his villainy.

Captain Poldrennan had said James preferred to
be known as a murderer rather than a coward. Apparently it was something another man could understand. Well, she was not a man and did not understand. She believed he had allowed all that was good in him to be overshadowed by guilt and shame.

This was the wound Verity wanted so desperately to heal.

She reached in the canvas bag for more straw and resumed her mulching, determined to finish before the rain began. The bag was empty when she felt the first drops of rain on her face. With one last look at her work, she turned and hurried toward the scullery. She slowed at the sound of shouting coming from the direction of the steward's office.

“Hold your bloody tongue!” The familiar voice of James brought her to a halt. He must be arguing with that horrid man, Mr. Bargwanath. The loud, jeering laughter of the steward caused an involuntary shudder as she recalled how he had laughed at her in just the same way.

“I only meant she must be gettin' used to it since no one hears her screamin' in the night anymore. Learnin' to like a rough ride, is she?”

Verity froze. Good Lord, they were speaking of her. She had indeed screamed herself awake with nightmares during that first week or so, when she had not yet put behind her the horror of the leather halter and the banging kettles. But that was not what Mr. Bargwanath meant.

She heard scuffling and wondered what was happening.

“Don't you dare speak of her that way, do you hear me?” James spoke slowly, punctuating each
word with a sort of huff, as though he pushed against something. Or someone. His words were followed by a whoosh of breath and a crashing sound, as though furniture was being overturned. Something violent was going on, and it sounded as if the violence was being handed out by James. On her behalf. Oh, God, no.

After an uncomfortably long silence, she heard, “Pack your bags, Bargwanath. I've had enough of you.”

“You can't sack me! You'd never get no one else to work here and you know it.”

“I don't need you or anyone else who refuses to show proper respect to Mrs. Osborne.”

Verity flinched at the sound of her name, but continued to stand still as a statue. The rain had begun in earnest and was dripping over the brim of her bonnet and seeping under her collar down the back of her neck.

“Proper? What's so proper about a bought and paid for dollymop like her?”

More crashing was followed by a heavy thud.

“Out!” More shuffling. “Out, now! And if I hear of you setting foot on Pendurgan land ever again, I swear I will kill you. Out!”

The words were bellowed with such force that Verity was at last driven to action. She pulled her wet skirts about her and ran into the scullery.

She leaned against the old stone wall to catch her breath. After a moment, she removed her drenched bonnet and shook it out. She then ran a hand over her face and wiped away the moisture, not all of it rain.

She did not know what frightened her more, the
vulgar insinuations of Mr. Bargwanath, or the violent reaction of James. One tiny corner of her heart felt joy that he would defend her. But so violently! She had spent the last week and more building an image of him that was good and charitable. She had forgotten, or had chosen to forget, that there had always been a dark side to his character as well. She had pushed aside all thoughts of his rough handling that night in the library, of the sharp, almost cruel tone he sometimes used with Agnes when she pushed him too far, of the unexplained fires in the area.

But he had defended her. No one had ever before done anything like that for her. So he must have some feelings for her, even if only of friendship. That tiny corner of joy in her heart began to spread.

Though she knew he might always make her somewhat uneasy, that he had violent impulses she could never fully trust, that he might do her harm if he fell into a blackout and did God knew what, that he might well and truly be mad—knowing all these things and more, she had still allowed herself to do the unthinkable.

She had fallen in love with him.

T
he 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.