by Eve Silver
“Oh.” She could think of nothing more to say than that.
With a shake of his head, he took hold of a large basket that sat nearly hidden in a shadowy corner of the coach. Jane had not noticed it before and she watched in apprehension as he dragged it across the floor. Her anxiety turned to surprise as he lifted a thick blanket that was draped across the top, carefully unfolded the cloth and arranged it over her legs. She stared at him, beset by confusion.
“You are no wilting flower,” he said. “A quality I admire.”
Their gazes met and held. His eyes darkened, and she froze, heart pounding as he reached out and touched her cheek. Fear, she told herself. Her pulse raced with fear. But she was hardly convinced.
Madness. She was beset by madness.
He drew away with a look of bemusement and after a moment said, “You say you are cold and hungry and afraid... The blanket should help with the first.” He rummaged through the basket, brought forth a Cornish pasty and held it out toward her. “This should help with the second. And as to the third...” He shrugged.
She wanted to tell him what he could do with both his blanket and his pasty, but common sense prevailed. She was hungry, and the scent of the spiced meat made her stomach rumble. Best to accept whatever kindness he offered in the moment, for there was no certainty of when she might eat again. The good manners ingrained by her mother made her thank him, and then she took the small pie and bit into it, closing her eyes as the flavors of the meat and potatoes touched her tongue. Delicious.
Head lowered, she finished the pasty with slow, steady bites, studying her companion with sidelong glances. He had turned his face to the window once more, and she noted that he had taken nothing for himself. Swallowing the last of her meal, Jane brushed away the crumbs and gathered her courage. In information lay strength and the only way to get information was to ask.
“Why did you not take me to Trevisham House and set me to my tasks before you came away on your... business?” she asked.
For a long moment, she thought he would not answer, and when he finally spoke his tone was gruff. “You meant to send some signal to ease your father’s concern, if indeed he is even capable of such.”
“How did you know that? I gave that reassurance for his ears alone.”
“You seem like a girl concerned with the happiness of others.” The tone he matched to the words gave her no hint if he thought the quality admirable or worthy of disdain.
After a moment, she asked, “So you have brought me here, to Bodmin Moor, to stop me from sending him a sign of my well-being. You wish him to suffer, to have no knowledge of my welfare, no reassurance of my safety.”
“Yes.”
“And will his suffering make you happy?” she whispered. “Will it give you peace?”
Oh, she had gone too far. She read it in the tightening of his shoulders and the hard cast of his jaw. Swallowing, Jane shrank back against the seat, wondering at her own reckless audacity. She was normally a most prudent girl, one who guarded her every word and action with a careful eye toward possible consequences. Life and heartbreak and years of serving ale to bleary-eyed men, some with heavy fists and quick tempers, had trained her to be that way. Yet here she sat, poking at a most dangerous beast.
“Peace? Yes.” Mr. Warrick drummed his fingers on his thigh and stared out the side window. “Gideon Heatherington’ s suffering must bring me peace. It is my only hope for peace.”
Jane struggled to find her equilibrium. He spoke of his only hope for peace, and it made her feel sad for him. Yet he was a heartless, unfeeling man. A man she should hate for what he had done to her.
A man who had draped a thick blanket over her cold legs and fed her a rich pasty to stave off her hunger.
“What manner of man are you?” she whispered, half convinced that he was no mortal, but a demon sent to torment her and tempt her and leave her fit for Bedlam.
He ran the pad of his thumb across his lower lip, his gaze fixed on her face, and something flickered in the depths of his mercurial eyes. She thought it might have been regret.
“I am your employer,” he replied at last.
“My master,” she corrected softly, unable to keep the rancor from her tone, unwilling to let the lie stand. “An employee may choose to leave. A bondservant may not.”
He made a soft sound of impatience, but offered no denial. Instead, he reached out and settled a corner of the blanket more securely across her lap before turning his gaze to the desolate landscape once more.
She was grateful for Aidan Warrick’s small kindnesses, a gratitude that she had no wish to feel. She both feared and loathed him. He blurred the boundaries, and in that instant she hated him as much for his kindness as for his cruelty.
* * *
“Jane, wake up. We have arrived.”
Jane opened her eyes, feeling groggy and out of sorts. Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings, the feel of the velvet squabs beneath her fingers, the darkness, the sound of rain drumming on the roof. Recollection of her situation rushed at her headlong, cold and ugly. It stole her breath.
Mr. Warrick stood just outside the open door of the carriage, a shadowy form, rain running in heavy rivulets down the rich material of his greatcoat. She had the strangest urge to pull him inside where it was dry.
“Where are we?” she asked, pushing aside a stray lock of hair with the back of her hand.
“Wait for me,” he said, ignoring her question. “Do not leave this carriage until I return. Hawker is here. Should you need him, just call out.”
“Hawker?”
“My driver.”
Her mind still muzzy, Jane opened her mouth to question him further, but he closed the door firmly behind him, leaving her in inky blackness.
They had traveled until nightfall, she realized. She must have fallen asleep. Leaning forward, she pulled up the shade that covered the window. Against the rain-drenched night sky she saw the darker silhouette of a large building, interrupted by lit windows along the upper and lower floors. The shape was familiar to her: the New Inn on Bodmin Moor. She had been here once before with her father.
Just the thought of him brought a pang of homesickness. What twists and turns her life had taken in the span of a single short day. With a sigh, she wrapped her cloak about her shoulders and sank back against the seat. Her thoughts were awhirl with supposition and concern, and she could not say how long she sat in the carriage, perhaps close to an hour. The reality of nature made her shift uncomfortably more than once. She had traveled many hours in this coach, and she thought now that she would be hard-pressed to sit patiently much longer without attending to her personal needs.
The sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the carriage only served to make her discomfort and her pressing need all the more significant. She twisted her fingers in the material of her cloak and then untwisted them. She counted to five hundred, forward, and back. Finally, she pushed open the carriage door.
“Mr. Warrick,” she called uneasily. When there came no response, she clutched the handle by the side of the door and carefully levered herself from the carriage. Her ruined leg screamed in protest, stiff from the hours of disuse. “Mr. Warrick? Mr. Hawker?”
Limping forward, Jane looked to and fro for some sign of Hawker, but he was nowhere to be seen. Slowly, she turned full circle, blinking against the beads of water that gathered on her lashes. Behind her stood the carriage and the horses, their heads bowed against the rain. Before her was a large wagon, its massive bulk sitting squarely between herself and the door of the inn.
“Mr. Hawker?” she called again, forcing as much volume as she could. Still, her voice was swallowed by the wind.
Mr. Warrick had instructed her to wait in the carriage or to call out for Hawker. She had done both, to no avail. Almost did she return to the carriage, but the reality of her situation could not be denied. She could wait no longer. She eyed the shadows on the far side of the coach, wondering if she might find a bit of privacy
there, but the humiliation of potential discovery dissuaded her from that course.
She began to make her way toward the door of the inn, her soles slipping on the wet cobblestones. The rain pelted her hair, her face, soaking her to the skin.
When she reached the wagon, she curled her fingers over the side and paused to rest her leg. A tarred canvas pall covered the contents of the wagon, but she could clearly see the outline of several large kegs. As she put weight on her weak limb, intending to continue on, her knee jolted in protest, and she slipped on the wet stones, reaching out blindly to steady herself. Her fingers clutched at the side of the wagon, sliding along the stiff cloth, inadvertently pulling it aside to reveal keg after wooden keg stacked beneath.
She tried to drag the slick material back to its original place, to leave the wagon as she had found it, but the cold and her nerves made her movements clumsy. Huge kegs hidden beneath a tarred cloth... The likely nature of the wagon’s contents was no challenge to her imagination.
Smugglers’ goods.
And Mr. Warrick had chosen this night for his business at the New Inn. What conclusions might she draw from that?
Suddenly, hard fingers curled about her wrist, making her cry out in both pain and panic. She was yanked against a solid mass even as she struggled to free herself from the painful grasp that imprisoned her. Hot breath fanned her cheek. “We got us a spy, Gaby.”
“Seems we do, Davey,” came the reply.
“No!” Jane gasped, writhing as she tried to wrench free. Memories assailed her of another time, another man who had grabbed her roughly with violent intent. Terror flayed her.
She tried again to pull away, twisting to look at her captor, to search for any means of escape. He was of medium height, with a great barrel chest and a wild shock of white hair. He bared his teeth as he yanked viciously on her wrist, turning her until her back pressed against his front. He wrapped one beefy arm around her neck, pulling tight enough to make her choke and gasp.
“Know what happens to spies, girlie?”
“Please,” she croaked. “I am no spy.”
Frantic, she tugged on her trapped hand, her gaze darting about as she searched for some sign of Hawker. The second man, Gaby, took a step forward. Grabbing a handful of Jane’s hair, he tugged sharply. Tears pricked her eyes. She struggled harder, felt her elbow connect with a soft belly. The first man grunted in pain.
“Dead Man’s Pool’s good enough for the likes of her,” he said. “But first a bit of fun, eh?”
Again. It was happening to her again. Horrible memories of her past oozed into her present until there was only fear and horror and the feel of rough hands pulling at her. Frantic, she wrenched and jerked against the brutal grasp that held her. Not again. Never again.
“Mr. Hawker!” she called, but the sound was weak and dampened by the pressure at her throat. Harder still, she slammed her elbow into the soft mass of her captor’s belly, and the pressure at her throat released. Almost did she wrench free, but at the last instant he caught her once more.
“Hawker,” she called with a gasp.
The man holding her yanked on her hair. “Quiet now.” He tried to get his hand over her mouth. She twisted her head to the side and bit him.
“Aidan!” Jane cried, mounting terror stealing all reason as she struggled against the smuggler’s hold, kicking and scratching, and again almost tearing loose before he renewed his grip with bruising force. She screamed, louder, her voice a panicked crescendo. “Aidan! Aidan Warrick!”
At her cry, Davey stiffened.
“Shut yer maw. Don’t you go calling him,” he snarled. “Shut yer maw.”
Even through her own panic, Jane recognized his.
Hooking one arm around her waist, he dragged her toward the back of the wagon. She set her heels against the wet cobblestones, but found no purchase, and he pulled her along as easily as a wet puppy. She struggled and made to scream again, but he slapped a palm over her mouth, more careful this time of her teeth.
“Move the tarp,” her captor grunted at his companion.
“The only thing you’ll be moving is your hand, Davey. Or I’ll move it for you.” The command was spoken in smoke and brandy tones, and Jane thought she would weep at the joy of hearing that low, gravelly voice. Aidan Warrick had come back for her. Relief was sharp and sweet.
Davey loosened his hold but didn’t release her. Gasping for breath, Jane pushed against him, desperate to be free. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard the distinctive sound of a pistol being cocked, and raised her eyes to find Mr. Warrick standing before her, his face hard as hewn stone, his gaze locked on her captor.
“Davey,” he cautioned, “is she worth your life?”
The arm about her waist disappeared, leaving her to slump against the side of the wagon.
Mr. Warrick had called the man by name. Davey.
Pressing her palm against her throat, Jane swallowed, left with few illusions as to what that familiarity might mean.
With two long strides, Mr. Warrick reached her and dragged her up against him. He was hard and warm and solid. She turned her face into the wet folds of his coat.
“What is mine, I keep,” he said. “This girl is mine and mine alone. Spread the word, boys. The man that touches her is the man I’ll gut. A nice, slow death, that.”
Jane knew his words, both his claim of ownership and his threat, should bring shame, horror, repulsion. Instead, they brought solace, and she was left stunned by that realization. She heard the sound of the two men’s scuffling retreat, but she could not seem to turn her face from the comfort of Mr. Warrick’s shoulder, nor uncurl her fingers from the material of his coat.
One black-gloved finger came to rest beneath her chin, and he tipped her head back gently until she met his gaze. His eyes glittered in the darkness, and his mouth was drawn taut and ruthless.
He would have killed them. To protect her. Oh, dear God.
“You did not wait in the carriage,” he observed with no more expression than he might use to comment on the weather.
She could not help it. She laughed, a high-pitched sound that ended in a hiccoughing sob. “I had to... to... to... oh, the coach ride was so long... And I called for Hawker…” She bit her lower lip. “Mr. Warrick, please, I must…” Her voice trailed away in an agony of embarrassment.
His brows drew down in confusion, and then rose abruptly as understanding dawned.
Mortified, she looked away.
“My apologies,” he said softly.
She had no chance to ponder the oddity of him apologizing because he scooped her up, lifting her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a mite, and then his long-legged stride ate up the distance to the door of the inn, the wind and the rain drowning out her cry of surprise.
* * *
Moments later, Jane stood in the middle of a room on the upper floor, staring unseeing at the closed door.
Aidan Warrick had apologized to her. He had carried her through the common room of the inn, up the stairs to this chamber. Setting her on her feet, he had told her there was a chamber pot behind the screen, then he closed the door firmly behind him as he withdrew, leaving her alone with her waning terror, and her confusion.
He was an enigma.
What manner of man forced a woman to make terrible choices, to leave her home, to sign away seven years of her life, and then begged her pardon for failing to see to her needs? She was less than a servant, a bondswoman, little more than a slave. Yet, he had apologized to her.
She looked around the chamber. It was clean, simple, with a decent size bed in the center, and two straight-backed chairs and a table next to the window. On the table was a lamp with a glass chimney. The flame cast flickering fingers of light and shadow creeping along the wall, and the peat fire in the brick hearth cut through the chilling damp.
In the far corner was a washstand adjacent to the screen. She used the chamber pot, then washed her hands and her face, concentrating on her task
rather than the recollections of the men outside and the knowledge of how this night could have ended for her.
Her breath came fast and harsh. What would have happened had Mr. Warrick not heard her cry?
She froze, one hand snaking to her throat, coming to rest against her wildly thrumming pulse. She knew exactly what would have happened. She would be dead, her throat slit, or perhaps strangled but not before they—
A knock interrupted her, and she jerked back, sending water sluicing over the edges of the basin.
“Who is it?” Rubbing her damp hands along her equally damp skirt, she quickly assessed the contents of the room for anything she might use as a weapon to defend herself.
“Hawker, miss.”
Relief quenched her agitation. Jane opened the door and found the tall, lean form of the carriage driver, Mr. Hawker. He stood awkwardly in the hallway, her bag clutched to his chest. One unruly lock of sandy hair fell in his eyes. He met her gaze, a sheepish expression clouding his features.
“Sorry I left you alone, miss. Thought to answer nature’s call myself, and forgot you likely needed to do the same.” He ducked his head and then met her gaze once more. “Himself is in a temper about it. Not that I blame him.”
“Oh, well, no harm done, Mr. Hawker,” she replied, squelching the memory of what had almost come to pass. She pressed her lips together, feeling somewhat abashed. Obviously Mr. Warrick had taken the driver to task for his oversight.
“Harm was almost done, though.” His eyes were wide and somber. “I shoulda been smarter. His Lordship nearly took a strip off my hide.”
Though the words held ruthless meaning, Mr. Hawker’s tone carried admiration but no true fear.
“I hope you were not treated harshly on my account,” Jane blurted.
Hawker tipped his head to the side, studying her. She suddenly realized that despite his height, he was impossibly young, little more than a boy. “His Lordship treats me fair,” he said defensively.
“I am certain he does,” she replied, astonished to realize that she meant those words. She was certain that Aidan Warrick treated this boy fairly. The concept was unsettling, for she did not want to think of Mr. Warrick as good, fair, kind. She did not want to think of him at all, but the more she tried to expunge him from her thoughts, the more clearly his image formed in her mind.