The Passions of Lord Trevethow

by Bronwyn Scott

  The last had boiled Cassian’s blood. Redruth couldn’t know how close to his heart that arrow struck. Redruth didn’t know that the Duke of Hayle and his son, the Viscount Trevethow, along with Inigo Vellanoweth, Earl of Tintagel, and his father, the Duke of Boscastle; all close intimates of the late duke, were the driving force behind the Porth Karrek Land Development Company. Cassian had wanted to write back, to argue that the duke would have been the first to champion such an innovative project to restore the region’s economy. But Redruth would not care and such a self-satisfying measure would risk exposing the land company’s ownership. Other than being neighbours, Redruth knew little about the progressive thoughts of the Duke of Newlyn past or present. Redruth, in fact, knew very little of what happened outside the walled fortress of Castle Byerd. It was a pity. His own people would suffer for it.

  Cassian threw another stick on the fire in the little hearth and watched it blaze. It was at times like these, where he could not effect change, could not break an impasse, that he felt most impotent. How could it be that with all his resources he could not breach the walls of the earl’s disregard? He would try again. He’d find a way. He did not give up easily. He’d not given up when it had proven hard to read while others around him seemed to pick it up naturally. He’d not given up when the deans at Oxford had said he’d never complete his degree in history, a subject that required much reading. Instead, encouraged by his father, his close friends and Newlyn, he’d found a way to appreciate history through travel, to appreciate the world through other more experiential means than solely through texts. Newlyn was gone now, but he’d left Cassian with a legacy of perseverance and success. Hard work paid in rich reward. And, of course, he knew the opposite was true as well. Quitting, giving in, only bred more defeat. He had quit only once in his life. How might things have been different if he hadn’t given up on Collin? Might Collin still be alive if he’d made different decisions where his brother had been concerned?

  ‘Matthew?’ Em’s sweet voice broke into his darkening thoughts. Cassian looked away from the fire.

  ‘Em!’ Her presence chased away the guilt that was always present when he thought about Collin. His day was better already just at the sight of her. Her cheeks were rosy with exertion. Her hood had fallen back and her hair sparkled with droplets of mist. Her boots were muddy and her cloak damp. Cassian moved to help her out of her wet garment. He spread it before the fire, noting how thin it was. ‘It will be dry by the time you leave,’ he promised.

  ‘You needn’t fuss. It’s only a light mist.’ She held her hands out towards the flames, warming them, and Cassian felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I hope the walk wasn’t too far? I should have asked last night. I should not have presumed.’ A slip on his part. He was privileged. He had sturdy boots to wear, a warm coat. He should not have assumed her shoes would be adequate for the task of tramping through the mud or that her cloak was warm enough for her to choose to be out of doors voluntarily.

  ‘It wasn’t too far. I like a good walk, rain or shine,’ she assured him, but her smile was tremulous, her eyes glancing about the room, taking in the door and the two windows as if she might need to know their location for an escape. She wore the same blue dress he’d glimpsed beneath her cloak at the fair. The pretty glass heart was at her neck and it warmed him that she’d worn it. She was much the same Em in daylight as she’d been at the fair, but today she was nervous.

  Cassian strove to put her at ease. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I thought you might not come.’ He dragged over the two chairs from the table and set them near the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get away as soon as I’d wanted. I hope you weren’t waiting for too long?’ She sounded flustered as she cast about for conversation. Perhaps she was realising how alone they were, how different today was from last night. There were no lights, no vendors, no fair magic to guide their conversation. It was just them.

  ‘It’s never too long to wait for you.’ Cassian absolved her tardiness with the wave of a hand. The wait had been worth it to have her all to himself. Without her cloak to hide her, he could see the details of her face. Not just her eyes, but the minutiae of her: the tiny scar at her chin, the freckle at the corner of her mouth, the things that gave her features nuance and depth, that made them uniquely hers. When one struggled to read books, one learned to read people instead.

  ‘Do you flatter all the strange girls you meet?’ She blushed becomingly and dropped her gaze to her lap. ‘Why did you think I wouldn’t come?’

  Cassian stretched his booted feet out before the fire and gave her a winsome smile. ‘I thought you might have realised how insane it was to meet a stranger in a cottage.’

  * * *

  Oh, she had definitely realised that. She was still thinking it, in fact, now that she’d arrived and the very space they occupied seemed intent on reminding her of the remoteness of their location and the precariousness of her position. To be caught here would be devastating. Pen fidgeted with her hands in her lap. What did one say to that?

  She jumped up from her chair and began to walk the length of the room, expending her nervous energy. ‘It is crazy. But you’re here, too, so I guess that makes two of us with questionable grips on sanity. Although, to my credit, I did turn around once.’ It accounted for being late, that and the rather lengthy debate she’d held with herself on a rock overlooking the sea.

  The admission seemed to intrigue him. She felt his whisky eyes linger on her, studying her as she moved about the room. ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I had to know, for myself, if this was crazy. I’d never know if I could trust you if I didn’t show up.’ More than that, she didn’t want her father to win. She didn’t want fear to win, to steal her one chance at an adventure. But now that she’d come she hardly knew what to do with herself. What did one do on a rendezvous? Would there be kisses? More than kisses? She hardly knew the man she’d braved fear and rain to meet in an old cottage. For all she knew, he was a practised rake.

  ‘Do you meet girls out here all the time?’ It was possible she was just another in a long line of clandestine seductions. A hundred horrid thoughts had crossed her mind on the walk, thoughts not just about him, but about her. If he was a seducer, what did it say of her that she was still willing to meet him?

  ‘No.’ He sounded insulted by the idea. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘You’ve come provisioned, a man with a plan.’ Pen opened the picnic basket at the table and sniffed appreciably. There were meat pies inside. Her stomach rumbled.

  ‘We might get hungry. Bring it to the fire and stay warm.’ He left his chair and sat on the floor, taking the basket from her as she sat down beside him.

  ‘You mean you’ll get hungry. You’re always ravenous. If I ate as much food as you did at the fair, I’d outgrow my clothes in a week.’ Pen laughed, some of the ease of the prior evening returning to her. She’d not realised how much she’d relied on the fair last night to direct their conversation, to give them something to talk about.

  ‘See, you already know me far better than you did yesterday.’ He passed her a meat pie. ‘You have an unfair advantage on me, I’m afraid. I don’t know anything about you.’ He slanted her a teasing look. ‘I know what we’ll do. I propose of game of questions so that by the end of it, we shall no longer be strangers.’ He grinned mischievously at her, offering the jug of ale. ‘First, the rules. Rule number one: we shall take turns asking each other questions. Rule number two: we must answer with the truth. Our honour requires it. Rule number three: our honour also requires the question cannot be refused. I’ll go first.’ He stretched out to his full length before the fire, his dark head propped in a large hand, looking indolent and perhaps a bit smug. He was too certain of himself for his own good and too certain of her. Perhaps he was used to women always following his lead. Her mother had always said a gentleman must never be too sure of himself when it came to a wo
man’s attentions. A little dose of humility was a welcome quality in a man.

  Pen decided to do something about that humility. ‘You will go first?’ she teased. ‘What happened to ladies first?’ She lifted the jug to her lips and took a swallow before passing it back, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. How many governesses would cringe if they could see her now? ‘I will start, thank you.’ She cleared her throat in mock authority. ‘Question one: Why did you notice me at the fair?’

  Chapter Five

  Matthew laughed at her audacity, a low rumbling sound that shot through her with a bolt of warmth, like his lips on her knuckles. ‘You’re just going to start with the hard stuff, aren’t you, Em? No easing into it with the usual “what’s your favourite colour?” or “what do you like to eat”?’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’ Pen shrugged, boldly unapologetic. Between the ale and the fire, she was losing her nervousness. Surely, if he’d wanted something from her, he would have taken it last night and forgone the trouble of a second meeting. ‘Answer the question, Matthew. You’re stalling.’

  ‘All right.’ His smile melted her and her boldness was in jeopardy. She’d poked the sleeping bear and now he was going to make her pay. His eyes lingered on her, amber pools, rich and deep, inviting her to drown in him, with him, for him. ‘I liked how you moved. Even beneath that cloak there was grace and I liked how you looked at the goods. You had a reverent appreciation for them. I thought to myself, “There’s a woman who knows how to enjoy herself, a woman who takes nothing for granted.”’ His words were as bold as his gaze, searing her with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the man stretched out beside her. Good lord, she must be as red as one of Wadesbridge’s roses.

  He smiled, proof enough that she was flushed. ‘You asked, Em. Now, it’s my turn.’ His grin widened and she held her breath. She’d been too daring with her question. He would make her pay. She’d have to be on her guard, careful not to give anything away that might alert him to who she was, or what she was. ‘What was your favourite part of the evening?’

  She let out her breath with a relieved sigh. There was nothing to fear there. She could answer simply and honestly. ‘Watching the glass-blower. My turn. What is—?’

  ‘No, wait. That’s not fair,’ Matthew broke in with laughing chagrin. ‘You have to say more than that. I gave you details.’

  ‘That was your choice. The rule was to tell the truth, not to offer details—that was entirely optional.’ It was an option she could have exercised as well. She could have said she’d liked his hand at her waist as they’d watched the demonstration, that she’d liked feeling the heat and power of his body behind her, that it had made her feel safe despite not knowing him. But to say those things exposed her too thoroughly. Wasn’t she exposed enough as it was? Perhaps he’d only said those things to trick her into reciprocating.

  His amber eyes narrowed in speculation as he gave the issue feigned consideration of the most serious sort. ‘Well, perhaps I must concede the point. This time.’ The glint in his eyes said she wouldn’t win that argument twice. He was on to her. She’d have to tread cautiously.

  ‘In return, I’ll take it easy on you, for now. I’ll ask you something basic. What’s your favourite colour?’

  ‘Maybe I won’t take it easy on you, Em, with my answer.’ His reply was low, private, just for her. She loved the way it caressed her name. Em. But that wasn’t really her name any more than Matthew was his. She couldn’t lose sight of that. They might be telling each other bold things beside the fire, but they were still strangers. ‘My favourite colour is sea green, the colour of the ocean on a sunny day, the colour of your eyes when they caught the glass-blower’s flame, the colour of your eyes right now as you ponder whether or not my answer is flattery or truth.’ He was definitely not taking it easy on her. Each answer he gave was a verbal seduction that went far beyond flirtatious banter. A lady shouldn’t allow a man to talk like that. But she wasn’t a lady, not here. Lady Penrose Prideaux was three miles away in the castle, lying down with a lavender cloth. Only Em was here and Em wasn’t a lady. Em was just... Em. Em could allow the indiscretion, although she ought to protest just a bit to keep him honest.

  ‘You shouldn’t say such things.’ She reached for the ale jug and took another swallow. She might start to believe them, that she was beautiful, enticing, that she could intrigue a man such as Matthew, a man who could have any woman he wanted on charm alone. The words would be easy to believe. She had nothing to compare them with.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I if they’re true? You’re a beautiful woman.’ His hand reached out to stroke her cheek and she felt the game spiral out of her control, the conversation becoming one intimacy upon another: the fire, the floor picnic, the long stretch of his body alongside the hearth, the truth game. Even the rain outside had contributed to the cosy familiarity of their grey-skied afternoon.

  ‘My question. If you could only travel to one other place in the world, where would you go, Em?’

  She finished her pasty, thinking hard. When she had her answer she licked her fingers. No doubt somewhere in England another governess fainted. ‘Venice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s two questions, sir,’ she scolded, but there was no heat in it. ‘I am willing to allow you this one transgression.’ In truth, she might allow him more than one. Somehow during their questions, they’d moved closer together, their voices choosing to be low and private although nothing required it of them, their questions and answers becoming serious. ‘I choose Venice because that is where the world still meets, where east comes together with west. I can find the silks of the Orient there, the spices of the Middle East, and the magic of Venice itself, a whole city built on a lagoon, with canals instead of roads. The best of the world is there.’

  ‘Venice is past her zenith, an ageing queen,’ Cassian probed. ‘Perhaps you would be disappointed? It stinks in the summer.’

  She shook her hair forward over one shoulder and began to comb through it with her fingers. ‘No, Venice is like me. I, too, am an ageing queen. Girls younger than me are married, have children, while I am tucked away at home, waiting and waiting and nothing comes.’

  ‘Waiting for what? What do you think will come?’ His question was a whisper barely audible above the crack of the fire.

  ‘For adventure, for life to start again or perhaps for the first time. My father is a man full of fear. He fears for me, he wants to keep me safe, but it has turned my home into a prison.’ How freeing it was to talk to him, to tell him things she’d shared with no one, not even Phin, out of fear of making her father look bad to others. Perhaps sometimes it was easier to trust a stranger with one’s secrets. Matthew didn’t know Lady Penrose Prideaux, didn’t know the father of whom she spoke, or the legacy of fear she referred to.

  Matthew gave her a lazy smile. ‘You didn’t tell me the whole truth earlier, Em.’

  ‘I told you I came here today to conquer fear, so that I would not be ruled by it,’ she protested.

  ‘Like your father? Yes. But you didn’t tell me about the adventure part.’ His eyes were on her mouth again. ‘Am I your adventure? Remember, you must answer truthfully.’

  She licked her lips, unsure how to answer. To say yes might be to objectify him. He might feel used. To say no would be a lie. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you who has seen the world I want to see. You are my adventure in the very best of ways.’

  ‘And you are mine.’ He reached for her, drawing her down alongside of him, their bodies stretched out before the fire. ‘In the very best of ways,’ he echoed.

  Her breath caught at the nearness of him, the sheer size of him. Matthew was a big man, built like a hero; broad through the shoulders, strong in the chest. Achilles or Odysseus, she thought, straight from the stanzas of the Iliad. This was not proper, to lie with a man before the fire, to see his every thought flicker
in his eyes, to let him rest his hand at her hip, his thumb massaging low on her abdomen. It was not proper to resent the layers of clothing that kept them separated. But this had never been about being proper. If it had been, she’d never have come at all.

  ‘Have you ever been kissed, Em?’ His eyes were on her, intent on her answer. ‘Remember, only the truth.’ At his words, the game and its remaining questions were forgotten entirely. There was a new game to play.

  Her answer was a mere whisper. ‘No.’ Who would dare to kiss Lady Penrose Prideaux, cloistered daughter of the Earl of Redruth? But here in this cottage, Em was a woman who belonged to no one but herself, who ate meat pasties with handsome men at fairs, who admired Venetian glass-blowers and met with strange men in abandoned cottages to play games of revelation.

  ‘Would you like to be?’ came the question, the dare. It would be easy to close the remaining distance, to part her lips, to issue the invitation he was asking for without a word. But he’d want the words. He would want to hear her consent. ‘Would you, Em?’

  She brought her hand up to stroke the stubble of his cheek, her own voice pitched low and throaty. ‘You are terrible with rules. It’s my turn to ask the question.’

  His eyes darkened, guessing her game. ‘Then, ask, Em.’

  ‘Will you kiss me?’

  A smile shimmered across his face. ‘Absolutely. It would be my privilege.’ A tilt of her head, a parting of her lips, and his mouth was there on hers, inviting her to join him in tasting one another. She gave him her mouth, all of it, savouring the remnants of sweet ale on his lips, the tease of his tongue as he explored her depths, the press of his hand cradling her jaw, the deepening of the kiss a reminder of their afternoon, an afternoon filled with simple pleasures, meat pies and conversations, and she didn’t want it to end. A purr of desire purled up from her throat as she arched into him, her body wanting more of his touch, of him. She’d never been so warm, so hungry for another’s touch. He would burn her and she would flame for him gladly.