by Eve Silver
Opening her mouth to respond, Jane found herself at a loss, unsettled by his questions and by the odd tone to his voice, low and rough and a little urgent, as though there was some import attached to her use of his name.
She was answerable to him, for she had agreed to the bargain. She was his bondswoman, though thus far he had treated her more like an honored guest than a servant bought and paid for. The why of it escaped her.
Strange man.
The moment stretched, tense and unnerving, until her curiosity overcame her anxiety and she pressed on.
“Mr. War—” His displeased expression made her swallow the remaining syllable. Turning her head to look out the carriage window, she silently tested his name. Aidan. Why did he wish to hear the word on her lips? She glanced at him, and found that he watched her still, his expression inscrutable. Something in his gaze tugged at her, drew her, made her heart race and her skin tingle.
“Aidan,” she whispered, his name filling the small space that separated them.
He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the seat beside her. Her breath hitched and she froze, both attracted and repelled, her common sense bidding her shrink from his regard, her traitorous body aching to lean closer.
Closer.
Her blood pounded a wild rhythm in her veins. She wanted to breathe the smell of him— soap with a hint of citrus and spice—to rest her hands on the muscled planes she had seen beneath his fine shirt. Her gaze shifted to his mouth. A hard mouth. Just a little cruel.
What was wrong with her that even faced with the likelihood that he was a smuggler, a wrecker, a murderer, her heart, her body, yearned for him? Was there some flaw in her makeup? Was this heart-pounding need perhaps a failing that was passed through generations, the same instinctual urge that had made her mother love a man who was rough and harsh and far below her station?
It mattered not.
His gaze intent, he reached toward her, running the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, tilting his head ever so slightly. She drew a shaky breath, lured by the unimaginable urge to lick his thumb, to take it in her mouth and suck on it.
He was arrogant, unkind, molded of metal and ice, and she could not seem to remember all that when he turned his stare upon her, his thoughts, his need, naked there for her to see.
The carriage rocked.
Jane was thrown back against the cushioned seat, and the small physical distance was enough to remind her exactly what dangers he posed. She dared not trust him and, dear heaven, it seemed she could not trust herself.
Focusing on their earlier discussion in a desperate attempt to bring some sanity to her muddled thoughts, Jane finally blurted the questions that had haunted her throughout their long, silent journey. “That man... Davey... Did you—” No, she would be wiser to rephrase. “Who do you suppose killed him? And why?”
Aidan’s face betrayed not a flicker of emotion as he sank back into the corner of the seat and folded his arms across his chest. He studied her. She refused to flinch from his frank regard.
“Ask again,” he ordered. “But ask the question you want answered, not a watered-down version.” His mouth tightened, and he looked away, letting the silence spin a silken web between them before he continued softly, “I would not have you fear me, Jane.”
His assertion verged on the absurd. Why should it matter whether his bondswoman feared him? Moreover, after all that had transpired, how could he imagine she did not?
“Ask,” he commanded.
She pushed her hand into the pocket on the inside of her cloak, her fingertips testing the rim of the button she had found, remembering the threat she had heard him make and the blade she had seen him wield. Her pulse raced. Withdrawing her hand, she pressed damp palms to her skirt. All right, then. All right. “That man, Davey, did you kill him?”
He turned his face to her. A shiver chased along her spine as he smiled in a way that had nothing to do with mirth. “You are brave. There are few men who would dare question me.”
“You bid me ask. I did as you said.”
“There are few men who would dare ask even if I bade them.”
Her brows lifted. “I am not a man.”
“But I am.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and he leaned forward so his knees brushed hers and his forearms draped casually across his thighs. “And damned if my senses are not full of you, sweet Jane.”
Again the pounding tide of awareness flooded her veins, thicker and hotter than only moments before. He was so close, so big. So male. Her desperate attempt to avoid the tug of attraction had only brought her back to the same place she had started.
She held out one hand, palm forward. Such a paltry shield should he choose to press his advantage. He held his place, neither withdrawing nor shifting to crowd her further.
“You bid me ask, and yet you do not answer,” she challenged, her chest tight, as though bound by chains.
With a casual twist of his wrist, he caught a loose tendril of her hair, winding the dark strand through his fingers before letting it slide slowly from his grasp.
“Answer,” she whispered, the word sounding thick even to her own ears.
He wanted her. Of that knowledge she could not pretend ignorance, for she felt the answering call in every fiber of her being. There was neither reason nor wisdom in the yearning that spilled warm and viscous through her limbs, only mindless, foolish wanting. She licked her lips, wishing he would lick them for her.
He leaned closer still, and she could feel the light touch of his breath across her cheek. A sharp, hard twist coiled deep in her belly. Her fingers clenched against the urge to touch his sun-burnished, silky hair, to trail over his skin and feel the texture of it.
“I did not kill him, Jane.” Aidan’s gaze locked with hers.
A lie would not serve him. She thought he spoke the truth. He had not killed Davey. “But you could have,” she said.
He laughed in genuine amusement “I would not choose the coward’s road and stab a man in the back.”
“You lie,” she whispered rashly. “In all but the literal sense, you stabbed my father in the back. Oh, you did not use a blade, but rather the sharp edge of utter desperation, stealing his coin, his livelihood, and finally stealing me away like some snake in the grass, rather than facing him, facing the man you call your enemy.” The words were torn from her in an agonized rush, a barricade against her own convoluted emotions. Every word she said was true, yet she could not help but think they were not the whole truth. That there was much she did not know.
“I am a poor liar, so I never bother with it. The truth invariably suffices.” Aidan’s brows rose and he rocked back. “I faced your father. You were there when I faced him.” He waited a heartbeat as though giving her the chance to argue against the truth. She held her silence. “And I stole nothing,” he continued. “Rather, he was too drunk and foolish to pay heed to the value of what he gave away so carelessly. I did not steal you, Jane. You came of your own free will.”
He caught her chin and tilted her head so she could not avoid his piercing stare. “Remember that. Remember that you had a choice.”
Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Jane struggled with his assertion and her own confusion. Had she made a choice? At the time she had thought there was only one possible solution, believed that this cold, unfeeling man had offered no alternatives. And now? She had no idea what she believed now.
Beset by uncertainty, Jane deliberately shifted away from his touch and steered her attention to the landscape beyond the carriage window. The way was unfamiliar to her.
“We do not go to Trevisham House?” she asked, acutely aware of the conflicting thoughts and feelings that Aidan roused in her.
“We do,” he rumbled, his gaze flicking to her and then away. “By a circuitous route.”
A short time later, the coach slowed and rocked to a stop. Jane had been vaguely aware that they had left the main road, and now, as she gazed out the window, she saw a freshly whitewashed farmhous
e with a neat black roof and well-tended front garden. Beyond the house, steep hedges of banked earth rose then fell toward the sea, creating a low hillock that obscured the view. The trick was an old one. Smugglers brought soil to build a wall between land and ocean, hiding them and their nocturnal activities from the prying eyes of the excise officers who patrolled the coast.
She glanced at Aidan. His features betrayed nothing of the desire that had bubbled between them, his expression now one of cool detachment. For a moment, she thought she had imagined the whole of it, the rampant need, their inexplicable connection. And then his eyes met hers, and in their depths she saw the reflection of her own yearning. So he wanted her still. The realization was as frightening as it was thrilling, and even more terrifying was the knowledge that he intended her to see it, to recognize his desire.
He turned away to push open the door of the carriage. Jane swatted a wayward strand of hair, glad to be free of the intensity of his regard.
Stepping down, Aidan then turned and offered his hand.
“The other day,” she said, “when you took me from my father…” She hesitated, then continued. “From my home. You purposely left me to fend for myself, to climb into the carriage unaided.” She drew a deep breath. “You knew I would have difficulty and you left me to founder. Why?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why pose the query when you already know the answer?”
Jane pressed her lips together, certain now that his behavior the day they first met, when he had callously entered the carriage without a glance in her direction, had been an act designed to grieve her parent. He had wanted her father to see her struggle, to believe she would face hardship at Aidan Warrick’s hand. She digested the thought as she placed her hand in his, allowing him to help her down, just as he had done on every other occasion save one.
Aidan steadied her as she alighted, holding her hand far longer than necessary. His touch warmed her, heat rushing to her cheeks. From a single touch. She was left restless and tense, wanting to pull away, wanting to never let go. In truth, her instinct whispered that she step even closer, press herself against his hewn thighs and taut belly. Her gaze flashed to his as she tugged her hand free.
He watched her with eyes hot and hungry. He wanted, but he did not take.
Why? Why did he show such restraint, such consideration of her? Bewildered, she turned away. Searching for calm, she inhaled deeply. The familiar tang of salt air washed in from the ocean.
Suddenly, the door of the farmhouse flew open and an older woman with an aura of barely leashed energy stepped out into the late-morning sun.
“Well, there you are,” the woman said as she bustled toward Aidan, her weathered face wreathed in smiles, her hands outstretched in greeting. “I expected you sooner. But no matter, no matter. You’re here now, aren’t you? The boys’ll be along any time with the wagon. Will Hawker see to the horses?”
“He and I, both.”
“Very good, sir. And then come along inside. I have a meat pie all ready.”
She stopped, her smile fading as she caught sight of Jane. “Oh, dear.” She rounded on Aidan. “Who do you have here?”
“She is mine, Wenna,” he said gruffly.
Jane tensed.
“Yours?” Wenna nodded, her shrewd gaze running from the top of Jane’s head to the tip of her toes as she drew her own conclusions. To Jane’s astonishment, Wenna rounded and glared at Aidan as she said, “Well, a fine thing you’ve done, dragging your wife around the country like so much baggage. Couldn’t leave her to home where she’d be comfortable. Men!”
Aidan scowled, but said nothing.
Wenna stepped forward, linking one arm through Jane’s and pulling her determinedly toward the open door of the house. “Name’s Wenna Tubb. You just call me Wenna, Mrs. Warrick.”
“I am not his—” Jane began, wondering how this woman had mistaken the situation so terribly. ‘That is, I am his—”
Wenna stopped abruptly and whirled to face Jane, her sharp eyes taking in her bedraggled appearance. “Which is it? You’re not his? You are his?” She threw her hands up in the air. “Doesn’t matter. Come along. You look like you could use a nice rest and some good hot food.”
Glancing behind her, Jane caught sight of Aidan leaning against the side of the coach, shoulders shaking, face turned into his collar. Why, he was laughing, Jane realized with wonder. Hard, cold Aidan Warrick had a sense of humor, if not a heart. She turned to Wenna and spoke loud enough for her voice to carry. “Thank you, Wenna. You are quite right about needing a meal. My husband neglected to feed me this morning, and I find that I am both fatigued and famished.”
“Oh! Didn’t even bring along a little something for you? Just like a man!” Wenna sent a jaundiced look in Aidan’s direction.
Over her shoulder, Jane watched as he lurched away from the coach, no longer laughing. And for some reason, she felt brave enough to send him a saucy wink.
* * *
Wenna took Jane’s cloak as they entered the house. The older woman moved to the left, into a large and airy kitchen. She paused to stand by the window that overlooked the garden. Jane followed her gaze, watching Aidan and Hawker see to the horses.
“He’s good with the animals,” Wenna said, pride in her tone. “Wouldn’t expect that from a man so long at sea.”
“How long was he at sea?”
Though Jane tried to convince herself that she only wanted to know her enemy, the truth glared at her. She wanted to know Aidan for himself. With Aidan she was not pitiable Jane, the innkeeper’s crippled daughter, mousy, and fearful. That was how others saw her, how she had seen herself for a very long time. But in the past few days, she’d come to see a different view. She’d begun to see a girl brave enough to stand up to a man who could crush her.
And Aidan... she thought he didn’t see her as a girl at all. Aidan saw her as a woman.
“You’d best ask himself about his years at sea,” Wenna said. “He wouldn’t like for me to tell you his story, I’m thinking.” She looked away, busying her hands collecting dinnerware. “You’d think he would have told me sooner about finding himself a bride,” she grumbled, and sniffed as she handed Jane a pile of plates.
Jane took them and held the stack carefully. Fine china, she noticed, with lovely flowered detail. Not what she would have expected to find in this home. She limped through the open doorway to the adjacent dining room, aware of Wenna’s questioning gaze.
“I am not his wife, Wenna,” Jane said as she carefully set a plate on the table. “I am his servant. His bondswoman. Bought and paid for...” She winced. The words sounded so much worse when spoken aloud. With a sigh, Jane set the second plate down, then the third, paying excessive attention to her task.
“Are you now?”
Raising her gaze, Jane found Wenna standing in the doorway staring at her with a quizzical expression on her round face. “That boy’s been to Hades,” Wenna said after a pause. “Do not doubt it for a second. Life has taught him to never do anything without good reason. If you are his bondswoman, well, he’ll treat you as well as any other master. Better, most likely...”
Jane nodded, knowing the words were meant as a reassurance.
“My older boy, Cadan, served on his ship for a time, so I can tell you for certain there’s no fairer master,” Wenna continued, and then her voice dropped low. “But make no mistake, our Mr. Warrick does not shrink from a dark deed if the need be called.”
Whatever small comfort had been offered by Wenna’s earlier assurances shriveled. The appalling truth was that she could not imagine Aidan dodging even the darkest deed if he felt it justified.
Jane realized her horror must have shown on her face, because Wenna shook her head and said, “It’ll turn out in the end, child. Mark my words.”
Blinking against the sting of tears, touched by Wenna’s gruff but kind words, Jane set the last plate on the table.
She glanced out the window, watching as Aidan stroked a brush along t
he horse’s side. Strong movements, but gentle, each stroke a perfect rhythm. The sight made a knot form in her throat.
Wenna said all would turn out in the end, but Jane felt a cruel coil of desperation twist her belly. Aidan would treat her as well as any master, if his behavior so far was an example. She would need no protection from him, for he guarded his actions with care.
Alas, it was only her foolish heart that needed protection for she was drawn to him in a way that she could not explain, to the strength of him and the kindness he had shown her. To the sense of safe harbor he offered. And, heaven help her, to his dark and brooding depths. The need to fix him, to heal him, was growing inside her, and she could not fathom it. How was she to fix one so dark when she could not even heal herself? When the raw wounds of her own tormented memories yet haunted her nights?
“I’m only saying that it’s clear he means you no harm,” Wenna said.
Jane shook her head, swayed by the other woman’s conviction, but wary nonetheless. She knew almost nothing about the enigmatic man who owned the next seven years of her life. “How do you know he means me no harm?” she asked.
Wenna made a clucking sound. “Why, you heard him laugh. That’s rare... not something he does often. He laughed for you, because of you.”
“I—”
“Those boys’ll be looking for their meal, dear,” Wenna cut her off, gesturing toward a breakfront on the far wall. “Finish setting the table. There’s cutlery in that drawer there.”
Following instruction, Jane opened the drawer, but seeing what lay inside made her draw back with a sharp inhalation. Fine plates on the table and now the finest silver she had ever seen or imagined, here, in such a humble cottage. What deeds had brought such wealth to these people? Surely not honest work, for a single fork likely valued the same as a year’s worth of food.
What manner of woman was Wenna Tubb, in truth?
The sound of wheels on the road drifted through the window, followed by a man’s shout. Jane looked out to see a large wagon pulled by two sturdy horses coming toward the cottage. She frowned in confusion. It looked like the wagon from the New Inn, the one carrying the kegs of smuggled brandy. The one that had enticed Davey just before he was murdered. She felt certain it was the same wagon. She recalled seeing that oval knot in the wood above the left rear wheel.