by Eve Silver
She sent a desperate glance at her father. He stared at her in brooding silence, his brow furrowed, his jaw set, and in his expression she had confirmation of the suspicion that had sprung to evil life in her mind. There really were no choices to be made. Despite his blustering pretense of denial, her father intended to sell her. His protestations had been offered only in the hope of sweetening the negotiation, to make her seem a valuable commodity.
“If we lose the inn, we’ll have no means of survival, girl,” Gideon muttered, his gaze sliding away. “Were it only the two of us, Janie, we might find a way. But think of the little ones, think of the money I send to my wastrel brother’s wife. That’s her and the six children I feed. And your cousin Dolly Gwyn. What’ll become of her without the food I put on her table?”
Jane swallowed against choking desperation. She wanted to break free of it, to shout that she didn’t care. That her father and the children and Dolly, and the barmaid, Mary, whose husband drank away most of what she earned here, and Will, the boy who tended the stable... that all those who depended on the inn’s income mattered not to her. But it was a lie. They all mattered, and she could not see a way to save all of them, and herself, too. Her gaze shot to Mr. Warrick.
Someone must pay the devil his due.
She could not speak, could not breathe. Her father’s every word had resounded like a hammer blow to the nails of her coffin. He was burying her with heartbreak, consigning her to a life of servitude to Aidan Warrick. She was to be little more than a slave to him. He was terrifying, cold, and he had come to Pentreath with death crawling in his shadow.
Her father was selling her to a man who might well be a murderer.
No, she would not let her thoughts travel such a path. It was merely unsettled emotion and ruthless desperation that carried her imaginings in such a wayward direction.
He was nothing more than a businessman come to claim a debt.
She would be wise not to stray too far into macabre misapprehension, for such could only deepen her suffering.
“Why do you hate us?” she whispered, her gaze locked on Mr. Warrick and she saw the deep satisfaction, the grim pleasure he gained from his victory. “We have done you no harm. We have never met you before this day.”
He lifted a brow, and she recalled his assertion that he had met her father before. ”Have we not met before, Gideon Heatherington?” he asked, and smiled, a cheerless twist of his perfectly formed lips. “Are you secure in the knowledge that you have done me no harm?”
“You’re the one what’s doing harm.” Gideon’s voice vibrated with anger, resentment, futility. “Ripping my daughter from my arms when I’m in need of her service and care. What manner of demon are you?” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “You meant to strike me in my heart.”
“In your heart? I think perchance you mean your pocketbook.” Mr. Warrick paused. “As to the question of demons… What manner of demon are you, that you give her into my keeping?”
Jane sucked in a breath, struck by his argument, by the naked and ugly truth of it.
“Choose your path,” Mr. Warrick ordered. “My patience is at an end.”
“Janie,” Gideon pleaded, though what exactly he asked of her, she was not certain.
The buzzing in her ears grew louder, a hundred, nay, a thousand angry bees. There was no choice to be made, really. No choice at all.
“I will go with you,” she said in a rush, fearful that if she did not say them quickly enough, the words would lodge in her throat like fish bones and never break free, only sit there to dig at her with their pointed barbs.
Mr. Warrick gave a curt nod, and cast a glance at Gideon. “We are in agreement then. A simple business transaction—”
“A purchase of a product, so to speak,” Jane finished, repeating the sentence she had overheard him speak earlier. “I am the product.”
Mr. Warrick’s jaw hardened. Withdrawing a prepared document from his coat, he bid her father fetch quill and ink.
Vibrating with anger, Gideon stalked off, leaving Jane alone with the man who had torn her world asunder. He did not speak to her, did not look at her, and she was almost grateful. What else was there to say?
Only when the vile transaction was done, Gideon’s signature and, at Mr. Warrick’s insistence, Jane’s, drying on the page, did Mr. Warrick turn to face her, his expression remote. “You have precisely ten minutes to pack what you need. Do not make me wait.”
He turned and strode from the inn. The sound of his booted heels hitting the floor echoed through the empty pub.
For a frozen moment, Jane stood staring after him, her heart twisted in the tightest of knots. She turned to find her father watching her with benumbed confusion, as though he did not know what to make of this, what to do, how to proceed.
And the allotted time was flowing as swiftly as ale on a busy night.
Goaded by the sharp edge of her desperation, Jane tore her gaze from her father and lurched up the stairs to her chamber. Pulse racing, she crammed her belongings into a battered leather portmanteau that had been her father’s a lifetime ago, one he still used for his occasional travel. Her fingers were clumsy, her movements awkward. How many minutes left? How many?
With both palms pressed flat against the pile of clothing, she pushed down with all her weight, cramming everything into the bag. She fumbled with the closure, taking three tries before she got it fastened.
Straightening, she did a quick perusal of her chamber, taking in every corner, every tiny crack, breathing in the familiarity of the room. An ache began in the center of her chest and radiated outward, a slow steady burn of wretched desolation. Faced with the terrifying prospect of leaving her home, she found that she could only wish for the safety of the familiar. She was not courageous, not adventurous. She only wanted to stay here, hide here, live within the confines of her tiny world. She was so very afraid.
A low moan escaped.
The sound was pitiful even in her own ears, and that knowledge ignited a tiny ember of defiance.
No. She would not drown in the thick miasma of her despair. She would survive. She would flourish. She would overcome.
Blinking back tears, she dragged the portmanteau into the hallway and found her father hovering halfway up the stairs, hands folded, his face a mask of confusion.
“I’m thinking maybe you can find a way to pay him, Janie. Maybe you can work there days and here nights, maybe...” His voice trailed away and he shrugged.
“Pay him with what?” She glared at him. “Blood?”
Tightening her hold on the handle of her bag, she dragged it along behind her, making her way awkwardly, favoring her lame leg. The dull thud of the portmanteau as it hit each subsequent stair was like clods of earth tossed in a fresh grave.
Her father made no move to help her, just stared at her, and she wondered if he’d come a little unhinged.
Pausing on the bottom step, she breathed in the rich aroma of ale that permeated the air, wove through the fibers of the wooden beams that spanned the ceiling, clung to the walls and tables and chairs. Ale and smoke and men. She had grown up with that smell. She would remember it.
And return to it.
Seven years was not forever. When her years of service were done, she would return here, to her father’s inn.
But for now, her time here was done.
As she exited the inn, Jane noted that the storm had faded to a mizzling rain. Deceptive, she thought. The tempest would return.
Sensing her father at her back, she hesitated. Her gaze lit on Aidan Warrick. Legs braced apart, he stood, his expression remote, impassive, his face marked by a hint of cruelty. The wind caught his hair and the long wings of his coat, making him appear even larger, more threatening.
And still she thought him beautiful.
Horrified by such thoughts, she sank her teeth into her lower lip. What beauty could she imagine in such a heartless, pitiless man?
She could feel the tension emanati
ng from her father in shimmering waves as she took two halting steps forward. Her weak leg wavered unsteadily and to her astonishment she saw the slightest movement of Mr. Warrick’s hand, as though he meant to reach out and steady her. She jerked her head up to find him watching her with... admiration?
No. She must be mistaken.
Mr. Warrick’s gaze shifted away from her, masking whatever emotion she had seen or imagined.
“You are prompt.” Words spoken in the same rumbling, gravelly voice that she had found so attractive earlier that day. Was she going mad that the sound of it pleased her still, despite her dire circumstance?
Steeling her nerves, she glanced at her father and found him standing rigidly behind her, his face flushed a dull red.
“I have tarried long enough. Come.” Mr. Warrick swung her case from the ground at her feet, carrying it with ease as he strode toward a gleaming black coach that stood now in the courtyard.
Jane flung herself against her father’s broad chest, and he stood rigid, his rasping breaths ruffling her hair.
“Look out to Trevisham tonight,” she choked out. “I will hang a sheet from the window. Watch for my signal. You will know all is well.”
Though he did not hug her in return, she gave him one last, desperate squeeze. Calling on all her reserves, she pulled away.
With leaden tread she followed several paces behind Mr. Warrick, her legs trembling so badly that each step required a Herculean effort. She dared not cast a last glance at her father, for she feared that it would be her undoing. With a heavy heart, she walked toward the black coach and four well-matched horses. Conveyance and animals glistened, wet from the recent downpour.
Where had they come from? Jane glanced at Mr. Warrick, wondering if he had assigned his driver a specific time to arrive here. A specific time to slice her from all that was known and familiar.
The horses pawed and stamped the ground, the driver holding them still with a steady hand. The man made to approach, but Mr. Warrick waved him away and stored Jane’s bag himself, then pulled open the door of the carriage. Balancing his movement by resting his open palm against the side of the doorframe, he swung inside with easy grace.
Jane hesitated, stumbling to a halt as she eyed the restless hooves of the dark beasts harnessed to the front of the coach. She was uncertain as to her new employer’s intent.
No, not employer.
He was her master; and she was a bondservant. She was bound to him, well and truly constrained. Fettered by her word and by legal sanction.
She stood, shivering, unable to decide if she was to follow the man into the carriage or if he meant her to walk the distance to Trevisham House.
“Hell and damnation.” His softly spoken curse reached her ears just before he leaned forward and reappeared in the carriage doorway. “Get in,” he gritted, his expression unreadable.
Jane limped the rest of the way to the coach, grasped the sides of the doorway and hauled herself inside. With an awkward twist, she fell into the seat opposite Mr. Warrick. She felt the weight of his gaze upon her and straightened her spine, unwilling to display any greater weakness than she absolutely must.
He leaned out and pulled the door shut, then settled back to stare out the side window.
Jane twined her fingers together to still their shaking and followed the direction of Mr. Warrick’s gaze. Her heart twisted with regret as she saw her father standing by the door of the inn, shoulders slumped in defeat. She longed to fling herself from the coach, to limp to her father’s side and cling to him in desperate entreaty as she had when she was a child afraid of a storm or a dream.
I had a nightmare, Father. A monstrous creature came in the night...
Only it had not come in the night.
The creature had come beneath the overcast sky of a stormy day, wearing the guise of a fallen angel, so perfect of face and form as to be mistaken for the finest of men.
Today, the creature had come for her.
And her father had let the nightmare take her.
Chapter 4
How long she stared at the floor of the carriage, Jane could not say, but slowly, through the fog of her despondency, she became aware that the drive was inordinately long, too long for the short distance to Trevisham House. Raising her eyes, she looked out the window. Gray earth and jagged stones stretched before her, broken by clumps of scraggly shrub. In the distance was a single twisted tree, bowed and shaped by storm and time, a survivor in the face of such unforgiving climes.
They were on the road that wended through the moor, she realized, though their final destination remained a mystery. A frightening one, to be sure. Hazarding a glance at Mr. Warrick, she found him staring out the side window of the carriage, and she wondered what it was that he found so very fascinating in the barren stretch of land.
The vehicle lurched and rocked as it rounded a bend in the road, the damp cold from outside leeching through unseen cracks, chilling the air. Jane braced herself into the far corner of the soft, velvet upholstery, dug out her black wool gloves, and dragged them on.
“Excuse me, sir,” she whispered, wrapping her arms about herself, quelling the rising tide of panic that threatened her composure as the howl of the wind and the creak of the coach measured their travels.
Mr. Warrick turned his attention to her, focused, complete, formidable in its intensity, his blue-gray eyes glittering in the dim light. Jane stiffened, refusing to yield to the near overwhelming urge to shrink back into the shadows, to yield to her fear. She had chosen to draw his notice and, having done so, she would be wiser to ask the questions that hounded her than to hold her silence and suffer all manner of dire imaginings.
“Where do we go?” She swallowed, tormented by a multitude of terrible possibilities. Too quickly had she agreed to this scheme, taking solace in the assumption that she would spend her servitude a stone’s throw from her home, at Trevisham House.
Laundry maid. Scullery maid. Step girl. She had no fear of hard work. But as the wheels dipped and creaked on the rutted road, and her village was left far behind, a horrifying realization clawed at her. Aidan Warrick could do what he would with her, for there was none to gainsay him. The road was isolated, running through the center of twenty miles of moor, and she was his property by right of legal bond.
“Do you take me to a ship bound for the colonies?”
The skin around his eyes tightened and he raised his head just a little. Her pulse raced as she waited for his reply.
“You have no reason to—” He broke off abruptly, inhaling a slow steady breath, and she wondered what he had been about to say. “Are you hungry? Cold?”
Jane blinked. Whatever she had expected of this enigmatic man, it had not been a solicitous inquiry as to her comfort. She shook her head, and then she stilled. Why should she pretend comfort when her belly twisted with hunger and her limbs shook with cold?
He had not answered her questions, had given no indication of their destination. The omission was sinister somehow, and that very threat gave her the strength to give voice to the truth. Whatever he planned, she would better face it on a full stomach.
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am hungry and cold.” She waited a heartbeat before adding softly, “And afraid.”
For an instant, he looked surprised at her honest admission, his eyes widening a fraction, and then he nodded. “You have had an unsettling day.”
“An unsettling day,” she echoed. The absurdly understated observation dragged forth a short, high laugh that did not bode well for her continued composure. “In the space of a night and a day, I learned of my penury, watched a dead woman dragged from sea, was sold into bondage and within moments of that, taken from my home, from my father…” From whatever illusion of safety she had clutched at. “Unsettling, indeed.”
She dropped her gaze, twined her gloved fingers together, and wondered if she was brave enough to ask why he hated Gideon Heatherington so, why he perpetrated this evil upon her family. P
ressing her palms against her thighs, she held her tongue. To risk his anger was sheer folly. He had not been unkind to her thus far...
Suddenly, the preposterous nature of her thoughts slammed through her. Not been unkind? He had ripped her from her home, torn her from everything known and familiar. What was that if not unkind?
“You are coldhearted. A monster,” she whispered. “Cruel. We could have paid you over time”—he arched a brow at that—“but you chose this spiteful course instead.” With each word she grew more reckless, and though some remnant of her common sense cautioned of her error, she could not seem to still her tongue. “When I first saw you, I thought you a prince—”
He cut her off flatly. “I am no prince.”
Oh, what excessive foolishness had grabbed hold of her, that she had spoken so? Yet, set upon her course, she forged on. “Why?” she asked, her voice shaking with the passion of her despair. “Why have you done this?”
Leaning forward, he studied her. She flinched as he reached out and caught a stray tendril of her hair, twining the dark strand loosely around his finger. Heart pounding, she jerked back, pushing his hand away as she pulled her hair from his grasp. The contact sent a shiver of awareness dancing through her veins, and with it, a hot swell of mortification.
“Why have I done this?” His mouth tightened as he pulled away. “Vengeance,” he said, and then continued in a softer tone. “Your suffering is a regrettable consequence.”
“Vengeance against whom? For what imagined wrong?”
“Imagined?” His smile was an ugly twist. “Any wrong I might imagine can provide no contest for the injury done me in truth.” The dark menace of his tone left Jane with a deep sense of dread.
“Did you bring me to the moor so you could drop me in a bog and leave me to sink below the mire, let the sucking mud wipe away all trace of my existence? Is that to be your vengeance?” she asked.
His brows rose. “I brought you to Bodmin Moor because I have business at the New Inn.”