Captive Of Sin Part 13

He shrank from the trust he read in her gaze as she turned to him. She looked as if she believed he could move mountains. With bone-deep sorrow, he wished to G.o.d he was the man she thought he was.

Her color rose in a tide of shame. "Felix said they'd drug me and let my suitor take my maidenhead. I said they could do what they liked. Nothing would ever make me marry him."

His eagerness to murder her stepbrothers ramped higher, blocked his throat. "That was foolhardy."

She swallowed and continued in a toneless voice. "I knew they wouldn't kill me. If I die, the money goes to my second cousin, a bluestocking spinster who's lived all her life in Italy. I've never met her."

She spoke almost expressionlessly. Gideon's belly knotted with horror as he contemplated what she'd been through. He could hardly bear to formulate his question. "Did they force you?"

"No." Except for two hectic flags of color along her slanted cheekbones, she was pale. "But Felix said all three of them would take turns. Hubert wasn't in favor of the plan, but Felix always gets his way." She sucked in a shaky breath and spoke quickly as if that was the only way she could get the words out. "The idea of the three of them raping me, it was..."

"Intolerable." Bile filled Gideon's mouth as he imagined what would have happened if she hadn't fled. She'd survived a purgatory he understood better than most.

Her hands twisted more tightly in her skirts. "During the beating, Hubert knocked me out. Only for a few seconds. When I woke up, they started badgering me again. I wouldn't relent, so Felix slammed out in a temper, taking Hubert with him. It was the first time they forgot to lock the door. Perhaps because I'd made no attempt to escape, they believed I wouldn't or couldn't try to get out. While they were arguing downstairs, I crept into another room and climbed out a window that opened onto an oak tree. Thank goodness I knew the countryside enough to reach the Winchester Road."

"Thank goodness we found you in that inn." Nightmare images filled his mind of Sarah's rape and abuse. He had no doubt her stepbrothers would have carried out their threats. But now she was with him, and n.o.body would hurt her again. The determination to keep her safe stiffened every sinew.

Her voice became concerned. "I meant just to travel to Portsmouth with you, then disappear. By helping me, you're in danger too."

"I can handle your stepbrothers." He looked forward with bloodthirsty enthusiasm to exiling such sc.u.m to the lowest circle of h.e.l.l.

His confident response drained some of the tension from her face. "You were amazing in that fight in Portsmouth."

Heat mottled his cheeks. He abhorred that only the spilling of blood made him a whole man. Violence dissipated the fog that possessed his mind, gifted him with clarity of purpose and unhesitating action. "I was a thug."

"You were a hero," she said with a conviction that made him wince. Dear G.o.d, what was he going to do about her misplaced admiration? He needed to scotch it now, but nothing he said made any difference. Knowing she wouldn't listen, he bit back arguments about his unworthiness.

Her head bent in apparent thought, she walked farther along the beach. He didn't follow. The wind lashed at him as he watched her retreat.

It was time they returned to the house. She must be freezing. Still, he didn't move to fetch her. He needed a moment of privacy to rein in his blistering rage at her stepbrothers.

Long ago he'd guessed she came from a good family, but her fortune must be enormous to provoke this frenzy of greed. Gideon recalled no great families called Watson, but then he'd never moved in high society. The Trevithicks were only minor gentry. His experience of the haut ton was limited to his recent sojourn in the capital. Those weeks were a painful blur. Concealing his illness from the avid mob had been almost impossible. Mostly he'd just felt an overwhelming desire to escape.

And, of course, Sarah's stepbrothers would have a different last name. It hardly mattered. Duke's daughter or shopkeeper's daughter, Sarah was utterly out of reach. A man like him couldn't start to think about taking a wife.

His hungry gaze fastened on her as she paused to pick up a pebble and pitch it into the sea. Her stepbrothers a.s.sumed their ward lacked powerful friends. Perhaps at last, being the Hero of Rangapindhi might prove of some use. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds would pay for their crimes before he was done.

It would be his parting gift to Sarah.

He'd see her safe and happy. Then the kindest thing he could do was forsake her forever. With a grim knell in his heart, he trudged up the beach to where she silently stared across the waves.

Eight.

After so many hours in Sarah's company, Gideon inevitably dreamt of her. Such cruel fantasies to torment him when he couldn't lay a hand on her in the real world. At dawn he woke, sweating and restless and painfully aroused. He desperately needed to escape the house, partly because he couldn't bear to meet Sarah's clear gaze and recall what an insatiable satyr he was.

At least in his dreams.

After an early breakfast, he set out for a long ride along the cliffs on an unfamiliar mount. Akash hadn't yet arrived with Khan and the other horses. Now he strode along the gallery, heading for his rooms and a quick wash before he settled to the estate papers. And hopefully no intrusive thoughts of hazel-eyed houris.

From either side, his ancestors stared down. He didn't count on their approval. How could he? His forebears must resent knowing all their labor, all their ambition, all their hopes ended with him.

G.o.d knows what would happen to the estate once he was gone. In the meantime, he'd devote his life to restoring it. Not for the sake of these louring faces but for the people who lived here. Dark, secretive, taciturn. And loyal to death to the Trevithicks.

He hadn't expected to survive to see his homeland again. But he had-to return to news that Harry was dead. How ironic that his father and his brother perished too young in safe, peaceful England. While Gideon had come through untold dangers.

With such somber thoughts for company, Gideon rounded the bend in the gallery and almost ran Sarah down.

"Sir Gideon!"

He reached out as she stumbled. Then he remembered and s.n.a.t.c.hed his gloved hands back. Blood pumped through his veins in primitive demand. He hardened with uncontrollable swiftness. Untrammeled images from his dreams swamped his mind. His body moving in hers. Her bronze hair flowing about them like wild silk. Her soft moans of pleasure.

For one burning instant, he stood close enough to catch her scent. A hint of carnation soap. The essence of Sarah herself. Then she found her balance and shifted away, thank G.o.d.

Sucking in a deep breath, he retreated a step. The extra distance did nothing to curb the storm inside him. "Sarah..."

At his withdrawal, her eyes darkened with hurt. He wanted to tell her again it wasn't her, but he stopped himself. Better by far she never learned his filthy secrets. He couldn't burden her so.

She bit her lip and glanced at the painting she'd been studying. "He could be your twin."

"What?" Gideon struggled to focus on what she said.

"The man in the portrait."

He blinked to clear his vision and realized she stood looking at Black Jack Trevithick. For a long moment, Gideon stared into painted eyes so similar to his own. Black Jack wasn't smiling, but the long, sensual mouth quirked on the verge of laughter.

"That's Black Jack. An altogether more dashing fellow than I."

"He certainly has the devil in his eyes."

"Not just in his eyes if the stories are true."

"Women, you mean? If looks are anything to go by, I suspect the stories are true." She glanced directly at Gideon. "You'll have to tell me."

He shifted uncomfortably. A discussion of his disreputable forebear's amorous conquests. Just what he needed when he struggled to rein in his own unruly s.e.xual appet.i.tes. "Most aren't fit for a lady's ears."

She laughed softly and flashed him a smile. Her full lips curved bewitchingly, and he caught a glimpse of small white teeth. Another bolt of arousal left him staggering. Her warmth beckoned, more enticing than a fire on a winter's night.

He tilted his chin in Black Jack's direction. "Actually, there's one story you might like."

"Only one?"

"Well, the only one I mean to tell."

"Spoilsport." Her lips twitched in a way that sent another frisson down his spine.

He strove to sound as if he weren't about to combust into ashes. "Black Jack was the local wild boy. He could sail anything that floated, ride any horse that galloped, seduce any maiden into compliance. The family legend is he charmed Queen Bess out of her chast.i.ty."

The enchanting smile still hovered around Sarah's lips. "What a man."

"Precisely." He struggled to concentrate on his story rather than Sarah's attractions. An impossible task when her attractions were so compelling. "On one of his raids along the Spanish Main, he captured a galleon."

Her face was alight with interest. "Packed with treasure, so the Trevithicks were set up forever?"

"Who's telling this tale?"

"You are. Pray, go on."

"Packed with treasure, so Black Jack came back to Cornwall and rebuilt the house as it stands today."

"If he built this house, he had an artist's spirit. What else was on the galleon?"

He fell into the familiar tale, telling it as he'd heard it as a child from his nurse, one of Pollett's sisters. "A grandee's daughter called Donna Ana, the most beautiful woman in King Philip's empire."

"She fell in love with Black Jack at first sight?"

"No, she fought him tooth and nail. But Jack wanted her and brought her back to Penrhyn as his bride."

"Don't tell me she pined for Spain and died a melancholy death far from everything she loved?"

"Now what sort of romantic legend is that?"

"The sort I don't like to hear."

An amused sound emerged from his throat. So dangerous, letting himself relax with her. But sweeter than the rich Indian confectionery he remembered from the bazaars. "After a battle royal, she fell in love with her Cornish pirate and gave him ten healthy children. He lived into old age as a faithful and devoted husband."

Sarah's smile filled with unguarded delight. He felt as though he stood in a shaft of summer sunlight, for all it was a cold February day. "That's lovely."

Her response didn't surprise him. He knew she was a romantic. Look at how she romanticized him.

"I suspect in reality their marriage was much like anyone else's." Gideon stifled his own boyish fascination with his swashbuckling ancestor. Misguided romanticism had already cost him everything that made life worthwhile.

Her smile faded. "No. It was a grand pa.s.sion, so their life together was a grand adventure." She must have guessed he meant to argue for a more prosaic interpretation because she rushed into speech. "Is there a picture of Donna Ana?"

Gideon gestured to the opposite wall. The small panel on wood depicted a dumpy woman wearing an unflattering black gown from the reign of James Stuart. "There."

Sarah spent some time staring into the woman's plump, lined face. He moved to stand behind her, not close enough to touch. "Are you disappointed?"

Of course she must be. The most beautiful girl in the Spanish Empire had turned into a middle-aged frump. If Donna Ana ever was beautiful. Perhaps family mythology embroidered that part of the tale. Perhaps Jack just married this little hen to secure her Spanish gold. The wealth he seized from the galleon was real enough. The proof was all around them in Penrhyn's faded glory.

"No, I'm not disappointed," Sarah said softly, turning to face him. "She looks like she led a happy life even though she was far from home and family. She must have loved her wild husband and her brood of children."

In this dusty room with its beautiful parquetry floor, dark paneling, and elaborate plaster ceiling, Sarah was the only thing truly alive. She burned like a flame. His eyes feverishly drank her in. Satiny hair pulled back in a plait. Great, glowing eyes. Her cheap gown hinted at the untold riches of her body beneath.

Her cheap, torn, dirty gown.

He scowled. "Good G.o.d, woman, what are you wearing?"

A flush rose in her cheeks, and she self-consciously tweaked her faded skirts. "It was all I had."

"I asked the housekeeper to find you something."

She made a face. "Mrs. Pollett is three times my size. She lent me a couple of dresses, but they were hopeless. The nightdress was so big, it wouldn't stay up."

He stiffened. All over. Darkness edged his vision. His mind burned with scorching images of Sarah's shift sliding to the ground with a sensual whisper. Leaving her bare and beautiful and ready for him.

He cleared his throat, clenched his fists, and battled for control.

Her color became more hectic, and her hands rose to her cheeks. "I shouldn't have said that."

Gideon swallowed and strove to concentrate on the least arousing objects he could think of. Radishes. Turnips. Cabbages. Carrots.

No, not carrots.

"No..." He cleared his throat again. "No, you shouldn't."

"You won't believe this, but I wasn't dragged up under a bush," she mumbled.

He knew what he'd like to do with her under a bush. Or what he'd like to do if he was a whole man and able to turn his desire into action.

He struggled for a normal tone as wanton images of Sarah naked and eager rocketed through his mind. "My mother's clothing is packed in the attics. Would you like to see if any is suitable? You can't run around in that rag for the next three weeks."

Sarah pointed to a gold-framed picture along the same wall as Black Jack's. "Is that your mother?"

"Yes."

As he'd known she would, she wandered down to stand in front of the exquisite Lawrence. The woman in the portrait wore one of the diaphanous gowns popular at the end of the last century. Blond hair curled softly around her delicate face.

"She's very pretty."

"In her first season, she was considered a diamond of the first water. She was only eighteen when she married my father."

"Is he the rather florid man in the next picture?"

"Yes. And my brother Harry is the fellow next to him, who looks like a younger version of his sire."

His gut tightened with the usual contradictory emotions as he studied Sir Barker and Harry. Regret, certainly. A complex brew of grief and anger. The futile wish that at least a trace of warmth had marked his interactions with his family.

"You don't look like either of your parents."

"My father might have wanted to proclaim me b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but the proof of my mother's fidelity is in this gallery."