by Eve Silver
“Glad I am to see that you take my meaning.” Digory’s fingers strayed to the hilt of the knife, caressing it like a familiar pet. “Ginny. Her name was Ginny. She was a curious girl. And then she was a dead girl.”
His words left her no doubt, no illusions. She felt sick and chilled to the bone. She had thought the woman drowned, fallen from a ship, or the victim of wreckers... terrible possibilities, all. But he suggested something far worse, murder of a specific and vicious intent.
“I know no one named Ginny,” she breathed, horror choking her.
“No?” He gave an ugly laugh. “Red-haired girl.” He shrugged, and laughed again.
Ginny. The dead woman from the beach had been called Ginny. Had he gouged out her eyes, then held her beneath the water as she struggled and writhed, desperate to live? Or had he drowned her first, and then taken his blade to her?
Bitter bile stung the back of her throat. Had Aidan bid him do such a brutal deed?
“Why—?” Her voice cracked, and she paused, drawing a slow breath. “Why do you tell me this?”
“I know you’ve been poking around here and there, looking for things that have naught to do with you. You already cost a good man his life...”
“What? I—” Davey. He spoke of Davey, and he blamed her for his death. Why? Why?
He looked beyond her, his lips peeling back from his teeth, then turned his head and spat on the ground.
Heart racing, Jane turned to see Aidan striding toward them. She wrapped her arms about herself, her control tenuous, her voice betraying the revulsion and despair that swamped her. “Were you in Pentreath a week past, Digory? Was it you who watched me? Did Mr. Warrick—”
He made a sharp, slicing motion. “Women are ever flapping their mouths and asking questions.” Digory’s thick brows drew down, and he rubbed his palm along the dark hair on his jaw. “I know what you’re getting at, girl, and I’ll say it plain so even your simple mind can understand. If Mr. Warrick wanted killing done”—he let his gaze slide toward the path, toward Aidan’s approaching figure, and then back to her—“he’d do the deed himself and he’d enjoy it. Right handy with a knife is our Mr. Warrick.”
Jane tried to still the trembling that took hold of her, leaving her a weak and pallid shadow of the woman she wanted to be. Strong. Brave. She must not show her terror. Brutes such as Digory Tubb fed on fear and weakness, taking in bleak emotion like the tastiest feast.
He drew close, the smell of him and the heat of his body thickening around her like a black cloud. Digory laughed, an ugly, rough sound.
“Do you wonder if he takes pleasure in it?” he whispered gutturally. “In the death struggle, in the hot well of blood wetting his fingers.” He inhaled noisily. “Think on it. See it when you close your eyes. And never doubt that too much curiosity invites his blade, or mine, to turn on you.”
* * *
The creak and groan of the coach played in synchrony to its lumbering sway as they left Wenna’s house behind. Jane sat, hands folded in her lap, mind busy with all manner of terrible and frightening convolutions that twisted round and about until they left her cold and breathless.
“I instructed you to stay away from Digory.” Aidan’s softly spoken words carried a bite.
“So you did,” Jane agreed, and turned her face to the window, pretending interest in the view of the countryside. “But perhaps you neglected to provide him with instructions to stay away from me.”
Aidan exhaled sharply, but she did not turn back to look at him.
The land on either side of the road was harsh and unplanted, with meager vegetation and few signs of habitation. Despite the sunshine, Jane’s mood was gray and grim, Digory’s forbidding words circling her thoughts like great black crows. Aidan’s arrival had chased him off, but the maelstrom of revulsion his words and accusations had conjured remained, an outcome he had clearly intended. Had he spoken the truth? Or was his vile allusion merely a game played for his own twisted pleasure?
“Jane.” Aidan said only her name, but something in his tone caught at her heart.
She could feel the weight of his attention, measuring, waiting, and at last she looked at him, unable to do otherwise.
“If he had touched you, hurt you, I would have cut off his hand.”
“Yes, of course. That would have fixed everything,” she said.
He smiled a little.
For an instant, she held her breath, and then words rushed out like bugs scuttling to the shadows. “So you are handy with a knife?”
“Extremely. And with a pistol, and with my fists. There have been times that my survival depended on more than my wits.”
She nodded, aware that his admission brought them across some boundary, though uncertain exactly what it was. He made no pretense with her. No pretense that he was a coddled gentleman. No pretense that he was other than exactly who he was.
And exactly who and what was that?
Dipping her chin, she stared at her hands, at her fingers twined so tight they were white at the knuckles. Had he killed that woman at the beach, or ordered her murder as Digory had intimated? Gouged her eyes from her skull because she had seen something she should not? Was he capable of such? She could not find it in herself to believe it.
Ridiculous, really, that she could not believe it of him. What cause had he given her to doubt his potential for brutality?
At the New Inn, he had said that she had seen far more than he would have liked. Had he meant that as a threat?
“Do not look at me like that, Jane,” he rasped, his voice like gravel. “I make apologies neither for what I was, nor what I am.”
She held his gaze. The sun came in through the coach window, touching his hair, kissing the strands with lights of bright, burnished gold. His eyes, ever changeable, were now more the gray of a roiling sea than the blue of the sky. She thought she had put the mood upon him that turned their color dark and stormy.
She was drawn to the very darkness that should send her fleeing far and away. And she was drawn to something else, some indescribable, intangible thing that made him the man he was: the man who had damned her to this uncertain existence as a bondswoman whose sole and unnerving task was to travel by his side; the man who had saved her from certain harm at Davey’s ruthless hands; the man who had chased off her secret demons in the long hours of the night and held her safe in his arms. The dichotomy was at once terrifying and reassuring, and the strange sort of kindness he had shown her made her wonder, made her want ...
She forced what she hoped was a neutral expression and said, “Apologies can repair a fair amount of destruction.”
“Only if they’re sincere.” His smile widened, white teeth, his left incisor just a little crooked, the tiny imperfection making him all the more perfect. Lord, he was so pleasing to look upon, hard and male, his jaw rough with the night’s growth of beard he had not bothered to shave, the shadow outlining the luscious curve of his lips. “You perplex me, Jane. And you make me feel... lighter. You make me smile. I had not expected that.”
He leaned toward her. A sharp sensation darted to her belly.
It was dangerous, this sweet, dark ache that gnawed at her core and made her long to touch him, to breathe in the scent of him, to press her lips to his. She remembered how that had felt. And she remembered the sight of him at the inn, with his shirt hanging open and his muscled chest bared in the rich candlelight. Shocking thoughts gnawed at her, thoughts of touching him, running her tongue along his golden skin, sinking her teeth in to taste the forbidden pleasure of him.
“Do not look at me like that,” he murmured.
“Oh!” She jerked her gaze away, feeling the hot flush of her embarrassment stain her cheeks. He read her so well. “Where will you sell the barrels you hid at Wenna’s house?” she blurted just to fill the silence. “I wonder why you left them there, so far from any well-traveled path.”
“I do not intend to sell those particular barrels. They are intended for another purpose entirely,” he re
plied with private amusement. “Two birds with one stone.”
His tone made her uneasy. What possible use could there be for illegal barrels of brandy, other than selling them for a tidy profit?
There was no opportunity to question him, for the coach slowed and then rocked to a stop. Through the window, Jane saw that two horses stood in the road, one riderless, the second carrying a man wearing a black shovel hat that was pulled low on his brow and a dusty greatcoat that appeared to have seen better days. He slouched lower in the saddle and turned his face away and, for an instant, something in the way he moved made Jane think that he seemed somehow familiar.
She looked at Aidan, and found him watching her, his gaze intent. He seemed little concerned with what had halted their progress, and much concerned with something he saw in her face. Self conscious, she pushed her hair back from her forehead. One of the horses nickered and stamped its hooves against the road. But Aidan held her gaze, a gossamer web holding them in the world contained by the walls of this coach.
Some whisper of alarm tugged at her, and with it an emotion she could neither name nor explain. Instinctively, she swayed toward him, knowing she ought to shift away. And then it was too late as Aidan’s lean fingers closed about her arm. He pulled her forward, dragging her against him, and then he put his mouth on hers, open, hungry, the kiss hot and wet.
His tongue slid against hers in a way that made her gasp, his breath becoming hers. Sensation surged through her, crackling, sizzling, turning her skin hot and tight, turning her limbs boneless.
The pleasure of it, of his lips, his tongue, his fingers tangled in her hair, his breath blending with her own, she had never imagined the like, never known she could burn so hot and bright.
Hunger coiled deep inside her and spread like poured honey. She moaned, the sound spilling out of her, taken into his mouth.
Breathing heavily, he drew back, and this thing that reared between them was etched in the hard lines of his face. His aching, his yearning, his wanting were all there, unmistakable, a matched set to the tumultuous cravings inside her.
She wanted to fist her hand in his coat and drag him back. She wanted to shove open the coach door and feel the cold wind on her fevered skin.
And she wanted to cry.
She felt a rare and unusual anger that he had brought her to this… and a terrible, contradictory urge to hold him close.
His brow furrowed, and he rubbed the knuckles of his right hand against his breastbone, up and down, as though seeking to ease some unspoken pain.
“You—” He shook his head and his expression grew distant. “Hawker is armed, and he’s a damned fine shot. You’ll be safe. Be confident in that.” Raising one brow, he studied her. “And you have the pistol I gave you.”
She nodded.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the road and only then did his words register. He was leaving.
When will I see you next? She knew better than to ask, and tried to convince herself she did not care. A fool’s errand, that.
A blast of air swirled through the coach, wrapping her in its chilly embrace as she leaned forward to watch him, her heart and body still singing from his touch.
He stood, unmoving, and then turned his head to speak over his shoulder, his voice low and harsh. “I don’t want to worry about your welfare.”
“I have my pistol,” she reminded him.
“That isn’t what I meant. I don’t want to worry—” He frowned, closed the carriage door with a firm push, and crossed to the waiting horse where he swung into the saddle with easy grace. The great black beast pawed and snorted, sending tufts of white steam through the air. Then the two men turned their mounts and cantered off down Bodmin Road.
Jane watched Aidan’s retreating figure until he disappeared over the horizon. The coach lurched into motion once more. Wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the chill, she wondered where he went, and then she wondered why she should care. An emotional connection between them was as dangerous than any corporeal threat.
Hours passed. Listlessly, she watched the unchanging scenery. She picked through the basket that Wenna had packed for them, and ate a portion of the food, though her appetite was less than hearty. As she rearranged the cloth over the top of the remaining food, she could not help the pang of concern for Aidan’s welfare and his hunger.
Unsettled, she tried to think of other things, but such attempts invariably brought her to ponderings of murder and motive and truth wound tight with lies. Finally, lulled by the movement of the swaying carriage, she dozed, and when she awoke it was to find that a deep and heavy darkness had descended.
Scooting forward on the bench seat, Jane looked out the window. They were on the high ground of the open moor. A constant angry current of air buffeted the vehicle to and fro, for there was no tree, no hill to break the wind’s harsh breath. Through the carriage window she could see the dark expanse of sky. Now and again, the clouds shifted, allowing a clear view of the star-speckled heavens, then shifted again, leaving only unbroken gray to fill the narrow expanse of the window.
This was not a night to travel alone on the Bodmin Road.
Pulling back into the corner of the carriage, Jane wished that her solitude were not so complete. Nay, in truth, it was not mere solitude that unsettled her, it was the ill-conceived wish that Aidan Warrick’s solid and comforting form was yet beside her. She knew such fancy was poorly placed. He was no sweet savior, and despite the wicked lure he presented, he was still her enemy... her father’s enemy.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was not alone, for Hawker was with her, driving the coach. Still, a current of unease swelled within her until it threatened to overcome her common sense. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, her hand sliding into her pocket, there to grasp the rounded shape of the button she had found beside Davey’s stiff and lifeless body.
A choking laugh escaped her as she realized that she sought comfort from a token she had found in the dirt beside a corpse.
Suddenly, a shot rang out, and through the walls of the carriage Jane thought she heard a muffled cry.
There came the sound of men shouting in the road, and Hawker’s bellow as the horses shied and whinnied their distress. The carriage rocked on its high wheels, faster and faster still, and coming down the road were the shadowy forms of three men on horseback.
Snapping the sash closed, Jane reached to the bottom of Wenna’s basket and pulled her pistol free.
She would not go lightly to whatever ghastly fate might be foremost on the minds of these men. She would kick and claw and bite, and she would survive. Of that, she was certain.
The carriage jerked to a stop. Immediately, there was a cry and then a heavy thud, as though a large sac had been tossed to the ground. Jane’s breath came fast and harsh. Had they killed Hawker and thrown his body in the road?
Fear and horror tightened a band about her chest, and she could not breathe, so great was the panic that assaulted her. She set her jaw and thought only of the lessons in marksmanship her cousin had taught her. Closing the fingers of her left hand about her right wrist, she steadied her aim, the pistol pointed at the carriage door.
An instant later, the door flew open with enough force to send it crashing against the sidewall. The light of a lantern filled the gloomy interior, momentarily blinding her.
Rough laughter tumbled through the coach’s interior as a grimy hand reached in to close bruising fingers about her wrist. She struggled and tried to pull away. A sharp twist, and her fingers numbed, the pistol falling from her grip.
She realized her mistake. She should have shot the second the door flew open, rather than waiting to identify the intruder.
“Look at her,” came a coarse voice, and she thought she might retch at the horrific familiarity of the sound.
Gaby. The man who had been Davey’s cohort that first night she had arrived at the New Inn. Had she escaped then only to fall prey to him now? Bitter b
ile churned inside of her, and the metallic tang of fear was sharp on her tongue as he yanked hard on her arm, dragging her from the interior of the coach.
“Not so high and mighty now, eh? Looking at Davey and me like so much dirt. You’ve come down a mite now that you haven’t got Mr. High-and-Fancy Warrick to protect you. And isn’t that just a right laughable thing? You think he’s better ‘n us, cause he has such a face, but if you only knew where he’s been, what he’s done...”
Jane struggled against the iron grasp that encircled her wrist. She glanced at the faces of Gaby’s companions, the shadows of the night making their features difficult to decipher, then cast her sights farther into the darkness, desperate to know what had become of Hawker. She could only pray that he was unharmed, a prayer likely to go unanswered. She would not be standing in the road were Hawker yet in possession of his weapon, were he yet unharmed.
One of Gaby’s cohorts, a large man with a vacuous expression, shook his head from side to side as though clearing it of cobwebs. “Wait… Mr. High-and-Fancy Warrick? Don’t say now that we’ve gone and stopped His Lordship’s coach.” He moaned softly. “No, don’t say you’ve led us to such a foolishness.”
“You promised us a bounty,” the second man whined, backing away. “You never said we’d pay for it with our blood.’”
Gaby spun toward him, dragging Jane sharply against his chest, pressing the barrel of a pistol to the underside of her jaw. He was not tall, not overly large, but there was a wiry strength to his frame and an evil purpose that surrounded him like the stink of a well-used chamber pot. She realized that he must have a second gun at his waist, for she could feel its distinctive shape pressing against her back. Fear sharpened her senses, making the air seem colder, the night darker. The pounding of her heart boomed like a drum.
Again, she tried to pull away from him, but he only laughed and held her tighter, his hands rough and brutal. The need to struggle, to scream, nearly overwhelmed her. Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, she stifled the urge, focusing only on the feel of the second pistol against her spine, thinking that she might have only a single chance, an instant of inattention, and she must use it to her advantage.