by Rebecca King
Eliza picked up on the sense of urgency in Jemima’s voice and lapsed into silence, clearly knowing her sister well enough to know when it was wise just to keep quiet and listen. She didn’t have to wait long before Jemima quickly sketched in Hugo’s involvement in her release from gaol, and the risks to their informant back in Padstow now that Scraggan was no longer interested in Eliza and herself.
“You cannot seriously be considering going back there, can you?” Eliza gasped, staring at her sister in horror. It had only been a few days ago that she had been filled with trepidation at the thought of returning to the house she had once considered her home, her haven.
“You know she won’t talk to Hugo, no matter how charming he is. If they attempt to kidnap her to take her to safety against her will, she would just create as much of a rumpus as she could and would end up herself at even more risk,” Jemima reasoned.
“But Scraggan hasn’t found her yet. What makes you think that he is going to bother with her now?” Eliza argued, knowing deep inside that Jemima had already made her mind up. She couldn’t believe it, and fought the urge to run and fetch Edward, or Peter, to talk some sense into her.
“Hugo has men undercover in Padstow. They have reported that Scraggan’s men know there is someone watching them, who poses a risk to their operation. Hugo thinks that now we are out of the way, Scraggan will turn his attentions to the new risk, and take steps to put them out of action too,” Jemima explained, seeing no reason why Eliza shouldn’t know all the details.
“Do you think he could kill her?” Eliza whispered, thinking of the woman they both considered their closest friend.
Jemima looked askance at her sister. “Look what they thought they were doing to us.”
Silence settled between them for several long moments, as both women contemplated the possibilities.
“What does Hugo want to do?”
Jemima sighed and shook her head. “He wants her name so he can send men to protect her. I think they would kidnap her if she didn’t go with them quietly.”
Eliza snorted inelegantly and raised a sceptical brow at Jemima, who screwed up her nose and nodded in understanding. Jemima sighed, knowing that really left only one possibility.
“Peter won’t let you go,” Eliza said softly, thinking of his grief only yesterday.
“Peter can’t stop me. I mean, we’re not married or anything. He isn’t in a position to forbid me.”
“You simply cannot do that to him, Jemima, it is too cruel.” Eliza didn’t try to keep the censure out of her voice as she stared at her sister, wondering what he would do if Jemima left.
“I know, but I am not like you, Eliza. Things over the past few months have been different for me; harder.” Jemima smiled softly at her sister, knowing she didn’t understand, but was glad of her ignorance. “I have things I need to come to terms with before I can consider settling down into matrimony. I think that, while Scraggan is alive, there is still a threat from him, and I cannot put the family at risk. Besides, I don’t think I could ever settle down to a life of nothing more than reading and sewing.”
Eliza understood, she really did, but still felt she had to object to Jemima putting herself in such danger.
“What makes you think you can get in to Padstow and back out without crossing paths with him?” Eliza reasoned, thinking of her own plans to visit her old home under the cover of darkness.
“I am not saying I am going,” Jemima said hesitantly, only to pause when Eliza sighed and tutted at her.
“What?”
Eliza shook her head. Whatever she was about to say next was left unsaid, as the door opened and Peter entered.
“Is everything all right?” He had tried to stay away, but had found it impossible to be away from her for too long.
He needed to see for himself that Jemima was really all right, and not considering aiding Hugo in any way. Which, given the guilty look on her face, was something she clearly was. He hadn’t missed the knowing look that passed between the women as he entered.
He had the distinct feeling the next few moments were going to be difficult, and wasn’t surprised when Eliza quickly made her excuses and left them alone.
“Tell me you aren’t contemplating helping Hugo,” Peter demanded, perching on the edge of the chaise beside her chair, and resting his elbows on his knees in a seemingly casual pose. Staring down at his hands, he knew from her silence that she was considering something he wasn’t going to like and clearly expected an argument from him.
Jemima stood and knelt on the floor directly before him, taking his hands in hers for several long moments before raising her gaze to his.
“Please don’t think that I am considering this lightly, because I am not. If someone came in now and said Scraggan was dead and posed no further threat, nobody would be happier than me. But they won’t, and now another woman, someone I consider a dear, dear friend, is at serious risk because of her connection to me. I cannot in all conscience just sit back and do nothing to help.”
“So give Hugo her name and let him go and help her,” Peter argued, clasping Jemima’s thin fingers in his warm palms and holding them tightly.
“My friend is very shy, and somewhat eccentric. There is simply no possibility she will trust Hugo, whatever he tells her. She is different to most people,” Jemima added cautiously, wondering just how much she should tell Peter without risking his censure. “Lovely, but different.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Peter muttered, not liking the way the conversation was going. His gaze met and held hers. “Please tell me that you are -” He stared in horror at Jemima for several moments before dropping her hands and lunging to his feet. “Good God, you are!”
He didn’t know what angered him more; the fact that Jemima was prepared to put herself in danger to help her friend, or the fact that she clearly expected him to stand back and let her go.
He stalked over to the window and stared out over the immaculate lawn, unable to even look at her. After several minutes he was aware that she had moved to stand beside him, but refused to tear his gaze away from the turrets of the old Norman church nestled in the trees bordering the lawns.
“You were supposed to have been buried today in that church,” he nodded out of the window, his voice as neutral as he could make it. He had to work hard not to turn around, grab her shoulders and shake her to within an inch of her life.
Jemima stood shoulder to shoulder with him, and studied the old stonework of the building peeking out through the woods.
“I’m sorry for ever getting you involved in all of this, Peter,” Jemima began, choosing her words carefully. “If I had known back in Devon just how bad things would get, I would never have asked for your help. At least then you would have been able to get on with your life, instead of having it stolen by Scraggan just as effectively as he has stolen mine.”
“It’s too late now though, isn’t it? I am involved, up to my ears, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it,” Peter snapped, for a brief moment wishing he wasn’t madly in love with her.
“The past few months have changed me considerably,” Jemima began, not certain if he would ever understand. “I am not sure I am even the same person you met down in Devon.”
“You haven’t changed that much,” Peter argued, knowing in his heart that she had changed a bit. There was wisdom in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A deep, all knowing wisdom that only came from life’s experiences, both good and bad, and was usually acquired with age.
“While Scraggan is still out there, I cannot settle. I won’t rest and allow myself to be caught out by him again. I cannot be lulled into a false sense of security thinking he is down in Padstow and busy with other things. It doesn’t matter how good the Star Elite are, or how much confidence this Hugo person has in them, Scraggan is dangerous and has many connections. There is a serious risk that someone will get word to him that I am still alive, and he could return to finish the job, especially
when he learns that Rogan has failed to murder Eliza and is now behind bars. He could return for answers. I cannot just sit here and wait.”
“But you won’t be sitting here: if we marry, you will be sitting in Oxfordshire, at Willowbrook Hall with me and I won’t let anyone get to you.”
Jemima reluctantly met his gaze, sadness lurking in the depths of her eyes. “I cannot consider a future until the past is laid to rest.”
Peter cursed and shook his head. “What if you are laid to rest? What then? Have you stopped to consider the devastation losing you would cause other people?”
He knew he was shouting, but was driven by a desperation that was driving him mad. He fought the urge to put his hands on her shoulders and shake her.
The image of Peter’s distress in those final moments in Mr Simpson’s office came flooding back, and she knew exactly how much distress she would cause him; had already caused him.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot enter into marriage to you not really knowing what I want. I have spent so much of the past few months living on edge, always looking over my shoulder, trying to blank out the horrible things going on around me, that I don’t know who I am anymore.” She longed to tell him she loved him, but couldn’t speak the words: they would place a further obligation on him.
If ignorance of her affection meant he was prepared to stand back and let her leave and, in doing so, get on with his own life, then so be it. However hard leaving him was going to be, she owed it to him to give him the opportunity to be free of her and her problems.
She knew he didn’t understand when he remained silent, and continued to stare moodily out of the window.
“Look at things a different way,” Jemima reasoned. “I have not been raised to be a lady. Neither Eliza nor I has ever had any formal schooling. We were taught to read and write on our father’s knee, and as soon as I was able to sit at the desk and see over the top of it, I was expected to help my father with his paperwork. Which I was happy to do,” she hastened to reassure him when Peter looked askance at her. “It gave me something to do. Eliza was always the more domesticated one and was happy to run the house, while I helped Father with his books and things. When we left Padstow, I knew things weren’t going to be easy and I was right. For the past few months I have worked from dawn to dusk, and the work has been long and tiring. But I have woken in the morning knowing what I was going to be doing that day. I have never had the luxury of waking up in the morning and having nothing more taxing to deal with than deciding whether I want to read or sew.”
Jemima scowled out over the lawns, considering just how boring a life like that must be. She realised then why so many aristocratic women looked so bored! They probably were. “Although I do not know what I want, I do know that I would not be happy living a life like that. I would be bored stupid within a month.” She turned to him, a frown still on her face. “But, on the other hand, I don’t know what I do want to do.”
She looked so lost, so confused that Peter’s anger evaporated. He tugged her into his arms, resting his head on the top of hers for several minutes as the silence settled around them.
“I can understand; really I can,” he whispered, wishing there was some other way to get help to her friend.
Jemima tipped her head back to stare up at him. “Can you really?” She wasn’t sure, but was glad he didn’t seem so angry with her.
Silence settled between them, as they stood before the window wrapped in each other’s arms. A sense of inevitability swept through her when Peter slowly lowered his head.
Tendrils of frustration still clung deep, driving Peter to lay siege to her senses. If he couldn’t persuade her to at least take some time to make her decisions on her future, then she was damned well going to feel his mark on her when she left.
Sliding his lips firmly against hers, he was rewarded when after a few brief moments she moaned and opened her mouth to accept the invasion of his tongue. Their lips slipped and slid as tongues tangled in a silent duel. Peter drew her tighter against him until there wasn’t a breath of air between them, but it wasn’t close enough. Driven by the need to protect her, to claim her as his before anything else happened to tear her away from him, he slid a hand into her hair to hold her head still. His tongue probed possessively into the moist recesses of her mouth as he poured all his pain, grief and worry into his kiss.
Jemima felt as though her very soul had been branded. His hot, almost searing, lips against hers laid claim to her senses and rendered her helpless to anything other than accepting his sensual onslaught. She couldn’t have broken away if her life had depended on it.
A soft cough broke the silence, and shattered the sensual web that had woven around them. Peter groaned and reluctantly broke the kiss. Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he reluctantly turned toward the cause of their interruption, willing his wayward body not to embarrass him.
“Sorry to interrupt, but Sir Dunnicliffe needs to give instructions to his men. We need to know about Jemima’s friend,” Dominic explained, shooting his friend an apologetic look before he closed the door, leaving Jemima and Peter alone again.
Jemima eased away from his warm embrace, feeling slightly shaken by the intensity of what just happened.
“I’m not going to apologise for it,” Peter grumbled. “I want you, you know that.”
Jemima simply nodded, hoping her trembling knees would hold her upright long enough to get her out of the door.
“We had better go and give Hugo your friend’s name,” Peter said, making it clear he expected her to do nothing more.
Jemima shot him a quick look, wondering if she should object to his high-handedness, but wisely remained quiet. The journey to the room next door, and the waiting group, was made in a tense silence. Jemima was very aware of Peter dogging her every footstep and wondered if this was the way of the future.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jemima entered the study moments later, aware that conversation had stopped at her entrance. She glanced at Hugo briefly before resuming her seat before the fireplace. She waited until Peter had sat on the chaise beside her, and considered her words carefully for several moments. She knew that what she was about to say would upset someone; she just wasn’t sure who.
“My friend’s name is Harriett Ponsonby, but -” she held up a hand when Hugo shifted on his heels, clearly ready to spring into action. “There is something you need to know about her. Let me tell you before we decide what to do.” Her gaze met and held Hugo’s in silent warning for several moments. “If you ignore me, then you will not get Harriett to agree to anything you want. You can lock her up in the Tower, and won’t get the information she has been gathering.”
“I’ve been to Padstow and know most of the locals. She isn’t familiar,” Hugo replied, searching his memory for a strange old woman who had a yen for gossip.
“She won’t be,” Jemima replied, throwing Peter a careful look. Taking a deep breath, she dropped her bombshell. “Harriett is a witch.”
“Witch?” Hugo’s brows shot up. “Witch as in cauldrons, broomsticks, and things?” He stared warily at Jemima, racking his brain for any memory of a witch and finding nothing.
Jemima’s lips quirked. “As far as I am aware, she doesn’t fly. She is a witch but not a black witch in that she doesn’t put curses on people. She is a white witch, and believes that plants and herbs can cure people of various ailments. She is a sort of uncertified doctor.” Her eyes met Hugo’s. “Although most of the locals are respectfully wary of her, most of them go to her when they are ill and have no qualms about taking her tinctures. But a few people have not been pleasant, and have been quite vocal about her and her mother living in their village.”
Hugo slumped in his seat opposite her. “She has a mother?”
“Not any more; she died some time back. But her mother was ostracised and verbally attacked on more than one occasion by people who didn’t understand. As time has gone on, locals have kept an almost wary distance from Harriett
because of her association to her mother.”
“Until they need help,” Peter finished for her, unsurprised at the selfishness of humanity.
Jemima nodded. “As a result, Harriett is very reclusive, and extremely wary of everyone, including men, until they need help; then she will try to cure them with her potions. Usually she succeeds. In fact, in all the years I have known her, there has only been one occasion when she has failed, and the man was in his 90s anyway and suffering from a wasting illness.”
“I didn’t realise Padstow had a witch,” Hugo murmured, wondering how this could have escaped the attention of his men.
“She doesn’t live in Padstow village,” Jemima explained. “She lives in a house on the hills overlooking the harbour.”
Peter shook his head and sat back in his chair. “Close enough to see all the ships going in and out of the harbour.” He wasn’t surprised when Jemima nodded slowly and looked at him.
“Her house is the closest to ours. Old lady Ponsonby used to look after us when Father was away on business. As children of the magistrate, nobody criticised us for associating with known witches. Father used to say that it helped keep the criminals away from his door,” she added ruefully, a wry smile on her face.
Her gaze returned to Hugo. “So you see, Harriett won’t leave her beloved home for anyone. She has built up so many different herbs and plants, some I have never heard of, that she won’t leave them to wilt and die, and there is nobody in the village who would be prepared to go near her house to look after them for her. Moreover, she won’t trust anything you say because you are a man.”
“Why doesn’t she trust men? Has she had a problem before?” Peter asked, wondering if there was a sour romance in her past.
“I don’t know the reason. She was civil enough with Father and seemed to quite like him. But she was always wary, always allowing anyone only so close before becoming defensive and returning home. I do know Harriett grew up without a father. I don’t know who he was, or what happened, because she refuses to talk about it.”