by Candice Hern
Verity covered her mouth with her hand while she fought back the bile rising in her throat. The picture painted by the captain was more hideous than anything she could imagine. “I suppose,” she said after a moment, “I cannot know what it was like. I hope never to know what it was like. But I can certainly understand his guilt, justified or not. What I do not understand is what all this has to do with the deaths of his wife and child.”
The captain heaved a great sigh. “There is more,” he said. He waited until she looked up and met his eyes. “I do not think James would appreciate me telling this. It is a very private thing, a shameful thing for many men. But I believe it is best that you know. It will explain much for you.”
“Then please tell me,” Verity said. “Help me to understand. I am living under the man’s roof. I am, for the moment, dependent upon him. I need to understand.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Very well. But I only tell you this in the strictest confidence. James would have my head if he knew.”
“I will not betray your confidence, Captain.”
They fell into step together, setting a slow pace up the gentle slope to Pendurgan. “James was sent to hospital,” he said, “to recover from the broken leg. He stayed quite a long time. They kept him because…he became irrational and often had to be restrained. He had terrible nightmares and would wake up screaming uncontrollably. I believe he would have been shipped back to Bedlam were it not for a few of us who stood by and vouched for him. After several months he finally seemed to have recovered, physically and mentally, and was allowed to return to the regiment. But he had no stomach for it and sold out. I was just recovering from my own wounds and decided to go home with him. I suspected he would need a friend.
“So he did indeed come home a different man. He had not, has never, completely overcome the guilt and shame of what happened.”
“But why?” Verity asked, still not understanding. “He did not plant the mine. It was not his fault. It is all a brutal fact of war, is it not? Why should he feel shame?”
“An officer takes his responsibilities to his men very seriously,” the captain said. “James felt he had failed them. But the shame…that was different. The shame came from what happened afterward.” He paused before continuing, apparently gathering his thoughts.
“It is not uncommon that a soldier is traumatized by memories of some horror, sometimes to the point where he can no longer effectively perform his duties. It happens more often than you might expect, but it is seldom if ever mentioned. It is seen by many soldiers as a sign of cowardice. Many commanding officers have no patience for a soldier suffering from ‘nerves’ or ‘exhaustion’ or whatever they choose to call it, and often just send him to the rear guard. Fellow soldiers harass him and label him ‘coward.’ It is a difficult situation and demeaning for any soldier. That is what James would have faced when he returned to the regiment. That is the source of his shame.”
Verity began to understand. “He left the army to avoid being labeled a coward. Yet he branded himself with that label just the same.”
“Exactly,” he said. “James was so riddled with shame and guilt that he lashed out at anyone who approached. He began drinking. He kept everyone at a distance, especially Rowena. She used to cry and cry over his coldness. And then things started to happen. I would not know of this until some time later, but he began to have long periods of blackout. He would suddenly find himself somewhere with no recollection of how he came to be there. He would lose hours at a time.”
“Good Lord!”
“Each episode was brought on by the sight of fire. Not just an ordinary fire in the grate, but something sudden. An unexpected burst of flame, a small explosion at the mine, anything like that might trigger memories of the explosion at Ciudad Rodrigo. And he would disappear back into that memory for hours.”
“Oh, my God. That’s what happened with the stable fire.”
“Yes. Physically, he was there. Mentally, he was in Spain, immobilized by the memories.”
“How horrible!” Verity felt the sting of tears building up behind her eyes. “The poor man. He must have been devastated when he realized what had happened.”
“He became worse,” the captain said. “His guilt was compounded by feeling responsible for the deaths of his family. Beautiful, delicate Rowena and that sweet little boy.”
Verity brushed away the tears that trembled on her lashes. Her heart ached for what James had suffered. “How simply dreadful. The poor, poor man. And yet this tragedy has labeled him a murderer? It makes no sense.”
“The explanation I have given you,” he replied, “is known only to myself and Samuel Lobb, his valet. No one else knows about Spain, about the blackouts and nightmares.”
“Why not?” Verity asked. “Would it not help people to understand what happened, to know he could not help what the sight of fire did to him?”
“He would rather be known as a cold-blooded murderer than a coward.”
“But that’s ridiculous.”
“It is hard for a woman to understand, I know,” the captain said. “But it is his choice, and his life.”
“I wonder why he rescued me at Gunnisloe?” The thought found voice before she could stop it.
Captain Poldrennan cast her a curious glance. “Rescue?”
“Yes,” she said. In for a penny in for a pound. “I thought at first his motives were sinister, that I might be in some sort of danger. But I have not been. He has left me alone, for the most part.” She would not tell him about last night’s kiss.
“He keeps his distance from most people,” the captain said. “He still suffers the occasional blackout and I believe he lives in fear of another incident like the fire. He does not wish to put anyone else in danger.”
“Which is why I am wondering why he brought me here,” she said. “Have there been other incidents? I was told of other fires.”
Captain Poldrennan’s expression became wooden and he stared blankly ahead. “I have heard of one or two unexplained fires,” he said. “But I know nothing about them.”
How odd, that this amiable gentleman who had been so forthcoming now decided to hold his tongue. Well, she would not press the issue. She had learned more from him than she could ever have hoped.
“I thank you, Captain, for telling me all this. I realize it was difficult for you, and I appreciate your confidence. You cannot imagine how confused I have been, wondering whether I should be afraid for my life. It is a great relief to know I am in no danger from Lord Harkness.”
Captain Poldrennan smiled. “You are a most understanding woman, Mrs. Osborne.”
“Lord Harkness is wounded from the war,” she said, “just as surely as if he’d lost a limb or an eye. I am a healer of sorts, Captain, so it is not difficult to recognize a body in pain.”
His smile became a very engaging grin. “I am glad to know that you care for him,” he said.
His words caused a flush to heat her cheeks. Did she care for him?
“Perhaps that is your answer. Perhaps that is why he brought you here,” the captain said. “After all these years, you may be the one who can finally help him to heal.”
James rode through the back gate and into the western court, a small graveled yard adjacent to the main house. Jago Chenhalls, on the spot as always, was there to take Castor.
“Afternoon, m’lord.”
James dismounted and handed over the reins. “Afternoon, Jago.” He looked up at the blue sky, streaked with more pink than gray for once. “A break in the weather, do you think?”
“Naw,” Jago said. “The rooks do be flyin’ low. ’Twill rain by nightfall.”
James smiled at the man whose portents of weather tended to be uncannily accurate. He walked through the low, wide archway into the central courtyard and saw two figures approaching the main entrance. Alan Poldrennan, leading his bay mare, walked alongside Verity. He wondered how they came to be together. James watched as his handsome friend’s warm smile w
as returned by Verity, and felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. She had never smiled at him like that. But then, why would she? What had he ever given her to smile about?
He had been to Wheal Devoran and back during the time she’d been in the village. Had she done as he suggested and asked for confirmation of his villainy? What had she learned? Would the women have told her about the fire? Of course they would have, if she had asked. And what about Alan? They seemed to be chatting amiably as though they’d known each other for years. Had she asked him as well? And what would he have told her? Alan knew more of the truth than anyone. But how much would he reveal to a stranger, even a pretty one?
“Pretty” was not the right word, however, to describe Verity Osborne. “Pretty” had described Rowena and her fragile porcelain beauty. Verity’s charm was more earthy, but in a wholesome sort of way. She seemed healthy and alive and radiant, more handsome than delicate or dainty. Perhaps it was merely a difference in coloring that made her appear so, however, for as she turned that long, white neck to gaze up at Alan she could not have looked more feminine. Or more appealing. His loins stirred with anticipation.
Alan looked toward the courtyard and caught James’s eye. “James!” he said. “I hope you won’t think me intruding, but I encountered Mrs. Osborne on the lane and she has allowed me to escort her back to Pendurgan.”
“Good of you, Alan.” He sounded more gruff than he’d intended.
“Not at all.” Alan gave Verity another warm smile. “It has been my pleasure.”
“And mine, Captain,” Verity said.
“I trust you enjoyed your visit to St. Perran’s?” James asked Verity. Despite every effort, he was unable to quell the sullen, clipped tone in his voice. Damn. He had determined on politeness, hoping to undo some of the damage done the night before in preparation for the evening ahead. He even thought to attempt a smile, but then her eyes met his straight on.
She knew. She had heard everything. Damnation!
“Yes,” Verity said. There was no fear in her brown eyes. Something else, though. He could not have said what, but he did not like it. “I have been visiting with Grannie Pascow,” she said. “Her rheumatism is much improved.”
James gratefully took this conversational gambit. “Another victory for your herbs,” he said. “I saw your first victory scampering about the stables with his father this morning.”
Verity’s face lit up with a glow of pure happiness. “Davey? He’s up and about?”
Her reaction prompted James to give a half smile, and a new softness gathered in her eyes. “Indeed.” He found himself thoroughly entranced by the way her pleasure in the news of Davey transformed her, made her no longer merely handsome, but beautiful. Truly beautiful. Clearly Alan noticed, as well. He could not take his bloody eyes off her, either, damn him.
“If you will excuse me, then,” Verity said. “I should like to go see him.” She turned to Alan and smiled. “Thank you again, Captain, for your escort.”
Alan executed an elegant bow. “I am so pleased to have met you, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “I hope we shall see one another again soon.”
Verity nodded to each of them, catching James’s eye momentarily—there was that odd, unsettling look again—before turning away to walk toward the main entrance. James watched her progress across the courtyard, admiring the way the fitted pelisse clung tightly to the curves of her upper body. Ever since he had kissed her last night, her every movement, every look, every word seemed imbued with a sensuality he had not before noticed. It was maddening. He could barely wait for the evening.
“You were right.”
Alan’s words pulled James back, and he turned to face his friend. “About what?” he asked.
“You said she was a frightfully good-looking woman. You were right. She is that, and more.”
James’s eyes narrowed as he studied Alan Poldrennan. Was he interested, truly interested, in Verity? He had been a close friend to Rowena. James had at one time considered they might have been more than just friends, but had discarded the notion. It had been his own jealousy poisoning him against his best friend. It was happening again with Verity, although James had no cause to feel jealousy. There was no commitment between them, no vows as there had been with Rowena.
“What do you mean, ‘more’?” he asked.
Alan shrugged. “Just that she seems a fine, intelligent, caring woman. Good God, James, what can her husband have been thinking?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself. Can you stay awhile? Stay for dinner?”
“Thank you, but no,” Alan said. “I’m late as it is. I must return to Bosreath.”
James walked with him back through the main entrance. “I am glad you have maintained your honor where she is concerned,” Alan said. James flinched at the words. “Now that I’ve met her, it seems appalling what she must have suffered at the auction. Can you imagine a woman like that sold to some brute like Will Sykes? Thank God you rescued her. Those are her words, by the way. She said you rescued her.”
Rescued? James stared, thunderstruck, at his friend. “She did?”
“Yes. I think she cares for you, James.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, though Alan’s words almost took his breath away. “I thought she was afraid of me,” he said. “Hated me, even.”
“She has heard the stories, and I suppose she might be somewhat apprehensive. But deep down, I think she sees you as a kind of hero. You did rescue her.”
James snorted. “Hero? Ha! A man who—”
“Maybe this is a chance for you,” Alan interrupted, “a second chance, to be someone’s hero. Don’t let ancient guilts get in the way, my friend.”
James watched Poldrennan ride away. The man meant well, but he was dead wrong. James could be no one’s hero. Ever.
Chapter 7
Verity sat before the makeshift dressing table—a dark, ancient-looking gateleg table with a toilette mirror propped on top—and brushed out her long dark hair. It had been a day full of surprises, not the least of which was the uncharacteristic affability of Lord Harkness during supper. Whereas he normally sat quiet and solemn, he had led the conversation tonight. Still, his manner was far from effusive. He maintained a stiff reserve that had cracked only twice. He asked Verity about her remedies and potions, about her visits to Old Grannie and about the tales she told. Ignoring the frequent snorts of derision from Agnes Bodinar, James had expanded on Grannie’s folklore with tales of his own.
“Old Grannie warned you about being piskey-led on the moor, did she?” James had asked.
“Everyone has warned me,” Verity replied.
His mouth twitched and she thought he might actually smile. Anticipation caused a strange tingling low in her belly. He looked so different when he smiled. Did he know? He must have, for he made a heroic attempt not to do so.
“Indeed, we have,” Agnes had said. She darted an odd look at Verity that reminded her she ought to check such reactions to James’s smile, his almost-smile, or to unbidden recollections of his hands and lips and tongue the night before.
“The Cornish love to intrigue foreigners with tales of piskeys and giants and ghosts and such,” James said.
“To scare us away?” Verity asked, slanting a look at Agnes.
“No,” he said, “but only to let the newcomer know he is in a special and different land, steeped in history and legend quite apart from the rest of Britain. Piskeys are uniquely Cornish. They are mischief makers for the most part, and take particular delight in confusing travelers wandering alone on the moor. Farmers and miners who have lived here their whole lives and know every inch of the land can still find themselves wandering in circles, always ending up exactly where they started. And sometimes they tell of hearing the high-pitched laughter of their tiny tormentors, though they never see them, of course.”
“It must be very frightening,” Verity said.
“It can be,” he said. “The best advice is not to wander alone on the moors, especially at
night. If you do, however, there is a remedy.”
“Yes?”
“If you find yourself walking in circles, simply turn your coat inside out to break the spell.”
“Hmph!” Agnes looked back and forth between them, her mouth puckered in disapproval as Verity smiled broadly. “Piskey-led, indeed. Whiskey-led, more like.”
Verity chuckled at this, and James could no longer contain his smile, setting off that blasted tingling once again.
She had never seen James like this, so nearly garrulous. There was something brittle, however, about his manner, something nervous and unnatural. Perhaps he had been trying to make amends for last night’s assault. Verity got the distinct impression he was trying to put her at ease.
He need not have bothered. She was no longer afraid of him.
Verity slowly ran the ivory-handled brush through the length of her hair. The brush was part of a set given her by Edith Littleton upon her marriage to Gilbert. It was the last time she’d seen Edith, who had passed away some months later, and Verity never failed to fall into fond recollections of her beloved mentor whenever she used the ivory brush.
But not tonight. Verity’s thoughts were all on James. His friendly behavior during dinner could have been simply another trick to confuse her. He would surely know she had learned something from Old Grannie and the other women. Was he trying to confound her again by appearing normal when all she had heard today labeled him a madman?
It was unlikely, too, that Captain Poldrennan would have told James of the nature of their subsequent conversation. It was what she had learned from the captain that had changed everything. Verity no longer found it easy to harbor notions of conspiracies and trickery, despite James’s unusual mood tonight and apparent change of attitude toward her. She now found it almost impossible to believe him to be either mad or murderous.
He had been wounded and the scars ran deep. Verity could not help but feel sympathy for him and for all that had happened. It was no wonder he had been driven to the edge of madness. But she could not make herself believe he had pushed himself over the edge. She did not wish to believe it.