by Eve Silver
The driver called out in greeting as a second man jumped down and inclined his head to Aidan. He tugged on his forelock, an archaic gesture of respect. But something about the man’s posture gave Jane pause. There was a swagger to his walk, and an arrogance that laced his every action.
“That’ll be my boys.” Wenna’s voice warmed with pride. “Cadan. He’s the one on the wagon. And Digory’s the baby. A bit wild, that one is.”
Wenna’s baby was a good two inches taller than Aidan, and likely two stone heavier.
“Dig takes after his Da, God rest his soul. Big and brawny he was.” Wenna sighed. “Well, I best get this meal on the table. Men hate to wait for their food. Makes ’em cranky.”
“Not as much as they hate to wait for their drink,” Jane replied.
Wenna sent her a questioning look. “And how do you know that?”
“I’ve helped my father serve ale since I was a young girl.”
The older woman’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and her expression turned cold. “I should have realized. You’re her. The innkeeper’s girl.”
“And the fault of that is none of her making.” The sound of Aidan’s voice made Jane gasp, and she turned to find him filling the doorway. He pinned Wenna with a dark look, a clear warning.
Wenna stepped back and lowered her lashes as she clasped her hands before her, offering Jane the stark reminder that despite his apparent kindness, his play at joviality and sociability with these people, Aidan Warrick was first and always a man to fear.
The silence thickened. Jane caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth, gnawing nervously. Then she noticed the keg balanced on his shoulder, and she realized the men were unloading the wagon.
Digory came up against Aidan’s back. He, too, balanced a keg on one massive shoulder. “Come on. Ma’s got food ready. I can smell it. Let’s get this lot stored before I die of hunger—”
Aidan shifted to the side and turned, balancing the keg with one hand as he stared Digory down. “Manners, boy,” he said with soft menace. “You would do well to learn some.”
“Apologies, sir,” Digory said, keep his gaze on the ground as he sidled past. Once inside, he glanced at his mother.
Melting back a step, Jane moved to a shadowed corner, but that only served to snare Digory’s attention.
“Well, who’ve we got here?” Digory asked, raking a leering gaze over her.
Jane recognized her mistake at once. She had met worse than Digory Tubb in her day, and she knew that the most foolish thing she could do was shrink in a corner and show her fear. She raised her chin, and squared her shoulders.
At length, Digory shrugged and then he crossed the small entry hallway to disappear through a door on the far side. Aidan watched her a moment, and then he, too, strode through the door. The two men were soon joined by Cadan and Hawker as they made several trips through the house and back outside.
Wenna busied herself with setting out the meal, so Jane watched through the window until the wagon was empty and the men strode away. They rounded the side of the house, disappearing from view. Curious, Jane limped to the open doorway on the far side of the front entryway and peeked through to a sitting room with two large wingback chairs and an overstuffed horsehair sofa. On one wall was an enormous stone fireplace. There was no sign of the many kegs that the men had carried through, and there was no other exit that she could discern. Confused, she glanced around the room but saw no evidence of the contraband brandy, and no possible hiding place.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Aidan said directly beside her right ear, his voice rich and deep. With a squeak, Jane jumped and whirled to face him, her hand instinctively rising to press against her breastbone. “And here you are, sweet Jane, curious as any puss.”
Her stomach plummeted, true fear freezing her blood. “I was just—”
“Curious,” Aidan finished for her.
For a moment she said nothing, her heart pounding. Finally, she nodded, “Yes, I suppose I was.”
He smiled at her, a dark, devilish curving of his lips that made him look more ruthless than amused.
“What are you curious about?”
She took a step back, then another and another, into the empty sitting room. He strode forward with measured tread, stalking her as she retreated.
Putting the bulk of one wingback chair between them, Jane shook her head.
“Come now. Ask your questions, sweet.”
She remembered the words he had spoken in the carriage. So he would not have her fear him? He would have her ask at will, would he?
Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze. “Are you a smuggler?”
His smile widened, a predatory flash of straight white teeth in his tanned face. “Of course. What Cornishman has not dabbled, at least a little?”
“You are not a Cornishman.”
“But I have done my share of smuggling.”
Well, she should not have asked the question if she did not wish to hear the answer. She had expected a denial, and faced with such clear confirmation she was at a loss as to what to say next. She wondered why he did not take the trouble to lie to her, instead baring his crimes with casual disregard. Had he no fear that she would run to the authorities, tell her tales and rejoice to see him hang? Or was he so very certain that she would never get away? Did he mean to kill—
No, she could not think of that.
“I have no liking for smugglers,” she said.
“Have you a reason?”
For a moment she was twelve years old again, hurrying home with the dusk. A man had asked her for directions and she, foolish girl, had stopped to give them, trusting a stranger—a smuggler, as it turned out—to do her no harm.
That girl had been smashed on the rocks, her trust and naiveté shattered like porcelain.
It was no consolation that the sea had claimed the life of the smuggler, and it was the most terrible heartbreak that the churning waves had taken Mama, as well. She had come in search of Jane, and found her daughter struggling against the smuggler’s hold, her dress torn, her skin exposed. As the tragedy unfolded, Mama flew at the man with fists and nails and teeth, and all three had been thrown into the sea. Only Jane had survived. The guilt of that was Jane’s burden to bear.
And the story was not one she wanted to share.
She wrapped her arms tight about herself.
“Smuggler. Runner. Pirate,” he said. “I am. Though I prefer the term privateer.” The admission hinted at neither shame nor remorse. “Businessman is better still. And a damned good one at that.” There was mockery in his tone, but she was not certain it was directed at her. “Anything else you’d like to know?” he asked.
So Aidan admitted he was a smuggler, but was he something worse still? She could not bring herself to ask him if he was a wrecker, if he lured ships to the rocks, if he bludgeoned the survivors to death, murdering them as they cried for mercy. No, she could not ask, for he seemed inclined to answer, and her terror lay in that. Repulsion crawled through her. To ponder the possibility was an awful sort of torture, but should he admit to the deed, to know such a thing for certain, was more than she wished.
Instead, pushing the words past the tightness in her throat, she asked, “Where are the kegs?”
“Hidden away until I have need of them.”
“Why do you tell me this?” She shook her head. “I could turn you into the excise men.”
“The excise men.” His tone was bland.
Reaching out, he laid his palm against her cheek, and then he dragged his thumb forward, along the curve of her jaw, and lower until it rested on the pulse beating at her throat.
Oh, the way he looked at her, ravenous, such dark hunger.
Her breath was little more than ragged gasps, and her blood thrummed. Unbidden, the heated memory of his kiss surged through her, a raging and unwelcome storm. Her heart pounded madly in her breast, a wild thing trapped, desperate to be free. Just as she was trapped by the intensity of his gaz
e and the force of his will.
“Would you turn me in, sweet Jane?” He stepped closer still, his voice so deep and rough. “Would you watch me twist at the end of a rope? Hear the sickening snap of my neck as I fall? Would it give you pleasure to see my face turn a hideous shade of puce, my tongue bulge like the bloated carcass of a week-old carp?”
Her belly rolled at the horrific images his words conjured. She could see it, see the horror he described, hear the jeering crowd eager for a hanging, smell the stink of unwashed bodies and fear. She wrenched away from his touch, her fingers curling into the back of the chair to steady herself. Curse her vivid imagination, and curse her tender heart that she could not bear to envision the gruesome scene he described, could not bring herself to welcome the picture of his death.
“What care have I for your fate?” she asked fiercely. “Are you not my enemy, my tormentor, the man who ripped my world asunder?”
“I am,” he said.
Truth, and lie. Because he was also the benefactor who had held her demons and nightmares at bay when they chased her from sweet slumber.
She was in unfamiliar territory, beset by feelings and emotions that were far outside her experience. She wished he had been unkind, truly unkind, even horrid. How much easier it would be to hate him with a bitter venom, and in that hatred to find strength, and even solace.
She dared not trust his kindness, for it could well be an insidious sort of calculated torment, one meant to raise hope and optimism before dashing them on the rocks.
Raising her eyes to meet his, she wondered at the shadows that lurked there. They called to her, those shadows. She thought his secret torments a match to her own.
With a painful, ringing clarity, understanding dawned, and she knew why she could not bear the thought of him swinging at the end of a rope. He represented her dreams, this beautiful, flawed man, with his perfect face, his scarred soul, his undeniable appeal. There was no logic, no reason for this attraction. Only pure and undiluted need. He was the fantasy prince of her unspoken childhood whimsy, transformed to a man with his own private demons and flaws, as she had demons and flaws, and guilt. The terrible, gnawing guilt. He had that, too. She could feel it, taste it.
Like to like.
If she could redeem him, perhaps it would be enough to redeem herself.
“And lie to yourself if you must, but you do care about my fate,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
“I paid the piper before ever I did the crime,” he continued. “So I see my current deeds as a balancing of the scale.”
Her lids flipped open. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” He smiled a little. “Even if you turned me in, Jane, you would need proof of my crime, and that you will not find.”
He sounded both menacing and jovial.
A frightening combination.
Chapter 8
For the next two days Jane worked side by side with Wenna in the kitchen or the garden. She was glad for the familiar chores: kneading dough, chopping vegetables, washing dishes and pots. With her hands busy, she focused on the day’s work and did her best to thrust the uncertainties that clouded her tomorrows to the back of her mind. Despite the original stiffening of her manner when she discovered Jane’s identity, Wenna was friendly enough, and kind after a fashion, though the warmth of their original meeting was lacking and any attempts on Jane’s part to discover information about the enmity between her father and Aidan were brushed aside.
Mr. Warrick—Aidan, as he had bid Jane call him—rode out the first morning with Hawker. He gave indication of neither his destination nor his business, but he was very specific in his instructions to Jane: that she was safe only by Wenna’s side, and was not to stray far.
“Can you shoot a pistol?” he asked her.
“Yes.”
“Who taught you?”
“My cousin Dolly.” After her mother’s death, Dolly had not wanted Jane to be defenseless ever again. Her father had agreed to the lessons. If she was honest, she thought it was more because he wanted her ready should anyone try to steal the money from the pub, and less out of concern for her safety.
Aidan handed her a weapon, butt first, and warned her to have a care, for it was loaded. A week before, she would have shied away from taking the thing. Now, she closed her hand around it and was grateful.
“How do you know I will not turn the weapon on you?”
His brows rose. “Don’t think I didn’t consider that you might.” He leaned in close. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”
* * *
The hours after Aidan’s departure gave Jane no cause to doubt his warnings. More than once, she found Digory Tubb watching her with a disturbing and calculating gleam in his eyes.
She took care to avoid both his company and his attention.
The second afternoon saw Aidan’s return. Jane felt a surge of pleasure when he rode into the yard, and she ran her dishrag over the plate in her hand again and again, oblivious to the repetition, only watching him through the window. Suddenly, she stilled, appalled by her response, by the knowledge that she was so very glad to see him. And yet, she could not bring herself to look away.
Aidan scanned the yard, the distant field, the path that led to the shore, and then his gaze swung to the window, unerringly landing on Jane. She froze, her heart beating an erratic rhythm, and she thought she saw his lips curve in the hint of a smile.
No sooner had he dismounted than both Cadan and Digory drew close. Pushing aside his greatcoat, Aidan withdrew two small bags, and tossed one to each of them. His expression betrayed nothing of his emotion. The bags spun through the air, two rapid arcs.
Digory and Cadan caught them—one each—the sharp jingle of coins distinctive and clear. Jane found the sound disturbing, and though the exchange was in no way furtive, she felt an ominous foreboding.
The bags were large enough to hold what might be a year’s wages for some, and she could think of no legitimate work that would warrant such payment.
But then, Aidan had already admitted to being a smuggler.
That night, as she lay tense and sleepless, the room dark as a cave, Jane heard men’s voices raised in argument. She thought one voice was Digory’s, but she was unsure of his companion. Some time later, the jingle of a horse’s bridle came from the yard, and later still, the sound of heavy footfall on the wooden floor of the hall outside her door. The footsteps paused. She held her breath until they moved on.
Two men had argued, and she thought that one had gone, and one had stayed, though identities and reasons were shrouded in mystery. She lay awake long after the footsteps receded, staring into the darkness, seeing only her own worst imaginings, specters that poked her and pricked her and did not let her rest.
She was glad for the dawn. The thin rays of early morning sun called to her. After tidying her chamber, Jane made her way to the yard. She stood listening to the sound of the ocean as it swelled over the earthen barrier that hid the path from any ship at sea. The air was crisp, and she wrapped her shawl tight about her shoulders as she walked beside the low hillock, limping badly, but knowing the pain would ease. It was only if she failed to work her ruined leg that it would seize and she would pay the price in stiffness and pain.
Mindful of Aidan’s warning that she not stray far lest she come to harm, Jane meandered only a hundred paces or so, and then turned to retrace her steps on the path already taken. She knew his concern had little to do with the path itself, and more to do with those who might travel it.
“Fine morning.”
With a gasp, she raised her head to find Digory slouching against the side of the house, watching her with surly temper. His shirt was buttoned in a mismatched manner, and his coat not at all, leaving Jane to wonder if he had dressed in haste and if spying on her was his reason for being up and about this morning.
Was his careful watch at his own inclination, or Aidan’s behest?
“Yes, it is a fine mo
rning,” she replied, studying him warily.
“Just out for a bit of air?” he asked, pushing his bulk away from the wall and sauntering closer until his shadow fell full across her.
“Yes.” She met his gaze, unflinching. In her years serving at her father’s pub, she had known men such as this, those who presented a jovial demeanor to their contemporaries, but took secret pleasure in bullying and browbeating. Any show of fear might induce him to leap upon her like a wild dog and tear her to shreds.
“And if you would be so kind as to step aside,” she continued, carefully modulating her tone so it was calm and even, “I will conclude my promenade.”
“Promenade. Well, la-dee-da.” He sneered. “You might find that staying close to the house is safer.” He closed his fingers into a fist, his large fingers somehow gruesome in their brute strength. The movement made the joints crack and pop, the sound loud and disconcerting. “There’s naught for you to see on that path, or in the gully, Jane Heatherington.” Leaning close, he growled in menace. “A smart girl would keep to her room, and keep her eyes in her head.”
Instinctively, Jane drew back. “And where else would my eyes be but in my head?” Even as the words slid from her lips, her gaze snagged on the unmistakable shape of a knife hilt, tucked in the waist of Digory’s grimy breeches.
Like a slap, an image struck her, a memory of the dead woman from the beach, empty eye sockets black and gaping. For the first time, Jane had the horrifying thought that ’twas not the fishes that had taken the woman’s eyes, but a human scavenger.
With a sharp, broken inhalation, she fell back another step, pressing her fingers against her throat as Digory turned an oily smile on her. The smell of stale wine and old sweat carried on the shifting wind.