by C. J. Archer
I spluttered a protest then quickly glanced at Samuel's door. It remained shut. "Mrs. Gladstone, I can assure you, I don't wish to be anything to Samuel. Not even a friend. I hope all communication between us will be severed, as soon as possible. I believe that to be the only possible course of action, don't you?"
"Well. If you'll excuse me, I need to oversee my packing." She went to move around me, but I stopped her with a hand to her arm. She shook me off.
"I have some advice that I'd like you to pass on to Miss Carstairs," I said.
Shock rippled across her face, shedding her stony facade. "Ebony?"
"We discussed this before, Mrs. Gladstone, but I am in earnest now. Tell Miss Carstairs to cease any plans she has of a political career for Samuel. He doesn't want it and it's only pushing him away. If she is willing to forego her dreams then she has a much better chance of securing him. But she must tread slowly, and you should not try to throw them together. Let it come from her alone."
She frowned at me, the lines in her forehead deeper from her recent worries. "You are sincere," she said in wonder, as if she couldn't believe a woman wouldn't want to be with her son.
I nodded.
"I don't understand, Miss Evans. Why?"
I blinked at her and eventually she looked away.
"Oh," she murmured. That was it. One single word, but we understood one another. She knew that I knew what he'd done to get himself confined to Newgate. And she didn't blame me for wanting to stay away.
"He is a good man, Miss Evans. But he has done some foolish things."
"We all have."
"Some are unforgiveable."
"For me, that one is. I'm sure if he's honest with Miss Carstairs he might find that she's not quite so condemning." I inclined my head. "Good day, Mrs. Gladstone."
"Good day, Miss Evans." She trudged off, her footsteps heavy for such a slight woman.
I watched her go, my heart full, and headed for Samuel's room. I knocked before I changed my mind.
"Charity!" he said upon opening it. "I'm glad to see you. Come in."
I shook my head.
"I hoped you would come to visit me," he went on, unperturbed.
"You did?" I caught myself saying.
He gave me a fleeting smile. "Yes. And here you are." Another smile, this time more uncertain and awkward. It was endearing.
I steeled myself. "There's something I wanted to say before my courage failed me."
"Oh?"
I cleared my throat. "I seem to have a habit of listening in to conversations, lately. I heard you and your mother talking, just now."
His face clouded. "I'm sorry. I wish you hadn't."
"There's nothing to apologize for. Your mother is right. There can be nothing between us. Nor do I want there to be."
He pounded his fist against the doorframe and sucked in a deep breath. He screwed his eyes shut as if gripped by pain. "I may be mad, Charity, but I would never hurt you. Not ever. If that is your only objection…"
I backed away. There was nothing more to be said and my presence was only making things harder for both of us.
"Wait," he said and reached out to take my arm. He let his hand fall back to his side, however, before touching me. "Don't go," he whispered. "Stay. Talk to me."
"Samuel," I said on a sigh. "I can't."
"Because you don't trust me?"
I nodded and he rocked back on his heels. "You know why," I said.
"My hypnosis."
I folded my arms and stared down at my feet. I nodded.
"I know it happens involuntarily when I'm with you sometimes, but I would never do anything to you while you were under. Never. Why can you not believe me?"
Because of what you did to end up in Newgate.
It was time to learn once and for all if Bert had told me the truth about that. But I wanted to hear it from Samuel's lips, not his mother or brother's. I wanted to hear him tell me what happened in his own words. It seemed fair, and important.
"Can I ask you a very delicate question?" I ventured. My hands shook. My feet wanted to run away. But I forced myself to stay and push forward. Always forward.
"Go on."
"Why were you in Newgate?" I lifted my gaze to meet his wretched one. "What did you do?"
He pressed his lips together and blinked up at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw bunched and relaxed, bunched and relaxed. "That is the one question I cannot answer, Charity. The one and only."
I stepped back a little. With his injuries, he couldn't move particularly fast. I could run off if need be. But I persisted. "Why not?"
He met my gaze with his own and as hard as I resisted, I sank into the swirling blue pools. Utterly lost. Forget running away; in that moment, I wanted to stay. He could have kissed me and I wouldn't have objected. Could have held me and had me, despite the fear still tapping at my chest. And he hadn't even hypnotized me. "I can't because you'll hate me even more."
"I don't hate you." I whispered, but my voice sounded loud in my head. My heart hammered even louder against my ribs, a wild, heady rhythm that throbbed through my body and set it alight.
"Maybe not, but you will become more afraid of me than you already are. And I cannot bear that, Charity. So please don't ask me about Newgate."
"If you won't tell me, how can I ever trust you?"
He said nothing. Silence weighed heavily around us, smothering, suffocating.
"I overheard you tell your mother that you will marry me, but Samuel, that cannot happen." I breathed deeply and met his gaze with my own direct one. "I want you to set aside your feelings for me and marry Ebony. She is better suited to you."
"Right," he sneered. "Because she's Lord Mellor's daughter. I don't care about any of that!"
"No. Not because she's a lady and I'm nobody. You should marry her because she's not afraid of you."
He reeled back as if my words had slapped him across the face. He took several deep breaths, composing himself, then he slowly took a step toward me. My heart beat even faster, begging me to flee, but I forced myself to stay. When he saw that I didn't move, he very slowly touched my cheek. He grazed his knuckles lightly down to my chin, stroking me as if I were a frightened animal.
"I'm going to prove to you that you can trust me." His voice wasn't mesmerizing, but it was low, deep and filled with promise. "Give me time, Charity, and I will show you that I'm worthy of you."
Him worthy of me? His mother would convulse in horror if she heard him say that.
I blinked back at him and willed myself to move away, out of his touch. But I couldn't. I was as thoroughly caught, as if he were holding me in his hands. He was so gentle, so soothing and calm. His touch was like a lure and I a fish on the end of a hook, powerless to get away.
So utterly powerless.
Panic seized my chest. A fist squeezed around my heart, locking it down. How could I trust him? How could I ever let a man with so much power over me get so close?
I shouldn't. I would be a fool to allow it.
I pulled away and ran off, but not before I saw the sorrow in his eyes and heard the plea die on his lips.
"Charity."
THE END
Now Available:
Edge of Darkness
The third book in the 2nd Freak House Trilogy.
Past secrets have come back to haunt the residents of Freak House and their visitors. With the help of a 300 year-old ghost, Charity, Samuel and their friends peel back the layers of lies and deception to reveal the terrible events of 1867 that changed everything. At the heart of it all is a page of spells and two missing men.
But as they draw closer to answers, Charity pushes Samuel further away. Desperate to win her love, he hovers on the brink of madness and misery. One small push might send him over the edge.
The sensational conclusion to the Second Freak House Trilogy is full of twists, turns and heart wrenching moments that will stay with you long after you reach The End.
Buy your copy of EDGE
OF DARKNESS now.
A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
I hope you enjoyed reading SEARED WITH SCARS as much as I enjoyed writing it. As an independent author, getting the word out about my book is vital to its success, so if you liked this book please consider telling your friends and writing a review at the store where you purchased it. If you would like to be contacted when I release a new book, send an email to [email protected] and I will subscribe you to my New Releases newsletter. You will only be contacted when I have a new book out.
BOOKS BY C.J. ARCHER
The Wrong Girl (1st Freak House #1)
Playing With Fire (1st Freak House #2)
Heart Burn (1st Freak House #3)
The Memory Keeper (2nd Freak House #1)
Seared With Scars (2nd Freak House #2)
Edge Of Darkness (2nd Freak House #3)
The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #1)
Possession (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #2)
Evermore (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium #3)
The Charmer (Assassins Guild #1)
The Rebel (Assassins Guild #2)
The Saint (Assassins Guild #3)
Her Secret Desire (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #1)
Scandal's Mistress (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #2)
To Tempt The Devil (Lord Hawkesbury's Players #3)
Honor Bound (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #1)
Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles #2)
Courting His Countess
Surrender
Redemption
The Mercenary's Price
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.J. Archer has loved history and books for as long as she can remember. She worked as a librarian and technical writer until she was able to channel her twin loves by writing historical fiction. She has won and placed in numerous romance writing contests, including taking home RWAustralia’s Emerald Award in 2008 for the manuscript that would become her novel Honor Bound. Under the name Carolyn Scott, she has published contemporary romantic mysteries, including Finders Keepers Losers Die, and The Diamond Affair. After spending her childhood surrounded by the dramatic beauty of outback Queensland, she lives today in suburban Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and their two children.
She loves to hear from readers. You can contact her in one of these ways:
Website: http://cjarcher.com
Email: [email protected]
Twitter: @cj_archer
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CJArcherAuthorPage
Tumblr: http://freakhouseresidents.tumblr.com
To be notified when C.J. has a new release, sign up to her newsletter. Send an email to mailto:[email protected]
In the meantime, have you read REDEMPTION? Here's the description. Read on for an excerpt.
Tilda Upton's talent at finding things with the aid of a talisman puts her on the edge of the dangerous hellhag category. Rather inexperienced in using her magic, she's prone to mistakes. It is one such mistake that lands her in debt to the Chief Royal Inventor who blackmails her into retrieving an Oriental and his machine. But to find the Oriental she needs to intercept an airship and the best way to do that is through piracy.
Tilda turns to the notorious Black Jack Knight, a sky pirate known for his cruelty and cleverness who dislikes passengers, particularly of the female variety. Fortunately for Tilda he accepts a currency she can provide—the location of a man who witnessed his brother's murder, a murder which Jack was falsely accused of committing. Together they fight corsairs, a mad inventor and their growing attraction to each other in order to retrieve the man Tilda has been forced to find, only to learn his machine could destroy her.
An Excerpt from Redemption
(c) C.J. Archer
CHAPTER 1
It all started with the dog—a real one, not a mech one. Not that Matilida Upton blamed the poor creature for changing her life in a most dramatic and permanent fashion. No, the blame could be laid squarely at the studded boots of Sir Magnus Grimshaw, the queen's Chief Royal Inventor.
Tilda knelt on the slippery flagstones of the lane running alongside her London townhouse, the elongated and fitted cuirass style of her bodice lending a degree of difficulty to the task. She peered into the underground cavity, wrench in hand. The blasted air filtering system had stopped working again and Tilda, being the only one in the household of four women who knew how to fix it, tinkered with the gears. She loosened a nut and a burst of steam shot out of the pipe, fogging up the goggles of her leather and brass mask. It would have scalded if she hadn't taken the precaution.
She set the wrench aside and peered into the cavity. Warmth and the scent of damp metal drifted out but the smell of something more putrid penetrated the mask's breathing holes. Urine. She wiped the goggles and looked closer. Something was in there. A grey ball of fluff. She reached in and pulled it out. It whimpered and stared up at her with huge brown eyes.
"Hello, little one. Who do you belong to?" There was no one else in the lane, and certainly no one looking for a dog. The animal blinked at her and snuggled closer. It was made of flesh and fur, which didn’t necessarily categorize it as a real animal, but Tilda could feel little ridges through its coat which were unmistakably bones and not metal rods or gears. It was also warm and rather affectionate. Clearly it was someone's pet and used to human contact.
She took it into the kitchen and set it down on the wooden table on which Mary had just finished preparing the vegetables to go into the soup. The maid glanced up from her stool near the cast iron oven and dropped her ladle, handle and all, into the cauldron. "Ew, what's that bedraggled thing, miss?"
"A dog," Tilda said, removing her mask and hanging it on the hook near the door. The air was cleaner in the house than outside but still not fresh. With the filter not working, it would remain that way. "A real one," she added. "I found it outside."
"Are you sure it's a dog?" Mary said, bending down to get a closer look at the animal. She screwed up her nose. "Could be a rat." The dog peered at her beneath fluffy grey brows then buried its nose under its paw. "I mean, who would want a real dog? You have to feed and clean a real dog, and pick up its whatsit."
Tilda patted the animal's matted hair. "Shall we clean it up and find out?"
"Your aunt won't approve," Mary said, casting a cautious eye at the door.
Rather eerily, the door opened but instead of Aunt Winnie, Tilda's sister bounced in. Letitia was always bouncing. She had far too much energy for a genteel lady, even one of only eighteen. "There you are, Til," Letitia said. "I've been--. Oh! What are you doing with that rat?"
"I think it's a dog," Tilda said.
"A real one," Mary added.
Tilda explained how she'd come across it. "We're about to clean it up. Perhaps there's a clue to its owner beneath all this hair."
"Or perhaps there isn't." Letitia clasped her hands as if in studious prayer and bounced. "If not, can we keep it, Til? Pleeeease. I've always wanted a dog."
"Mr. Cranker has mech ones for sale," Mary offered. "With red fur and everything. Red suits your coloring, Miss Letitia."
Letitia stuck out her bottom lip. "I rather like the idea of a real one," she said. "I could take it for walks. And buy it a pretty red collar, studded with pearls—"
"Before you get carried away, we can't afford pearls," Tilda said. She sighed. Her sister was a delightfully fun companion but she was rather trying at times. "And I think you'll grow tired of walking a dog every day."
"And scooping up its whatsit," Mary said. "The Council for Cleanliness doesn't like dog mess on the pavements."
Hence the growing rate of mech pets instead of real ones in the city. "Besides, it may have an owner already," Tilda said. "Come on, let's clean it up before Aunt Winnie returns. She'll have a fit if she sees a dog in the kitchen."
Mary dipped the brass temperature stick into a small pot of water sitting on the stove then wiped it on her apron. "This'll do," she said, showing them the read-out in
the panel at the stick's crown. "I was going to use it for washing but it's just the right temperature now for the little mite. Come on, let's dip him in."
"After we feed it." The dog's ears waggled as if it understood. They gave it the ham bone Mary had kept aside for the soup and filled a bowl with water. After the dog had eaten its fill, they plunged it into the pot. It yelped and struggled for a moment then its eyes fluttered closed and it seemed to enjoy being scrubbed, dried and pampered.
It turned out to be white, not grey, and quite a pretty little thing. It wore a slender leather collar studded with black jet surrounded by rings of gold. A lovely piece that must have been worth a small fortune.
"Let me have a closer look," Tilda said, removing the collar. "It might have a name or..." Her sentence trailed away as a sliver of tingles crept from her hand along her arm. Her fingers grew warm, as if the collar threw off heat. Impossible.
And yet she knew it wasn't. This strange phenomenon had happened several times over her twenty-four years. Whenever she touched an object separated from its owner, her skin heated, as if the source of the heat was the object itself. And then a clarity came to her, like a vision of a path to follow.
Her mother had explained what it meant when Tilda had first asked her about it. She'd been barely eight years old. The object was like a talisman and it was using her to find its way back to the owner. Tilda's mother had possessed the skill too, but had warned Tilda to keep it a secret. At the time, Tilda didn't know why but later she did.
Divination was a dangerous skill to possess in a time when machines ruled and the men who controlled them were treated like Gods with wealth and privilege thrown at them. Anyone possessing paranormal abilities—a power not based on mechanics but on the unexplained—was treated with suspicion and fear. The most powerful, the hellhags, were blamed for all the ills to befall a community. An epidemic of disease was said to be caused by the hellhags, the unexplained death of a child or the occurrence of any strange phenomena was laid at the feet of women with even the most tenuous skill.